Elendor
Mist, mud and Menfolk
Dorn and Bardur share a grumble or two that happen to be overheard
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Londaroth
Game Date: February 3058
IC Time: Afternoon
Weather: Wet
Description: Londaroth
This is a good-sized town, mostly populated by humans, though dwarves are a fairly common sight. Built on the west side of the River Running, Londaroth serves as the residences for the industrial works just to the north, along the foot of the waterfall that is the southern end of the Long Lake. Acres of fields and pasture-land, with cattle and sheep grazing peacefully, stretch out away from the river on both sides, an area that produces much of the food for the Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor.
An inn, stable, and numerous shops are all built around a large central square, with houses in outlying streets. Along the river, many docks are present from where the river becomes deep enough to be navigatable again and on south past the boundries of the town. River traffic is fairly heavy. Shipments of goods from Dale are typically ported down around the waterfall, re-loaded onto barges here, and sent to points south, with the reverse process applying for boats coming up-river. Just above the docks, a large bridge crosses over to the eastern side, where a road meanders its way south.
Obvious exits:
Bridge, Into the River, NorthWest, and West
----
Erebor Time & Weather Service
** Real time is: Wed Feb 06 04:10:09 2013, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Late Afternoon (1700) on Trewsday, Day 15 of February 3058.
In the Winter sky, Tonight the moon will be new.
----
[Dorn(#13467)]
Clouds, grey wisps of rain-heavy buckets, wade across the sky, threatening to unleash what it has already been giving to the land below - rain and more rain. Although it is still winter, the weather seems to think spring is just around the corner. Technically, it is but it hasn't been this early for years. Or maybe the dwarves simply don't follow weather outside their own territory, that closely. They should, being traveling merchants and all. So, the mood is quite miserable in the small dwarven camp of merchants and warders and crafters. The wind is sharp and the rain makes it even more unpleasant to bare. A nice time this would be to visit the local tavern, no? Where the fire is roaring and the mood is bright.
However, not everyone has such a luxury. Not only is Dorn, son of Lufur on guard duty but he has also been banned from the local tavern due to an incident that happened years ago! Who would have thought humans had such long memories, for how short their lives were! So, wearing his usual outfit of leather armor with a thick cloak that is by now soaked with rain-water, the young Warder stands at the edge of the camp, staring grimly into the city where most of his buddies are currently having fun at the inn. But he doesn't complain! There has been rumours of orcs and worse and the warrior does not want to miss such a thing. Maybe they could attack the camp so they could all get some heat under their skin with some fighting? Hope, all that remains is hope.
One dwarf is emerging from the Inn now, looking rather disgruntled himself. Bardur son of Mardur has a heavy plaid cloak of waxed wool round his shoulders but it flaps loosely open, for his hands are currently cradling a small stringed instrument along the lines of a rebec. Clearly he has not wished to risk exposing his precious viol to the wind and the threatening rain - or perhaps to the rowdy human inhabitants of the local tavern. Equally clearly, he's not received quite the welcome he'd hoped for. He stomps along towards the camp, head down and muttering: Dorn, standing on sentry duty as he is, is the nearest listening-post on which to vent his displeasure.
"Those Men-folk have /no/ appreciation for talent!" he announces loudly, shaking his head. "Why, any innkeeper worth his salt would be /glad/ of a skilled musician to help while away the hours for his patrons and draw in the crowds ..." Then something registers: "What are /you/ doing out here? Weren't you on guard duty yesterday too?"
[Dorn(#13467)]
Clearly there is something wrong with humans not Dorn. See, now they've gone and rejected the Skald as well! What's next? Requiring them to wear pants?! Madness! With some curiousity does the young warrior watch the bard emerge and approach. Ever the dutiful guard, however, he doesn't speak at first but only when the question pops up. To that, Dorn merely shrugs his shoulders, speaking with some weariness to his voice. "Lucky break. You'd imagine the camp would run off without me here watching it...," he replies and brushes a small pool of rain-water that has been gathering on one of the folds of his cloak. Pfef!
Bardur steps back, hastily tucking his rebec back of view before that clumsy Warder can splash it. Even a second-rate instrument deserves respect! "Where would it run off to? There's nothing here, nothing!" He glares round at grey sky, grey houses, the billowing clouds of grey wreathing the waterfall, and kicks at a pebble. Then, in attempt to console his fellow Dwarf he tells him gruffly, "You're not missing much. Their beer tastes like cat's piss. Weak as they are."
Naturally, those words /would/ carry. Naturally, too, one of the locals would be passing - a big, burly fellow with an unkempt beard that would make even the less-than-hirsute Dorn blush in shame at the state of it. Is that really a mushroom growing in the tangled mess? "Who'reyercallin'weak?" he grunts - at least, that might be it. His accent's as thick as they come.
[Dorn(#13467)]
It does give Dorn a little comfort knowing that not much has changed in Londaroth since he was there last. Humans are still making weak ale and still have a problem with dwarves. They're quick enough to accept their wares and gold and assistance when it comes to building or repairing things! But the Warder managed not to comment - or maybe just isn't given a chance before the burly human steps in the conversation.
"Move along, man," he perks up and steps closer. Already in a foul mood, his hand on the hilt of his sword and his face twisted into a sneer. "This is a private conversation." Yes, at most opportune moments, even Dorn can be almost clever, not blurting out that they all think humans are weak thin-skinned babies. Wonders still happen in Middle-Earth...
"T'aintprivateplace," the hygiene-challenged human returns, deliberately halting a moment and looking the pair of Dwarves up and down, hands on hips. Presumably he'll move off in a moment to wherever he was going in the first place - after all, noone comes out in the rain just to annoy Dwarves, do they? But then the penny drops: "It'sabeardlin'!"
Bardur, meanwhile, is glancing nervously from his companion to the camp visitor - just which of them he's worried about it's hard to tell. "Ah, it's this wearisome wet weather that's weak, of course," he gabbles. "Takes more than that to daunt daring Dwarves or doughty dockers, eh?"
[Dorn(#13467)]
Whatever he does, it always comes down to the beard with Dorn. Always. It's ridiculous already and from the way he shrugs and rather sarcastically offers:"Yes, yes. Now off you go, little human", the Warder himself is starting to let it slip by now. Certainly, it stings but knowing what he knows now, Dorn seems to be handling the insults differently these days. Glancing toward Bardur, he snorts. "Ye of little faith, cousin," he mutters and turns back toward the human, standing between the glossy black beard-owner and him. He ain't taking back what Bardur said - humans are weak. All that height and so little to show for it. "Leave. Now." How much nicer and clearer could Dorn possibly be? Surely the human doesn't think he can take an angry dwarf - even though he has little beard to show for - in his own camp!
Bardur's words elicit a blank stare in response - what, he credits this specimen of Londaroth lowlife with intelligence? - but then surprisingly the unkempt man laughs. "Dowtydockers? Ilikesit." And he reaches out a hand - no, paw, there's little of skill or craft there, only the callouses left by rope-burns - to clap Bardur on the shoulder.
But then Dorn speaks and the man's hand halts midway, frozen in the air above the 'beardling' who's now between him and the Dwarf with all those fancy jaw-cracking words (he'd be a regular hoot at the tavern, he would!). "Who'reyercallin'little?" he demands. Oh dear, back to square one.
However, from the mist round the falls the sounds of creaking and clanking start to echo slowly, reluctantly, the man's head swivels round so that he can stare that way. Late for work?
[Dorn(#13467)]
Wonderful! Lets make friends with these weaklings who call him midget and beardling and whatnot. Not going to happen. Grumpily just staring at the human as he begins to -gaspshockhorror!- think, Dorn just waits it out. All that's required, has been said already. Now he'd be going off and doing whatever it was that these people did. Judging by the amount of food supplies they were receiving via trade here, probably farming... something? Dorn doesn't know a thing about growing stuff! Though if there ever was a pipeweed industry established in Erebor...
Indeed, Dorn's powers of prediction are spot on. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence the man lumbers off, disappearing into the haze. Bardur watches after him thoughtfully, freeing one hand to stroke his black glossy beard absently. "Maybe I should add another verse to my beard song," he muses. "But what rhymes with 'mouldy mushrooms'?" It's a most perplexing question!
Giving up on artistry for now he looks back to Dorn. "Well done, cousin!" he says heartily. "You were most ... tactful. Eager as I am to leave this mudhole, it's best we're not thrown out. Bad for business, you know." He turns to gaze vaguely westward (or is it east? It's hard to keep one's sense of direction in this murky weather) and ask his fellow Dwarf eagerly, in almost childlike fashion, "Do you think we'll see any action? A spot of battling would make for a stirring song." Ah, the innocence of youth!
[Dorn(#13467)]
A nod is given to the departing human - a fine day to you, as well, longshanks! - then Dorn turns to Bardur, brushing more water off his cloak. "I hear you. We need to eat," he says though not without a hint of annoyance in his voice, "thus we need to get along with these ground-drillers." Aside the added insult at the end, this line sounds like straight out of Dorn's captain's mouth!
Danger passed, now Dorn returns to his glum post, looking just as miserable and angry as he had when this whole started to unfold. At the Skald's inquiries, he shrugs. "There are rumours. If the orcs are around, they would be wise to stay away from our caravan." But when have the orcs ever shown such foresight? At the thought, he smiles a bit. "I think the chances are high." Matching the bard's youthful enthusiasm about the matter that in reality is a serious business, the Warder adds:"It will be glorious!"
To that last, Bardur nods eagerly. "We shall meet them with singing bow and swinging blade!" For a moment the keen light of battle comes into his eyes - but then it fades and he is simply an inexperienced young Skald standing in a muddy camp at the edge of a muddy town and clutching a flimsy rebec in lieu of a sword. He glances Dorn up and down, hesitates (what, a skald lost for words?) then ventures at last, "You look to have more experience of such things than I, cousin. My sword has yet to taste orcish meat." It's an uncomfortable confession, but still he presses on: "Might you perhaps show me a trick or two I could put to use?" His beard quivers a little at the obvious embarrassment of the situation.
[Dorn(#13467)]
There is nothing wrong with being young and inexperienced and the Warder is a testament to that belief. While confident and much-practiced, there are many things the dwarf doesn't know about fighting orcs or worse. But it doesn't stop him from wanting to fight these foul creatures nonetheless. If not for revenge for fallen brothers then the need to simply be better, do better, do his one job that he is vaguely good at. So, Dorn nods and draws his sword. It is not much, a simple iron sword he may have picked up once upon a time on the side of the road off a dead bandit, but it is what he has. Looking at the Skald, the Warder frowns a bit then sheathes his sword once again. "I don't want to blunt the blade. We can practice with sticks." And why not? There is nobody else around! Maybe something good will rub off the bard in return?
Finding the sticks is not a problem, the caravan guards train younger fighters that come along, all the time! With wooden sticks, too. If one doesn't take the first step... and all that wise stuff. Giving one of the sticks to Bardur, Dorn says:"Right. The thing with orcs is that they charge like mad, recklessly, so you better be quick on your feet or just sturdy enough to not topple over." Dorn may be relatively nimble when compared to other dwarves but even he knows the alternative. He slides his foot back and puts another ahead of him, leaning forward a little. "Put your weight into it so when they pounce, they can just fall on their arses. If it's one of them big ones, it's different but I'll show you that later..." What little he knows, he shares. Because deep down, Dorn is really a good boy. Dwarf.
Could that be thinly disguised relief in Bardur's eyes when swords are replaced by sticks? A skald's fingers are precious, after all! He takes time to set his wooden rebec aside, lovingly covered by his cloak, and then accepts his stick and steps up ready to let Dorn make a Ma- er, Dwarf of him! Let the lesson begin!
This is a good-sized town, mostly populated by humans, though dwarves are a fairly common sight. Built on the west side of the River Running, Londaroth serves as the residences for the industrial works just to the north, along the foot of the waterfall that is the southern end of the Long Lake. Acres of fields and pasture-land, with cattle and sheep grazing peacefully, stretch out away from the river on both sides, an area that produces much of the food for the Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor.
An inn, stable, and numerous shops are all built around a large central square, with houses in outlying streets. Along the river, many docks are present from where the river becomes deep enough to be navigatable again and on south past the boundries of the town. River traffic is fairly heavy. Shipments of goods from Dale are typically ported down around the waterfall, re-loaded onto barges here, and sent to points south, with the reverse process applying for boats coming up-river. Just above the docks, a large bridge crosses over to the eastern side, where a road meanders its way south.
Obvious exits:
Bridge, Into the River, NorthWest, and West
----
Erebor Time & Weather Service
** Real time is: Wed Feb 06 04:10:09 2013, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Late Afternoon (1700) on Trewsday, Day 15 of February 3058.
In the Winter sky, Tonight the moon will be new.
----
[Dorn(#13467)]
Clouds, grey wisps of rain-heavy buckets, wade across the sky, threatening to unleash what it has already been giving to the land below - rain and more rain. Although it is still winter, the weather seems to think spring is just around the corner. Technically, it is but it hasn't been this early for years. Or maybe the dwarves simply don't follow weather outside their own territory, that closely. They should, being traveling merchants and all. So, the mood is quite miserable in the small dwarven camp of merchants and warders and crafters. The wind is sharp and the rain makes it even more unpleasant to bare. A nice time this would be to visit the local tavern, no? Where the fire is roaring and the mood is bright.
However, not everyone has such a luxury. Not only is Dorn, son of Lufur on guard duty but he has also been banned from the local tavern due to an incident that happened years ago! Who would have thought humans had such long memories, for how short their lives were! So, wearing his usual outfit of leather armor with a thick cloak that is by now soaked with rain-water, the young Warder stands at the edge of the camp, staring grimly into the city where most of his buddies are currently having fun at the inn. But he doesn't complain! There has been rumours of orcs and worse and the warrior does not want to miss such a thing. Maybe they could attack the camp so they could all get some heat under their skin with some fighting? Hope, all that remains is hope.
One dwarf is emerging from the Inn now, looking rather disgruntled himself. Bardur son of Mardur has a heavy plaid cloak of waxed wool round his shoulders but it flaps loosely open, for his hands are currently cradling a small stringed instrument along the lines of a rebec. Clearly he has not wished to risk exposing his precious viol to the wind and the threatening rain - or perhaps to the rowdy human inhabitants of the local tavern. Equally clearly, he's not received quite the welcome he'd hoped for. He stomps along towards the camp, head down and muttering: Dorn, standing on sentry duty as he is, is the nearest listening-post on which to vent his displeasure.
"Those Men-folk have /no/ appreciation for talent!" he announces loudly, shaking his head. "Why, any innkeeper worth his salt would be /glad/ of a skilled musician to help while away the hours for his patrons and draw in the crowds ..." Then something registers: "What are /you/ doing out here? Weren't you on guard duty yesterday too?"
[Dorn(#13467)]
Clearly there is something wrong with humans not Dorn. See, now they've gone and rejected the Skald as well! What's next? Requiring them to wear pants?! Madness! With some curiousity does the young warrior watch the bard emerge and approach. Ever the dutiful guard, however, he doesn't speak at first but only when the question pops up. To that, Dorn merely shrugs his shoulders, speaking with some weariness to his voice. "Lucky break. You'd imagine the camp would run off without me here watching it...," he replies and brushes a small pool of rain-water that has been gathering on one of the folds of his cloak. Pfef!
Bardur steps back, hastily tucking his rebec back of view before that clumsy Warder can splash it. Even a second-rate instrument deserves respect! "Where would it run off to? There's nothing here, nothing!" He glares round at grey sky, grey houses, the billowing clouds of grey wreathing the waterfall, and kicks at a pebble. Then, in attempt to console his fellow Dwarf he tells him gruffly, "You're not missing much. Their beer tastes like cat's piss. Weak as they are."
Naturally, those words /would/ carry. Naturally, too, one of the locals would be passing - a big, burly fellow with an unkempt beard that would make even the less-than-hirsute Dorn blush in shame at the state of it. Is that really a mushroom growing in the tangled mess? "Who'reyercallin'weak?" he grunts - at least, that might be it. His accent's as thick as they come.
[Dorn(#13467)]
It does give Dorn a little comfort knowing that not much has changed in Londaroth since he was there last. Humans are still making weak ale and still have a problem with dwarves. They're quick enough to accept their wares and gold and assistance when it comes to building or repairing things! But the Warder managed not to comment - or maybe just isn't given a chance before the burly human steps in the conversation.
"Move along, man," he perks up and steps closer. Already in a foul mood, his hand on the hilt of his sword and his face twisted into a sneer. "This is a private conversation." Yes, at most opportune moments, even Dorn can be almost clever, not blurting out that they all think humans are weak thin-skinned babies. Wonders still happen in Middle-Earth...
"T'aintprivateplace," the hygiene-challenged human returns, deliberately halting a moment and looking the pair of Dwarves up and down, hands on hips. Presumably he'll move off in a moment to wherever he was going in the first place - after all, noone comes out in the rain just to annoy Dwarves, do they? But then the penny drops: "It'sabeardlin'!"
Bardur, meanwhile, is glancing nervously from his companion to the camp visitor - just which of them he's worried about it's hard to tell. "Ah, it's this wearisome wet weather that's weak, of course," he gabbles. "Takes more than that to daunt daring Dwarves or doughty dockers, eh?"
[Dorn(#13467)]
Whatever he does, it always comes down to the beard with Dorn. Always. It's ridiculous already and from the way he shrugs and rather sarcastically offers:"Yes, yes. Now off you go, little human", the Warder himself is starting to let it slip by now. Certainly, it stings but knowing what he knows now, Dorn seems to be handling the insults differently these days. Glancing toward Bardur, he snorts. "Ye of little faith, cousin," he mutters and turns back toward the human, standing between the glossy black beard-owner and him. He ain't taking back what Bardur said - humans are weak. All that height and so little to show for it. "Leave. Now." How much nicer and clearer could Dorn possibly be? Surely the human doesn't think he can take an angry dwarf - even though he has little beard to show for - in his own camp!
Bardur's words elicit a blank stare in response - what, he credits this specimen of Londaroth lowlife with intelligence? - but then surprisingly the unkempt man laughs. "Dowtydockers? Ilikesit." And he reaches out a hand - no, paw, there's little of skill or craft there, only the callouses left by rope-burns - to clap Bardur on the shoulder.
But then Dorn speaks and the man's hand halts midway, frozen in the air above the 'beardling' who's now between him and the Dwarf with all those fancy jaw-cracking words (he'd be a regular hoot at the tavern, he would!). "Who'reyercallin'little?" he demands. Oh dear, back to square one.
However, from the mist round the falls the sounds of creaking and clanking start to echo slowly, reluctantly, the man's head swivels round so that he can stare that way. Late for work?
[Dorn(#13467)]
Wonderful! Lets make friends with these weaklings who call him midget and beardling and whatnot. Not going to happen. Grumpily just staring at the human as he begins to -gaspshockhorror!- think, Dorn just waits it out. All that's required, has been said already. Now he'd be going off and doing whatever it was that these people did. Judging by the amount of food supplies they were receiving via trade here, probably farming... something? Dorn doesn't know a thing about growing stuff! Though if there ever was a pipeweed industry established in Erebor...
Indeed, Dorn's powers of prediction are spot on. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence the man lumbers off, disappearing into the haze. Bardur watches after him thoughtfully, freeing one hand to stroke his black glossy beard absently. "Maybe I should add another verse to my beard song," he muses. "But what rhymes with 'mouldy mushrooms'?" It's a most perplexing question!
Giving up on artistry for now he looks back to Dorn. "Well done, cousin!" he says heartily. "You were most ... tactful. Eager as I am to leave this mudhole, it's best we're not thrown out. Bad for business, you know." He turns to gaze vaguely westward (or is it east? It's hard to keep one's sense of direction in this murky weather) and ask his fellow Dwarf eagerly, in almost childlike fashion, "Do you think we'll see any action? A spot of battling would make for a stirring song." Ah, the innocence of youth!
[Dorn(#13467)]
A nod is given to the departing human - a fine day to you, as well, longshanks! - then Dorn turns to Bardur, brushing more water off his cloak. "I hear you. We need to eat," he says though not without a hint of annoyance in his voice, "thus we need to get along with these ground-drillers." Aside the added insult at the end, this line sounds like straight out of Dorn's captain's mouth!
Danger passed, now Dorn returns to his glum post, looking just as miserable and angry as he had when this whole started to unfold. At the Skald's inquiries, he shrugs. "There are rumours. If the orcs are around, they would be wise to stay away from our caravan." But when have the orcs ever shown such foresight? At the thought, he smiles a bit. "I think the chances are high." Matching the bard's youthful enthusiasm about the matter that in reality is a serious business, the Warder adds:"It will be glorious!"
To that last, Bardur nods eagerly. "We shall meet them with singing bow and swinging blade!" For a moment the keen light of battle comes into his eyes - but then it fades and he is simply an inexperienced young Skald standing in a muddy camp at the edge of a muddy town and clutching a flimsy rebec in lieu of a sword. He glances Dorn up and down, hesitates (what, a skald lost for words?) then ventures at last, "You look to have more experience of such things than I, cousin. My sword has yet to taste orcish meat." It's an uncomfortable confession, but still he presses on: "Might you perhaps show me a trick or two I could put to use?" His beard quivers a little at the obvious embarrassment of the situation.
[Dorn(#13467)]
There is nothing wrong with being young and inexperienced and the Warder is a testament to that belief. While confident and much-practiced, there are many things the dwarf doesn't know about fighting orcs or worse. But it doesn't stop him from wanting to fight these foul creatures nonetheless. If not for revenge for fallen brothers then the need to simply be better, do better, do his one job that he is vaguely good at. So, Dorn nods and draws his sword. It is not much, a simple iron sword he may have picked up once upon a time on the side of the road off a dead bandit, but it is what he has. Looking at the Skald, the Warder frowns a bit then sheathes his sword once again. "I don't want to blunt the blade. We can practice with sticks." And why not? There is nobody else around! Maybe something good will rub off the bard in return?
Finding the sticks is not a problem, the caravan guards train younger fighters that come along, all the time! With wooden sticks, too. If one doesn't take the first step... and all that wise stuff. Giving one of the sticks to Bardur, Dorn says:"Right. The thing with orcs is that they charge like mad, recklessly, so you better be quick on your feet or just sturdy enough to not topple over." Dorn may be relatively nimble when compared to other dwarves but even he knows the alternative. He slides his foot back and puts another ahead of him, leaning forward a little. "Put your weight into it so when they pounce, they can just fall on their arses. If it's one of them big ones, it's different but I'll show you that later..." What little he knows, he shares. Because deep down, Dorn is really a good boy. Dwarf.
Could that be thinly disguised relief in Bardur's eyes when swords are replaced by sticks? A skald's fingers are precious, after all! He takes time to set his wooden rebec aside, lovingly covered by his cloak, and then accepts his stick and steps up ready to let Dorn make a Ma- er, Dwarf of him! Let the lesson begin!
Players: Dorn, Bardur
Located in: Erebor
