A second visit

East Road - Barren Lands
A weary road lies beneath your feet and the lack of sounds of life make it even more so. No trees guard you from the wind and weather though thick brush and thicket make the road sides less than pleasing. To the south, low hills with little but clumps of brush and a rare stunted pine do little to ease your spirit.
Contents:
Studded Leather Armor
Metal Helmet
Scimitar
Banded Shield
Scimitar
Staazghru
Monty
Rhifaroth
Dwarven Camp
Obvious exits:
West and East


[Frarin] The sinking sun in the west lends little heart to the barren land here upon the East Road. There is no warmth in its dying rays and no warmth in the land itself. Cold and windswept are the plains and, almost, empty. Only almost for the light that lingers in the sky reveals a small party of travellers still braving the barren land.

The caravan of dwarves does not move upon the road now. Rather, it camps in the relative protection of a low hill just to the south of the great causeway, not hidden from prying eyes, but less easily distinguished. No tents are pitched as the company takes a fews hour rest from their journey westward, no bold silhouettes to outline their prescence to those from the east only sparse bedrolls are laid upon the grass. And dug into the ground, carefully tended to keep from smoking, a small fire crackles to heat the water needed for tending to the wounds of the day before.

Seated some way up and the hill and near the edge of the company is the silver merchant Frarin. A bedroll lies unwrapped at his side, as does his blue war hammer, now clean of black orc blood. The dying light makes his actions difficult to decipher, but his arms appear raised and moving about his head, and what little light remains with the dusk would seem to show two deep gashs that mar the dwarf's rugged face.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    In this dusk light over the plain, a man approaches the area with caution. He might be looking for sign upon the ground or he might be hunting for something else. But he comes from the west, just north of the road, and is moving along slow enough to be looking for something.

    Coming nearer to the small rumple in the land along the road, he pauses, listening. Perhaps scenting a hint of a fire.

    A tattooed hand on his left holds his strung bow, the right reaches up to draw out an arrow - his last. Then made ready, the figure begins to ease in towards the Dwarven camp, keeping wary eye for it but also further east.

[Frarin] Eyes accustomed to the gloom and close enough to Frarin might make out the merchant working with a bandage. The two deep cuts upon his face, one beneath his left eye and the other running from brow to left temple, seem to bleed anew, for he presses a bundle of dirty white cloths to that side of his face. Already there is a thick bandage about Frarin's left leg, the trousers of which are ripped and stained with dried blood. Apparently the dwarf makes an effort to tend to his own injuries, but careful and diligent as the work is, it is not with the expertise of one trained in healing.

About the camp stand various dwarves, clad not as merchants or traders, but as soldiers. They seem to be the unlucky guards for this short rest, for keen eyes prod the dusk for signs of the enemy left behind. None yet though seem to pick up the concealed figure of the approaching man.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    With bow ready, the grey clad man has little cover along this area but for thin scrub along the road, and the dimness of growing twilight. Nonetheless, it does not take long for him to confirm that the party he watches out for is still indeed in the area. There is, for the moment, no sign of orcs or other beastly things lurking yet.

    With his hood up over his dark hair, Rhifaroth comes to the camp and stops, standing quietly just without its perimeter. His bow is lowered and his now familiar, low voice asks softly, "I had hoped to find you ... further west."

[Frarin] The sudden voice brings Frarin's head up, his concentration broken. The dirty bandages fall to the dwarf's lap as one hand reaches for the war hammer at his side and the other moves to help him rise. But even the face of the hooded figure that meets Frarin's alerted gaze is not discernable, the voice is. He pauses, half risen, hammer still in hand. No others seem to have noticed the stranger's approach.

"You are the stranger we met two days ago?" says Frarin gruffly, grumbling voice low yet tense. No reply does he give, for the time being, to the man's single comment.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is a nod of the man's head as he surveys the Dwarven camp along the low hill in the fading light, "You are very near to them to be risking a camp."

    But wounds are obvious, therefore it goes without saying that the Dwarves are surely aware of the proximity of the foe. The man's right hand sweeps the hood from his head and he steps in closer, having a better look at the condition of those nearest, "Are you able to travel?"

[Frarin] As the stranger steps closer, others take notice of him and a murmur runs through the weary camp. Frarin, however, waves away the inquisitive glances and defensive growls as he struggles fully to his feet, leaning on the haft of his war hammer to relieve the weight on his injured leg. "We know our danger, Stranger," says the silver merchant, making an effort to appear unhobbled. "Now, at least. We turned west as soon as you left our company, but you made no mention of the closer advance guard. We were overtaken shortly after we turned."

Frarin waves behind him impatiently, voice terse now, as if defensive in the face of the man's light judgment. "We can travel, indeed we have done so for some time now. We left the place where we were overtaken yesterday, but we move slower with such fresh injuries."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Stranger though he may be, he is not without concern for their battered condition. The man frowns, tucking his last arrow back into his quiver and lightly setting his black bow's tip to rest on his left boot toe, "I have been west - so had no knowledge of the Host's movement since we met last."

    Noticing the condition of the other's bandages, soiled as they seem to be, he offers more tentatively, "I am no healer, but might I offer a suggestion?"

[Frarin] The dwarf's brow, furrowed in defence, relaxes slowly at the man's gentler words. Frarin seems almost to regret his own harsh tone. He shakes his head with self irritation, turning back to the pile of soiled bandages. "It is no matter then. Forgive me, it was frustration that spoke. We rest here a few hours, then move again. We will come to the hills as soon as we are able."

Careful to keep his left leg from bending, Frarin stoops awkwardly to retrieve the bandages on the ground. One is pressed to the cut across the dwarf's brow, which bleeds again, dribbling rivulets towards his eye. "I am no healer either, and these are the same bandages I used yesterday. We have few supplies." He says nothing further, but a low grunt suggests a grudging openness to whatever the stranger has to say.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Unsure how to deal with these unfamiliar folk, the stranger listens and accepts the other's words for apology, and warmer welcome. He watches the Dwarf who has named himself Frarin in their previous meeting, dabbing at his battered face. Having recently had similar injury done to himself, there might be a touch of sympathy.

    "Many a field dressing I have had to apply, either to myself, or to comrades - with no hope of fresh supplies."

    Then the man adds, "Since you make camp and have a fire, I suggest you boil water. To bath your wounds, and also to boil your bandages to clean them. Lest your wounds go foul." After a moment's further consideration, he adds, "Astringent plants, like seregon, are useful."

[Frarin] A low, thoughtful sigh is at first the only response Frarin gives to the man as he finishes. His eyes are downcast as he turns the dirty cloths over in his hand, the more recently used ones leaving spots of red on his fingers. Lips pursed, still not looking up, Frarin grumbles quietly, "Yes, that had been my hope. To have use of the fire while we linger here. But I have had a chance at least to wash my injuries, that is why they bleed. As for the fire, there are others with wounds worse than my own."

Again the dwarf falls silent, continuing to turn the bandages thoughtfully in his hands. When he looks up at last, his eyes are narrowed, but the failing light still reflects in them. What thought lingers behind the stony expression? Pride? Mistrust? But no, for when Frarin speaks next, his tone is not harsh or demanding or even suspicious only a strange curiosity is there in it.

"Who are you, Stranger? Like the wind you and your comrades, Rangers, appear. And now the dwarves follow your lead, for you claim to fight that which we fight. You know this country yet are unlike other people who call it home, for you bear scars of war akin to my own. So who are you, if we are to trust you?"

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The stranger has hunkered down to squat upon his hams, resting a bit himself from his day's labours - and mayhap to put himself more on a level with the Dwarves, more eye to eye. His own grey eyes meet the Khazad's, watching the other. The question though, elicits a very slightly tightening of the weathered skin around those pale eyes.

    "Who I am is of no importance, Frarin of Lonely Mountain." The man's voice continues low, uninflected with any particular tone, though his words are differently accented than the others similar to him that Frarin has met, "That we have a foe in common, is that not enough?"

[Frarin] Again a grunt is Frarin's only initial reply. The dwarf sets a hand upon the hill and gingerly seats himself again, taking one of the cleaner bandages and daubing at the facial wounds. But the man's increased tenseness does not go unheeded if Frarin fails to see it in his face, then certainly the words cannot be mistaken.

"You are guarded, Stranger," says the silver merchant, not looking up as he resumes tending to his injuries. "We dwarves too are guarded, but there are many among us who do not trust that trait in others. For my part," and here his eyes flicker upward for a moment, "I will not press you. I have seen what I need to. But you should be careful in approaching our camp in stealth again. This caravan has been hard pressed for nearly two months now, tempers run high. But I will query you no more."

A hand reaches up, gently tying a long bandage about his head to cover one of the jagged gashes.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The stranger takes no offence, but nonetheless he offers up nothing more to explain himself, no name, nothing. To the Dwarf's last though he smiles thinly, amusement in his light colored eyes maybe, "Would you then prefer I announce myself with drum and horn?"

    With his own black bow across his thighs, the man shifts to seat himself fully upon the vaguely damp ground even as Frarin has settled himself. Searching the darkness to the east, with his back slightly turned towards their low fire so not to spoil his vision as night creeps upon them, he takes advantage of the brief lull.

    "The Host is near enough, I prefer to be ... careful. Even in the day." Rhifaroth frowns, "These orcs tarry overmuch in the daylight, even if half blind. I am not accustomed to that behavior." Is he fishing for a comment?

[Frarin] "A shouted greeting would suffice," Frarin responds without looking up, entirely serious. "We do not use bows like you, you would not be shot before you could be identified." But he glances up and catches the small amusement in the man's face. The dwarf's dark eyes relax slightly. Is that even a hint of a smile working its way into the sober face, buried beneath the beard? "Nay, you may forego drum and horn, Stranger."

Another bandage goes up and is secured. Now Frarin's left eye is almost entirely covered, but the hideous gashes are covered for the time. He wipes his hands on several of the unused cloths. "We will not linger here much longer. It does not sit easy with me to rest while darkness lies upon these lands, not when our foes move faster."

The silver merchant eyes the man, though, at his last comment, and again the same thoughtful look befalls Frarin's face, as if eyes alone can pry answers from the stranger. "Not accustomed to such behaviour, say you? What orcs do not tarry in the daylight? They have no love it, whether they be from the mountains or the Wilderland, closer to my own home. You have seen no orcs if such behaviour is new to you."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Rather than watching the Khazad, the man's attention visually remains on the darkness out upon the road. He listens perhaps with half an ear, more concerned for unfriendly sounds in the night. The suggestion that the dwarven camp will soon break and move on in the night elicits a nod from the man, "That is wise."

    Oh, but then there is real amusement in the strange man as he listens to this Frarin's last comment. His own reply has become droll, "I have seen, and killed, a great many of their ilk in my years."

    "Those that I have known would not have ventured out upon sunny plains lightly, but rather linger in thick woods for cover."

[Frarin] A nod in conjured from the dwarf as the stranger speaks. "Then I mistook your words, Stranger," Frarin says, "for in that we share a common experience. I have walked this earth for many years and encountered its evil beasts in many lands, but never as I see them now." Frarin's eyes lift to the east, where the darkening light now all but completely conceals the road.

"What end they hope to achieve in this venture I cannot guess. These orcs of Moria have troubled the High Pass for many months now, in the constructing of a garrison there, but I was among the assaulters when that garrison was destroyed. For the host to so easily abandon their more natural environment..." The comment drifts into silence and Frarin shakes his head.

With a great effort and a small grimace, the dwarf rises again. "But I will not muse on what I cannot answer, only act upon that which I can change. And to do that, Stranger, I will first take your advice and clean some of these bandages. Whither do you go from here? Or do you travel with the dwarves now?"

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Watching Frarin rise to boil his bandages as the stranger had suggested to him, the man himself does not yet rise. He continues to rest, saving his energy for only necessary movement. He listens to the Dwarf without comment or interruption until Frarin asks his question of his own intentions.

    He is thoughtful a moment before giving his answer, voice still pitched very low, "I will not linger with you. But I shall wish you and yours well, and safe passage to the hills."

    Then the man gets up, dusting off his long cloak. He leaves his hood down, his bow shifting back to his left hand as though to depart, "Perhaps I shall see you there."

[Frarin] "If that is our fate, then it shall be," Frarin gruffly replies. A moment's pause and then the dwarf bows low in the custom of his kind, the two braids of his beard sweeping forth, though one is shorter than the other. "Then I bid you fare well, Stranger. Stranger I call you and Stranger you will remain, but I am glad at least to call you also ally."

And perhaps that is as close to heartfelt as the sober dwarf comes, for Frarin says no more, turning quickly from the man and gently limping towards the fire.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    That suits the stranger well enough. He inclines his own head to the Khazad and says nothing more himself. With one last sweep of his gaze over the Dwarven camp, he eases back into the night, heading both north slightly and east, back towards the Host.