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Without a leg to stand on?

Tags: Broddur,  Sidhel,  Grimbeorn,  Brarin

Short Summary: Sidhel comes to meet a party of Dwarves camped just outside Imladris. Broddur blusters away in the background
Date (real-life): 2010-03-18
Scene Location: Rim of the Valley
Date (in-game): June 3049
Time of Day: Evening

Rim of the Valley

From here you can look out over a large expanse of verdant valley floor. Some primeval alpine lake has emptied, leaving sheer walls hundreds of feet high. It looks several miles long, and perhaps a mile across at its widest point. On the opposite cliffs you can see pine forests. Far off in the middle of the valley you see a large house with a broad open meadow around the nearer side. The house has many windows facing in all directions and many chimneys. There are built-up terraces running along the river's northern side from the house, and a forest rises behind them. You are at the top of a zigzagging trail that works its way down the cliffs towards the less difficult forested slopes leaning against them. The trail is quite treacherous for large or heavily laden people or animals. If you are mounted, you would think twice about trying to ride down -- and forget about taking a wagon down.

Obvious exits:
 Trail leads to Winding Trail.

================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is:    Evening
IC day is:     Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is:    15 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase:    New  <VISIBLE>
Earendil:      Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is:    Loa 25 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3049>
RL time:    Thu Mar 18 16:04:18 2010

Game time is: Evening on Highday, Day 17 of June (Summer) 3049 

It is dusk on a fine summer's day. Away to the east, the Misty Mountains are cloaked in a haze of indigo, whilst westward across the rim of the Valley of the Last Homely House the sky is resplendent in scarlet and rose.

Up on the moors, an anomaly: a train of wagons and ponies, halted as though for the night. Noone could have approached this hidden place without foreknowledge of their destination; yet, having reached it, the owners of those wagons seem inclined to argument. The wagons are in a loose circle; from within it gruff voices can be heard raised in dispute. Those drawing close to the travellers might catch sight of bright eyes watching the land warily from within the wagons, or a short bearded form patrolling between them, hand resting on axe or hammer.

Be it the unusual sight on the High Moors or be it the noise, this group has drawn its attention to those who dwell in this land. From afar there comes a tall figure walking towards the caravan, black hair flying in the evening breeze. No metal of weapons or armour seems to be worn, but a simple grey attire makes this wanderer stand out from the lush green surroundings.

Dwarves, vigilant though they may be, do not have the keenness of sight of the Firstborn. Thus it is some time before the walker is sighted and a shout goes up. "Lone walker approaching." and then, a little later, "Elf!" The argument - if such it is - at the centre of camp breaks off, replaced by urgent murmurings, and soon one dwarf comes walking from the centre of camp, his brown beard well-plaited and a fine silver-buckled belt encircling his broad midriff. "Hail and well-met," he calls out, his own hand raised in greeting and kept far from his axe.

 Somewhere in the not too far distance a big brown bear--huge even at a distance--ambles along the rim of the valley, now and then peering down into the valley itself or else sniffing--and snuffing--at the grasses.

"Well met, Master dwarf," comes the answer and the elf raises a hand in return. "It seems this is a busy year on the moors," he says as he has reached the campsite. Then he bows in elven manner and amends: "I am Sidhel, courier of Master Elrond, who guards this land. Your kin is welcome to us, as are all free peoples."

The Dwarf's bushy eyebrows shoot up at that first comment, and he makes a small questioning sound. "Others of our cousins have passed this way?" he asks eagerly, then catches himself. "But I forget myself. Brarin, son of Thrarin at your service, Master Sidhel." He makes a bow of his own, his long beard brushing the ground, then jerks upward. "Indeed, we thank Master Elrond for his hospitality. But we have wagons ..." He pauses in his speech, looks round uncomfortably toward the centre of the wagon-group, then adds, low-voiced, "We also have some wounded."

Not low-voiced enough, it seems. From within the nearest wagon comes a grumbling, gritty voice. "What's that?"

The brown bear ambles on. It seems that it is heading, in fact, toward the wagons, its pace leisurely. Stop and smell the clover, as it is. Still, it comes this way.

Sidhel shakes his head. "None of your cousins, but a group of Men from the South," he replies. Then he frown and asks about the casualties. "Wounded, say you? Have you met resistance on the Pass then? I would send for a healer then," he says. "And some of our folk would certainly also like to trade with your party. What is your destination then, if I may ask?"

Unaware of the approaching creature he continues his conversation.

"Men." That word is dismissive, and Brarin enquires no more. "Trouble on the Pass, aye," he nods, and his eyes light up. "It was a glorious fight! Twice we were assailed by goblin scum, but the axes of the Dwarves prevailed!" At the Elf's other words, he nods, cautiously. "I had wondered," again he glances uncomfortably behind him, "if some of the wounded should be sent down. And-"

From the nearest wagon comes a growl. "By Mahal's beard, I will /not/ stand for this! Burden, am I?" And the covering is pushed aside to reveal a scowling Dwarven figure who leans unsteadily on wagon-side. His entire left shoulder is swathed in bandages, and the way he's hunched speaks of other injuries. His face is seamed on one side by old scars, his beard raggedly lopsided - it is the miner Broddur. He treats Brarin to a filthy glare.

Some of the Dwarves are watching the exchange between the smooth-tongued Brarin and the Elf, and one or two chuckle at Broddur; others continue to keep their attention on the Moors. Thus it is that one gestures toward the sunset, where a large ursine form stands silhouetted. One of the younger Dwarves reaches for his bow; another, older by his manner, pushes it down with a brusque shake of the head.

The bear, on the ridge, stops--then grunts. Or laughs? And, unconcerned with the possible bows being raised against it, it lowers its head to snuff at the grass.

The elf gives a quick look at the dwarven archer and then eyes the temporary target. "A busy year indeed," he repeats and something seems to be about this very bear that seems to make Sidhel confident that there is no apparent danger. Only then does he regard Broddur on his wagon. "You do not need to stand for it," he says. "Our healers do as well treat their patients laid down."

Brarin follows the direction of Sidhel's glance. "One of the residents of your Valley?" he enquires politely, catching the eye of the younger Dwarf and giving him a warning frown. "No trouble," he mouths toward him.

Broddur is not interested in bears - just as well, given the inadvertent injuries inflicted that particular bear at a long-ago previous meeting. Rather, he sputters at Sidhel - clearly he is not amused. "What's that?" he growls, dark eyes flashing.

Brarin holds his hand out in placating fashion. "Now, now. Noone is saying you're a burden."

"I know what they say," Broddur grates. "And I can tell you that I'm perfectly capable of standing on my-" Suddenly he lurches sideways as his legs give way from under him and slithers down to the wagon-floor in an ungainly fashion, his craggy features an unbecoming greyish hue.

"He is one of our neighbours, so to speak, and a frequent visitor." Sidhel gestures at the bear and then frowns at Broddur. "Yes, we should get your companion a healer," he insists. He turns around and waves to some hidden sentinel, or so it seems. "Worry not, we will provide healing for your injured and food, drink and music for the rest of you."

Only the top of Broddur's head can be seen above the wagon-side. He utters an inarticulate noise of protest.

Brarin glances that way and swiftly away again. "I am sure that will be much appreciated," he interposes smoothly. "Our healers are skilled, but they are running short of supplies." He lowers his voice and murmurs under his breath, "And patience."

He clears his throat and goes on briskly, brightening, "And speaking of supplies, we have many fine goods to trade! Honey from the Beornings, woodcraft from the lands of Dale and of course the skilled work of our own crafters. And no doubt the Lord Bifur will wish to report the state of the lands east ..."

"Lord Bifur is with you? Then it will be a merry time for he is well known in Imladris and Master Bilbo will be delighted to see his old friend." Sidhel looks quite pleased at this news.

A slightly startled look creeps into Brarin's eyes as the words 'merry' and 'Bifur' are mentioned in the same breath, but he nods his head and manages a polite smile. "Then I'm sure you will wish to waste no time in bringing the news to him. We shall see you again soon."

From within the wagon comes a low, painful muttering. The words are not clear, but it sounds something like 'over my dead body'.


Date added: 2010-03-19 05:31:20    Hits: 91
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