[Imladris]

Maethor

Maethor whistled softly to himself as his dark eyes darted across the path, seeking for even the slightest sign of their cunning prey. A wind breathed gently past him, leaving the homely smell of smoke in its wake. Maethor sniffed deeply, his senses tingling with pleasure. Raising his eyes to the horizon, he frowned as he saw a tower of smoke swell on the horizon, black waves undulated in the midst of the tower, rippling upwards, clouding the blue sky. Little plumes of grey wisped away and fluttered lightly away, before dissipating before the breath of the wind.

That was far too much smoke from an ordinary camp fire. Maethor frowned worriedly as he furtively cast his eyes about him. A trick of Naiore? A stray spark from a latent fire? A burning homestead? He shrugged: either way, he would have to go and see if any were in danger.

With a soft hiss, he withdrew the knife from his right and boot and, crouching near the ground, he crept slowly towards a small thicket. Stopping, he saw that the smoke floated from behind a clump of bushes. Leaves, long deceased from autumns passed, created a crackling carpet littered with several twigs. Maethor glared at the troublesome, noise making agents and wished that he had been better able to learn the legendary light footedness of the elves. He smiled wanly as they had finely given up teaching him.

Urgent voices came to his ears and, frowning, Maethor continued his creeping while trying to distinguish the words. A crunch. Of course. He had been going so splendidly and then he made a noise. Holding his breath, he waited to see if the people had heard. “Show yourself!” a low, powerful voice commanded.

Snorting, Maethor flopped to his stomach and, craning his neck, saw the elven boots of a woman. Beside her was a man. He sighed. “Show yourself!” the voice repeated.

Maethor stopped -- the voice was vaguely familiar, but did not have the stink of Ferney nor the careless tone of Avanill. It actually sounded vaguely like Amandur’s actually. Rising to his feet he said, grinning, “Mae govannen, Amandure and Lespheria!”

Maethor listened in silence as Lespheria and Amandur showed him the burnt mithril books that mentioned a man named Menecin and Lespheria herself. “What has she to do with Menecin?” he asked.

Lespheria briefly explained their relationship, ending with: “She tried to kill him long ago and failed. Now she has learned that he is alive and is going back to finish a job she started long ago. I must leave now! I cannot risk the sanctuary of Imladris being broken.”

Maethor’s face was pale as he digested what he had heard. He shuddered as he thought of what Naiore had tried to do to a lover, how she had tortured him, tried him. “It is too dangerous,” he said. “We should wait for the others and regroup with them.”

“That could take too long!” she protested.

“It would be a betrayal to the others,” Amandure said, “as well as dangerous for you. What would stop Naiore from harming you? The fact that you claim kinship to her?” he snorted disdainfully.

Maethor nodded. After some more arguments and logic thrown from both sides, Lespheria finally conceded to join them and they journeyed to the prearranged meeting place together.