View Single Post
Old 02-21-2003, 09:46 PM   #112
Ransom
Wight
 
Ransom's Avatar
 
Join Date: Aug 2002
Location: Some randomn dorm in Pittsburgh
Posts: 231
Ransom has just left Hobbiton.
Send a message via AIM to Ransom
Sting

The playful winter wind whistled through the skeletal trees, playfully tumbling and dancing down the lane. Most of the population of Gondor were probably working themselves into a frenzy as they hunkered down for what promised to be a long, harsh winter. Only a few travelers wandered the lonely path toward the White Tower this time of year. Here a peddler making a final round before finding a nice village to settle down for the winter. There a team of workman making hasty repairs to the road before the first snows. The sound of horns betrayed the location of a group of young nobles riding out for a day of fox hunting.

Sir Barak Mindalel felt an odd apprehension as he neared his boyhood home. He idly patted his Lochaber axe. It demonstrated his simple views on life and aesthetics. If it works, it’s beautiful. Designed to lop off limbs with a single blow or shell an armored man like an oyster, the two-foot long blade mounted on a four-foot handle lay quietly across the man’s lap. The wariness acquired from years living in the land of Harad did not leave quickly. A soft clinking sound emerged from beneath his simple brown cloak, betraying the suit of partial plate beneath. His face was careworn and scarred. The man’s dark brown eyes roamed across the land, silently studying the terrain. He unconsciously pulled the hood of his cloak over his closely cropped black hair before glancing at his companion.

Barak had endured no small amount of jokes and ridicule over his choice of a traveling companion. While most knights of any position had several pages and a squire or two to attend his every need, Barak’s traveling companion was a female Gondorian named Mara. At five foot three inches, she seemed like a little girl next to the six foot five knight. Her tanned hands, relics of Harad, idly stroked a dark black cat. The knight felt a pang of guilt as he studied her face. Her resemblance to his deceased wife was uncanny. Neither was especially pretty or eye catching, save for their brilliant red hair, piercing green eyes, and their iron will. He’d found her in the slave markets of Umbar, owned by a particularly fat merchant. She was his unwilling playmate and, as the merchant smugly informed the knight, knew several branches of esocentric knowledge. After a lengthy period of interrogation, Barak delivered the merchant’s soul to the Gods with the business end of his Lochaber. While he could admire her spirit, her absolute silence still startled him. As far as he knew, she hadn’t said a sing word since her first birthday.

The sun had scarcely to set as the unusual pair arrived at the Seventh Star. Barak slowly turned a critical eye over the inn. He’d frequented a fair number of inns in most of the cities in the known world, but this was probably one of the best he’d visited. Maybe he’d even get a good night of sleep without being bitten by an errant bedbug. But Mara’s health was fickle at best, and a brief stopover would do her good. The knight’s gaze fell upon a stable boy. “Hail, neighbor. How much is a room with two beds for a night?”

Barak refused to sleep near Mara.

“Three silver coins, sir.”

The knight carefully counted out seven silver coins and handed to the boy. “Six for two nights, one for you and the other boys. Stable our horses and move our gear to the room. They’ll be another one for you later if the horses are well taken care of.”

Barak dismounted and handed the reins to the boy. The unusual feeling of safety and peace were already beginning to grate his nerves. Mara, on the other hand, seemed almost content as she marched toward the door. The cat, on the other hand, yowled its displeasure at having its nap interrupted. The knight paused for a moment to transfer his weapon from his saddle to a sheath hidden under his cloak before hurrying after his friend.

****

Mara glared harshly at her dear friend as he idly picked at his breakfast. He quickly caught the unspoken message and redoubled his efforts to conquer the offending omelet. The knight swallowed another mouthful before attempting what passed as conversation. “We’ll be resting here for some time, Mara. The Gods know you’re more tired than I am, and I won’t have you catching pneumonia again.”

“Besides,” he added with a slightly smug tone, “they say that they’ve got some of the better storytellers here. And I know how much you like stories.”

Mara’s left boot moved with extreme speed, smashing into her friend’s leg greave. It wouldn’t hurt, but it did make a fulfilling banging noise. She smiled back at him before leaning back and scratching behind her cat’s ears. She did love stories.

[ February 21, 2003: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[ February 21, 2003: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[ February 21, 2003: Message edited by: Ransom ]
__________________
"The blood of the dead mixes with the the flowing sand and grants more power to the killer."--Gaara of the Desert
Ransom is offline