Elendor
An exchange of news
Dale-lands Royal Warden Riordan comes on the Dwarven encampment the day after a battle
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Rolling Dales
Game Date: March 3058
IC Time: Afternoon
Description: Rolling Dales
Vegetation grows lush and wild, fed by the River Celduin which flows through the valley. Here, the river flows from northwest to southeast. A small but still well-defined road appears to follow its entire course while a larger, more heavily traveled road heads north, cutting past the great curve of the river. Many tracks, made by wagons, horses, and humans, suggest that this road probably serves as a major trading route through Rhovanion. Though sparsely populated, this valley is punctuated here and there by the odd farm or homestead, and in the distance can be seen the dark eaves of Mirkwood to the northwest, and the tiny town of Finney which stands to the southeast.
Obvious exits:
North leads to Rolling Dales.
SouthEast leads to In the Dale-lands, passing by Finney.
NorthWest leads to Iach Celduin.
----
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Thu Feb 21 04:13:10 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Highday, late afternoon on a clear spring's day, March 30 of 3058
----
The day is wending on, and the sun is now past its highest point. It glints off the shining ribbon that is the Celduin, casts shifting patterns of light and shadow across dale and hill, field and thicket. It slants down on the winding road and highlights the place where the ground lies trampled and torn, as though by many feet: tough hob-nailed Dwarf-boots, the circle-marks of horses' hooves and the heavy gashes torn by the iron-shod feet of orcs. Clearly the road has seen battle this day.
Even now, there is activity. A pair of sturdy-looking Dwarves are digging busily at the soft earth, picks flying. Nearby, piled up, is a growing heap of twisted goblin carcasses waiting to be cast into the pit out of sight of any travellers. No doubt beast and bird will complete the work that Dwarven axes and sharp swords, hammers and maces have wrought.
Further along the road, the squat, square shapes of Dwarven wagons can be seen drawn up in a defensive formation: this is the centre of a hubbub of comings and goings as the clean-up operation progresses. There are still sentries set, of course - the day may have been won, but not yet the war, and vigilance is essential. Joining these today is one Bardur son of Mardur. The young Skald appears unhurt for the most part, though look closely at the leather armour and one might spot a staining at the right shoulder hinting at some previous injury. In his hand is a bow of wood and horn, before him several arrows are ranged upright in the muddy turf and he stands at attention, peering bushy-browed at the thickets with a rather hopeful expression.
[Riordan(#15210)]
What fierce battle has caused this chaos upon the road? Corpses, wounded people and dwarves alike, coarse orcish weapons strewn about here and there and a group attempting to clear it all out. It seems the fight was upon these folk not long ago. Or so the Royal Warden Riordan Karath guesses as he enters the scene. On horseback, with a pack attached to his saddle and properly armored - one must be these days on these roads -, the human peers about the campsite as he dismounts, pulling a young soldier closer to him to give him the details of this skirmish. Then he heads for the dwarven camp, finding there an unlikely warrior of the young skald, looking ever so expectant of trouble that might be he misses the Warden emerge from the side.
A polite cough announcing his approach though, the man nods at the dwarves and speaks up. "Greetings, might I trouble one - or more if you so incline - of you for a little information?"
At the sound of hoofbeats Bardur sets an arrow to the shaft, pulling it part-way back with obvious difficulty. He watches warily for a while, but when it becomes clear that Riordan and his fellow are in no hurry and have no pursuers he lets the bowstring slide back again with a loud sigh of relief.
By the time Riordan has reached them the bow is lowered and the arrow pointed turfwards again the Skald straightens up and gives the Warden a rather stiff half-bow. "Good day to you, Master. If it information you seek, let Bardur son of Mardur be at your service." It is very gruff, very formal. Amongst his own kind Bardur may be little more than a stripling but here, facing one of the lesser races, he is every inch a Dwarf!
[Riordan(#15210)]
"Wet met, Master Dwarf," Riordan replies, watching the dwarf's mannerisms curiously though without a comment. He relaxes into a conversational stance - the orcs can be handled by other people as they have so far! - and then simply cannot resist but to ask:"Did I not meet you in Lake-town not too long ago? In Karath manor?" Perhaps dwarves have poor memories and maybe all humans do look alike to them but for Riordan, every person is different and despite what everyone say - "Oh he's getting old, can't keep up with the times!" -, the High Warden tends to keep people's faces and names in his mind for whenever it might be required again. Not an easy task if one has been wandering the countryside and Court alike for more than twenty years.
If the drawing down of thick black brows is anything to go by, Bardur is rather surprised by Riordan's question. "I /was/ in Laketown lately," he admits, "and visited the manor of the Karath. Perhaps ..." He peers at Riordan more closely, gaze sliding past the short-trimmed hair and regular features - not even the scar seems to jog his memory. But then his focus sharpens on the silver medallion round Riordan's neck and the frown clears. "Fine workmanship," he murmurs, and then, with a triumphant air, "You are Master Riordan, son of House Karath, I believe."
[Riordan(#15210)]
There is no sense of triumph or hurt in the human - it is entirely possible he's been dealing with such occasions all through his career as well as growing up in a dwarf-friendly House. Riordan instead simply nods in acknowledgement and offers a small bow. "I am glad you remember me," he speaks and continues without the regard to the fact that HE wasn't really remembered, his medallion was! "I was near the Easterling border in the south, seeing to our defenses and tightening our watch there but I seem to have returned to a near war-like situation. Did your caravan get attacked? From where were you heading out?"
Bardur listens to the Warden, his features inscrutable. At the final question a small sound like 'hah!' escapes him perhaps it is Dwarven amusement. "There have been attacks," he agrees. "This caravan was beset on the road south from Londaroth - this very road! - and forced to withdraw for a little while. But we are Dwarves! We do not yield, nor do we balk at the chance to hunt down goblin scum. When word reached Erebor that there was cleansing to be done, others of our kin came to swell our ranks. Now we have taken the fight to them and this road, at least, is clear." He tilts his head up to fix Riordan with a serious blue gaze and informs him, as his seniors have no doubt already informed liaisons in Lieutenant Hrodwyn's patrol of King's Men, "We will, of course, assist your kind in ridding the marges of this land of goblins. Honour demands no less." Then the mask of formality slips for a moment as the Skald adds enthusiastically, "and I want to swing my sword some more!"
[Riordan(#15210)]
Even if the news is troubling, it comes as no surprise to the Royal Warden. Indeed, he seems to know that there are orcs about. No doubt the infamous Royal Warden information network is still in place and working as intended. However... "Londaroth, you say. Then you arrived there from the Lonely Mountain? Or are you returning from a trading trip?" The dwarf's assurance about helping the humans clear out the orc and goblin scum is met with a grateful smile and another one of those small bows. Let none say Riordan Karath is impolite towards anyone, least of all, dwarves! Although a spark of amusement lights up his eyes at the enthusiastic outburst concerning swords and swinging them, the human says quite conversely:"And I am certain you will have that chance more than a few times yet, Master Dwarf."
The first question is met by a nod that sets Bardur's beard wagging. "Aye, some of our merchants chose to make an early trading trip to your southern towns, Master Riordan. And others of our kin are returning to their homes across the Mountains." Who else but a dwarf would talk of crossing such vast distances calmly, without batting an eye? "For my part I came to learn more of Men and their ways. If I learn more of orc-slaying, so much the better." The beard is quivering - perhaps the young Dwarf is smiling. "And I hope to have inspiration for an epic poem or two."
There's a moment or two's silence as Bardur ponders, and then he adds, "But if it is news of the Mountain you seek, others are more newly come. King Dain himself sent half a cohort of Warders to assist matters here. Their leader was talking to another of your kind." He tugs at his beard, absently (it's a mercy the arrow he still holds in his left hand doesn't impale him in the process!) then enquires eagerly in turn, "And what news of the east, Master? Is there work to be done there also?"
[Riordan(#15210)]
Taking in all of the information given, the man seems to be weighing his options, the stare of his own clear blue eyes calm and contemplating as he listens to the dwarven bard. His gaze moves only when the talk shifts onto the Warders sent by Dain and then returns onto the one with a glossy black beard. "If you were as far as Londaroth, may I assume you also came close to Esgaroth? Was the city calm?" Relatively speaking, of course. A trading center like Lake-town might never be quite... peaceful. Though if a dwarf would know of such matters is another thing.
When Bardur inquires about the east, Riordan cringes. "There is some movement among the easterling ranks but no clear gathering for a push at our borders," he speaks grimly, "But there are many of them and fewer of the Royal Wardens by the week. I fear that if our ranks are not fortified that some time we let something, someone slip past our net." The last lines are quiet, almost spoken to himself. Riordan then looks up and smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to derail the discussion."
Bardur blinks. "The city of Men was rather noisy," he answers that. "But such is the way of Men, I suppose." Dwarves, of course, are /never/ noisy! Riordan's mutterings seem to garner rather more interest from the young skald. "If there is need of greater strength," he murmurs thoughtfully, "then perhaps you should look to where such strength lies, Master Riordan. The borders of the Iron Hills have long marched with those of the Men of Dale. Nor are our eyes blind. The Ravenfeather scouts watch the East closely. If you have need, call on them." The problems of the world, solved by a bard who's probably never set foot outside his folk's eastern borders in his life!
[Riordan(#15210)]
"Thank you, I will remember that," Riordan replies with a nod - and he will, too! -, then to chuckle at the thought of Esgaroth being quiet. "Perhaps I mis-spoke. I meant if it was safe. It is, after all, not too far from Londaroth," he comments but then puts that out of his mind and comes up with the real reason of why he even asked such a thing!
"I am looking for a fellow Warden. He wears a similar medallion," is explained, a hand lifted and the Karath/Royal Warden medallion touched for the emphasis. "He was off from outside Iach Celduin weeks ago but has not reached his destination and I fear he's falled to the orcs... or worse." Maybe in a crowd, one man wouldn't stand out but seeing as a Royal Warden is mostly on his own or at most with a few companions, it should have stood up even for dwarves who do not know one human from another.
That question brings no amount of beard-wagging as Bardur turns his head to scrutinize the camp as though the missing Warden would suddenly turn up there. "There were many Men," he says at last. "Mounted on horses, and with cloaks as blue as the midnight sky. Their leader was a female," he adds helpfully, somewhat spoiling the poetic effect. "But I saw no other badges like yours."
Stiff silence follows and then he adds, gruffly, "When we track these beasts to their lair, we will know more." Dwarves as trackers? Whatever next. Perhaps it's just as well that the two kindreds have finally joined forces - no doubt a handful of enthusiastic 'trackers' such as Bardur could destroy any amount of evidence.
[Riordan(#15210)]
So it must be as Riordan feared - the Warden he's been seeking has disappeared and with their organization's strict reporting in regime, it is now looking more likely than ever that his young friend has lost his life somewhere along the road. Riordan's expression changes from polite to struck, almost frustrated but he indeed resists a sigh and nods. "Thank you, Master Dwarf. Hopefully we shall meet again, perhaps away from such grieveous affairs." He steps back, moving his upper body just enough to call it a slight bow and turns, a whistle emerging from between his lips as he calls for Iago - his horse.
Bardur winces at the piercing whistle - hardly the most musical of sounds. "Perhaps we shall," he returns then adds, brows bristling, "But will you not enter our camp and take something to sup, or a bite to eat? Let it not be said that the Dwarves are inhospitable!" Truly, Menfolk are strange.
Vegetation grows lush and wild, fed by the River Celduin which flows through the valley. Here, the river flows from northwest to southeast. A small but still well-defined road appears to follow its entire course while a larger, more heavily traveled road heads north, cutting past the great curve of the river. Many tracks, made by wagons, horses, and humans, suggest that this road probably serves as a major trading route through Rhovanion. Though sparsely populated, this valley is punctuated here and there by the odd farm or homestead, and in the distance can be seen the dark eaves of Mirkwood to the northwest, and the tiny town of Finney which stands to the southeast.
Obvious exits:
North leads to Rolling Dales.
SouthEast leads to In the Dale-lands, passing by Finney.
NorthWest leads to Iach Celduin.
----
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Thu Feb 21 04:13:10 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Highday, late afternoon on a clear spring's day, March 30 of 3058
----
The day is wending on, and the sun is now past its highest point. It glints off the shining ribbon that is the Celduin, casts shifting patterns of light and shadow across dale and hill, field and thicket. It slants down on the winding road and highlights the place where the ground lies trampled and torn, as though by many feet: tough hob-nailed Dwarf-boots, the circle-marks of horses' hooves and the heavy gashes torn by the iron-shod feet of orcs. Clearly the road has seen battle this day.
Even now, there is activity. A pair of sturdy-looking Dwarves are digging busily at the soft earth, picks flying. Nearby, piled up, is a growing heap of twisted goblin carcasses waiting to be cast into the pit out of sight of any travellers. No doubt beast and bird will complete the work that Dwarven axes and sharp swords, hammers and maces have wrought.
Further along the road, the squat, square shapes of Dwarven wagons can be seen drawn up in a defensive formation: this is the centre of a hubbub of comings and goings as the clean-up operation progresses. There are still sentries set, of course - the day may have been won, but not yet the war, and vigilance is essential. Joining these today is one Bardur son of Mardur. The young Skald appears unhurt for the most part, though look closely at the leather armour and one might spot a staining at the right shoulder hinting at some previous injury. In his hand is a bow of wood and horn, before him several arrows are ranged upright in the muddy turf and he stands at attention, peering bushy-browed at the thickets with a rather hopeful expression.
[Riordan(#15210)]
What fierce battle has caused this chaos upon the road? Corpses, wounded people and dwarves alike, coarse orcish weapons strewn about here and there and a group attempting to clear it all out. It seems the fight was upon these folk not long ago. Or so the Royal Warden Riordan Karath guesses as he enters the scene. On horseback, with a pack attached to his saddle and properly armored - one must be these days on these roads -, the human peers about the campsite as he dismounts, pulling a young soldier closer to him to give him the details of this skirmish. Then he heads for the dwarven camp, finding there an unlikely warrior of the young skald, looking ever so expectant of trouble that might be he misses the Warden emerge from the side.
A polite cough announcing his approach though, the man nods at the dwarves and speaks up. "Greetings, might I trouble one - or more if you so incline - of you for a little information?"
At the sound of hoofbeats Bardur sets an arrow to the shaft, pulling it part-way back with obvious difficulty. He watches warily for a while, but when it becomes clear that Riordan and his fellow are in no hurry and have no pursuers he lets the bowstring slide back again with a loud sigh of relief.
By the time Riordan has reached them the bow is lowered and the arrow pointed turfwards again the Skald straightens up and gives the Warden a rather stiff half-bow. "Good day to you, Master. If it information you seek, let Bardur son of Mardur be at your service." It is very gruff, very formal. Amongst his own kind Bardur may be little more than a stripling but here, facing one of the lesser races, he is every inch a Dwarf!
[Riordan(#15210)]
"Wet met, Master Dwarf," Riordan replies, watching the dwarf's mannerisms curiously though without a comment. He relaxes into a conversational stance - the orcs can be handled by other people as they have so far! - and then simply cannot resist but to ask:"Did I not meet you in Lake-town not too long ago? In Karath manor?" Perhaps dwarves have poor memories and maybe all humans do look alike to them but for Riordan, every person is different and despite what everyone say - "Oh he's getting old, can't keep up with the times!" -, the High Warden tends to keep people's faces and names in his mind for whenever it might be required again. Not an easy task if one has been wandering the countryside and Court alike for more than twenty years.
If the drawing down of thick black brows is anything to go by, Bardur is rather surprised by Riordan's question. "I /was/ in Laketown lately," he admits, "and visited the manor of the Karath. Perhaps ..." He peers at Riordan more closely, gaze sliding past the short-trimmed hair and regular features - not even the scar seems to jog his memory. But then his focus sharpens on the silver medallion round Riordan's neck and the frown clears. "Fine workmanship," he murmurs, and then, with a triumphant air, "You are Master Riordan, son of House Karath, I believe."
[Riordan(#15210)]
There is no sense of triumph or hurt in the human - it is entirely possible he's been dealing with such occasions all through his career as well as growing up in a dwarf-friendly House. Riordan instead simply nods in acknowledgement and offers a small bow. "I am glad you remember me," he speaks and continues without the regard to the fact that HE wasn't really remembered, his medallion was! "I was near the Easterling border in the south, seeing to our defenses and tightening our watch there but I seem to have returned to a near war-like situation. Did your caravan get attacked? From where were you heading out?"
Bardur listens to the Warden, his features inscrutable. At the final question a small sound like 'hah!' escapes him perhaps it is Dwarven amusement. "There have been attacks," he agrees. "This caravan was beset on the road south from Londaroth - this very road! - and forced to withdraw for a little while. But we are Dwarves! We do not yield, nor do we balk at the chance to hunt down goblin scum. When word reached Erebor that there was cleansing to be done, others of our kin came to swell our ranks. Now we have taken the fight to them and this road, at least, is clear." He tilts his head up to fix Riordan with a serious blue gaze and informs him, as his seniors have no doubt already informed liaisons in Lieutenant Hrodwyn's patrol of King's Men, "We will, of course, assist your kind in ridding the marges of this land of goblins. Honour demands no less." Then the mask of formality slips for a moment as the Skald adds enthusiastically, "and I want to swing my sword some more!"
[Riordan(#15210)]
Even if the news is troubling, it comes as no surprise to the Royal Warden. Indeed, he seems to know that there are orcs about. No doubt the infamous Royal Warden information network is still in place and working as intended. However... "Londaroth, you say. Then you arrived there from the Lonely Mountain? Or are you returning from a trading trip?" The dwarf's assurance about helping the humans clear out the orc and goblin scum is met with a grateful smile and another one of those small bows. Let none say Riordan Karath is impolite towards anyone, least of all, dwarves! Although a spark of amusement lights up his eyes at the enthusiastic outburst concerning swords and swinging them, the human says quite conversely:"And I am certain you will have that chance more than a few times yet, Master Dwarf."
The first question is met by a nod that sets Bardur's beard wagging. "Aye, some of our merchants chose to make an early trading trip to your southern towns, Master Riordan. And others of our kin are returning to their homes across the Mountains." Who else but a dwarf would talk of crossing such vast distances calmly, without batting an eye? "For my part I came to learn more of Men and their ways. If I learn more of orc-slaying, so much the better." The beard is quivering - perhaps the young Dwarf is smiling. "And I hope to have inspiration for an epic poem or two."
There's a moment or two's silence as Bardur ponders, and then he adds, "But if it is news of the Mountain you seek, others are more newly come. King Dain himself sent half a cohort of Warders to assist matters here. Their leader was talking to another of your kind." He tugs at his beard, absently (it's a mercy the arrow he still holds in his left hand doesn't impale him in the process!) then enquires eagerly in turn, "And what news of the east, Master? Is there work to be done there also?"
[Riordan(#15210)]
Taking in all of the information given, the man seems to be weighing his options, the stare of his own clear blue eyes calm and contemplating as he listens to the dwarven bard. His gaze moves only when the talk shifts onto the Warders sent by Dain and then returns onto the one with a glossy black beard. "If you were as far as Londaroth, may I assume you also came close to Esgaroth? Was the city calm?" Relatively speaking, of course. A trading center like Lake-town might never be quite... peaceful. Though if a dwarf would know of such matters is another thing.
When Bardur inquires about the east, Riordan cringes. "There is some movement among the easterling ranks but no clear gathering for a push at our borders," he speaks grimly, "But there are many of them and fewer of the Royal Wardens by the week. I fear that if our ranks are not fortified that some time we let something, someone slip past our net." The last lines are quiet, almost spoken to himself. Riordan then looks up and smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to derail the discussion."
Bardur blinks. "The city of Men was rather noisy," he answers that. "But such is the way of Men, I suppose." Dwarves, of course, are /never/ noisy! Riordan's mutterings seem to garner rather more interest from the young skald. "If there is need of greater strength," he murmurs thoughtfully, "then perhaps you should look to where such strength lies, Master Riordan. The borders of the Iron Hills have long marched with those of the Men of Dale. Nor are our eyes blind. The Ravenfeather scouts watch the East closely. If you have need, call on them." The problems of the world, solved by a bard who's probably never set foot outside his folk's eastern borders in his life!
[Riordan(#15210)]
"Thank you, I will remember that," Riordan replies with a nod - and he will, too! -, then to chuckle at the thought of Esgaroth being quiet. "Perhaps I mis-spoke. I meant if it was safe. It is, after all, not too far from Londaroth," he comments but then puts that out of his mind and comes up with the real reason of why he even asked such a thing!
"I am looking for a fellow Warden. He wears a similar medallion," is explained, a hand lifted and the Karath/Royal Warden medallion touched for the emphasis. "He was off from outside Iach Celduin weeks ago but has not reached his destination and I fear he's falled to the orcs... or worse." Maybe in a crowd, one man wouldn't stand out but seeing as a Royal Warden is mostly on his own or at most with a few companions, it should have stood up even for dwarves who do not know one human from another.
That question brings no amount of beard-wagging as Bardur turns his head to scrutinize the camp as though the missing Warden would suddenly turn up there. "There were many Men," he says at last. "Mounted on horses, and with cloaks as blue as the midnight sky. Their leader was a female," he adds helpfully, somewhat spoiling the poetic effect. "But I saw no other badges like yours."
Stiff silence follows and then he adds, gruffly, "When we track these beasts to their lair, we will know more." Dwarves as trackers? Whatever next. Perhaps it's just as well that the two kindreds have finally joined forces - no doubt a handful of enthusiastic 'trackers' such as Bardur could destroy any amount of evidence.
[Riordan(#15210)]
So it must be as Riordan feared - the Warden he's been seeking has disappeared and with their organization's strict reporting in regime, it is now looking more likely than ever that his young friend has lost his life somewhere along the road. Riordan's expression changes from polite to struck, almost frustrated but he indeed resists a sigh and nods. "Thank you, Master Dwarf. Hopefully we shall meet again, perhaps away from such grieveous affairs." He steps back, moving his upper body just enough to call it a slight bow and turns, a whistle emerging from between his lips as he calls for Iago - his horse.
Bardur winces at the piercing whistle - hardly the most musical of sounds. "Perhaps we shall," he returns then adds, brows bristling, "But will you not enter our camp and take something to sup, or a bite to eat? Let it not be said that the Dwarves are inhospitable!" Truly, Menfolk are strange.
Players: Bardur, Riordan
Located in: Dale-Lands | Erebor
- You are here:
-
Home
-
Elendor
-
Dale-Lands
- An exchange of news