Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen arrived at his Uncle Fador’s tent bearing freshly made bread the baker had immediately sent in care of his son when he first heard that a Gondorian sea captain and his first mate where in the midst of the eagle encampment, Indeed in the tent of his late wife's cousin. And though the old man had neither seen a ship nor set foot in the surf, he had heard of Gondor and seen how, along with the ascendance of this northern King the Haradrim raids had grown infrequent, the Eagles finding a short respite before their troubles began anew. And so lecturing his son on the importance of hospitality and caution, and the advantages of good first impressions, he had carefully wrapped the food, handing Surinen the stack of hot flat bread to be taken quickly before it grew cold, also giving him a bowl containing a sweet custard of streamed new milk, as a treat for the new comers. Then shooing the wiry outrider off with a wave of his hands, he had settled down beside the remains of his fire to enjoy peace as curiosity kept the women from gossiping around the bakers tent, as was usual this time of day.

But Surinen, his stomach pulling at itself at the tempting smell that emanated from this packet, rushed to the center of the camp, his fingers burning from the hot oil that soaked through the cloth as he made his way through the curious children and elders gathering about Fador’s tent. Having just returned from helping transport much needed water into the camp, he had not yet eaten and just as he had hoped to sit in the shade of his father’s tent and eat his meager portion, Dinsûl had sent him on this awkward errand. But he knew his father to be right in doing this, and despite his protests, Surinen was quietly pleased with Dinsûl’s kind ways, though not so sure about the beneficiaries of his good will. Still he wondered what could possess Ráma to bring such people here, and he hoped that she might guide them away again before the camp was moved. If she only knew of the troubles the last few days had brought upon her people, surely she would never have led the strangers here with the seriousness of her mother’s illness.

More than just hungry as he approached his cousin sitting outside her father’s tent, Surinen was feeling ill tempered and wished to find Narayad. For after the missing incense pot was found to have fallen out of his pack, indeed, it having been tampered with as well, his fellow outrider had been quickly replaced in his duties, and now wandered though camp awaiting the decision of the elders on what was to be done with him. For though he was still treated kindly, Narayad had mentioned he could feel their eyes upon him. And even Latah had been gently informed that now Ayar was no longer in her own tent, she would not be needed to assist the leader until such time when a new tent could be raised for her. These things Narayad, in his frustration had confided to Surinen, brooding in his inactivity. And Surinen turned to pondering how he might be able to help his friend.

As he walked past the guards posted outside the door, Latah smiled at at her cousin warmly from her position outside the tent and opened a beaten brass container for him to place the bread in before setting it on the ground with top ajar, taking the bowl also. “Thank you cousin,” she said, lifting the cloth from over top of the bowl. “What is this? You would honor our guests with first milk?”

“A goat gave birth today, and Dinsûl would have me bring it to them. But where Ráma, that I may welcome her home?” Surinen asked.

“She left in a great hurry,” Latah said. “Even I have not even been able to greet her.”

“And Narayad?”

Latah’s smile faded. “I do not know where he is, and he is growing more troubled each day. Suri, I am afraid it is too much for him to bear, waiting for this judgment upon him. The elders and Ayar have all had too much to occupy their thoughts”, she said nodding over her shoulder at the elders and the tent behind her. "Yet we are to be patient, and trust their wisdom.”

The sorrow in her voice drove home to his heart, so that feeling uncomfortable he wished to change the subject. “Then since your husband is not here, perhaps there is food to spare for a poor relative,” he said hopefully. And seeing that she hesitated, explaining that she had not expected so much company, he continued in a loud whisper, “Surely you are not planning to poison these strangers, cousin!” To which Latah, pulling the cloth from off her shoulder beat him with it before using it to open the lid of her steaming vessel.

“It is not done yet cousin,” she said with the most sinister look she could muster. “But when the poison has reached it’s fullness, be sure I will give you the first bowl!”

Surinen laughed to see her spirit. "And I will finish every drop, dear cousin." Then walking further around the tent he quite comfortably assumed the shape of a dog, more or less ignoring the upheaval about him. There would plenty of people about to keep a look out for mischief.

Digging a cool niche in the ground before he circled down to wait for either his food or his friend to arrive, he rested his chin on the ground watching his kinsmen as they came and went, having half a mind to eavesdrop on the muffled conversation he heard inside the tent. But as he tried to distinguish among the voices, a shadow passed across his muzzle.

Lifting his gaze to the sky, he saw a large eagle circling overhead, as if something in the camp was of interest to it. In panic he thought of young Miri, and when the bird dropped swiftly behind Fador’s tent, Surinen sprung to his feet slipping behind it. Greatly relieved to find that the eagle had not sighted prey, but stood looking briefly disoriented in the maze of tents, the dog noted the intruder’s unfamiliar scent, and wondered if it was truly a bird at all or perhaps Rôg, but there was no sign of his escort. And to Surinen's alarm the bird started moving toward Fador’s tent.

With a deep growl growing in the back of his throat, Surinen’s hackles rose. “Who are you?” he questioned stepping forward slowly with his lips curled tightly back. “I do not recognize your markings.”

The creature froze, and Surinen felt thankful that he might not have to feel the clutch of those cruel talons. “Friend, I am a friend. I travel with Ráma and her Northern companions,” the bird finally spoke with a wavering voice. Spoke in Surinen’s own tongue, declaring her name to be Sorona, and her desire to speak with the leader and the clan’s elders.

What has Ráma done! Surinen thought. And who else will show up on our doorstep!

Suddenly he heard someone exclaim “Radagast” from the other side of the tent followed quickly by the sound of unsheathing swords, and saw out of the corner of his eye Rôg running toward the tent followed closely by his escort. Worried for Latah’s safety and not wishing to lose track of this newest discovery, Surinen began to bark for all he was worth. Is seemed the most natural thing to do at the time, but Sorona jumped back several steps flapping her wings, and in his confusion the sudden urge to catch this creature overpowered Surinen’s good sense. Running at her, the mottled dog gently but firmly grabbed her leg in his mouth and lay down with closed eyes, awaiting the piecing blow from her free leg, but determined to keep her from flying away, muttering from his full mouth, “I'm sorry, but don’t go. Not yet, don’t leave,” as he thought painfully about his father’s lecture on first impressions.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil glanced briefly at the stranger and then over at Rôg with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to indicate he had no idea who this fellow was but he seemed perfectly harmless. He was still remembering his recent conversation with Ayar and feeling correspondingly peevish. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn't heard anything from the stranger and continue trudging on. The woman was clearly failing; only her unwavering will had kept her alive this long. Once Ráma returned and Ayar had a chance to speak with her daughter, she would surely depart Arda. And, to be truthful, he would miss her.

Pulling back from these gloomy thoughts, he focused on the problem at hand by looking the stranger up and down, but still could not remember who he was. It had been some time since anyone had addressed him as "Radagast". After the war had ended and Olorin had given him the grim news that he would not be returning on Cirdan's ship, he had determined never to use that name again. Stubbornly clinging to whatever cloudy vestiges of the West he could dredge up from the back of his mind, he had sternly pronounced that his name was, and had always been Aiwendil, and none should call him otherwise.

"Perhaps you are mistaken, friend, for I have no memory of you, although once I did go by the name of Radagast. But it has been countless years since I journeyed through the vale of Anduin...... More years than you have walked on this earth, I believe."

The old man hobbled over to Rôg, leaning against his comrade's shoulder as the two turned about and began trekking towards the tent. But before Aiwendil had gone more than half a dozen paces, he suddenly halted and stared back at the stranger, " I do remember you. How could I forget? You and the Star....and your wife Piosenniel. In fact, I saw your wife in Minas Tirith just before I left the city. She mentioned that the Star had sailed to Umbar. But I have not seen you in endless years. And to be truthful, seeing you here is not exactly what I would deem a good omen."

The istar turned towards Rôg with only the slightest hint of a smile, "This gentleman and his wife are people of honor, but wherever they go, trouble follows. Once I was called down to the Anduin where they had sailed in with several shiploads of friends, whom I was persuaded into helping. For almost fifty years, I had a running argument with one of these, a particularly clever and persistent woman named Cami who was continually beseeching me for one thing or another in her efforts to provide for her people. Since her kin made their home along the western borders of what was later called Mirkwood, it was difficult to avoid them."

In truth, these early days in Middle-earth and the Hobbits who had lived there were among Aiwendil's best memories. But once Cami had moved on, he had lost all touch with her people, and had not spoken with any of them in the succeeding years, despite the role they had later played in the wars.

"I shall be all right, Rôg," he reassured his friend. "Give me just a moment to catch up on some old news, and I'll be along."

Once Rôg had retreated, he approached the stranger and spoke, "Mithadan? That is your name? How do you come to be in the middle of this desert? Your wife mentioned you had travelled to Umbar to represent Gondor's trading interests. But Umbar is a long way from the Eagle encampment."

"And may I offer a little advice? For the sake of your lovely wife, you may wish to consider returning to the Star and sailing homeward. The head of the Eagle clan lies close to death. There are persistent rumors throughout the camp that her injury was no accident but the result of foul play, a poison somehow injected into her body. As soon as the Elders discover who is to blame, they will demand that someone pay." He sighed and repeated the exact words that Ayar had spoken to him to emphasize how bady Ráma would need his help. "I fear that you and your friend have come upon a boiling cauldron that is about to explode."

[Mithadan]

With an open palm, Mithadan gently moved the sword of his young guard away from his ribs, where it had sliced a neat line across his shirt. With a nod to the other guard who stood poised to put his blade in use, Mithadan took a half step back, even as he digested the words of the Istar. He took note of the weariness that caused Radagast's face to be even more drawn than he remembered it, then responded to the warning.

"I beg your pardon...Aiwendil," he began. "But I fear that as regards my friend and myself the cauldron has already boiled over. As for trouble following me, this time it appears that I have well nigh tripped over it. The Lonely Star is long gone now and, with any luck, though I've had little enough recently, she is now nearing Minas Anor. It seems that we have fallen into a web of intrigue, though we have, for now, avoided the spider."

He quickly told the tale of how he and Airefalas had come to Umbar, the dissemblings of Falasmir, his meetings with Rama and their escape from the burning city. However, he excluded mention of Korpulfr and Tinar, judging that, from Rama's discussion with Sorona, his questions regarding these people should wait for another time. Even as he spoke, several of the Shapeshifters gathered round to see what the trouble was.

"You burned Falasmir's corsairs?" exclaimed one of the guards, with a laugh. Several of the onlookers smiled and clapped at this news. Airefalas, noting that the guards had lowered their weapons, emerged from the tent as well. "Why is it that the news of our little bonfire always seems to cause such happiness?" he asked with a wry grin. Then he gestured to the old man. "Friend of yours, Mithadan?"

"I've not seen him in an age and more," Mithadan answered with a chuckle. "But yes. This is...Aiwendil. You recall Mithrandir, Airefalas? Aiwendil is..."

"Very weary," interjected Radagast loudly. "And perhaps we should speak further later...in private. It seems that you and your friend are not going anywhere in the near future. Perhaps you are meant to be here. I do not know. But I must rest now. We will speak later, over dinner perhaps?" With that, Radagast, or Aiwendil as he was now known, turned and walked quickly away...

[Nerindel]

Sorona

For an uncomfortable moment that seemed like an eternity to Sorona the two creatures simply looked at each other. She waited nervously for the Maenwaith to make up his mind about her, but before the dog could make his decision, a cry rose up within the camp.

“Radagast!” Sorona instinctively turned her head recognising the Adunaic name of an old man to whom she owed her life, But as her eyes searched for the recipient of the name the dog before her suddenly began barking loudly. Startled she jumped back, flapping her wings in panic, Gripped with terror she instinctively turned to escape the dog’s threatening presence, but the dog rushed at her, grabbing one of her legs in its strong powerful looking jaws. She closed her eyes fearfully losing her balance and falling beak first to the sandy ground. Her heart drummed furiously as she slowly opened her eyes realising that her canine captor held her leg gently in its great maw, wishing only to restrain her, not to harm her.

“I’m sorry, but don’t go. Not yet, don’t leave,” the Maenwaith, muttered though a mouthful of her leg. Her heart still pounding with fear she slowly nodded her golden head.

“I will let you go now, but please don’t fly away,” the dog continued hesitantly.

“You have my word,” Sorona returned nervously, not knowing if her word would mean anything to these people, her people she reminded herself sadly. Were things that bad that they even treated their own kind with suspicion and distrust, yes Rama had warned her that this was so, but to actually witness it was more disheartening that she could have ever imagined. She wished Rama was here at least then she could convince her captor that she was no threat to him or his clan. It seemed though that her word was enough, the dog slowly released its gentle grip and as she shook the sand from her feathers, he stepped back and took the form of a slight, wiry young man. His dark eyes regarded her expectantly for a moment, as if he was waiting for her to do something. His gaze then turned to a bemused frown the same look she had seen several times on Rama’s face when they had spoken together, only this young man made no move to hide his confusion as he stared at her intently. Suspicion again beginning to show on his warmly toned face. Then it dawned on her, he was waiting for her to take on a mannish form.

“Of course, it must be customary to address each other in their mannish form,” she muttered to herself the words coming out in the more comfortable tongue of the eagles. She was suddenly aware how rude she must have seemed to the young Mainwaith woman and now to this young man. Her shoulders slumped but she raised her head so her gold-flecked eyes met his.

“It is your custom to address each other in this form?” she sighed, indicating his new form. The young man nodded his head confused further by this question. Still struggling with a language that she had not used in 18 years, she continued,

“This form is all I have known for many years,” The young mans eyes widened in surprise,

“But why would…,” he begun, but Sorona gently cut him off raising a wing and shaking her head.

“Part from necessity, part out of fear,” was the only answer she would give, to speak more was yet too painful and the memories too broken to make any real sense.

“Regardless to say that any other forms that I may have once taken are now nothing but distant memories. I have tried to recall the image of the woman I once was, but so far to no avail.” She did not convey to him the pain and regret that came with trying to recall the images of her former self. Nor of the doubt that she had that, she would ever be able to take the mannish form of her past.

“It is not my intention to be rude and I know that I am the intruder here, but I must ask you to have patience with this old bird, I give you my word that I will not leave unless I am asked to do so,” she paused for a moment considering weather or not to say more,

“I believe that ….” she hesitated, still unsure of exactly what she believed, or if she should burden this complete stranger with the portent of an impeding danger, that she still wasn’t sure was real or not!
“I have been away to long,” she sighed, deciding to keep the contents of her dreams for the chosen wise ones of the clan. The young man looked anxiously between her and the commotion still ensuing outside the Gondorians tent.

“I too should like to find out what is going on,” she offered cautiously. The young man paused for a moment then nodded curtly, keeping close to her as they started forward. “My name is Surinen,“ the young man informed her as they gently pushed through the gathering crowd, many of the Maenwaith stopping to stare at the eagle walking by the outrider’s side, but she paid them no heed intent on the two men at the centre of the disturbance.

“Thorondil,” she whispered recognising the old man. The Captain was relaying his escape from the city of the Corsairs and Sorona found herself thankful that he had not mentioned the little raven or his household. she already knew that she would have to eventually asked the captain what he knew about them, but it could wait she would speak with the Istar, seeking his counsel if he would give it. But not here or now with so many people about and she could not be certain that the Istar would even remember her. Instead as the old man turned wearily to leave, she stayed with her escort as she had promised.

“Who leads the clan?” she asked realising that she did not even know the name of the person to whom she would relay her dark warning.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

By the time they reached the other side of the tent, they were met by a tangible display of the tension that pervaded the camp. The guards had in fact, drawn their swords and the sea captain was stepping backward obligingly, thus removing his person from the proximity of the steel blades aimed at him, his shirt now rent at the chest. Other than that minor casualty, no harm seemed to have come to anyone. And looking for Latah, the outrider found that she was safe, indeed he noticed her staring fixedly at the tear in the visitor’s garments, and felt sure that his diligent cousin was already trying to figure out how to go about mending it, when she hadn’t the words to ask outright if she might do so.

‘Thorondil,’ a voice said softly, half obscured by the murmuring of the crowd. As he heard the whisper beside him, Surinen attention shifted and he looked at the eagle questioningly, trying to glean from those sharp eyes who this Thorondil might be. Had yet another arrived unbeknownst to him? For of the guests, all save one were now standing outside the opening to Fador’s tent, none of them having given this name. But turning back again to follow her gaze he saw the tense expressions of his kinsmen quickly melt into grins as the guest told of how he and his companion had lately outwitted Lord Falasmir. Laughter erupted sporadically as the story was translated and spread throughout the crowd, the Eagles clapping to hear how their guest’s cunning had resulted in the potentate’s great humiliation. And so temporarily reassured by the mutual distrust of this miserable Lord of the coast, the guards lowered their blades, and Surinen, beaming at the news, was no longer thinking of the curious name of Thorondil, but rather of how fitting it was that the corsairs, the pride of the one who thought to harbor the leader of the Dragons, had gone up in flames.

But Surinen could see that Sorona had not followed the tale, seemingly deep in her own thoughts, and though he longed too, he did not question her, but rather watched disinterestedly as the other Gondorian appeared at his captain’s side and Aiwendil and Rôg departed. his mind was full of burgeoning questions about the maenwaith beside him. “Who leads the clan?” Sorona asked in her strangely unaccustomed way, as if her mouth had forgotten how to form the subtle sounds. This eagle, he reminded himself, had been just that, an eagle, for many years. And so the stories of the elder’s must be true, one could loose the ability to assume one’s native shape. But having the high form of his clan and speaking the Eagle’s dialect, the outrider wondered if she were of his blood somehow, belonging to this very encampment and it’s people. But after Rôg’s appearance, the outrider did not wish to make any assumptions in this regard, though he did feel more kindly disposed toward her as a result. And though many were the glances cast her way by the clansman, they were mainly curious, as if they could not place her.

“Who leads our clan?” Surinen repeated. “Hasn’t Ráma told you? It is her mother, Ayar, who we follow. Though you have come at a bad time to meet her. She is very ill, and has taken to her bed many days ago.” A quick flash of light seen from out of the corner of his eye, told him that the guards had once again raised their swords menacingly, the men from the north retiring once again to the interior of the tent. “That is one reason why my people are angry and in no mood for strangers,” he added with a sigh. “It is thought that someone has purposefully brought this deadly harm upon the Meldakhar.”

Shaking her head, Sorona looked at him and shifted her wings, folding them tightly against her sides. “Will she be alright?” she asked fixing him her wide-eyed stare. Surinen dropped his gaze to the ground sadly. “Do you know who would do this?” she queried, replacing her question when she saw the distress it had caused.

“It is rumored that some among us know,” he admitted. “The Meldakhar is a very wise woman, Sorona, with few enemies. But there are some who do not think her wise, and one to whom Ayar’s strength is a trial. And though I do not know, I think it is this one who has brought of our great sadness.”

“But who is that, and to what purpose would this be done?”

“Perhaps it would be better if you saved that question for Ráma, for I know too little and talk too much. And have only been given dreams that I don’t understand,” he said attempting to smile, but his heart felt heavy and began to look around uncomfortably to see where Latah might have gone.

[Ealasaide]

"I have not seen him in an age and more," Mithadan answered Airefalas' question with a chuckle. "But yes. This is... Aiwendil. You recall Mithrandir, Airefalas? Aiwendil is..."

Airefalas raised an eyebrow as the old man cut Mithadan off rather loudly and put an abrupt end to what Airefalas had thought so far to be a rather friendly conversation. He watched as Radagast-Aiwendil, whatever his name was, suggested to Mithadan that they continue their conversation later in private and walked away.

"Hmm. More secrets," he thought to himself, but said nothing as the old man and his younger friend disappeared among the tents of the encampment. While Airefalas had never met Mithrandir, the name was quite familiar to him, as it was to all people of Minas Tirith. Airefalas had only been a boy of ten or eleven at the time of the war, already a midshipman on the Bluefin and caught up in the perilous business of wartime shipping, dodging corsairs, and fighting Sauron's minions on the water whenever they were unable to evade them, but he knew very well what role Mithrandir had played in determining the fate of Gondor, and, indeed, all of Middle Earth. Mithrandir had been one of the istar. Did Mithadan mean to imply that this old fellow was an istar as well? He looked again in the direction in which the old man had gone.

"No, I guess we won't be going anywhere anytime soon," he added aloud as one of the guards again raised his sword, implying that the Gondorians were not to consider following the other two visitors. Turning, he went back inside the tent, where he was soon joined by Mithadan. He gestured to the fresh slice in Mithadan's shirt.

"Well, now we've each had a shirt destroyed courtesy of our new friends," he said casually, more for the benefit of the listening guards than from an abiding interest in his and Mithadan's laundry situation. Even so, he still regretted the loss of the shirt Ráma had shredded with her claws when she had turned into the cat back in Umbar. "I don't know about you, but I've only got one shirt left after this one. If they keep it up, in a matter of days, we'll both be running about half-naked."

Mithadan laughed. "Frankly, I think we've got bigger problems than ripped shirts. It seems we've stepped out of the frying pan right into the boiling cauldron."

Airefalas nodded ruefully. "It does look that way. I've never been guarded so much for my own protection in all my life." He walked over to the table where the food had been laid out and, closing his hand around the hilt of Ráma's dagger, wrenched it free of the both the table and the wooden plate. The cheese that the knife had pinned to the plate, however, came with it. The guards, seeing him reach for the cheese, apparently decided that their charges were settling back into the food and idle talk of confinement and retreated outside. Airefalas turned and waved the knife, cheese and all, thoughtfully at Mithadan.

"That old fellow just now," he said in Quenyan. "Were you about to say he is an istar? Like Mithrandir?"

Mithadan nodded. "Yes," he answered, speaking in Quenyan as well. "I can't imagine what he's doing here, but it's a tremendous stroke of luck that he should turn up."

"Hmm." Still carrying both Ráma's knife and the cheese, Airefalas went to stand near the open tent flap. "That's good, his being a friend of yours and all, but I don't much like the sound of what he had to say about the poisoning and how they will be looking for someone to blame."

"Neither do I," rejoined Mithadan. "It seems we have arrived at a very bad time. I'm hoping that Rad-, er, Aiwendil will be able to tell us more of what is happening at dinner."

"Do you suppose he knows anything about all of this other business that Ráma spoke of?"

"You mean the maenwaith city that Wyrma intends to build? I don't know."

"Actually, I was thinking more of the threat to Gondor." Airefalas stepped out of the way as a young maenwaith woman entered the tent carrying a bowl covered with a damp cloth. He watched idly as she placed the bowl on the table and set about tidying up. Like many of the tribal women they had seen around the camp, she was very pretty, small and slight, with thick, black hair that tumbled down her back in a cascade of loose waves. Her movements were quick and graceful as she went about her work, reminding Airefalas of the silvery snail darters he was used to seeing in the shallows of the river deltas. Realizing that he was mentally likening this lovely young woman to a fish, Airefalas colored slightly and looked away.

"Ehm..." he stammered, returning his attention to Mithadan. "Do you think it's possible that Minas Tirith could really be attacked by dragons?"

Before Mithadan had a chance to respond, the young woman, having caught sight of the knife and cheese in Airefalas' hand, approached him and, with a polite movement that was something between curtsy and a bow, pointed to the cheese. Not knowing what else to do, Airefalas handed it to her, knife and all. She carried both items over to the table and set them down, extracting the knife from the cheese wheel with a decisive movement. Then, she took a long look at the knife and turned around, holding it up for Airefalas to see, saying something about Ráma in her tribal dialect.

To Airefalas, it sounded like, yatta-yatta-yatta Ráma yatta? Guessing at what she was saying, he shook his head, answering her in Westron. "No, that belongs to Ráma. Not mine."

Not understanding, the girl gave him a lengthy stare with her very dark eyes, then tucked the knife into her belt. Turning back to the table, she said something else about Ráma in her tribal tongue. Then she picked up a fresh knife and cut a few slices of cheese from the wheel that Airefalas had been holding and handed them to him. He took them and thanked her, but as soon as her back was turned, he shot Mithadan a puzzled look.

“I guess she thought you wanted some cheese,” suggested Mithadan, falling back into Westron.

“I guess so,” answered Airefalas, giving the cheese in his hand a second glance. He really didn’t want it, but now felt duty-bound to eat at least part of it. “But back to the dragons. You know more about these people than I do. Do you think that this Wyrma can really transform herself into a dragon? And, if she can, do you think she can marshal the kind of power she would need to actually threaten Minas Tirith?”

Mithadan's Post:

A memory arose in Mithadan's mind at Airefalas' words. It was a scene which had haunted his dreams for years. He was trugding wearily along a road which ran towards mountains that soared up before him. The smell of smoke and sulphurous odors polluted the air. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a great city. Its walls and towers had been made of white stone, but now they were blackened and burning. Dark forms writhed before the walls in a ghastly dance as smoke and steam poured from the ruined city. He shuddered and turned away, following a line of Elves along the road.

A winged presence appeared from the sky, so far away and dark that at first he thought it was Thorondor, come to guard the retreat. It could not be Angara, because even at such a distance her skin would have caught the rays of the rising sun. As the figure drew closer, Mithadan quailed, turning frantically to call a warning down the mountain to the retreating Elves. "But the books say there were no flying dragons," he thought wildly, "not yet."

And yet, there it was, black and silver, flying with a fixed focus straight towards the descendant of Eärendil. But even as he watched the figure shrank and dwindled, until all that was left was a small black and white jackdaw, and even this disappeared as it landed at his feet, leaving just a small woman crumbled on the stones, crying at his feet.

And so this is how Angara, the golden dragon, found them. Two lonely figures huddled together on the mountain. Mithadan looked up into the glowing eyes of the dragon, who asked, quietly as Death, "I cannot hear Piosenniel. Where is she?"

"Dead..." whispered Mithadan. Then he shook his head and smiled grimly at Airefalas' confused expression. Yet he could still hear the rushing wings of the black and silver dragon in his mind. "I'm sorry," he said to his friend. "My thoughts were heavy for a moment." He straightened his back before continuing. "Yes, I am afraid that I do not doubt Wyrma's ability to take the form of a dragon. And yes, she would be a very great threat to Minas Anor. For this reason alone, even if there were no other reasons, we should lend our aid to Rama's people, little though our help may be...."

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg withdrew a short distance from where Aiwendil had paused to speak with the man. He kept his eye on the fellow, looking for any display of hostility toward his companion. But the old man seemed comfortable enough with the one he had named Mithadan, and Rôg fell to thinking where he had heard the name before.

The ship! That was it – the one that Aiwendil had wanted to hire to bring them south . . . the one that was unavailable . . . so the Elf had said. Ah, yes – the Elf. Piosenniel, as Aiwendil had just said. Rôg recalled his glimpse of her in the Inn in Minas Tirith. Menacing, for all her fair appearance, he thought, as she faced off with that Beorning. Rôg shivered at the old fellow’s assessment of the couple. . . . people of honor, but wherever they go, trouble follows . . .

The conversation between Aiwendil and Mithadan was brief, and near the end, Rôg moved closer to the pair to offer his arm to the old man. Aiwendil looked tired, both in body and spirit. Rôg heard his companion say that he would see Mithadan later over dinner and he caught his warning to the man that the captain and his first mate had come into a dangerous situation, a ‘boiling cauldron set to explode', as he termed it. For a moment, as they stepped away from the man’s tent, Rôg thought of asking Aiwendil to come away with him, leaving these problems behind.

But then he recalled his little promise to Miri. Besides her pleasure at having learned another shape, she had referenced briefly in the conversation her family’s and her own fear of what was happening. The clan leader very ill; the threat of those of the maenwaith who sought to impose their ways on the Eagle clan; the unspoken fear she had picked up from her parents’ hushed conversations that something very, very bad might happen if they weren’t careful. It troubled him greatly that his little friend should have to bear a burden such as this. But he remained unclear about what help he could or should offer . . .

Aiwendil muttered peevishly under his breath as they walked away from Mithadan’s tent, Rôg’s escort dutifully trailing behind. Rôg leaned toward his companion and spoke low so that his words remained private between them. ‘Is there something I might help you with?' he asked. 'Something that troubles you?' Receiving no reply, save a long, weary sigh, the younger man went on. 'I know you have been visiting with the clan leader these past days, Aiwendil . . . and I am wondering, what does she say of this threat to her clan? And the Elders, why do they not come in to assist their people? For the life of me, I cannot fathom this.’

Aiwendil halted and stepped back to peer into the young man’s face. From his tired visage, the old man’s crystal blue eyes flashed in a measured and considering manner. Rôg, supposing his companion’s look might mean he would choose not to answer fully, touched Aiwendil lightly on his forearm.

‘I spoke with Narika and Thorn, as you know. Soon, I need to visit my own clan; there are things my clan leader asked me to do and I need to let him know what I have found and done. You are welcome to stay here with the Eagles, Narika and Thorn have said so to me, until I return.’ He paused for a moment, looking thoughtfully at Aiwendil. The old fellow was a difficult one to gauge when he fell deep into himself, as he seemed to have now. ‘I have some decisions to make,’ he went on, ‘and questions to ask of my own Elders before I return.’ He paused once again. ‘But I need to have some information with which to frame my questions . . .’