Elendor
Pigs and Shines (Three Horses and an Ass TP)
The group from Dol Amroth heads north through Tharbad, encountering a local man who offers to be a 'friend'
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Tharbad
Game Date: March 3048
Description: Harn - Southern Gates of Tharbad
You stand outside the ivy covered Gates of Tharbad, the Annon Harn. The gates, once strong blockades against the legions of Angmar and the Arthedain, are now mere curiosities, not but rusted skeletons. The city of Tharbad has the reputation as a haven for the smugglers and thieves of the River Gwathlo. Be that as it may, the only signs of life are those of beast and bird.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The night winds of Tharbad are not kind to the hearts and wits of men. They rustle leaves, sounding the approach of an army of enemies. They whistle through halls speaking in the hushed whispers of the long past dead and worse. The only light comes from the moon's waning light, allowing only the barest outline of objects in the dark.
The camp is still, all having turned in for the night except those on the night's patrol still wake through the dead silence that drowns the night.
Against a ruined pillar stands the squire Menelglir, cloak pulled tightly around him, the youth's eyes sharp, peering into the darkness. A noise breaks the night air jittery he jumps just a little, then steps forward to it, hand on his sword hilt. He says nothing yet, but moves as silently as he can, though his boots crunch lightly on the rubble beneath them.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The leaves rustle some more as he approaches and then with another step, there is nothing. All sound before him ceases spring leaves mock Menelglir as the breeze picks up once more.
Nervously, Menelglir licks his lips. He stands still, holding his breath, even, straining to listen and peer into the darkness.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
With the flurry of sound and movement, the barest outline of a deer dashing away in complete abject terror. This very quickly becomes the barest whisper of hooves off in the distance as its agile legs carry it away from the squire's investigation.
A slow, careful exhalation of breath from the young Squire, who, despite being relieved that the noise was from a deer, still tries to remain quiet. His boots scuff on the ruins as he turns partially back toward the ruins, heading for his original post. His hand has dropped from his sword hilt.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
Even as he relaxes and heads back a new sound begins to make its way to his ears this one decidedly of men. A quiet song of joviality, its words soon becoming clear and in them a clearly foreign tongue. A slow glow begins to burn within Tharbad's ruins some distance from the camp.
The sigh of relief turns into a sudden inhaled hiss of wariness. Menelglir turns toward the glow and the noise, taking a few careful steps that direction.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
It is some distance from the camp, nearer to the heart of Tharbad, through the ivy covered gates and while the light grows brighter, the sounds remain at a distance from the camp. For now.
The squire is silent and still, watching for several long moments before he turns back toward the encampment, trying to move quickly and without noise--and looking for someone--anyone--to alert. The camp is asleep he hesitates, searchign for someone in particular, perhaps.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The sound of gravel underfoot makes it's way down the Menetar road coupled with a lazy singing. The glint of metal shines for a brief moment under the dull light of the moon as the man shaped shadow moves towards a shattered wall and begins to relieve himself on it.
Menelglir has gotten maybe 20 paces down the road toward the camp when the sound of approaching footsteps makes him duck off to the side of the road, pressing himself flat against the remains of a wall. Unfortunately, he's chosen the side of the road where the singing bandit has come to relieve himself--though the Squire at least is not being pissed upon
[Gwendion(#24427)]
With a sigh of relief, he turns to head back north. But only after a few steps, he pauses, his head peering into the shadows of the buildings around him, and down near the gate. He sniffs at the air, like an animal unsure of their surroundings.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The Dunlending though does utter a questioning curse aloud. He lazily stomps towards the Ivy gate, his nose apparently leading him on towards some unfamiliar scent.
From out of his hiding place the Squire creeps behind, trying to keep to the shadows and follow quickly. Perhaps the crunch of his own footsteps on the side of the road will be masked by the bandit's own steps and the rustle of leaves in the wind. Slowly, very slowly, Menelglir draws a long knife out of its scabbard.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
Even as his death slowly approaches, the Dunlending seems to notice naught. Unseen in the dark, his eyes squint into the inky blackness, searching for something material to describe his unease. He calls out a questioning greeting to the darkness, the squire still undetected.
And Menelglir, weapon in hand, freezes for a second and then darts to the side and to the shadow of a ruined wall. Likely there is a thought process going on in his head behind this, but the Dunlending would not know it. So far, at least, no answer comes in answer to the man's greeting.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The shadows hide the Dunlending's face and movements. And for a time he remains motionless and quiet. Then the crunch of gravel underfoot begins anew, as he stalks back towards the light further up the street.
Another slow exhalation of relief from the White Squire now. He keeps very still...but his nose twitches. Once, twice. He fights it, holding his breath and struggling to not sneeze, and in the end, has to bring a hand up to his nose to prevent it. His armor clinks noisily at the motion.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
There is a clear response to the Squire's movements, the sound of a drawn blade. The metal of a short sword has the faint light of the moon dancing upon it as the figure backs up still towards his camp. He speaks out in his foreign tongue at the darkness, what was once questions now sounding as demands.
Suniti tickles the Harad types.
Out into the street comes Menelglir, his blade drawn as well and held menacingly, or as menacingly as a 16 year old can manage. "You have no business here," he snarls to the Dunlending.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"Warglh?!" the Dunlending cries in surprise as the Squire dashes from the darkness. Light is truly faint and only the sound of approaching boots and wind swept shadows give away the squires location.
He swings his short blade wildly from side to side. Finding some wits about him, he changes his form of address, "You are?!"
This is no time for diplomacy or courteous introductions. "Who I am is none of your concern!" Menelglir spits out at the Dunlending, slashing an arc with his long knife, trying for the man's face. "You would have been better off minding your own business.'
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"Gyrehch!" the Dunlending curses as his wild motions fail to stop the Squire's dagger from finding flesh. He stumbles backwards, "Here is house! Go!"
Again he waves the short blade in front of him.
Menelglir twists to his right, easily avoiding the man's blade and slashing out again, trying to knock the dagger out of the Dunlending's hand. "Don't care where your house is!" he answers, his sentences short as he concentrates on fighting. "I'm traveling through--going north on this road and not about to be stopped by you!"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The Squire's swing is surprisingly true and indeed, the blade catches the swing of the man's blade just right and knocks it from his grip. It slides through the gravel, some place to the man's left.
There is silence from him.
The White Squire cautiously steps forward, his own blade still pointed at the Dunlending, then kicks the man's weapon away. "Come with me," he says, gesturing with his weapon and indicating that the man should go south toward the gates. "We have to decide what to do with you."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
His grin can be felt, if not seen, "I not come. You kill. First I scream. Friends come. Friends kill," the Dunlending man says, "You come. Meet friends. We decide."
A small laugh escapes the squire. "No...you see...that is not the way it works. I have the knife. You do not. Therefore, you come to meet my 'friends.' Not the other way around." Menelglir again gestures with his dagger. "Move. Or would you like for me to put this to your neck now?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
A step is taken back.
A small, gruff chuckle precedes his words, "You no friends. You alone. You kill. We kill."
Perhaps he points back towards his camp, "Fire warm. Food warm. Song warm. Meet friends. You friend."
No answer is yet given, so that the noises of the wind and leaves and the Dunlending's singing in the distance are all that can be heard. "Yes.." Menelglir answers slowly. "I'm alone. But I don't need your fire, nor your food."
[Findon(#29212)]
The sound of footfalls borne by the sudden gust of the south wind are not lithe. A branch cracks underfoot and a handfull the next step, each drawing nearer the two Menelglir and the Dunlending from the south.
It would appear the Squire is not alone.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
A nervous laugh, "See. My friends. Bad thieves. Good swords."
Another step back, "Night cold. Stomach cold. Warm fire. Warm food."
"Call friends?" he dares.
"No, don't call your friends," Menelglir growls, stepping forward closer to the man, knife point threatening. "You'll come with me and not make a sound or..." Abruptly, the White Squire breaks off at the sound of footsteps behind him. Without taking his eyes off the Dunlending, he calls out quietly. " Who's there?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"My friends. Your friends. We friends," comes the Dunlending reply, missing the squire's call to the other.
"Gold? Want gold? Have gold. Shine? Want shine? Have shine. Pig and shines. All for you. Friend."
[Findon(#29212)]
Accompanied by his heavy tread, dimly there an enormous figure moves towards the pair, swathed in darkness as though it were a cloak -- No, that is indeed a cloak, clutched close against the wind that tugs fiercely at its ends. Though the hood is cast overhead.
Is it a man?
It is a great one, if so of height and width. But the voice that comes from within the windswept hood sounds manlike at the least, its common lilt southern: "Now here is a strange chance meeting." The tone is mild, but raised, "'Tis Findon."
"What goes on here?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
There is no hesitation in his words this time, though a underlying current of nervousness is clear.
"Findon your friend. Findon my friend. Findon. You. Pigs. Shines. Fire. Togther? Yes Findon?" he says to the pair.
"Friends, then," Menelglir nods slowly, his voice a low growl. "And if we are actually friends, then you can come with me now. To meet my friends." His eyes narrow, he reaches a hand for the Dunlending's arm--reaching with his left, since his right holds the threatening blade. "A local, Findon. I saw some light and heard singing up north of us, then this one here came along the road and sniffed us out. What do I do with him?" This all is said in Sindarin, then in common, "And it's Menelglir."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"My friends sad. 'Where Condon?' they say. I bring Findon. I bring Menegear. They happy. You happy."
He pauses a moment, his eyes looking down at the blade, "No Condon. Friends sad. Friends come. Friends angry no Condon. Friends kill. Findon dead. Menegear dead. Maybe Condon dead. Better pigs and shines. You come." He does not move away as the squire reaches out.
[<#29212>]
'No.'
Findon's tone loses its mildness even then. But he does not turn to the use of the speech used by he and his amongst themselves as a courtesy perhaps. Not yet at any rate. 'Condon's friends must wait. Shine pigs later, understand?'
His voice lowers, in a wordless murmur. A sigh.
" We cannot kill this man, Menelglir."
"He's right," Menelglir says, using Westron now and then nodding to Findon's advice. "Leave us be," he answers to the Dunlending. "Pigs later. Friends later. Just talk now, yes? Talk only?"
The White Squire's brows furrow, but he still does not turn to address Findon. " What do we do? If I let him go, he'll go back to his friends and likely ambush us at some point. We cannot kill him, as you say. And even if I force him to come back to our camp, his friends may come looking for him."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"Why sing now? You want talk. Why sing?" comes a confused response from the Dunlending.
[Findon(#29212)]
"Ask him what honor is," Findon suggests then, on the native tongue of his and Menelglir's.
""Honor?" The suggestion is so startling that Menelglir half turns to Findon, forgetting himself for just that second. He quickly turns back, but it's an opening if the Dunlending is quick enough to take it. Meantime, he asks in Westron: "What is honor among your people? What promise can you make to me that you will not break?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
He is quiet for a long time. Maybe in thought, maybe in trying to understand the words spoken to him.
Finally, "Condon people have honor. Menegear what people? Not Dunlending. But men. Tower men? Not Tower men. Tower men no talk. Not Dunlending men. No Condon. No Condon friend. Findon Menegear only dead men." A pause, "What people?"
[Findon(#29212)]
"Tower men?"
Ere a pause: "It doesn't sound like a tower I have ever heard of save one, that we name not, for it is black." Findon shakes his head in emphasis: "Not Tower men. We too know honor."
"Not Tower men, no. Not Dunlending. From far away. Land you don't know," Menelglir answers. "West men," he adds, glancing back again toward Findon. "Our word--we have honor. We will not hurt you or your friends. You do the same for us?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"No hurt. Just pig. You not hungry. You not cold. Condon leave. You here. Condon at friend."
He raises his hands, "Menegear no friend. Findon no friend. Menegear ghost. Findon ghost. Good story. You go. We go."
"Ghost...all right..." Slowly, the sword is withdrawn, though Menelglir does not sheath it yet. "You go. We'll go. Ghosts." His eyes narrow and he stands there watching, waiting for the Dunlending to move off.
[Findon(#29212)]
"Indeed," Findon concurs. "Let us go."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
With nothing else to say, the Dunlending takes three steps back, then turns and runs, the sound of footfalls the only thing to be perceived of his retreat.
[Findon(#29212)]
"It'll go ill for us if he lied," Findon murmurs, scarce audible over the winds low yowls. After a moment's pause, he concludes "Let us return to camp."
It is only then that Menelglir lets his breath out. "Who knows how many of them there are?" he says quietly in Sindarin, turning to Findon and sheathing his sword. "It will. Camp it is, and I suppose I have to wake Sir Arathis and let him know what has happened. Mayhaps he wants us to move camp tonight." Not looking pleased at all, the White Squire hastens his steps down the road toward their campsite.
[Findon(#29212)]
For a while longer Findon of the blue remains, looking after the stranger retreat, long since vanished in the gloom. But ere he breaks his grave thought on the matter, and turns to follow his younger counterpart, he mutters:
"Maethor-o e-menel berio noss."
You stand outside the ivy covered Gates of Tharbad, the Annon Harn. The gates, once strong blockades against the legions of Angmar and the Arthedain, are now mere curiosities, not but rusted skeletons. The city of Tharbad has the reputation as a haven for the smugglers and thieves of the River Gwathlo. Be that as it may, the only signs of life are those of beast and bird.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The night winds of Tharbad are not kind to the hearts and wits of men. They rustle leaves, sounding the approach of an army of enemies. They whistle through halls speaking in the hushed whispers of the long past dead and worse. The only light comes from the moon's waning light, allowing only the barest outline of objects in the dark.
The camp is still, all having turned in for the night except those on the night's patrol still wake through the dead silence that drowns the night.
Against a ruined pillar stands the squire Menelglir, cloak pulled tightly around him, the youth's eyes sharp, peering into the darkness. A noise breaks the night air jittery he jumps just a little, then steps forward to it, hand on his sword hilt. He says nothing yet, but moves as silently as he can, though his boots crunch lightly on the rubble beneath them.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The leaves rustle some more as he approaches and then with another step, there is nothing. All sound before him ceases spring leaves mock Menelglir as the breeze picks up once more.
Nervously, Menelglir licks his lips. He stands still, holding his breath, even, straining to listen and peer into the darkness.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
With the flurry of sound and movement, the barest outline of a deer dashing away in complete abject terror. This very quickly becomes the barest whisper of hooves off in the distance as its agile legs carry it away from the squire's investigation.
A slow, careful exhalation of breath from the young Squire, who, despite being relieved that the noise was from a deer, still tries to remain quiet. His boots scuff on the ruins as he turns partially back toward the ruins, heading for his original post. His hand has dropped from his sword hilt.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
Even as he relaxes and heads back a new sound begins to make its way to his ears this one decidedly of men. A quiet song of joviality, its words soon becoming clear and in them a clearly foreign tongue. A slow glow begins to burn within Tharbad's ruins some distance from the camp.
The sigh of relief turns into a sudden inhaled hiss of wariness. Menelglir turns toward the glow and the noise, taking a few careful steps that direction.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
It is some distance from the camp, nearer to the heart of Tharbad, through the ivy covered gates and while the light grows brighter, the sounds remain at a distance from the camp. For now.
The squire is silent and still, watching for several long moments before he turns back toward the encampment, trying to move quickly and without noise--and looking for someone--anyone--to alert. The camp is asleep he hesitates, searchign for someone in particular, perhaps.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The sound of gravel underfoot makes it's way down the Menetar road coupled with a lazy singing. The glint of metal shines for a brief moment under the dull light of the moon as the man shaped shadow moves towards a shattered wall and begins to relieve himself on it.
Menelglir has gotten maybe 20 paces down the road toward the camp when the sound of approaching footsteps makes him duck off to the side of the road, pressing himself flat against the remains of a wall. Unfortunately, he's chosen the side of the road where the singing bandit has come to relieve himself--though the Squire at least is not being pissed upon
[Gwendion(#24427)]
With a sigh of relief, he turns to head back north. But only after a few steps, he pauses, his head peering into the shadows of the buildings around him, and down near the gate. He sniffs at the air, like an animal unsure of their surroundings.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The Dunlending though does utter a questioning curse aloud. He lazily stomps towards the Ivy gate, his nose apparently leading him on towards some unfamiliar scent.
From out of his hiding place the Squire creeps behind, trying to keep to the shadows and follow quickly. Perhaps the crunch of his own footsteps on the side of the road will be masked by the bandit's own steps and the rustle of leaves in the wind. Slowly, very slowly, Menelglir draws a long knife out of its scabbard.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
Even as his death slowly approaches, the Dunlending seems to notice naught. Unseen in the dark, his eyes squint into the inky blackness, searching for something material to describe his unease. He calls out a questioning greeting to the darkness, the squire still undetected.
And Menelglir, weapon in hand, freezes for a second and then darts to the side and to the shadow of a ruined wall. Likely there is a thought process going on in his head behind this, but the Dunlending would not know it. So far, at least, no answer comes in answer to the man's greeting.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The shadows hide the Dunlending's face and movements. And for a time he remains motionless and quiet. Then the crunch of gravel underfoot begins anew, as he stalks back towards the light further up the street.
Another slow exhalation of relief from the White Squire now. He keeps very still...but his nose twitches. Once, twice. He fights it, holding his breath and struggling to not sneeze, and in the end, has to bring a hand up to his nose to prevent it. His armor clinks noisily at the motion.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
There is a clear response to the Squire's movements, the sound of a drawn blade. The metal of a short sword has the faint light of the moon dancing upon it as the figure backs up still towards his camp. He speaks out in his foreign tongue at the darkness, what was once questions now sounding as demands.
Out into the street comes Menelglir, his blade drawn as well and held menacingly, or as menacingly as a 16 year old can manage. "You have no business here," he snarls to the Dunlending.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"Warglh?!" the Dunlending cries in surprise as the Squire dashes from the darkness. Light is truly faint and only the sound of approaching boots and wind swept shadows give away the squires location.
He swings his short blade wildly from side to side. Finding some wits about him, he changes his form of address, "You are?!"
This is no time for diplomacy or courteous introductions. "Who I am is none of your concern!" Menelglir spits out at the Dunlending, slashing an arc with his long knife, trying for the man's face. "You would have been better off minding your own business.'
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"Gyrehch!" the Dunlending curses as his wild motions fail to stop the Squire's dagger from finding flesh. He stumbles backwards, "Here is house! Go!"
Again he waves the short blade in front of him.
Menelglir twists to his right, easily avoiding the man's blade and slashing out again, trying to knock the dagger out of the Dunlending's hand. "Don't care where your house is!" he answers, his sentences short as he concentrates on fighting. "I'm traveling through--going north on this road and not about to be stopped by you!"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
The Squire's swing is surprisingly true and indeed, the blade catches the swing of the man's blade just right and knocks it from his grip. It slides through the gravel, some place to the man's left.
There is silence from him.
The White Squire cautiously steps forward, his own blade still pointed at the Dunlending, then kicks the man's weapon away. "Come with me," he says, gesturing with his weapon and indicating that the man should go south toward the gates. "We have to decide what to do with you."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
His grin can be felt, if not seen, "I not come. You kill. First I scream. Friends come. Friends kill," the Dunlending man says, "You come. Meet friends. We decide."
A small laugh escapes the squire. "No...you see...that is not the way it works. I have the knife. You do not. Therefore, you come to meet my 'friends.' Not the other way around." Menelglir again gestures with his dagger. "Move. Or would you like for me to put this to your neck now?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
A step is taken back.
A small, gruff chuckle precedes his words, "You no friends. You alone. You kill. We kill."
Perhaps he points back towards his camp, "Fire warm. Food warm. Song warm. Meet friends. You friend."
No answer is yet given, so that the noises of the wind and leaves and the Dunlending's singing in the distance are all that can be heard. "Yes.." Menelglir answers slowly. "I'm alone. But I don't need your fire, nor your food."
[Findon(#29212)]
The sound of footfalls borne by the sudden gust of the south wind are not lithe. A branch cracks underfoot and a handfull the next step, each drawing nearer the two Menelglir and the Dunlending from the south.
It would appear the Squire is not alone.
[Gwendion(#24427)]
A nervous laugh, "See. My friends. Bad thieves. Good swords."
Another step back, "Night cold. Stomach cold. Warm fire. Warm food."
"Call friends?" he dares.
"No, don't call your friends," Menelglir growls, stepping forward closer to the man, knife point threatening. "You'll come with me and not make a sound or..." Abruptly, the White Squire breaks off at the sound of footsteps behind him. Without taking his eyes off the Dunlending, he calls out quietly. "
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"My friends. Your friends. We friends," comes the Dunlending reply, missing the squire's call to the other.
"Gold? Want gold? Have gold. Shine? Want shine? Have shine. Pig and shines. All for you. Friend."
[Findon(#29212)]
Accompanied by his heavy tread, dimly there an enormous figure moves towards the pair, swathed in darkness as though it were a cloak -- No, that is indeed a cloak, clutched close against the wind that tugs fiercely at its ends. Though the hood is cast overhead.
Is it a man?
It is a great one, if so of height and width. But the voice that comes from within the windswept hood sounds manlike at the least, its common lilt southern: "Now here is a strange chance meeting." The tone is mild, but raised, "'Tis Findon."
"What goes on here?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
There is no hesitation in his words this time, though a underlying current of nervousness is clear.
"Findon your friend. Findon my friend. Findon. You. Pigs. Shines. Fire. Togther? Yes Findon?" he says to the pair.
"Friends, then," Menelglir nods slowly, his voice a low growl. "And if we are actually friends, then you can come with me now. To meet my friends." His eyes narrow, he reaches a hand for the Dunlending's arm--reaching with his left, since his right holds the threatening blade. "A local, Findon. I saw some light and heard singing up north of us, then this one here came along the road and sniffed us out. What do I do with him?" This all is said in Sindarin, then in common, "And it's Menelglir."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"My friends sad. 'Where Condon?' they say. I bring Findon. I bring Menegear. They happy. You happy."
He pauses a moment, his eyes looking down at the blade, "No Condon. Friends sad. Friends come. Friends angry no Condon. Friends kill. Findon dead. Menegear dead. Maybe Condon dead. Better pigs and shines. You come." He does not move away as the squire reaches out.
[<#29212>]
'No.'
Findon's tone loses its mildness even then. But he does not turn to the use of the speech used by he and his amongst themselves as a courtesy perhaps. Not yet at any rate. 'Condon's friends must wait. Shine pigs later, understand?'
His voice lowers, in a wordless murmur. A sigh.
"
"He's right," Menelglir says, using Westron now and then nodding to Findon's advice. "Leave us be," he answers to the Dunlending. "Pigs later. Friends later. Just talk now, yes? Talk only?"
The White Squire's brows furrow, but he still does not turn to address Findon. "
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"Why sing now? You want talk. Why sing?" comes a confused response from the Dunlending.
[Findon(#29212)]
"Ask him what honor is," Findon suggests then, on the native tongue of his and Menelglir's.
"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
He is quiet for a long time. Maybe in thought, maybe in trying to understand the words spoken to him.
Finally, "Condon people have honor. Menegear what people? Not Dunlending. But men. Tower men? Not Tower men. Tower men no talk. Not Dunlending men. No Condon. No Condon friend. Findon Menegear only dead men." A pause, "What people?"
[Findon(#29212)]
"Tower men?"
Ere a pause: "It doesn't sound like a tower I have ever heard of save one, that we name not, for it is black." Findon shakes his head in emphasis: "Not Tower men. We too know honor."
"Not Tower men, no. Not Dunlending. From far away. Land you don't know," Menelglir answers. "West men," he adds, glancing back again toward Findon. "Our word--we have honor. We will not hurt you or your friends. You do the same for us?"
[Gwendion(#24427)]
"No hurt. Just pig. You not hungry. You not cold. Condon leave. You here. Condon at friend."
He raises his hands, "Menegear no friend. Findon no friend. Menegear ghost. Findon ghost. Good story. You go. We go."
"Ghost...all right..." Slowly, the sword is withdrawn, though Menelglir does not sheath it yet. "You go. We'll go. Ghosts." His eyes narrow and he stands there watching, waiting for the Dunlending to move off.
[Findon(#29212)]
"Indeed," Findon concurs. "Let us go."
[Gwendion(#24427)]
With nothing else to say, the Dunlending takes three steps back, then turns and runs, the sound of footfalls the only thing to be perceived of his retreat.
[Findon(#29212)]
"It'll go ill for us if he lied," Findon murmurs, scarce audible over the winds low yowls. After a moment's pause, he concludes "Let us return to camp."
It is only then that Menelglir lets his breath out. "Who knows how many of them there are?" he says quietly in Sindarin, turning to Findon and sheathing his sword. "It will. Camp it is, and I suppose I have to wake Sir Arathis and let him know what has happened. Mayhaps he wants us to move camp tonight." Not looking pleased at all, the White Squire hastens his steps down the road toward their campsite.
[Findon(#29212)]
For a while longer Findon of the blue remains, looking after the stranger retreat, long since vanished in the gloom. But ere he breaks his grave thought on the matter, and turns to follow his younger counterpart, he mutters:
"Maethor-o e-menel berio noss."
Players: Findon,Gwendion,Menelglir
Located in: Dunlending | Gondorian
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- Pigs and Shines (Three Horses and an Ass TP)