[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

6.) Arvedui III - Mirkwood Elf Scout

Name: Targil

Race: Sindarian male, of Mirkwood

Age: 3016

Weapons: Born and bred for the hunt, the curve of a blade seems to Targil as the sight of a mountaintop sunrise must seem to others. And of blades he has many. Targil carries two arched hunting knives, and a long, tapered razor, which he employs as throwing edge with great efficiency. Although he also bears a bow and a quiver of arrows, he prefers not to use it in matters of the chase. His knives, unadorned with worn leather grips, seem more fair. And although a light, plain dirk in a black sheath rests at his side, he will only draw it for one type of game: Orcs.

Appearance: Targil is like most Sindarian elves in that has fair features and fine blonde hair that falls to about the middle of his back, save for two braids which hand to his shoulders. He stands about 5'11", making him a little shorter than most elves, and his light blue eyes call even more attention to him. As with all scouts, he wears forest colors, usually a green tunic, brown breeches and soft leather boots.

Personality: Intensely quiet, Targil prefers the stillness of the forest to most anything else.. He is young for an elf, and has never left Mirkwood, but does not care for the world beyond his home. It is not that he fears what lies beyond the woods, but that it just is not important to him. With hunting as his all-consuming passion, he couldn't even begin to imagine how leaving Mirkwood would be worth his while. Targil is simple-hearted, and can't quiet grasp the bigger picture, intelligent though he is. He knows the importance of acting quickly, and knows also that this makes him a bit impulsive, even for an elf. To counteract this, Targil tries to keep his world as simple as possible, relishing in the pleasure of his woodland home and becoming no more than a scout. He has never given thought to much else, and wouldn't have it any other way.

History: Born at the beginning of the second age, Targil fell in love with martial crafts when he was very young, and started training at the tender age of 50. Since then he has seldom been at court, though his father is a merchant who deals with the men of Esgaroth and has some influence. He started serving as a scout when he was 2114, where, as he likes to put it, "There is much more honor than necessary for hunting." Several times he has been offered commissions as a lieutenant, but each time has turned them down, preferring others to make decisions, although he won't hesitate to disobey a stupid order. Quite comfortable in the role he plays, he continues to practice his art, unperturbed by the gathering darkness in Mirkwood. Whatever appears, he will hunt it.

~*~

Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.