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Tags: Thari,  Rhifaroth,  Celebros

Short Summary: Thari spots a man and an elf not far from the dwarven camp and promptly goes to investigate.
Date (real-life): 2008-03-06
Scene Location: East Road - Below Weathertop
Date (in-game): Mid-June, 3043
Time of Day: Dawn
Weather: Clear


East Road - Below Weathertop
The hill towers above you now, as you stand a few hundred feet from its broad base on the northern side of the East Road. Amon Sul it is called in the language of the Sindar, but that name has fallen into disuse, for this is now the land of Men and Hobbits, not the Elves. The road runs West through Bree-Land and eventually the Shire, while somewhere off to the east is the Last Bridge and the Trollshaws.
Obvious exits:
East, West, and North

        Dawn air, cool after the previous day's warmth, is fresh and rich with the damp smells of a summer night that awakens with a heavy dew. The sky is clear, there is nary a cloud to be seen upon it.

        Not far from the Dwarven camp, to the east side of Weathertop, a man has taken up a brief station to wait for the land to brighten further with the rising sun. He leans against a twisted old cedar, brush beginning here as well as the grass rises out of the plains and meets with the hills. He seems alone, watching the plain and the road to the east, but has not yet ascended the height above and behind him. His hands are not idle though, having cut several lengths of straight sticks that he is now cleaning to free of bark, perhaps to later make into arrow shafts.

        Another comes to this quiet scene, limping up from the lands to the east and north. Darkness cloaks him, and shelter is found in a deep hood. Nonetheless, his eyes might betray all, for they care not for shadows nor secret, and shine out a starlit silver. An Elf, perhaps? For what others in these lands have such eyes?

But if it be an elf, then it is a strange one. For motion is halt and uncertain, and his back is bent as with a man of many years. A walking stick is in his hand - nay, not so, for a fire blazes atop it - a spear, then, and it thumps its way along the ground. For the nonce, Rhifaroth goes unnoticed or at least unhailed, and the strange form walks on, silent.

        The man working quietly by the cedar watches the figure approach out of the east and the north for some long while. He has cut his shafts elsewhere, and now gathers up each shaving to tuck it into a cloth in his small pack, leaving no trace to linger here that the foe might find later in their coming.

        Once the shuffling, possibly injured, figure who must be man or elf comes near enough to begin to leave the grass of the plain and begin the long, slow mount of rising ground to the Weather hills, the grey clad man slips the unfinished shafts into his otherwise empty quiver case.

        Rhifaroth finally sees something familar in the approaching figure, for he eases away from the cedar and begins to walk towards the other. There seems to be no response to his presance, the man speaks softly in his low voice, "Falamir?"

        The elf stands exposed upon the hill, his steps grown slower and more laborous as the land rises up. The butt of the spear is used nigh excessively, a lever as well as support. Up the hill he comes, eventually, at last gaining a hillock and stopping level with Rhifaroth. "Ah. If it is not our mysterious Dunadan." Mysterious. The odd cant of his head - turned sideways but scarce lifted - may well lend Celebros the same airs he ascribes to the Man.

        "I shall sit by yon cedar," says he, pointing out that under which Rhifaroth so lately sat, "For I am weary and sore. A long walk was it from the Bridge here, the more when one must go so far to avoid the...glamhoth. And slow work, I fear! Tell, as I make my way, what has passed in my absence."

        And with this he sets his gaze upon the crest of the hill and begins to pick his way hither, each step seemingly more painful than the last, though registered only in a tense body and dipped shoulder, and now and again by an inadvertant gasp. No sign else does the Elf show of his pain or discomfort, and his countenance, though somewhat muddy, is otherwise clear.

        Rhifaroth makes no comment except to nod at the wisdom of the other seeking shelter to rest. He comes along side the elf and looks as though he would offer an arm to Falamir if the other wants it, but does not otherwise intrude if it is not.

        "You are yet, sore injured I perceive. I fear I am no healer to offer you comforts, but do come rest. I have water, at least."

        There is patience, walking back with Celebros until that one has come to the cedar where he himself had been standing watch upon the plain and the road. The tattooed man makes no report as yet, but takes off his water skin to offer it to the other once Falamir has settled himself, "I'll tell you what I am able."

        No small test for Rhifaroth's patience, surely, unless it rivals that of the Elves. For Celebros' progress is slow indeed, the more so as his destination is reached. Rhifaroth's arm is ignored, meeting nothing but a vaguely arrogant lift of a brow. Whether it is disdain for his race or for the man himself Celebros does not choose to make clear. Either way, there can be no doubt that he will accept aid of that nature from Rhifaroth.

        Within the shadow of the cedar Celebros sighs, relief at both shade and shelter. The spear is leaned against the tree, which itself now serves as the Elf's support. The hood of his cloak is drawn back, and his right hand carefully gathers his loose and tangled hair and tucks it away from his face. He is grown hot 'neath his garments, and sweat is dappled upon his face and dampens his hair. But when hood and hair are pushed aside a great, spreading bruise can be seen upon his left shoulder, covered over with dried blood. A piece of tattered blue cloth seems to suggest that some effort at bandaging was made, however long ago.

        Slowly, slowly, down the tree Celebros sides, and sits at last. His head is tilted back and his eyes closed, resting a moment away from Arien's gaze. "Thank you..." This for the water skin offered, which Celebros now accepts, taking a few small sips.

        "What is this, then? Have they scattered? Where is Annaiel?" Such are his questions, uttered through rough tones. Celebros' glance, at least, is sharp; no less keen than the spear he carries, his eyes are turned upon Rhifaroth.

        After a moment of study, the wine skin is passed abruptly back.

[Thari]  "Ho there!" comes a shout from the dwarf camp. A figure in a red shirt and an abnormally short beard is striding purposefully toward the cedars as Celebros's figure disappears into them. "Who goes? What is your business?" An axe is held tight in the dwarf's fist.

        There is no expectation that the other would accept his offered help, and no offence is taken. Rhifaroth is however, very patient with the elf's progress and pauses to glance back over the plain behind them.

        Once Celebros has settled, and the water skin handed back, Rhifaroth hangs it on a broken branch of the cedar within easy reach of the injured elf.

        His voice is quite low, his own face now sporting a long, healing gash from scalp to jaw, the man says, "If you mean the Host... alas, no. I can tell you some of them, though. Ana I have not seen recent- "

        Whatever else he might have said, Rhifaroth leaves off as they are hailed from the direction of the Dwarven camp - just out of sight of their location, nearer to the south side of the hill and the road. He glances back at the elf, "I'll go see. You rest."

        So saying, the tattooed man steps out of their limited cover and walks warily towards the new voice.

        It may be no more than a voice to the Man, but the Elf can see full well what comes for them. He does not rise, or cannot, and instead only grins and calls out, "Hail, Master Dwarf! A strange road I have walked since we met in Bree, adn I cannot but wonder if yours has been the same! But to better fortune, I hope! As you see, I have faired ill. But at the least I have found Bree's hope, wandering the wild even as I had said it would be." His voice is merry, something buried within it hinting at the exertion of will to produce such, however.

Thari grips the camp-axe with both hands as the tattooed and be-scarred Rhifaroth emerges. "Who are you?" the dwarf demands. Celebros's voice is heard, and while the dwarf glances towards the woods, clearly eyesight is sharper with the elves, for the grey eyes do not focus on Celebros. "How many do you have with you?"

        The scarred man has not gone far before he pauses, hearing Celebros call out a hail as though familiar with the Dwarf whom approaches. He glances back, then to Thari as that one comes closer with axe in both hands. There is a wariness of strangers likewise with the man, who gives guarded answer.

        "You are one of Frarin's folk. You have nothing to fear of me." But he does not give a name, nor does he answer how many he is in company with.

        "You know this one?" His voice is pitched to carry back over his shoulder towards the cedar where the elf rests. For his own part, the man does not come close to the armed dwarf.

        "After a fashion," comes Celebros' answer, calling from beneath the cedar. "In company with Frarin when I met him in Bree. But..." Something strange, now, for the cant and metre of the Elf's voice changes, and his words shift, however subtly, one Elven language to another.

[<#31143>]      ""

"Frarin, Frarin," Thari repeats, head tilted away, eyes narrowed at Rhifaroth. "Orcs write on their faces like that. I've seen 'em. How do you know Forli's son?"
        The elf's language catches Rhifaroth's attention, but he does not show comprehension of the words. The dwarf's words however, regain the man's focus and he frowns, "No orc marked me so, except for this.." And the index finger of his right hand traces the recent slash that now bisects his face, not the tattoos.

        Still, there is that hint of frown, "I brought news of the foe to your camp, to this Frarin. He, at least, has bid me welcome." The grey cloaked man then adds, "Speak your name and you may come - he apparently knows your folk as well."

        Celebros lifts a brow at Rhifaroth's reaction (or lack thereof), to his words. And with a sigh, as might a frustrated tutor, he repeats himself in Sindarin, ""

        Something is muttered as an after-thought, but loudly enough for Rhifaroth to hear, ""

"I'm Thari," the dwarf says simply, axe still raised. "Frarin Forli's son is a sensible lad, but I'd want it from his own mouth, and now's not the time to be troubling the honorable master. AND I HEARD YE TALKIN' IN THE COMMON TONGUE!" abruptly the dwarf's voice raises to a shout. "NO GABBLING IN ELVISH! MAKES IT SOUND LIKE YOU'RE PASSING SECRETS!"

        Another mutter from the Elf, already beginning to fall asleep, shouting Dwarf aside: ""

 [<#27282>] Rhifaroth says in Sindarin, ""You would be right, that I know them not well.""
 [<#27282>] There is caution already with the Dwarf if only because it comes armed and seems more agressive than it's companions from the same caravan. The grey-clad man keeps his distance from Thari and turns his head very slightly as the elf speaks again in a more familiar tongue to himself, but does not take his eyes from the newcomer.

        There is at first a hint of a frown, but then amusement, as he calls back to the other, ""

        The dwarf's outburst mayhap draws a hint of anger from the man, ''Do we not have enough foes coming east, you who are far from your Mountain? If you come in anger, go back to your wagons and speak first with Frarin.''

        "Peace, Master Dwarf!" And know Celebros must draw himself up, struggling, and take up his spear again. He hobbles forward, his cloak hanging limp from his back. "You must forgive my companion, who is weary, and myself, for I am injured. No secrets did we speak, though mayhap it was not wise to speak in a tongue you know not. But at least you may thereby be assured that we are friends! As you are welcome guests in Elrond's house, let us be welcome nigh your camp, I beg!"

        "Mayhap you do not remember me, but I kept company a while with Frarin in Bree, where you were tending to his injuries. And he, most generous of Dwarves, offered me lease of his pony. We mean no harm to you or to your fellows. You are many, and we are but two lonely travellers!" It has taken him all this while to merely catch up with Rhifaroth.

"Most intelligent thing you've said yet. I will." Thari says this in a low voice to Rhifaroth.

And then Celebros emerges. Thari's brows lift. "YOU're the elf Frarin gave his pony to? I heard of that! Well, no elf would be in league with orcs." A thoughtful pause as Thari lowers the axe. "Probably."

        Drawing a breath to keep his patience, the man turns aside somewhat and gives the elf something of an exasberated look for Falamir getting up and being so ... placating. But Rhifaroth says nothing to interrupt, he merely grinds his teeth in silence and watches the Dwarf then, instead.

        To Thari's last, the man almost laughs, "Of course not."

        "Have no doubt of it, Master Dwarf! No more certain enemy is there in this world than Elf and orc. And methinks you have no more friendship with them than I. You must have injured with you, for injured there were in Bree, and so I will warn you, lest you know naught of it yet - a great host of orcs marches to the east of us, and the Last Bridge lies broken."

        "It is from that bridge that I have walked, and now, by your leave, I will rest under that cedar. Let there be no fight between us, Master Dwarf, whose people of old were allies. Rest you easy, and if it would aid you in it, speak the name to Celebros to Frarin and see that he will confirm all that I have said." He waits for nothing, now, but Thari's approval of his choice of bed.

Thari bows deeply before Celebros. "Rest well, Master Elf. I'll see to Master Frarin and our own wounded, then perhaps tend to you. You must lie down." The dwarf arises, gives a brief nod of the head toward Rhifaroth, then walks quickly away toward the dwarf camp.

        Standing with eyes narrowed, the scarred and tattooed man watches the Dwarf bow, then nod. Just barely he returns the nod as Thari turns to return to his camp.

        Grey eyes turn to look over the elf, "He's right. Come back and rest. I have no arrows left. If you've one or two to lend me I'll hunt us up something to sup right around here."

        So saying, Rhifaroth walks back with Falamir but pauses to get a drink of the water skin himself before he sets out to have a look about and maybe hunt.

Date added: 2008-05-28 05:58:29    Hits: 93
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