[maikafanawen]

Wren walked up towards the front as the group made their way out of the Downs. The fog began to subside early the third morning and the temperature had risen considerably. The noblewoman rolled up her cloak and tied it to the bottom of her sack. Then she pulled the her hair out of her face, clasping it behind her neck with a clip. Water supply was lessening quickly, and everyone had perked their ears for the sound of a stream.

“The last one was a days journey back up the trail. If we don’t find anything by nightfall we should turn back, we can’t go on without water,” said Bregand. Wren heartily agreed but Rangar didn’t.

“There’s water ahead, and we can’t chance another encounter with the Wild Men.” The company followed their leader on faith until dusk when the they were threatened greatly by dehydration. Finally, the sound of a trickling brook reached the ears of the elves and they led the group to a pure and fast running creek that was three feet wide and about two thirds of a foot deep. Wren filled her water sack so full it was in danger of popping.

“You might want to lessen the amount of water you have there,” advised Turhtôl, “you don’t want it to explode on you later on.” The noblewoman reluctantly drained a bit of the water back into the cool creek. Bregand meanwhile stood there looking confused at the water and followed it around a bend a few paces and then south the same amount.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he declared, “it’s not on any of the maps.”

“Well you know Bregand,” said Enien smartly, “not all the little creeks will be labeled. This could have just been a little trickle a month ago and was flooded during last weeks rain. You of all people should know to take things like that into consideration.” Bregand ignored her last remark and shrugged, also filling his canteen.

They decided to make camp by the stream that night and continue early in the morning. Carmalita made a fire and Rave began stirring a stew. Since Wren had never cooked so much as a cracker in her life, she told them that her sword needed sharpening desperately and excused herself from being of service. When dinner was consumed, and the group sat around the dying fire, Wren decided that it would do some good to have a bit of entertainment to loosen the tense feelings among them all.

“Bregand!” she called, “I know many scholars in Gondor, and a favorite pastime of theirs is to baffle their friends and adversaries with riddles and conundrums. Why don’t you test our cleverness?” The group turned towards the youngest member of the company who looked back excitedly.

“Alright, now that you mention it, there is a good riddle that my tutor enjoyed to tell about a rich merchant who had two sons. As do we all, the man grew old, and he knew his time was short. He called his sons to him, saying he could not decide which of them would be his heir. This they would determine by a race. The sons were to set forth the next morning for Pelargir, some fifteen miles away. The son whose horse was the last to arrive would be named his father’s heir.

“In the morning, the two men ready for the race upon their prized steeds. Their father gave them his blessing and wished them well, and the race was on. Each son employed every method he could think of to remain behind the other, while the animals grew restless and the sun sank low behind the mountains. By the end of the day, the two men had gone less than a hundred paces!

“Deeply troubled, the two brothers took shelter at an inn. There they shared ale and discussed their troubles. Each man was wealthy by his own labors, and each had business affairs and families to tend. The task their father had given them had no clear end in sight. In pursuing their inheritance, the men were in very real danger of perishing in the land between their father’s house and Pelargir. The men told the innkeeper their dilemma. After a moment’s thought, the innkeeper gave them two words of advice.” Bregand stopped and looked around at the faces of the members of the company. They all looked back blankly, waiting for him to tell them the innkeeper’s words. “Change horses,” he said as though it was quite obvious. “The father said that whoever’s horse got their last would be his heir. That way, whichever son got to Pelargir first upon his brother’s mount would be the heir.” Hoping that everyone would be awed at the enigma he had just presented them with, the scholar was sorely disappointed when Turthôl spoke up.

“Oh yeah, I have a good one. Bregand, you can’t answer this one.” (The scholar nodded smugly. Pleased that the ranger assumed he would know the answer). “You invited five trolls that lived on top of a mountain to your house for tea. There was one perfect path from their cave to your house that ran right down the side of the mountain, yet they were still unable to go. They had no other plans, weren’t ill, there were no obstacles, and wanted to go. What stopped them? Oh yes, and the weather was perfect.” Everyone in the circle shared glances and a few threw out a few guesses. Turthôl shook his head at all of them. Then Enien broke through answering impatiently.

“Trolls turn to stone in sunlight.” The rest groaned at the obviousness of the answer, and Bregand guffawed.

“Really, that one was popular when I was still waiting for my back teeth to grow in.”

“Then hush, and be thankful you’re not missing any,” warned Turthôl good-naturedly, holding up his fist. The scholar gave him a snide look.

“Anyone else going to show us a bit of talent?” asked Rangar. Wren pulled forth her lute, and touched the delicate strings with her fingers.

“I will.” She sat the beautiful instrument on her lap and began to play a lilting tune. The music filled the air like magic, and the noblewoman began to sing:

“The wind in the sails, takes us along
It’s here on the seas, where sailors belong
We hear the crash of waves on the bow
Tomorrow we dock, should Ulmo allow

“Gods of the earth hold us dear in your hands
Guide us through night and through day
We look towards the horizon, searching for land
Guide us to the harbor, we pray.” Wren vocalized as she played, the silver strings catching the random beams of moonlight. Then she continued her song.

“Stars wheel above, and sea churns below
Storms rip at our hearts, and hurricanes blow
Through nights of sure death, we tow along
We’ll sail on ‘till dawn, still singing this song.

“Gods of the earth hold us dear in your hands
Guide us through night and through day
We look towards the horizon, searching for land
Guide us to the harbor, we pray.

“Port is in sight, we’re ready to dock
We smooth into landing, without any shock.
Though danger was close, we turn to the sea
It’s our sailor’s curse, we’ll never be free

“So Gods of the earth hold us dear in your hands
Guide us through night and through day
The sea’s power and might have taken their toll
They’ve captured and imprisoned our souls...” She finished the song with a quiet thrum of the strings and an owl hooted in the distance making the noblewoman shiver.

“Nicely done,” commented Carmalita. “Your friend wrote that?” Wren nodded. It was a powerful song, and it was the first time she’d played it on her lute. The lute itself was mysterious. The sailor who gave it to her couldn’t explain its origin; it was what she liked most about it. The power of the old song had expressed itself thoroughly through the instrument and it had left Wren breathless.

“Yes, yes she did. Whoo,” she chuckled a bit, “pretty powerful when its this dark at night eh?” She set aside her lute and leaned back against her pack. “Anyone else want to give us a show?” No one answered so Rangar stood, stretching.

“We need to get some rest anyhow. Rave, you take first watch, and Tareth, you relieve her in about two hours, then Wren’ll take third watch and we’ll be off after that. Goodnight everyone.” No tents were erected for the small canopy of trees they were under was protection enough and there was no threat of rain. The fire was doused and all but Rave curled up atop their traveling cloaks and fell asleep.

[ May 11, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]