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Old 04-16-2004, 10:36 AM   #168
Child of the 7th Age
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Aiwendil:

Child's post

Aiwendil peered intently in the direction Rôg had pointed. He could barely discern the shadowy outline of what appeared to be a young woman, enfolded in a great cloak and asleep on a mat drawn up near the foot of the bed on which her older patient lay. Relieved to find no one else in the tent, the small moth fluttered closer, alighting on a wooden stool that stood close by. Aiwendil slipped back into his original form, still supporting the staff on his lap and bearing a leather pouch with herbs and potions that had been slung over his shoulder.

Aiwendil glanced quickly from one woman to the other. The striking resemblence between the two suggested they were kinfolk, quite possibly mother and daughter. From the taut look on the younger woman's face and the damp rag draped through her splayed fingers, Aiwendil suspected that she had crumpled to the mat exhausted from her bedside nursing vigil and had immediately fallen into a deep slumber.

The istar quietly approached and, leaning over, placed his hands on either side of the older woman's brow. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to do. Then he glanced upward, hoping that he could see Rôg somewhere nearby and gain some reassurance from the presence of a friend. But the tiny bird was nowhere to be seen.

Aiwendil's skills as a healer had been learned long ago in the household of Yavanna where he had tended the birds and beasts that dwelt within the golden gardens. More recently, he had practiced those same skills in the forests of Mirkwood working with a host of different animals, but he had little experience or knowledge to draw upon when dealing with Men. Cautiously, he let his mind inch outward to meet with hers. The old man met no resistence to his gentle probing, but neither did he feel an answering response.

Still, it was not difficult to do. He probed a bit deeper and, skirting around the welter of tormented hallucinations that afflicted the woman's mind, was able to catch the name by which she went and glean some idea of who she was. He reached out again to initiate more intimate contact, but drew back suddenly when he sensed how precariously she lay suspended between the forces of life and death. Her fea was like a pitiful candle that had burnt dangerously low, whose tiny flame might flicker and die at any moment. There was painfully little he could do to help a mortal who lay so close to the realm of Mandos.

A cursory outward examination of Ayar did nothing to allay his fears. Aiwendil could see the inflamed wound on the back of Ayar's neck through which the poison had entered her body. With a sigh, the istar turned to his bag of herbs and potions. He could not stop the inevitable course of the drug, but perhaps he could soften some of the pain and even draw the woman back to consciousness so that she might speak with her family one last time. First, he administered a tincture of poppies, the bright red flower that can bring gentle respite from pain. Then he probed deep within Ayar's mind, looking for ways to draw her back from her nightmare visions so that she might again see and speak with those around her.

Just as the old man sat back on the stool from his work, tired and less careful than he should have been, the staff lying across his lap slipped loose and clattered noisily downward, hitting a large silver pot in which incense burned, then bouncing off and thudding to the ground. The young woman sleeping at the foot of the bed stirred in her sleep, then sat up abruptly, focusing shocked eyes on this unbelievably tall stranger who now sat no more than two feet away. Narika half-stifled a scream, then willed herself to gain control. In an instant she had changed from human to eagle form and, half thrashing her way through the tent's smokehole, rose up on sturdy wings high above the encampment to sound the alarm that one or more dangerous strangers were in their midst.

Aiwendil hastily considered whether it wouldn't be wise to shift shapes himself and make a speedy retreat from this settlement. However, something inside his head inconveniently whispered that this was not the right thing to do. He quickly retrieved his staff and leapt to his feet, standing to face the entrance of the tent and preparing for the inevitable assault. The tent flap was suddenly drawn back from the outside so that he could see a party of maenwaith in human form, all carrying arms of various types. At the front of the group stood one who was obviously their leader, his eyes full of fury as he prepared to lunge forward and avenge the woman he loved whose tent had been violated by this unknown intruder.

For a moment, everything hung suspended as Thorn drew back his weapon and prepared to strike. Then, from the rear of the tent, a familliar voice cried out a plaintive warning. Struggling to sit up amid the tangled bedclothes, still weak and pitifully ill, Ayar called out commanding her people, "Wait! Do not harm him. He is a friend....."

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Pio’s post – Rôg

Rôg kept his eye firmly fixed on Aiwendil as he fluttered down toward the stricken woman and then changed back to mannish form. ‘Hurry up!’ he muttered to the figure below, his piping admonition blown away in the night’s breeze. Only the younger woman who sat drowsing near the sickbed remained of the tableau he had seen earlier. ‘Hurry, old man! The clansman I saw may come back,’ he called out softly again.

There was no response and naught to do but get closer to his companion and hasten him along. With a small leap he jumped down, aiming for the cowl of Aiwendil’s robe. He had landed, but barely, when the clatter of the old man’s staff rang loud against the metal of some pot and a loud, high pitched scream filled the small area followed by the rush of wings upward. Aiwendil rose up quickly tensing himself for the expected assault, and in doing so jostled poor Rog’s precarious grasp on the neckline of the robe. The young man fell willy-nilly down inside the material covering the old man’s chest. His six legs scrabbled wildly to find purchase and turn himself upright. Climbing quickly to the edge of the neckline, he peeked over, antennae waving wildly at the sound of running feet and loud cries approaching the tent.

‘Well here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into,’ he hissed up at Aiwendil as the tent flap was thrown back and the armed men entered. One of them, the fellow that Rôg had spied previously in the tent, raised his sword preparing to charge. The young man’s eyes bugged out and he crept along the collar’s rim to hide beneath the old man’s hair.

As he waited for the inevitable blow to fall, a commanding voice from behind called out. Silence followed, and Rôg rubbed his wings in a nervous, rapid rhythm as the moment stretched out.

‘Thorn!’ cried one of the male voices that had entered. ‘I’ll be a billy-goat’s uncle if you don’t hear it . . . but isn’t the old guy’s hair chirping . . .’

Last edited by Child of the 7th Age; 04-19-2004 at 12:28 PM.
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