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Old 04-12-2004, 10:59 AM   #160
Child of the 7th Age
Spirit of the Lonely Star
 
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Aiwendil:

Still half-asleep, Aiwendil groggily shook his head, unsuccessfully trying to claw his way up to consciousness and untangle what Rôg had said. At first the message sounded like gibberish until the single word ‘poison’ etched itself all too clearly on his mind. Acutely aware of the degree of agitation that underlay his friend’s quiet plea, Aiwendil rubbed his eyes with knobby knuckles to clear away the sleep and struggled to his feet. He turned back to the camel’s saddlebag and pulled out a small leather pouch filled with herbs and tiny bottles of potions already mixed and prepared. Hanging down from the camel’s side was a wooden staff that Rôg had rarely seen Aiwendil use. The istar hesitated and then, with a sigh of resignation, solemnly untied it and clutched it in his hand. He balanced the staff lengthwise in his palm as if it was a fine sword, sliding his fingertips over its well-worn facade, still unable to remember the last time he had actually used it.

His bright eyes darted nervously back at Rôg, “You know, I can’t just walk into the center of camp in the middle of night as if I belong there. I am scarcely an expert on the maenwaith , but I imagine they are skittish of strangers even in good times. No matter what I say, they’ll never let me within arm’s length of a leader who has been poisoned....”

Seeing the glint of alarm in his companion’s face, Aiwendil hastily reassured him, “I’m not saying we should sit here and do nothing. Give me a minute to think.” Toting his leather pouch and staff, the old man retreated over the top of a nearby hill, which neatly obscured him from Rôg’s view. He stared out at the distant encampment, hoping to find out how many of the desert dwellers were still awake. Rôg might have flown out to retrieve that information, but, with his new found resolve, Aiwendil felt an old streak of stubbornness surface. He was determined to do some things himself. Sitting cross legged with closed eyes, he let his mind wander out in the familiar manner and, to his surprise, met no resistence either within himself or among the folk of the settlement. A hasty perusal of the fea inside the camp showed him that most of the maenwaith were asleep, even those in the clan leader’s tent. There did not seem to be a guard on duty, and those few Men still awake had gathered in one or two tents on the far side of the compound, seemingly engrossed in conversation.

Aiwendil gathered his belongings on his lap and pulled back within himself, whispering a silent plea to Yavanna. He hunched over and imagined the form he wished to assume as well as the poor woman lying sick in her bed who needed his aid. There was no resistence or hesitation. This time, the transformation came instantaneously with a single flash of light. A small moth, almost a twin to Rôg’s, fluttered on tiny brown wings towards the desert camp, calling back to the small bee eater to follow as he flitted toward the tent where Ayar lay.

Last edited by Child of the 7th Age; 04-13-2004 at 02:15 PM.
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