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An Ill Wind

Tags: Thulion,  Lee,  Gidon,  Mobeorn,  Brev,  Narthalion

Short Summary: Thulion proves that rangers can climb trees, and Brev makes some new unfriends
Date (real-life): 2009-09-01
Scene Location: Anduin Village
Date (in-game): November 3047
Time of Day: Evening
Weather: Windy
Village Crossroads

You stand at the crossroads of the Beorning township that is situated in this part of Middle-Earth. To the east lies the forest of Mirkwood and all the wonders that lurk within. To the west lies the mighty Anduin River and beyond the soaring peaks of the Misty Mountains jut skyward.

The night air is fresh and the breeze is cool here at the Village Crossroads. The Massive Oak tree tends to obscure the stars and moon from shining down, but many lanterns sparkle and provide ample light to see by. On one corner of the crossroads lies the Great Bear Inn. Sounds of revelry can be heard emanating from within, and the warm glow seen through it's windows is very enticing. Opposite the Inn can be found the stables. A lantern hangs upon it's door, suggesting that it is still open, despite the onset of darkness. As you gaze to both the north and the south, you can see that much more of the town lies beyond where you stand at this moment.

The night sky is cloud-filled and gloomy. The nighttime autumn air is warm and slightly humid around you. The moon is not visible.

Obvious exits:
 Northeast leads to Stables.
 Southeast leads to Great Bear Inn - Entrance Hall.
 South leads to Southern Village.
 North leads to Northern Village.
 East leads to Anduin Road, East of Village.
 West leads to Anduin East Bank.

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Nighttime on Monday, Day 1 of November.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 14:55:30 MDT on Tue Sep 01 2009.

Another chill autumn day has come and is going, the sun sitting cradled by the mountains to the west; her late afternoon light streams across the Anduin Vales, casting long shadows and painting the landscape hues of copper and gold. Fierce storms in days past have left their mark here: felled branches, scattered leaves, thatching and hay strewn about. The gusting winds which sweep down upon the village now make any sort of cleaning up a wearying task, if not a downright wastes effort. Leaves a skirled up and about the old Oak at the centre of the crossroads. Tent flaps and occasionally tents themselves (not to mention any other unsecured article, clothing or no) are lifted and tosses as if the were no more than handkerchiefs. Entangled in the branches of the oak tree, indeed, seems to be one poor traveller's tent; likely the very aggravated dwarf who stands, fists upon hips, watching with sour expression as a man in a weatherstained cloak attempts to retrieve the tent for him, whilst trying not to get blown away himself.

Thulion edges out along one of the branches, reaching for the fabric of the tent just as another gust picks up and catches the shelter like a sail.

"Augh!" exclaims the dwarf angrily. "It's goin' ter tear! Hurry up, will ye?"

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon was sitting under said tree chipping doggedly away at a block of wood with a hammer and chisel, but his hand had begun to quiver and to slip, and at last he quit. Now he stands, head unhooded and tipped back, watching Thulion in the trees. At his feet is the semi-curved wood-block, a hammer, a chisel - and on his face is an expression of wistfulness. Almost without thinking, he lifts his left arm in a climbing motion - it stops too soon, and the boy's mouth twists.

Across the roadway stands Mobeorn, the man (for he -is- man at the moment) watching in amusement with his arms folded across his chest.

Brev appears from the direction of the Inn, one hand holding his cloak closed, though as the wind tugs and twists at it flashes of his red tunic can be seen. He stops at the edge of the clearing, head tilting up. At the sight of the man stretched out along the branch the edges of his mouth curl up slightly. He glances over to Gidon, and shakes his head. "I wouldn't bother. Why bark if you can get a dog to do it?" The words cannot be quiet, shouted into this wind, and likely they carry.

Another watcher stands near the unfolding scene - no man, surely. He is tall, both strong and lithe, clad in gleaming mail and swarthed in a silvery-grey cloak. It is none of this that marks him as a stranger so much as the unearthly glow that dances about his feet, and the lance-keen light of his eyes. Those eyes are turned, not upon the tent, but on the irate dwarf. A twisting smirk is on his lips as he stands there watching, and lacing a bracer upon his arm.

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon looks sideways, startled by Brev's sudden appearance, and snatches his arm down. "Was just..." he says lamely, and his eyes go beyond the man to the elf, and stick there almost in awe. Beyond him is the hulking figure of Mobeorn, but Gidon doesn't look at him - perhaps he is afraid to!

Said irate dwarf is providing a spectacle indeed. He paces back and forth at the base of the massive trunk, stomps one booted foot heavily, and calls out again. You would not know, though, but for the twitching of his beard as he shouts, for his words are drowned in a gust of wind.

It is just as well, for the man in the tree seems more to be tolerating the dwarf's shouting than paying any heed to it. Edging along with care, one foot slips as the branch creaks and sways in the wind, but he catches himself, now crouched with hands upon the limb as well. He waits, balanced (seemingly precariously) upon one of the branches, until the wind abates. Then, edging out once more, he reaches for the tent. With a couple well placed tugs, the cloth is freed. With the tent rolled and tucked under an arm, the grey (or brown, it is difficult to tell) cloaked man pads nimbly back along the branch, to reach the trunk and lower himself quickly just as another gust picks up.

The ranger stuffs the bundled shelter unceremoniously into the dwarf's arms. His lips move, but in the wind, only the dwarf seems to hear. Whatever it is, the dwarf does not seem to appreciate it. He huffs angrily, but Thulion is already turning away from him, and perhaps seeing it as a lost cause, the dwarf goes back to his business. Glancing around, a dark brow arched slightly, the ranger nods to Brev and Gidon, and casts a smile and another nod in Mobeorn's direction. He pauses slightly at the sight of the Firstborn, and offers a slight bend at the waist, before moving towards Mobeorn. "Lovely afternoon," he comments dryly once he is near enough to actually be heard.

"Lovely it is, yes, and quite a spectacle you provided us with," Mobeorn replies, still looking quite amused. "But tell me...why did you aid the dwarf so when all you likely earned from it are his curses? Or why not have someone nimbler..." a look, significant..is given to Narthalion, "climb said tree and retrieve the tent? Or let it blow away and teach the dwarf a needed lesson about how to properly stake a tent in windy weather?"

"Just what?" Brev follows the direction of Gidon's glance toward Narthalion, and smirk becomes scowl. "Not another," he mutters, and then, stepping a little closer to Gidon, "He's not the one who paid for the room, is he?"

When his gaze moves on to Mobeorn the scowl is erased and a polite nod is given (its cost unknown).

Thulion's efforts receive rather more attention, for he watches the spectacle without comment until the Ranger is back on the ground. Only then, as tent-bearer and dwarf exchange words unheard, does Brev turn his head again to his companion. "That one looks more than half elf himself." The words fall into a brief lull in the wind.

Narthalion laughs at the huffy dwarf, or perhaps just grins (the wind reduces it to no more than a flash of white teeth, anyway). Thulion's bow is gracefully returned, as slightly as it was given. But Narthalion is near enough to catch the words of Mobeorn, and he holds up his arms as though to ward off a blow. It is thus, and laughing, that he draws nearer Mobeorn and Thulion, "Nay, friend. I hope that my years have provided enough wisdom to know better than to try and help a dwarf. As I fear our friend has learned," he inclines his head to the Ranger, "If you fail, you are berated, and if you succeed, you are berated for not succeeding swiftly enough."

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon pulls his eyes back to Brev and shakes his head, but the motion is uncertain. "Don' think so," he replies slowly. He glances at Thulion, who had been the center of his attention until he saw the elf, but his eyes are inexorably pulled back.

"It was unbecoming for so magnificent a tree to have that thing tangled in her branches," answers the ranger to Mobeorn, his voice grave. A smile draws at one corner of his lips, though, as the Elf joins the pair of them. "Alas, I fear that unlike you, friend," he says to Narthalion after the Firstborn has spoken, "That I am yet young and perhaps a bit foolish for that. At any rate, I do enjoy climbing trees." He pauses, casting a brief glance over his shoulder towards where Brev and Gidon converse. "Has any word come yet, do you know, of that boy's father?" he asks, turning back to Mobeorn.

As odd snatches of the others' speech drifts his way, Brev's gaze shifts groundward for a moment; Gidon's part-turned block receives an approving nod. "Keep at it," he tells the lad. "Though I wouldn't sit under a tree when the wind blows, if I were you. Never know when it might decide to drop a little contribution on your head."

"Nice show," he calls out, rather more loudly, toward Thulion, when he sees the head turn. "Next time I lose something I'll remember to send you after it." His feet take him now toward Ranger, Beorning and Elf; he, at least, does not appear to be staring at the latter - quite the opposite, in fact.

"Oh, the dwarves are tough folk, though, and fierce fighters. Little but fierce," Mobeorn grins. "I'd rather help them out...if I must..than have them fighting against me. So..in the end, Lee's actions might have been worthwhile?" he asks of the elf. "At least for its amusement value."

"The boy's father?" Mobeorn shakes his head. "Not a word..but ask the lad yourself if you want." And then to Brev, he frowns. "Why don't you ever look at anyone when you speak to them? As if you're hiding somethign." There's an undertone of a growl to it.

[Nob(#16122)] "Mm?" Gidon asks, then blinks and looks up. "Oh," he says sheepishly. "Right." His gaze follows the man's down to the wood, and he smiles. "Thankee... harder'n I thought it'd be." He gives Brev a rueful smile.

The Dunlending leaves then, moving towards the men, and the boy watches him a few minutes, before following. He stops a few steps short of where the men stand, listening but not speaking; though an unexplained flush begins to creep up his pale face.

Narthalion smiles at the words of his companions, about to answer Mobeorn's question when Brev joins into the conversation. Either Brev does not exist or Narthalion is made of stone. The tilt of the Elf's head grows proud and haughty, his bright eyes staring beyond Mobeorn as though they could see into the depths of Mirkwood.

It is only when Brev's strange habits and the accusation of hiding something surfaces the Elf stirs again. The movement is nothing more than a minute turn of his head, settling the man under a Moon-bright gaze. Nonetheless, Narthalion's expression (and, perhaps unsettlingly, his sight) remains as imperious and impassive as that of a man looking at a mouse.

Heavy silence falls between them after Mobeorn's question, tangibile in the air between them, and this time Thulion does not offer to interject on Brev's behalf. His own keen gaze shifts calmly between those in the group, a dark brow arching slightly as he notes the piercing gaze of the Elf, and the averted gaze of the Dunlending. Even Gidon recieves a moment's attention, and perhaps the hint of a smile. Even the wind seems to have gone still, awaiting Brev's answer to Mobeorn. The ranger's gaze, too, at last comes to rest upon the Dunlending as well. "It would be unwise not to answer," murmurs he at last to the other man, his voice gentle, and yet with a note of sterness. "And were I you, I should answer well at that."

Brev blinks at the Beorning's accusation, and tilts his chin up so that rather than focusing on Mobeorn's chest he does - for an instant - look the other full in the face, a glint in his amber eyes. "Looking at you now, aren't I?" he returns. "Hard work, though. Don't want to break my neck." With a smirk he brings his head back to its normal angle. He carefully avoids catching Narthalion's gaze, however - avoids looking at the other at all, save from the corner of his eye, and when he does, he tenses visibly.

Thulion's words bring forth a snort. "I /did/ answer. Sorry about the 'well', though. We're not all born with honeyed talk in our mouths." A flash of the earlier grin returns.

"Ruddy 'ell," Owain cusses as he approaches the crossroads. The wind has whipped his cloak around himself and is now tugging at his throat as it flies sideways. The shorter man, probably a local, doesn't pay attention to the others nearby while trying to set it straight.

[Nob(#16122)] There is a sudden flash of - fear? worry? - across Gidon's face, and he takes another step forward so that, bravely, he is standing beside Brev. He crosses his arms beneath his cloak; the material flaps erratically in the wind; and lifts his chin so that he is looking up at Mobeorn as well. His eyes slip to Thulion, and then return.

He doesn't see Owain, and the wind steals the words away, so that there is no warning of his approach.

[<#22365>] Mobeorn stares back intensely at Brev, and his gaze does not leave the man for a long time. He sniffs at the air a bit, still scowling toward Brev, then turns to the elf and mutters something in a musical language that does not flow quite so fluidly from the man, especially since there is a distinct growl to his tone. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Another dark glance is given to Brev, before he adds in the common language, 'I will speak to the Laird.' With that, the big Beorning abruptly turns and walks away.

Among all the names given to Elves in their history, even by eachother, most appropriate of all must now seem the name "Lachind", the Flame-eyed. Flame indeed is alight in Narthalion's eyes, eddies of brilliant silver and light. All this while he has kept Brev under his haughty gaze, but now he looks to Thulion.

"You speak for him?" the Elf asks, incredulity latent in his tone. Back to Brev, a voice as proud as his countenance, "A sharp tongue will reap its reward - but look not for gold or warm welcomes." His eyes flicker to Mobeorn at the Elvish words, his face growing more grim yet, "I have known Men of your ilksince first your kind came among the Eldar. I do not know yet if you are of faithless kin, treacherous to your friends and servant of the Enemies. Guard your tongue, therefore, lest you make me decide oversoon in what light to view you."

Something makes Owain look up, and his gaze seems to pinpoint just one person here. He jerks his cloak around while making his way toward Gidon, and then he finally takes a good look at everyone else. Narthalion is given a bit of a tight look. "Gidon!" he calls. "Er, want some food?"

"Kiern! What was all that about?" Brev stares after the departing Mobeorn, shaking his head. "If he wants me gone from this place, he could try just asking. Guess I've outstayed my welcome." He shrugs, and twists his head round to regard Gidon. "Might be I'll be wintering elsewhere." It is at this point that his gaze slips past the boy, and comes to rest on that other figure struggling with the cloak. His mouth tightens, but then he nods. "Someone looking for you, I reckon," he informs the Breelad, hard on the heels of Owain's call.

Narthalion's speech brings a black scowl across his swarthy features. "I'm no'one's servant. And I'm /friend/ to those who earn it." With that he starts to move away from Elf and companion-ranger. The fact it takes him nearer to Owain is just by-and-by.

[Nob(#16122)] "He is not either faithless!" Gidon says fiercely. "He isn't treacherous either! He...!" The boy gulps and stops, eyes going from Narthalion to Thulion to Brev. "You can't leave..." he says, almost begs. "I... " Another glance around, looking for help from these men who don't seem inclined to offer any such thing, and his father's voice intrudes. Blankly, he looks over his shoulder. "Da..."

The ranger keeps silent as Mobeorn speaks, but the Firstborn's inquiry he answers first with a small shake of his head. "Nay, I speak not for him: I only offer what wisdom I might, that his journey might not come to an untimely end. It is to him to heed it, or disregard it, as he will." If there is any understanding of the strange words growled by Mobeorn, it does not show on the ranger's face. "It takes neither servitude nor a honeyed tongue to show one's hosts respect," says Thulion, turning now towards the Dunlending, any gentility gone now from his voice. As the latter begins to takes his leave, the ranger merely shakes his head, his lips drawn in a thin line. "These are not a people to be trifled with," is the Dunadan's last comment towards Brev. He makes no effort to stop the other man's departure.

Narthalion shakes his head at Brev, dismissing his vindication with a smirk. "Friendship you may have, earned or unearned. But friendship is no ward against darkness. Two may be friends and under the Shadow, even as two may be friends and free." Other than this the Elf takes no further notice of any of the men, choosing rather to turn and watch the woods even as before. An inscrutible creature, save maybe to the ranger to whom Narthalion glances at whiles.

Brev, already walking, keeps walking. As Narthalion's words in particular reach his ears, his dark brows draw together in a puzzled frown. Owain, though, is the only one likely to see it.

Owain avoids Brev's gaze as he continues toward Gidon. "Come on, come on," he says over low, but just over the wind. "Let's go."

[Nob(#16122)] As the man pays no attention to him, and the elf dismisses his words, Gidon's face turns hard and angry. He turns himself, a sharp swift motion, and stalks away. His father, calling him, gets the benefit, however inadvertent, of the boy's scowl; but he nods and turns his steps a little to fall in beside the older man, where-ever he wants to go. "Brev's comin' too," he says, his voice flat and brooking no argument; though there is a question behind the anger in his eyes as he looks at the Dunlending.

Owain glances down at Gidon, his own face impassive. He sticks his hands in his cloak as he walks along beside the lad.

At Gidon's words, Brev halts briefly. "Hmm?" He peers at the lad, then shakes his head. "Go with your Da and get something to eat. I've got wood to finish chopping. Unless the big fellow actually asks me to my face to leave, might as well get on with it, eh? I've bided by the laws, I've made myself useful - can't imagine they object to me /that/ much." He lets the matter rest, giving Gidon an encouraging, 'go on' half-smile as he goes on his way.

The ranger, for his part, fades away from the others, though he does not leave entirely. Pulling up his hood against the wind and the chill of night, he slips into the shadows of the buildings. One minute there, the next seemingly not... as if the nightshade itself swallowed the man up.

Date added: 2009-09-02 17:14:40    Hits: 107
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