Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the duration of the storm, Narika watched and waited at Ayar's bedside as her mother tossed restlessly in the tangled sheets, drifting in and out of consciousness. Grimly reflecting that her mother's condition was no different, Narika found her spirits dropping as she listened to the howl of the swirling sands as they battered remoselessly against the heavy canvas of the tent. Over the next few hours, the blistering winds subsided. Trying to concentrate on some simple housecleaning chores, she shook out the ornate woven rugs that decorated the floor, now covered with a layer of fine sand that had managed to slip in through the cracks. She finally set down her broom and asked the servant girl Riá to watch over Ayar so that she could check on things and make sure everyone had safely weathered the storm.


Outside, the camp was returning to life as men and women ventured from their tents to straighten out the wreckage and round up the herds. Several of the young lads were already digging out the firepit and piling up the precious twigs and limbs in preparation for the evening meal that had been pushed back by the unexpected windstorm. With help from the others, Narika pried the lids off two large communal water barrels that stood near the firepit for anyone to use. She leaned over to retrieve a ladle of water pouring it into her bucket, making a face when she glimpsed the thin sediment of sand that had settled near the bottom of the barrel. Water was too precious to waste. They would have to make do until her mother was well enough to survive the move to the next encampment where there would be a fresh supply.

Even with the storm, the news of Ayar's illness had spread quickly through the camp. A number of the maenwaith eagerly surrounded Narika, pressing her to tell them how her mother was doing and when they could expect to see her again. Unable to give them any sure response, Narika wanly smiled, brushing aside the questions with only the slightest hint of an answer, and quickly retreated inside her tent. She set down the bucket and was about to resume her nursing duties when a quiet voice sounded at the door and the tent flap again drew back. Narika looked over to see Yalisha step inside carrying a pouch of herbs slung over her shoulder.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Thank you for coming." There was a stiff formality in the air between the two women that Narika did nothing to combat. "You have heard of my mother's illness?"

Yalisha nodded and, without further conversation, came over to kneel at Ayar's side, carefully examining the older woman and asking questions as she worked. Rolling Ayar onto her stomach, she paused for a moment as she glimpsed the tiny puncture wound at the base of the neck, which was still inflamed from the day before. Yalisha's eyes widened in surprise. Her voice trembling, she pointed towards the inflammation, "This small wound? How did it happen?"

"I have no idea.," Narika countered. " It has been like that since she first fell ill."

"Think.... This is important. When did she complain of receving such an injury?"

Narika was about to shake her head again, when she suddenly recalled an incident that had happened earlier. "I do remember one thing. Yesterday, towards dusk, when all had gathered to hear music and stories, Ayar came out to join the circle. One of the attendants saw her stop and blanche and rub the back of her neck. When he asked if he could do anything to help, she merely waved him off and said it was nothing....only the sting of an insect. None of us thought it important at the time."

Yalisha looked up with bright, glittering eyes and then down at Ayar, shaking her head in dismay. When she spoke again, it was in a voice tinged with regret. "I can not be certain. But I do not believe this to be a natural sickness. I have little knowledge of such things, but I have heard others speak of it There are herbs, deadly herbs, whose oils can be extracted and placed on the tip of a missile or dart. For some there are remedies; for others, not. I do not know what this poison is, or if there is any cure, but I fear that your mother has fallen victim to an evil hand."

Narika stared at Yalisha and listened uncomprehending. "You are telling me Ayar was poisoned? Here, in this camp! That is impossible. No one within the clan would do such a thing. And outsiders do not even know where we are, not even the great Wyrma herself. Are you telling me that someone inside the clan has done this terrible thing or that outsiders have come here without our even knowing?"

"I cannot say. Only that whatever struck down your mother looks and acts like certain poisons that exist within the city of Umbar. How such a thing has come here, I have no idea."

With eyes hard as flint, Narika cried out, "Umbar! I should have expected this. It is not one of us but the outsiders. Every time we touch that city, we come away with grief. I swear if anything happens to my mother, I will slay any outsider who dares approach the clan even in so-called friendship." Narika's thoughts strayed to her sister Ráma hoping that she had already headed home.

"Please," she pleaded. "Is there nothing you can do to help her? Some compound or tincture?"

Yalisha pulled open her pouch of herbs, examining the contents. " I know little of such poisons, but I will try. Perhaps Ráma or my brother will soon return with news that will tell us who lies behind this deed and how we may best combat it."

"Let us hope so," Nakira grimly nodded.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

The camel bumped along in the gathering darkness; his great, flat hooves thumping against the packed sand. Aiwendil had pulled his hood up, retreating into silence, lost in his own thoughts. Rôg, his feet hooked firmly in the folds of Aiwendil’s robe, had retreated in like manner, tucking his head beneath one wing. The outer appearances of repose aside, the little bird’s thoughts were whirling.

The Star Isle. It cannot be! I must have misheard . . . He flapped his wings and shook his tail then settled his head once again under cover of his wing. The old man speaks as if he had been there . . . how can that be . . .

A leathery voice niggled at the edges of his thoughts saying Step up, little one, when there is need . . ., receding as a scene from his childhood played in his mind.

~*~

The old, old woman had come in from the steppe one winter . . . down from the craggy cliffs to the east, her thin frame bent over in the chilly winds that swept down from the north. One gnarled hand grasped a walking stick; crooked yew wood it was . . . And from the small boy’s point of view the bent and twisted and gnarled frame of the woman who bore it prompted the wild thought that her stick was simply another appendage that grew from her. Or perhaps she from it . . . he could not tell.

He thought, too, the wind might blow her over, so frail she looked to him. But she turned her dark eyes on his staring face and he could see the strength rooted in their depths. No winds would move her, he sensed. Then, wondering if this were just some ghosty thing come down to haunt the camp, he reached out with his slim, small hand to touch her robe.

Real enough, he now remembered, feeling the rough, scaly material slide again between his fingers.

The clan leader had welcomed her to his tent with great affection and later that day, around the evening fire, had invited her to be the story-teller. The older folk had warmed to her recitation of the clans’ family names and their descendents, nodding one to another when their ancestor was named and their branch recited. Rôg and his sister had grown fidgety at the long lists that rolled off the old woman’s tongue, but their father had fixed them with a frown and slight shake of his head at their restless antics; their mother had simply gathered them nearer, hushing them as she nuzzled her lips against their hair. ‘These names are written in your bones,’ she had whispered to them. ‘Listen! She speaks them for you.’

Names, and sons and daughters of names, had woven round in the soft light cast on the tents gathered near the communal fire. Sparks flew up into the deepening darkness as the pitchy wood crackled and hissed. Daira had pinched him as her name was chanted out near the end, and he in turn had given her a smug smile as his name joined hers and led the way, then, for the few of those younger than they. Murmurs of appreciation and nods at the old woman followed as her voice dropped off, the namings done.

‘An old story, now, Mother!’ a voice had chimed in. ‘The one with the Eagles!’ called another. ‘Narîka 'nBâri 'nAdûn!’

‘What eagles are they asking about?’ Rôg turned his small face up with a frown to his mother. He knew there were great birds that nested in the cliffs, but they were ordinary, everyday birds, and these seemed to be of some other sort. 'nBâri 'nAdûn. He rolled the old words about in his mouth, savoring the feel of them. Lords of the West . . . their eagles . . . His attention snapped back to the old woman as she spoke the familiar words that began every story.

‘Now this is how it was told to me,’ she said, placing her gnarled hands on her knees as she bent forward slightly and looked round the thick circle of faces. ‘Back then, in the time long flown, a great, great gift was given . . .’

This was a story he had not heard before. A wondrous island had been raised from the waters by the great Lords on the rim of the world. Far to the west it was from here. Shaped like a great, five-pointed star, it floated above the waves – bearing many delights for those who dwelt there.

Birds he remembered her saying; the old woman had spoken at length about the winged creatures, large and small, that lived there. Her words painted the picture of mariners drawing near to the isle, guided in by the clamor of the great flocks of wheeling sea-birds. In a piping voice she drew the scattered flocks of tiny scarlet birds as they winged low over the white sandy shores, calling out their name as they passed . . . kirinki . . .

And the Nimîr, the Beautiful Ones, who had flown in their white swan ships, over the waters, from the edges of the sea, flocking gracefully to the western harbors, bringing gifts. And there in the center of the isle there rose a great mountain . . .

‘The eagles,’ someone had said in a knowing voice.

‘Yes, yes, from the west they flew,’ she nodded and went on. ‘The Great Lord sent them. From the very rim of the world, beyond the edges of the sea. It is said that the people of the island held them as sacred, and blessed the Great Lord of the West and his people who had sent them.’ She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a hush, her listeners straining to catch her words. ‘This I was told also . . . that the eagles and this Lord of the West and all his people could put on forms at their need and at their pleasure.’

‘Ah!’ A collective affirmation rose round the fire in waves.

‘So I have heard,’ she repeated, ‘and believe it to be a true telling, passed down from my mother’s mothers to me.’

The story wove on through the abundant years of the gifted isle, bright years. Then, down into the shadowed time the telling went; the betrayals and the turnings away; the evil deeds piling one upon the other; the Shadow that passed in glamoured form promising his own dark gifts. Some there were who had remained true to their promises. But they were set upon and threatened and many kept silent rather than voice what they held true.

Rôg had shivered at her words, drawing in tight against the safety of his mother. He clutched her cloak tightly, bringing it up to cover his face, his dark eyes peeking out as the story drew to its ending.

The King of that Isle, she went on, beguiled by the promises and lies of the Shadow, had ordered his great fleet of ships to sail to the forbidden lands at the rim of the world. ‘Their gift was not enough,’ the old woman admonished her listeners. ‘They reached out to grasp more.’ Her audience was hushed as she shook her head at the foolishness of the islanders.

With a great THWACK! she brought her walking stick down hard on one of the rocks that circled the fire.

‘They smote them down as their feet touched the forbidden soil . . .’ she said, her voice rumbling out into the waiting silence. ‘ . . . The Lords of the West did . . . and they sunk that island far, far beneath the waters of the sea . . . the edges of the world were bent . . . and never again did the Eagles fly the straight path to the east.’

She looked into the fire and spoke the ending words. ‘So I was told, and so now you have heard.’

Amid the murmurings of approval for the well told story, Rôg had slipped away from his mother and come to crouch down near the old woman. At a lull in her conversations with others of his clan he had gathered his courage and reached out to touch her on the arm. ‘Old Mother,’ he had whispered, tugging lightly on her tunic. ‘Old Mother,’ he had prompted in a louder voice as he crept nearer.

‘What is it, child?’

‘What happened to the ones who kept their promises?’

‘They were spared and came east over the seas. Good people. But so few . . . so few, at the end.’

His question answered, he had thought to creep away. But she had reached out with her fingers and grasped him lightly and securely about the wrist, her gnarled talons surprisingly strong. She fixed him in her gaze, and drawing him near, leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Step up, little one, when there is need . . . will you promise this? In his own childish way, a little afraid of her and wanting to please or appease her, he had nodded his head ‘yes’. ‘Good, good,’ she had uttered in a soft voice almost to herself as she released his wrist. He had turned to scurry back to the safety of his family, when he heard her call out after him. ‘Remember to keep your promise, little one.’ Rôg turned back once to look at her but she was already swallowed up in the press of people that surrounded her.

~*~

The camel came to an abrupt stop. Aiwendil lurched forward, nearly dislodging the little bird from his shoulder. ‘Water, I think,’ he heard the old man say as the camel turned of its own accord toward an old covered cistern in a clump of scraggly palms. Dismounting, they both lugged the heavy cover from the shallow tank, and were rewarded by a few inches of standing water. It was brackish, tinged with silt and sand that stirred at the slightest touch. Still it was water, and they refreshed themselves as best they could.

Rôg let the camel drink his fill, then bade him kneel down to let Aiwendil mount once more. Once the old man had arranged himself in as comfortable a position as he could, Rôg flew up to his shoulder and settled in again for the remainder of the journey. The camel moved along at a slow, steady pace. Rôg plucked up his courage and moved close to the old fellow’s ear.

‘About that Star Isle . . . I was just wondering . . . what had you heard about those who kept their promises? Were they all drowned? And what had you heard about the eagles . . .?’

Rôg cocked a feathered eye toward Aiwendil. He was determined, in some manner, to sort out his quandary. Had the old fellow misspoke when he said he had been to the isle? Had he confused hearing the story for being there? Or were his memories true? And if they were true . . . what sort of creature was he?

The little bird narrowed his eyes as he considered his companion. A barely perceptible mutter escaped him as he turned his own questions over in his mind and awaited the answers to his others.

‘. . . and just how old does he think he is, I wonder . . .

[Estelyn Telcontar]

tap, tap, tap...tap, tap

Wyrma looked up from her paperwork with a start. The knocking on her window shutter was no chance movement of the wind; in fact, she knew this particular signal well and hastened to open the window. A desert owl sat on the ledge; its sandy colour made it almost invisible in the dusk. It flew into the room and transformed into a dark-haired young man, taller and somewhat broader than Tinar, but with an unmistakable similarity.

“Kumat!” she exclaimed, “Is something wrong? Do you have a message for me?”

“Thank you for your warm welcome,” her third son replied with only the faintest touch of sarcasm. His mother did not intimidate him, at least not much, but he had a healthy respect for her wrath and treated her with deference. “If I were to tell you that I came for the pleasure of your company, you would not believe me. Yes, something is wrong. No, I do not have a written message; Hálfr thought it would not be wise to send something that could be intercepted or lost, so I bear the message myself.”

He motioned her to the elaborately carved chair at her desk and took another for himself when she was seated.

With an impatient gesture, she waved aside the decanter of wine that he proffered her before pouring himself a goblet. “Is all well with Markal? Have Hálfr and his troops been attacked?”

“Markal is as always,” he answered, with barely concealed disdain for his staid oldest brother. “Hálfr and my brother Walat have their troops well under control, and there has been no open hostility within or without the city.”

“Then what?” she snapped.

“The stones and bricks that were stored for building your main headquarters have been destroyed,” he said, leaning forward to emphasize his words.

Wyrma’s thoughts raced. Building in the desert was a costly and difficult undertaking, since building materials were few. It had taken much effort and no little money to import enough to build not only houses, but to provide a solid foundation as well. They had had to proceed carefully and with some stealth so that Falasmir’s spies did not realize how monumental their plans were.

“But how? And by whom?” she asked the obvious questions. Stones could not be destroyed that easily!

“That is the problem,” he answered, his brows furrowed. “To all appearances, an oliphaunt rampaged among them – there are tracks everywhere amidst the broken stones. But there are no tracks leading away from the storage place. No one heard anything, since it happened during a storm.”

Her mind leapt to several conclusions simultaneously. “If there are no footprints coming or going, it cannot have been a normal beast. Should there be a rebel Maenwaith somewhere who can take the form of an oliphaunt? This would be new in the history of our people and indeed a danger to our plans!”

[Mithadan]

A tale? Mithadan thought quickly about the many voyages of the Lonely Star and decided to tell an amended version of its greatest voyage. But first... "I will gladly tell a tale," he said in Quenya. His words were greeted with blank stares or looks of confusion. He laughed and shook his head in mock apology. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sometimes I forget what land I am in when I speak." He turned to Airefalas and spoke quickly in the High Elven tongue again, with a laugh and a smile. "Watch your words with the young one. He entered the dinner yesterday with the Lord's entourage." Airefalas laughed in turn and nodded.

"Yes," continued Mithadan in the common tongue. "I will tell a tale of my ship. The Lonely Star is a fine vessel, quick and agile. I do not know if she can outrun a corsair for she has never been in such a race, and hopefully never will now that our peoples are friends. But she is a worthy vessel.

"Several years ago, the Star was hired for a journey. Not a trading voyage, but rather a mission of mercy. We were asked to search for the relatives of a young woman that had been lost at sea. We sailed far and long, and, at length, found a great island where we thought the lost ones might be. But we could not find them easily. Fortunately, we had one on board who could help. She was a good friend, a friend of my wife and I, and she had some special talents. Have you heard of the Beornings?"

Members of his audience shook their heads, though one or two seemed to recognize the name. "The Beornings are a race of men who dwell in the Vale of the Anduin," he continued. "They dwell far from Gondor, though we sometimes hear news of them. They are shapeshifters!" Korpulfr seemed startled by this, but Mithadan spoke on. "They can take the shape of bears. I tell the truth! Our friend Bird was a fosterling of the Beornings, raised from her infancy by them. But she was not of their race. She could not take the form of a bear, but she was nonetheless a shapechanger. She and my wife Piosenniel were goog friends and had journeyed together for many years. And on this voyage, she was part of our crew. When we encountered the island, she took the form of a jackdaw, a black bird, and she flew out over the island searching for the lost ones. After several days, she returned to the Star and told us that she had found them. But they had not been shipwrecked. Rather, they had been seized by evil men and were being held against their will. So we sailed to a nearby river and anchored there. Then we took up arms and went up the river in boats. Under the cover of night, we crept into the place where they were being held captive and freed them. There was great fight, but we rescued our friend's relatives and made our way back to the Star. We sailed quickly east and evaded any pursuit. The captives were saved thanks to the help of Bird, the shapechanger."

"What happened to Bird then?" asked one of the children. "Is she still part of your crew?"

"No," replied Mithadan sadly. "She went off in search of her kin. She journeyed here, to the southlands, looking for them. We have not heard of her in some time. She is one of the reasons that I traveled here. I hoped to find her, or some news of her. Have you by any chance heard of Bird or her kin?"

[Nerindel]

Kórpulfr

Korpulfr was not the only one to become uncomfortable with the captains chosen tale, several eyes glanced uneasily in his direction at the northern mans mention of shape changers, but all he could do was smile reassuringly and listen as the captain continued his tale. Mithadan’s recount of the Beornings tugged at his curiosity, he had heard tales in his youth concerning distant kin that could take the form of great bears, but until now he had believed them to be only myth, for there was none among their race who could successfully take the bear form. The captains telling of his friend... this bird also intrigued him, she had to be Maenwaith, but how she found herself so far north was a puzzle to him. The storytellers told nothing that he could recall of any of their kind leaving these lands. He then began to wondered if perhaps this bird might not be one of the young taken when the darkness cast it’s long shadow southward, but he soon dismissed this thought when the captain told of the long friendship the Maenwaith had with his wife, which denoted that she was older in years than those dark times.

“What happened to bird then, is she still part of your crew?”

The child’s innocent question pulled him abruptly from his thoughts, he had seen no women on the ship that morning, but he had not been looking for one, let alone one that might have been Maenwaith. The captain shook his head, telling them that she had gone in search of her kin and that he had not heard from her in some time. The man’s sadness seemed genuine enough and Korpulfr found himself wishing he could give him some hope by telling him that he had found her kin. But the memory of man’s foreign tongue, renewed his guarded and suspicious nature, many was the time that he himself had used the tongue of his people to relay thing’s he didn’t want others to hear and he now wondered if the tale was not a trap set to trip them up.

“No I am afraid we have not heard of this extraordinary woman or any of her kin!” He answered shaking his head in feigned sympathy and looking regretfully to the expectant faces of the youngsters.

“But I have to admit it has been a long time since I have heard a tale that has so piqued my curiosity, come I should like to her more of these shape changers and why this friend of yours would think to find her kin in the barren deserts of the southlands. Then perhaps in return I could enquire among the various clans as to weather they have heard of your friend or the kin that she seeks, when next I travel the desert trade routes .” he continued warmly, adding the offer of help in order to gain the mans trust.

Several women then rose and began ushering the children out of the room. “aww we want to hear more about bird!” they chorused, but the women quickly tried to settled them with promises that Korpulfr would retell any new tales another time, the children then looked in his direction for confirmation.

“I promise to tell you all of what I learn,” he laughed. This seemed to satisfy them, for they turned and followed the women from the room. Chattering excitedly to one another about the shape changer who was friends with strangers, something uncommon among their people. Kor was only glad that the children now spoke in their own tongue, so the innocence of their words would not give them away.

“It must have been a great asset to have had someone with such great talents among your crew?” he heard Hasrim ask dryly, his dark eyes studying the captains face with suspicion, but if the captain took note he did not show it. Instead answering simply that his friend had seen them out of many a tight spot and for that, he was truly grateful. Korpulfr raised his hand and a young man approached, Korpulfr lifted his goblet for him to fill then gestured that he should refill those of his guests.

“Now tell me more of this fascinating woman and her kin and I will see what I can do to help.” He smiled warmly, gesturing for Mithadan to continue.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan nodded appreciatively (and took note) at his host's interest in Bird. "She is a bit older than you. Slight of build and a few inches shorter than you. Her skin is dark, olive not swarthy, and her hair is black save for a white streak nearly in the middle. If you come across her or hear of her whereabouts, please get word to me, for we miss her."

Korpulfr nodded thoughtfully, but replied, "She is not familiar to me but I shall ask about. If I hear any news I shall find a way to notify you even if you are in Gondor."

Tinar had listened with interest to Mithadan's story and his description of Bird. Now he leaned forward and asked, "What shapes does she take?"

Mithadan's face remained impassive, but he was surprised at the interest in his long lost friend. All others that he had spoken to, save Rama, had scoffed at the notion that shapechangers even existed. Yet Korpulfr evinced no hint of skepticism and now Tinar, who had entered Falasmir's reception in the company of Umbar's lord and the one named Wyrma, was asking for more detail about her in a serious fashion as if the shapeshifters were a quite typical subject of discussion! Mithadan's natural sense of caution came to the fore and, despite his desire to find Bird, he chose to say less than he might.

"The bird form, the jackdaw that I mentioned, is the only form of hers that I know. Can a shapeshifter take more than one form?"

Tinar opened his mouth to respond, but Korpulfr spoke before the younger one could reply. "We have heard of the shapeshifters," he said with a sharp look at Tinar. "They are but a legend to us. Indeed most do not believe they exist. But we will look out for your friend, legend or no."

Mithadan nodded and changed the subject to the strange color of the sunset that evening. But even as he spoke, he filed away the conversation for later consideration. Clearly, his host knew more than he admitted. His last interjection had been too hurried and fit poorly with the attention these Southrons had paid to his tale. Shapechangers were no strangers to Korpulfr and the people of his house. But now he must take care, for he and Airefalas already had enemies in Umbar and did not need to make more.

The conversation now wandered from subject to subject as after dinner drinks were served. Mithadan excused himself to take a bottle of strong liquor to the guards in the courtyard (who continued to grumble at the poor reception they had received) before returning to the common room. He continued to speak amiably with his hosts about trade prospects and goods, but his mind began to wander a bit as he became concerned about the time. They had been at Korpulfr's home for more than three hours if he was any judge, and his thoughts turned to the Lonely Star which, by now, was quietly preparing to get underway.
As politely as possible, he stood with a wide yawn and said, "Loath am I to depart from such fine hospitality, but this is our second late night in a row and I grow weary. I am sure the drink has a bit to do with it as well." His hosts laughed politely and rose as well. From the corner of his eye, Mithadan saw Airefalas pick up his bag and reach inside to check upon the knives secreted therein.

Korpulfr rose and bowed slightly to his guests before taking Mithadan by the arm. "Come," he said. "We will show you to the door."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil: Arrival on the Outskirts of the Eagle Clan

Those who kept their promise?

Aiwendil peered quizzically over at Rôg and wondered if he had revealed too much about himself through his story. He chose his next words with considerable caution. "The old tales relate that a few of the faithful, those Men whom you call the Dúnedain, heeded the warning signs and fled eastward on tall, strong ships. But even they could not wholly escape the mountain of water. The storms battered their vessels and tossed them here and there, with some folk landing in Lindon and venturing overland to Eriador, while others were blown southward into the Bay of Belfalas and from there sailed north up the Great River towards what became known as the kingdom of Gondor."

The istar glared disdainfully at Rôg and scowled, "Surely you know this! Do they teach children nothing today? For these are common tales, not only preserved in books or in the courts of the great, but recited from memory around campfires or even set to music with timbrels and harps. Or so it was when the world was younger."

Aiwendil wondered how much of the past had slipped away, faded and forgotten, like his own missing knowledge and skills, especially now that so many of the Elves had journeyed towards the West. He suddenly felt a dawning compassion for Rôg and all those left behind with only a few tattered fragments of the story of what had gone before. No wonder Men had such difficulty when they could not even hold on to their memories! Perhaps he was here to remind them of such things. He shuddered uncomfortably at the thought of taking on such a task.....he who had not even be willing to poke his nose out of the woods and who had avoided Men as much as possible.

Uncomfortable with the responsibility that such a burden would carry, and not used to sharing his feelings, Aiwendil snapped out a rebuke in gruff, chiding terms, "How can you know right from wrong when you have forgotten all the tales and the wisdom they contain?"

Perched on Aiwendil's shoulder, Rôg tartly responded, "Perhaps these stories are not so well known as before. But I did hear tales of the star isle, and the Great Eagles, and the bright shining ones, and the other followers of the Lord of the West who could even take on shapes. Yet only a few tales, and these were passed on like precious drops.... " the small bird wistfully added.

"It will have to be enough then," Aiwendil spoke more to himself than to Rôg. "What you took from your youth.... For I have forgotten so much and it seems as though Men have forgotten even more. Still, I have hopes that some knowlege can be relearned." The camel plodded on for several paces before the istar spoke again. " Truthfully, that is the main reason I came on this journey. Umbar and its deserts are ancient places, older even than the haven of Pelargir, and I wondered what goodness and knowledge might still be tucked away in secret spots."

"This place? Goodness?" countered Rôg dryly. "It is said that the only tales preserved in the scrolls of Umbar are penned by those Men who were not overly fond of goodness."

Thoroughly exasperated, the old man wagged a finger just inches from Rôg's beak, "I am not talking about the Black Numenoreans! Have the maenwaith forgotten everything then? Pashh! Your people came here long before the travelers from the star isle, back when the Eagles of the Encircling Mountains mingled with the free folk in their battles against Morgoth. Your fathers and mothers fled to this land hoping to preserve a good and decent way of life. Some of your own people can take on forms of the giant wyrms and eagles. How could they possibly do such a thing unless their kin had once seen the great beasts themselves? Or perhaps, all those skills have been lost too?" Aiwendil abruptly clamped his mouth and refused to say anything more. He recalled certain misty tales of happenings from long ago that were said to have transpired between the maenwaith and the Eagles, stories that Rôg might or might not know, but this was not the time to get into such things.

Silence fell between them, as the camel ploughed patiently onward through the hills of sand. Even after the sun had set, the silver moonlight provided enough illumination that it was possible to keep to the trail, with the stars providing sure guideposts so that they would not lose their way. The pair agreed to continue on for another hour or so until an inviting grove of trees suddenly loomed before them. These sat next to an old watering hole that was half-dried up. Aiwendil started to set up camp, while Rôg flew out to have a look at things to make sure the surrounding area was safe. In a few moments, he returned and quietly announced that he could make out the distant outline of the maenwaith camp just over the next hill, the same one he had visited earlier that week. Aiwendil kept strictly to himself and, spreading out a blanket on the ground, was soon snoring loudly. Relieved to have fulfilled his earlier promise to make sure the old man arrived at this spot, Rôg flew out to have a closer look.