Elendor
Meeting in the Gap (Three Horses and an Ass TP)
Disputed lands see a meeting between Menelglir and a man who should not perhaps, be there. A message is given ...
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Gap of Rohan
Game Date: January(?) 3049
IC Time: Evening
Description: ===============================================================================
Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
===============================================================================
Real Time is: Thu Oct 01 14:47:48 2009
IC weather is: Wind: fresh - Clouds: clear
IC Moon is: Not visible
IC time is: Early evening
IC date is: January in the year 3048.
===============================================================================
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Somewhere in the Gap of Rohan, the winter day is drawing to a close. The light has not yet faded from the clear grey skies, but evening draws near and the temperature has fallen. In the distance, maybe half a mile, a group of Riders of the Mark is making camp in a small field off the road, pickets set for their horses and sentries posted. Here, by a small stream hidden among tall winter grass, a youth of about 16 with dark hair, grey eyes and a thick wool cloak hiding the rest of his garb leans down to wash his face. Two wooden buckets for water are at his side.
The Gap is often thought of as empty country, but today it cannot be claimed as untenanted. As the skies darken, shapes come creeping over the brow of a little hill that huddles at the feet of the mightier Methedras. Shadows low and hunched, keeping to the cover of bushes and scrub - clearly they do not wish to be seen. One, two .. soon the omniscent eye might count fully half a dozen. Each bears a spear, or an axe some carry also empty sacks. They settle down to wait for the light to fade - and as they wait, they murmur to each other warily in their guttural tongue. They do not seem yet to have caught sight of the lone figure - or, one assumes by the fact that they linger, the Rohirric camp.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
Face still wet, Menelglir now reaches for one of the buckets, dipping it into the water. Likely the Riders have already been here to water their horses and fetch their own water, judging from the hoof prints by the stream, but their camp is further way, safely out of bow shot of the hill now covered with men. One bucket is filled, then the other taken up, dark black hair falling forward as Menelglir works. He sighs, frowns, and looks up toward the hill, possibly not seeing the shadows.
Two of the Dunlending intruders' number have started to worm their way forward through the long grasses, no doubt to get a better view of the lie of the land ahead before the light fades. It is the movement of the buckets, perhaps, that alerts them to the lone figure below. One raises a spear - only for his fellow to slap it away. "You fool!" he hisses. "/Look/ at him, he's no Forgoil."
Outlined as they are against the brow of the hill, Menelglir will likely see the movement if his gaze is lifted that way.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
The buckets slosh to the ground with a heavy thud, water spilling over their tops, and Menelglir draws the sword at his side, holding it before him. But...the youth just stands there, staring, watchign teh figures move on the hill. He frowns. "Who are you?" he calls in the common tongue.
The words do not receive an immediate answer, for the second Dunlending's shove is answered by an angry hiss of, "Just who are you calling 'fool'?" It appears that a squabble between the pair is imminent, and Menelglir's words unheard or not understood ...
It is then that a new presence makes itself felt - a horse and rider not on the road but upon the hill's lower slopes. The steed picks its way daintily across the rough ground the young man sitting astride her is ringmail-clad, and seems as comfortable on his mount as any Rohir - save that what Rohir would have that colouring? "Greetings, traveller. You are astray from your path." The words, cold and haughty, are spoken in perfect Common. They are followed by a rapid burst of the Hill-speech, with the cadence of an order to it. One of the squabbling pair backs off, out of sight.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
Uneasy as the rider descends the path, Menelglir still holds his sword but the point is toward the ground. He glances over his shoulder several times, but the spot by the small creek he has chosen is in a dip in the land, and he is hidden from view of the Riders of the Mark. "I came...for water.." he answers hesitantly, looking to the men now backing off and then back to the newly arrived man. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
The ringmailed rider brings his mount to a sudden halt - well out of sword-range. "The water is free for any, passage through these lands less so. Speak your name and your number, and whither you journey through lands that are not yours." The formal Common has the ring of command to it, as though the possibility of Menelglir refusing to answer were not even considered. The young horseman's features are sharp and his gaze cold as he follows the direction of Menelglir's glance, up beyond the other side of the stream.
The fellow who'd crawled out of sight remains so, but the other Dunlending footman stays behind, watching the conversing pair warily from his vantage point atop the hill-brow.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
"Less so? How is that, sir?" Menelglir replies carefully. Again, another glance is given over his shoulder, the youth frowning at the spot he has chosen to gain water. "I am called Menelglir Telpekhor, of Gondor. Our group...well, my countrymen and I are small in number, 5 only. And we are seeking to ..to go north. I cannot say for what purpose. I was called to it and I obeyed."
"North will lead you to the spine of the mountains, and there you will perish, whether by ice and snow or by goblin's hand." Those words are completely assured. "To the northwest the road is blocked to any save the Men of Dunland and those they allow passage. It is seldom the gates are opened to strangers." The rider, who has as yet declined to name himself - sounds almost disinterested his gaze, however, is keen and rests on Menelglir. "Where are your companions, now, Telpekhor? You seem eager to rejoin them."
[Menelglir(#1394)]
"They are...to the east, sir. We make camp this night and I was grubby from the journey and wished fresh, cold water with which to wash my face. Plus this..." Menelglir gestures to the two buckets--"more water that we needed for cooking, and I was ordered to fetch it." He pauses, biting at his lower lip. "You will allow us passage, sir? I cannot speak for our group, but I can let my master know who it is that he must seek for such a privilege?"
"Ahh." The rider's gaze rests on Menelglir a moment longer, and then he calls out something over his shoulder, in the guttural tongue of the Hillmen. "Fall back. There are others ..."
Returning to the Common, he tells the hesitant, "You are speaking with Bledrann Faol, Man of Gondor. You stand now within my territory." A rather bold claim, given that they are upon disputed soil that no man calls home, and that Rohan patrols regularly it is accompanied by a touch of his sword-hilt in a rather theatrical gesture. "Tell your master that should he wish to seek passage through Dunland, I require payment of a toll. He must bring me the head of one of those we call Forgoil and you call Rohirrim, on a pike." With that, the Dunlending rider makes as though to spur his horse away.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
"The what?!" Menelglir spits out, look of horror on his face. The youth makes no move to stop the dark stranger, though. He watches the man go, then picks up the two buckets and begins the long trek back to camp.
The man who has identified himself as Bledrann Faol glances back, a smile on his face as he witnesses Menelglir's disgust - then he chuckles softly, before his hurrying horse carries him round the hill and out of view.
The other man, the footman who'd watched from afar, shakes his head and mutters sourly as he pushes himself back on his elbows, "Kiern knows what all that blabbing was about. Foreigners! Oughter just kill 'em all ..."
Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
===============================================================================
Real Time is: Thu Oct 01 14:47:48 2009
IC weather is: Wind: fresh - Clouds: clear
IC Moon is: Not visible
IC time is: Early evening
IC date is: January in the year 3048.
===============================================================================
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Somewhere in the Gap of Rohan, the winter day is drawing to a close. The light has not yet faded from the clear grey skies, but evening draws near and the temperature has fallen. In the distance, maybe half a mile, a group of Riders of the Mark is making camp in a small field off the road, pickets set for their horses and sentries posted. Here, by a small stream hidden among tall winter grass, a youth of about 16 with dark hair, grey eyes and a thick wool cloak hiding the rest of his garb leans down to wash his face. Two wooden buckets for water are at his side.
The Gap is often thought of as empty country, but today it cannot be claimed as untenanted. As the skies darken, shapes come creeping over the brow of a little hill that huddles at the feet of the mightier Methedras. Shadows low and hunched, keeping to the cover of bushes and scrub - clearly they do not wish to be seen. One, two .. soon the omniscent eye might count fully half a dozen. Each bears a spear, or an axe some carry also empty sacks. They settle down to wait for the light to fade - and as they wait, they murmur to each other warily in their guttural tongue. They do not seem yet to have caught sight of the lone figure - or, one assumes by the fact that they linger, the Rohirric camp.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
Face still wet, Menelglir now reaches for one of the buckets, dipping it into the water. Likely the Riders have already been here to water their horses and fetch their own water, judging from the hoof prints by the stream, but their camp is further way, safely out of bow shot of the hill now covered with men. One bucket is filled, then the other taken up, dark black hair falling forward as Menelglir works. He sighs, frowns, and looks up toward the hill, possibly not seeing the shadows.
Two of the Dunlending intruders' number have started to worm their way forward through the long grasses, no doubt to get a better view of the lie of the land ahead before the light fades. It is the movement of the buckets, perhaps, that alerts them to the lone figure below. One raises a spear - only for his fellow to slap it away. "
Outlined as they are against the brow of the hill, Menelglir will likely see the movement if his gaze is lifted that way.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
The buckets slosh to the ground with a heavy thud, water spilling over their tops, and Menelglir draws the sword at his side, holding it before him. But...the youth just stands there, staring, watchign teh figures move on the hill. He frowns. "Who are you?" he calls in the common tongue.
The words do not receive an immediate answer, for the second Dunlending's shove is answered by an angry hiss of, "
It is then that a new presence makes itself felt - a horse and rider not on the road but upon the hill's lower slopes. The steed picks its way daintily across the rough ground the young man sitting astride her is ringmail-clad, and seems as comfortable on his mount as any Rohir - save that what Rohir would have that colouring? "Greetings, traveller. You are astray from your path." The words, cold and haughty, are spoken in perfect Common. They are followed by a rapid burst of the Hill-speech, with the cadence of an order to it. One of the squabbling pair backs off, out of sight.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
Uneasy as the rider descends the path, Menelglir still holds his sword but the point is toward the ground. He glances over his shoulder several times, but the spot by the small creek he has chosen is in a dip in the land, and he is hidden from view of the Riders of the Mark. "I came...for water.." he answers hesitantly, looking to the men now backing off and then back to the newly arrived man. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
The ringmailed rider brings his mount to a sudden halt - well out of sword-range. "The water is free for any, passage through these lands less so. Speak your name and your number, and whither you journey through lands that are not yours." The formal Common has the ring of command to it, as though the possibility of Menelglir refusing to answer were not even considered. The young horseman's features are sharp and his gaze cold as he follows the direction of Menelglir's glance, up beyond the other side of the stream.
The fellow who'd crawled out of sight remains so, but the other Dunlending footman stays behind, watching the conversing pair warily from his vantage point atop the hill-brow.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
"Less so? How is that, sir?" Menelglir replies carefully. Again, another glance is given over his shoulder, the youth frowning at the spot he has chosen to gain water. "I am called Menelglir Telpekhor, of Gondor. Our group...well, my countrymen and I are small in number, 5 only. And we are seeking to ..to go north. I cannot say for what purpose. I was called to it and I obeyed."
"North will lead you to the spine of the mountains, and there you will perish, whether by ice and snow or by goblin's hand." Those words are completely assured. "To the northwest the road is blocked to any save the Men of Dunland and those they allow passage. It is seldom the gates are opened to strangers." The rider, who has as yet declined to name himself - sounds almost disinterested his gaze, however, is keen and rests on Menelglir. "Where are your companions, now, Telpekhor? You seem eager to rejoin them."
[Menelglir(#1394)]
"They are...to the east, sir. We make camp this night and I was grubby from the journey and wished fresh, cold water with which to wash my face. Plus this..." Menelglir gestures to the two buckets--"more water that we needed for cooking, and I was ordered to fetch it." He pauses, biting at his lower lip. "You will allow us passage, sir? I cannot speak for our group, but I can let my master know who it is that he must seek for such a privilege?"
"Ahh." The rider's gaze rests on Menelglir a moment longer, and then he calls out something over his shoulder, in the guttural tongue of the Hillmen. "
Returning to the Common, he tells the hesitant, "You are speaking with Bledrann Faol, Man of Gondor. You stand now within my territory." A rather bold claim, given that they are upon disputed soil that no man calls home, and that Rohan patrols regularly it is accompanied by a touch of his sword-hilt in a rather theatrical gesture. "Tell your master that should he wish to seek passage through Dunland, I require payment of a toll. He must bring me the head of one of those we call Forgoil and you call Rohirrim, on a pike." With that, the Dunlending rider makes as though to spur his horse away.
[Menelglir(#1394)]
"The what?!" Menelglir spits out, look of horror on his face. The youth makes no move to stop the dark stranger, though. He watches the man go, then picks up the two buckets and begins the long trek back to camp.
The man who has identified himself as Bledrann Faol glances back, a smile on his face as he witnesses Menelglir's disgust - then he chuckles softly, before his hurrying horse carries him round the hill and out of view.
The other man, the footman who'd watched from afar, shakes his head and mutters sourly as he pushes himself back on his elbows, "
Players: Menelglir, Bledrann
Located in: Gondorian | Dunlending
