Warnings and Advice (Three Horses and Ass TP)

Old South Road - Gap of Rohan(#5506Rnt)
The old south road is very faint here, running in a more or less east-west direction. The grass is high and has encroached on the once-proud road, its stones worn away and seamed with grass grown in the cracks. To the north and the south the foothills and rising peaks of the mountains, the Grey and the White, can be seen. The road turns northwards eventually, towards the wild hills and fells of Dunland and the barren regions beyond, but eastwards the road runs to the rich plains of Rohan.
Contents:
Menelglir
Hraefengar
Gondorian Wagon
Obvious exits:
 NorthWest leads to Old South Road - Dunland and the Gap of Rohan.
 East leads to Old South Road - Gap of Rohan.
 
Evening is falling and this group of 5 men from Gondor and 20 Riders of the Mark have set camp. It's too cold not to light a fire, so small cooking fires glow in the growing dusk, men gathered around it, warming their hands. Horses have been tethered to picket lines and tended to, and men are fetching water from a nearby stream for cooking, drinking, washing. One of these men is a 16 year old Squire of Dol Amroth, his white tunic covered by a thick cloak of grey wool. He wears his hood up at the moment, pulled over his helm, though dark black hair still can be seen falling onto his face. And he is one of the 'men' set to stand guard around the camp's perimeter, though the Rohirs have a horse-mounted patrol. Menelglir looks west at his post, a ways off from the camp, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He stands at the stop of a small hill.

Evening is falling and this group of 5 men from Gondor and 20 Riders of the Mark have set camp. It's too cold not to light a fire, so small cooking fires glow in the growing dusk, men gathered around it, warming their hands. Horses have been tethered to picket lines and tended to, and men are fetching water from a nearby stream for cooking, drinking, washing. One of these men is a 16 year old Squire of Dol Amroth, his white tunic covered by a thick cloak of grey wool. He wears his hood up at the moment, pulled over his helm, though dark black hair still can be seen falling onto his face. And he is one of the 'men' set to stand guard around the camp's perimeter, though the Rohirs have a horse-mounted patrol. Menelglir looks west at his post, a ways off from the camp, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He stands at the stop of a small hill. (REPOSE)

In the distance, even in dusk, there is an obvious approach. A figure upon a horse, riding straight for the camp, or so it seems. This rider does not appear to wish to remain hidden. Cloaked and hooded, there's nothing that can be really told from this distance.

"Stranger approaching! Just one!" Menelglir calls out loudly, youthful eyes spotting the rider in the growing gloom. The Riders, too, though, have seen the man, and two now gallop with spears lowered to challenge him, while others spread out to search the hills beyond for a potential ambush. Menelglir starts walking forward toward the man.

Already snoozing by the fire, the Swan-Knight Gwendion is at once roused by the shouts of the squire. He jerks awake, eyes scanning the situation and seeing no immediate emergency, he relaxes, yawns, and rubs away the tiredness from his eyes.

He is slow to stand, looking towards the direction of the newly announced arrivals, taking up his sword and belt and attaching them to his waist. He tilts his neck back and forth in a stretch, then moves towards the young squire, yawning once more. He calls out, "I would hope for a call of peace. Having a single foe rush a camp might be the worst battle tactic of all history," he notes.

"Peace..when have your kind ever been trustworthy enough to hold the peace?" one of the pair of Riders spits out. The other, though, puts out a restraining hand to his countryman and looks to the Dunlander, eyes narrowed. "If you come in peace truly, then speak your business. We'll not tarry here deceived while you distract us from an ambush."

Menelglir has moved a few paces down from his original post on the hill, and glances back now toward Gwendion. " Sir," he says, "Another of those men I had run into the other day. But this is a different man than the one I spoke with." To the Dunlander, he switches to the common tongue. "Who are you? And what do you want?" he adds his demand to those of the Riders.

The does not typically look much like a Dunlending. Though it could be assumed. His hood falls off his head, and the man is old, probably approaching sixty. He has a light grey beard, and brown hair flecked with grey.

He gives the Rohir a short look. "You are close to a place of danger." He looks over his shoulder, "Dunlending scouts will spot this camp soon, as I have spotted it. Unwise with so few," the old man says, looking around.

The Gondorian Knight moves to the front of the pack of Rohirs. His manner is calm, almost aloof, as he approaches. "May I ask who is it that gives such gracious advice? I am Gwendion, Soldier for a Lord of Gondor," he says, with a nod of acknowledgement.

"Gondorian?" the old man scoffs, breathing out with an expression of surprise. "Here? So close to the rocky hills where only shrubs and brush grow?" He grins, "I am called," he pauses, looking at the Rohirrim, "Ian."

"Ian, as you point out there is more here than just simple shrubs and grass," Gwendion says squarely. He falls silent for a few moments, his eyes measuring the man before him. Finally he asks, "Are you hungry?"

"Very well," Ian answers, "An old man needs to eat, same as a young man, eh?" Ian glances over to the spears surrounding him, "I am not going to be skewered?" He smiles, sliding off his horse, which does not appear to be of Dunlending stock, which typically appear little more than ponies. "I thank you for your generousity," he says.

He gives the Rohir's a hidden shrug and then motions towards the fire, "Our stocks are fairly fresh if not bountiful, Ian," he says, guiding the old man into the camp proper.

"From where do you hail from, Ian? And, I suppose, I must ask why a man of your experience finds himself patrolling the roads at this hour?"
The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

"Patrol, nay," Ian says, "I was told about this camp." He pauses, walking with no hint of age. "I came to greet you." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, "I am from the north. I have lived in Dunland, I will admit. I have lived in Bree." The older man leans backward, stretching his back. He groans in satisfaction as it pops several times. "I might ask you, why do Gondorians pass so close to Dunland? It does not appear an invasion? Two dozen soliders?" He laughes, "Dunland is not /that/ weak, I am afraid. And this," he points to the ground, "Is very close to dangerous country, as I have said."

"I know not what news you hear of Gondor, but she is in no position to invade any nation. Times are grim in the south, I fear," he says, taking a seat at the fire, "The nations of orcs and pirates press hard on her borders, offering little respite and giving naught to words or swords."

Gwendion says, "No," he adds, "We are not a party for war.""

Ian nods, taking a seat next to Gwendion. "What orc or pirate ever gave heed to words?" He grunts, "None that I have ever seen. The blade or spear, is the only way .."

He sighs as he sits, "So the, why does Gondor send warriors to Dunland's boarders?" He looks around, "Not many, I see, unless this is some sort of scouting party?"

"We are warriors only because other cannot travel in such dangerous lands. But we are seeking news of these lands," he laughs, adding, "Perhaps some new brews of ale and cider we have not yet seen in Gondor. Once these roads had travel matching their names, but it has been long since the North has come to see us. In times such as these, we travel to lift the fog, reestablish ties and bring some hope to others that they do not stand alone in the dark. And in return, we will return to our people with that same hope."

Letting the Knight lead the way, Menelglir nonetheless has followed the conversation, keeping up with the pair as they talk. "Strange that you should know of Gondor. The other countryman of yours that I saw did not," he notes.

"You will only find civil war and strife in Dunland, as is the usual." Ian frowns, looking into the fire, "I wish I could say different." Looking over to the second, unnamed man, he shrugs. "Dunlendings are not learned, and they never leave their homes. I am neither a Dunlendings, or poorly traveled."

Managing a smile, Gwendion answers, "More so than us it seems. The cold already nips at our bones so used to the temperate south but your wisdom is sound. Once the food has been cooked, the fire will be smothered."

"Ian, if you would part with more of your wisdom, what else can we expect on our trek north? Landmarks of safety? Those who would turn a kind hand to a stranger?"

Touching his chin, Ian considers, "I think you won't find many." He looks back to the fire, "Maybe that food will be cooked sooner than later, my old belly must have a hole in it tonight." The old man snaps back out of his short rant, "Friends?" He waves a hand, "Pah, like your friend said, many know nothing of the outside world, Gondor include. Those that /have/ heard of Gondor remember one thing." He holds up a finger, "Gondor helped Rohan push the Dunlendings to the north, taking their sacred land from them." Ian shakes his head, "That would mean your heads get mounted to a pike just like anyone with blond hair."

Grass, hardened by the winter, is rent by approaching hooves thus a rider is heralded, coming not from the camp, but from the night of the west. Halting but a twain of meters from the gathered, a man donned in black towers above a warhorse of the same, wordless and cold in his carriage.

So does Arathis, Tongue of the Prince, look upon his countrymen and he who is not.

"Luckily, they first have to catch us, to put our heads on pikes..." Hraefengar, a tall blonde Rohir, comes from the direction of the nomadic tents that have been quickly set up. He has heard some of the conversation, and now he steps forwards. His Westron is clear, though accented with the tongue of the Mark. He smiles and tugs a fur-lined cloak about himself. "But know you of North beyond Dunland?"

The 16 year old Menelglir does not offer his name to Ian, only stands and listens. He frowns, turning to Gwendion, muttering softly. " Sir Arathis did not want me to mention that we are from Gondor because of exactly what this man now says," he says with an inclination of his head toward Ian. " And..." he continues, turning at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, "he will be even less pleased now. This is now the second man of these lands to know that Gondor is here."

Ian looks to the Rohir, "True enough, but sneaking through Dunland?" He looks rather doubtful, "Not very likely to succeed, if you know nothing of the country. You could end up falling off a a cliff, killing yourself, or driving this wagon off." He first gives a glance to the rider, then the man speaking gibberish.

Studying the Ian's reaction as Menelglir speaks, he waves the squire off, "" he casts a glance towards Arathis, ""

His attention returns to Ian, 'To what destination do you find yourself heading to, Ian?'

"Got nowhere specific to go," Ian answers, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps, I wonder, if you need a guide? Someone that knows where to step and where not?" He smiles, "I am a wiley sort, and have a few contacts, here and there. You Gondorians might make it through alive, you Rohir, not so sure you should be thinking of trying to pass. I might be able to sneak a half dozen Gondorians passed, but twenty blonds?" He considers, "I think not."

The rider is for some moments silent. His appearance differs from the other men: he is tall, and his frame is large, as the taled men of old. A cold gaze regards the gathered, tarrying upon the twain from Gondor.

Then, ushering his steed forward into the group, the rider speaks: "Hail, embassy of the Southern Kingdom, Gondor! I have been sent by my lord, the Prince of Cardolan past, to welcome your journey.

"For I am Hir Turion, Captain of the Prince's Guard. Our escort lies near Tharbad, and shall find you soon through these lands, should you be troubled."

It is a hard westron, despite its elvish lilt. Pausing, he adds, looking over the entirety of the group, "Has the stock of Gondor been mixed so?"

"Were we sneaking?" Hraefengar shakes his head. "Other dangers are there on the road than Dunlendings, and it is dead winter. We are oathbound, by our King's words, to at least see our oath-brethren to the northern borders of this land, at the very least. Greetings, Hir Turion," he adds."

Ian starts laughing, "You would bring two dozen /Forgoil/ through Dunland in the middle of winter?" The man starts laughing, slapping his knee. "You go one a fool's errand. There is no way you could survive!" Ian's eyes turn to the man full of pomp, still laughing to himself.

"Hir...Turion..." Menelglir stares up at the so-named man, blinking. Then slowly bows. "Greetings and well met, lord." As he straightens from his bow he glances to Gwendion, eyes narrowed for a moment, then he looks again to Ian. "I do not plan to drive this wagon off a cliff. Or into any sort of trap, if I can help it, sir."

The words of the darker man earn displeasure from the rider, and his hand travels to his side.

"For what do you speak of the lives of Cardolan's allies?"

"Are you not a man of Gondor, then?" he adds.

But Hraefengar laughs, drawing himself upright, and his eyes flicker. "It is a mongrel's whimper-cur," he says, his voice lilting, both stern and amused. "We are a hardy folk, and men of the Wold and the East-Mark, whose homes are tents as you see them, hard on the open plains, even in winter. Our stock is of the cold North, and our blood is hot enough to warm us. But no man of Gondor is he, who would call us "Forgoil". That is a Dunlending term."

From his seat, Ian peers up at the massive figure of the self-proclaimed Hir Turion, "I only speak the truth. Two dozen Rohir passing through Dunland? Their death is assured. The road passes through a series of forts, which are manned. And although civil war racks the land, I doubt they would sneak through." He takes a deep breath, "Yes, Forgoil is a Dunlending word, and I used it for purpose. For I am /no/ Dunlending, but I know them and their lands. I have been invited to dine here with your camp." He nods to Gwendion, "If you wish to drive your cart straight north, I will not stop you, but you will not survive."

By the rear of the wagon yonder, crouched over the cooking fire, a young man stirs.

Stirs whatever is brewing in the pan hung over fire, that is. His face is fair, and his eyes grey as a cold sea, black tresses curtaining his face that is tempered by a shallow frown that does not subside with his glance at the gathering 'round the traveler. But that glance is brief. The overlarge wooden spoon is lifted and knocked against the rim, and laid to rest beside the fire. And he settles back on his heels and stands erect wide of shoulder and girth, and quite tall. The coat 'neath the folds of his cloak can be seen, blue and silver, though shaded.

He remains where he is for the nonce, supervising at once the progress of his cooking and the conversation over yonder.

"Is what the old man says true, sir?" Menelglir says, looking up to "Turion" with the questions. "The Rohirrim will not be able to get through with us? And if that is so..." His gaze goes now to Ian. "You have offered yourself as a guide--if there are forts that are manned alogn the road as you say, how would you guide us? Into a trap, likely?"

"Trap?" he exclaims to the youth, "Why would I need to do that?" Ian grunts, "If I wanted your deathes, I would have just told the entire Wulf clan of your presence here, and they would have charged down and squashed you." He shakes his head, "No, my desire is not to see your deathes."

"Squire, some manners," Gwendion chides, "He has, as yet, done naught wrong to us except offer advice on how best for us to survive in this place."

"I take it insulting me and my kinsfolk seems naught wrong to you?" Hraefengar's tone shifts, icy.

Assessing the camp's visitor, the rider 'Turion' tightens a smirk upon him. A similar temper issues his utterance: "May I invite you further to remain with this camp tonight, for the generosity of the Dunedain kingdoms is great.

"Perhaps during your stay you shall grace us with tales of your home."

His hand returns from his side to his reins.

"Many appologies," Ian says to the Rohir, "Perhaps my tongue has gone sharp, as having lived amongst the savages for the last few months." Turning, slightly, he nods to Turion. "As you wish, sir, as I only visited your camp to offer a warning. And now only advice."

"But if it so, as Hir Turion says, perhaps friends are closer than we expected." Gwendion raises, offering his arm in greeting to Turion, "I am Gwendion, of Gondor. Food is coming soon if you are hungry."

"I'm sorry." Menelglir, too, apologizes, first with a nod to Gwendion's rebuke of him and then directing the same to Ian. "It just seems strange to me," he says, "and as you say, tongues get sharpened one way or another. But...if you live among the savages, as you call them, and if you could call your clan down on us, ...then why do you offer advice and help instead. And," he adds quickly, "I am Menelglir."

Ian holds up his hands in protest, "Not my clan," he says to Menelglir, "Not at all. They are simply the closest." He scratches the side of his face idly, not appearing nervous even as the talk becomes slightly converntational, "I offer advice because I do not share in the Dunlending mentality or anger toward their southern neighbors." He flashes a smile to Hraefengar, "And, practically, I hoped to earn some coin for leading you through Dunland, once I had known of your intentions, of course."

"You speak words of weight, yet this camp is full of wine," says 'Turion', motioning suggestion to the squire, "Come, tell us of lighter tales, of your home and kin, as food is brought by our friends of Gondor."

Shifting within his saddle towards the knight, he continues: "And let us speak loud enough that our friends of Cardolan may too hear us, for Tharbad is near, and they are not few."

"I think I shall sup with my countrymen," says Hraefengar, his voice still soft, still stern. "We have our own provision. But I do not trust this man, and I will not sit to break bread with him." He does not return Ian's smile, instead turning away.

Ian frowns as Hraefengar leaves, "My home?" he asks, "Not much to say. Not there often, small home, family's all dead, some twenty years ago now." He sighs, "Make a living as a guide, mostly, sometimes a tutor when asked to supply the training."

"Guide? where? And what sort of training? I'd like to hear about it," Menelglir now says, though his brows do lower in a frown at the words of the Rider. He glances toward "Turion," then gestures for Ian to follow. "But there is food, as Sir Gwendion says. Findon the Fat is cooking tonight. It should be good."

Gwendion moves to the edge, "I will return with the food, as even I have lost patience on waiting for it." With that he disappears into the growing darkness, outside the warm light of the fire.

"May the fates bring you kinder fortunes soon. Where would this home be, then?" further inquires 'Turion' from atop his destrier, adding to the squire's words, "And, indeed, a tutor of which subjects?"

"Depends who is asking for the learning," Ian says. "To some, I teach the blade." He pats his cloak, and likely a sword beneath. "To some, I teach how to write, how to read. Or worldy matters." The old man gives a slight smile, "That is my current task, teach one of the Wulf, cause himself a Lord, to read and write. Not sure why, I guess, but he pays." He pauses, "As for guide work, mostly for merchants from Bree into Dunland. And my home, it is off the Old South Road, north of Dunland some fifty leagues."

To this, Menelglir nods politely. "Join us for food, then?" he asks, and looks next to "Turion." "Sir, will you be eating with us as well?"

"How to read, how to write," repeats the rider, a flatness to his words, "You must be a student of history, working for coin.

"Perhaps you shall grace me soon with a lesson of the sword."

Turning to Menelglir, he remarks as he turns his steed to leave, "No, I shall not. But assure that this guest of the Dunedain kingdoms has company at all hours."