Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

The tent was empty except for Ayar and her serving maid Claris, the latter a grey-haired woman who had been serving Ráma's family since the twins were born and whom Narika had instructed to watch over her mother while she and Thorn rode south. Grey shadows played along the canvas walls, the light kept at bay by heavy leather flaps intentionally strapped tight over window openings, since Ayar's eyes could no longer bear the sharp rays of the sun.

The young woman standing at the entrance could just make out her mother's gaunt figure tangled in the bedcovers. Ráma could also see that her mother was sleeping: a sleep that seemed eerily deathlike in the depth of weariness and pallor that had fallen over Ayar's face. The vibrant and animated woman Ráma had known was gone. In her place was someone who looked like a stranger.

Ráma walked forward, sinking to her knees and burying her head in the bedclothes. Her initial reaction was to wonder whether this could really be happening, or if she had fallen into a troubled dream and would awake in the morning with everything all right. The others in camp had been afraid to disclose her mother's illness. They had wanted to wait for her sister to come, hoping that Narika would find the right words. Ráma's earlier anger and frustration dissolved, replaced by loneliness and a trace of fear. Her mother was the one fixed point in her life, the person she could always rely on. Only now her mother was leaving. She could not have put her feelings into words, but she felt as if years had been stripped away and she was once again a small child hoping and believing that her mother could somehow make things right.

Claris leaned over and placed a kiss on the young woman's brow, whispering a brief explanation of what had happened in recent days and then adding, "Ráma, I'm so glad you're here. We all feared you would arrive too late."

The young woman looked up through tear-stained eyes and replied, "I would have come faster if I had known."

"But there was no way to warn you with the storm. And Thorn said he'd left a message for you to return at once."

Ráma nodded glumly in acknowledgment, part of her wishing that she had never met Mithadan and Airefalas, and wondering whether things would have turned out differently if she'd returned before the unknown assailant had struck. But she knew her mother would have insisted otherwise. A word once given is not withdrawn. And she had promised the Gondorians that she would help them find their missing friend.

"Was she so ill from the beginning?" Ráma pressed.

"Even worse. At first we could not rouse her. But the stranger Aiwendil arrived and was able to help. She has remained alert for several days. This morning, she seemed no different and said goodbye to Narika and Thorn before they rode south to inspect the herds. But since then, she has worsened. And even Aiwendil's potions do little to help. I did not know what to do. It is beyond my skill."

"I do not know either. I am no healer. But you must have a messenger fly to my sister and ask her to return. Reassure her that Ayar lives but that she must hurry back. Also run to see if Yalisha is in camp and can come to help."

Claris slipped out as Ráma had bidden. At the same time, Ráma noticed that Miri was curled up in a small ball not far from the door, too nervous to draw attention to herself by leaving yet uncertain if she should come inside. Ráma beckoned the girl over and asked her to refill the water jug and then come back. As the child disappeared out the door, Ráma heard a rustling in the covers beside her. Ayar stirred, opened her eyes, and gazed up with a glint of a smile. Using all the strength she could muster, the older woman leaned close and spoke to her daughter, "I was afraid you would not come. I could not leave without saying goodbye."

"Hush, mother. You mustn't say such things. You will get well soon."

"No, child. There should be truth between us. Soon I will leave behind this poor shell and fly free across the stars. Do not pity me. It is you and your sister who must stay and face the problems here. There are things I must say to you and, if I can, also to your sister. But if time will not allow, you must pass on my words to Narika and the Elders. Promise me, little one."

Ráma reached out to squeeze Ayar's hand and indicate her agreement, "Yes. I'll listen carefully and do whatever I can....."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn and Narayad

Thorn had been pleased to find that the herds were in good order and that nearly all had made the trip with without incident, with only one lost along the way. The animals were hungry though, and were busily intent upon filling their stomachs, forcing Narika and him to ride in separate directions to inspect the far ranging flocks. Fingering the bangle still resting in his pocket as he stood at the northern fringe, Thorn thought of how he no longer needed to give Narika such tokens of remembrance, but would soon be presenting her with the ordinate jewelry of a married woman to be her insurance should he die, as tradition dictated. The gold of his grandmother long since having been melted down and cast into new pieces in anticipation of this union, laying in the care of his mother for many years, while he had been in Umbar. But he regretted the timing of it, thinking he had waited over long. He had always thought of Narika with a joyous heart and had imagined that this ceremony would echo that contentment, but now it seemed destined to be overshadowed, veiled in sadness. Still he would do what he could to ease Ayar’s mind, and sought to support Narika. If only Ráma would arrive quickly enough.

“A rider, a rider!” one of the herdsman announced pointing to the horizon. The sharp-eyed youth had spotted a small cloud of dust far to the north, rapidly approaching. Thorn and the others readied their weapons, unsure of who this might be, perhaps a Haradrim outrider had also discovered this water. But after a few moments the youth shouted out to Thorn once more, “It is Narayad, on the piebald stallion!”

Riding out to meet him, Thorn asked why he had come, was there news in the encampment? But Narayad had left at daybreak and did not yet know of Ráma’s return or of the people she had brought with her. “No, he said. All is as you left it. I did not wish to alarm you, but have only come to help.”

“What of helping in the encampment? I would feel more confident knowing that you were there,” Thorn said.

“Ah, then you would be the only one!” Narayad said bitterly. “Since the incense pot was found, both Latah and I have been relieved of all responsibilities. I can understand the suspicion of me, though it is unwarranted, but why should Latah be punished? She has only tirelessly served, and all can see that there is not a speck guile in her.”

“It is only a precaution I am sure, Narayad. Do not take it ill. I know, as does Fador that neither you nor Latah would do anything to hurt the clan. And if others do not understand this, it is only because they have become skeptical of things outside of our community, and have not fully come to accept you as part of our clan.”

“I do not know what else I can do to prove to them that my heart is with them, and not anywhere else,” Narayad said dejectedly. “Thorn, what more I can do to convince them!”

Thorn felt the glass bangle once again in his pocket, and after a moment said slowly, “There is something that would be a great help to us, and would gain the confidence of the elders, when in time they found out.” Thorn paused weighing his words, “Narayad, how would you feel about living in Umbar for a time?”

“Umbar! I should not like it, but if you ask it of me I will go. But what of Latah?”

“Once, I know that you are settled in the city I will send her to you, if she agrees to it,” Thorn promised, “and that only if you advise me to, for it will be your duty to keep us informed of the climate there, and to keep your eyes and ears open.” Going on to explain the true work of an Eagle in Lord Falasmir’s employ, and of his promise to learn of the fictitious horse before returning to his position in the stables, Thorn asked if the outrider were still willing, and Narayad agreed to carry on in his stead if the position was still open, but voiced his concern that he did not know any languages other than the language of the caravans, and a handful of the maenwaith dialects. “I will try to teach you, and will ask Surinen also, for though the language of caravans will get you by in the city, you should also learn others for this work. But you must not tell anyone of your purpose, and if asked, say only that you are going back to your people, for what ever reason you choose.”

“I will do this, to help you and the Eagles, Thorn. But do not forget me once I am gone. And I will go in the hope that I might be called back soon, to live once again in the desert, with the Eagles.”

Thorn pulled the blue glass bangle from his pocket, and showing it to Narayad said, “ I had intended to give this to Narika before returning to the city, but now I think perhaps you might give it to Latah to wear until you are reunited. Here take it.”

Narayad took the bracelet and looked briefly at it sparkling in the sun before thanking him and slipping it among the folds of his dust cloak.

[piosenniel]

Aiwendil

Aiwendil was in a peevish mood. Blast this ill-starred sojourn here! His mind wandered back to the Lady’s gardens . . . sometimes the colors and scents came through clearly from that time. But this time no comfort was to be found. Only the sandy dust of the camp clogging his nostrils and the tiredness of this old body as he leaned on Rôg’s arm. ‘And what Fates have sought to throw Mithadan in my path?’ he thought to himself. The man had almost let the cat out of the bag as to his real identity.

Lost in his grumblings, he almost missed the whispered questions from his companion. He held back the waspish answer that sought to tumble from his tongue – If you hadn’t been thrown in my path, young man, I would never have come here; never made some other promise I didn’t mean to and probably will fail in as well . . . He sighed, instead, a long sound that came from the depths of him. Rôg’s eyes were on him, anxious to be of help. But Aiwendil could think of nothing to say.

Never at a loss for words, Rôg pushed on . . . He is as chattery as some of the birds he turns into! Aiwendil thought. But then his companion’s words penetrated his low mood, startling him that Rôg would ask such questions . . . that he would care to ask about such things. And not only were there questions but the promise of a certain return had now factored in to his thinking. Aiwendil had been aware on a certain level that at one point Rôg’s intent had been to reconnect with his clan, leaving the problems of Aiwendil and of the Eagle clan to resolve themselves .

The image of the skittish meara came back to him and he saw the aloof creature take a step closer in his mind.

I must be careful here. . .

‘Let us return to our tent,’ he offered. ‘My throat is dry and these are large questions that you’ve asked. The answers will be longer, I fear, than you might wish to hear.’

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Foregoing the stuffy interior of the tent, the two sat beneath the shade of a nearby lean-to, some cool tea in a flagon between them. Rôg poured a mug for Aiwendil and one for himself, then settled his haunches on the cushion waiting for the old man to speak. Rog’s escort, now that his charge was in the company of Aiwendil, had withdrawn with his own mug of tea and was drowsing in the shade of his own lean-to.

Rôg was aware that the old man’s eyes were often on him, measuring him, he felt, but what mark he had come up to in his companion’s estimation, Rôg could not tell. Aiwendil’s voice was grave as he began . . .

There was much trouble for the Eagle Clan and for those others, too, he had been told by Ayar, who resisted the demands of the maenwaith leader. One of the Wyrm clan, it was, Wyrma by name. Aiwendil went into detail on what she intended to do to build her little empire; how she wished to impose her will on all other maenwaith; how she would retaliate against those who refused her bidding. ‘It was most likely some dark servant of hers who was hired to poison Ayar.’ Much of this was known in some way by Rôg; he had heard bits and pieces of it from others, and had puzzled out what he could. But now Aiwendil had fit the pieces all together for him in a seamless whole, and it sickened him to hear his suspicions confirmed.

The old man’s next words made him break out in a cold sweat, and he trembled at them despite the heat of the desert day. ‘A war is coming,’ Aiwendil began. ‘The Wyrm clan will seek to destroy the old ways and in doing so will destroy the clans themselves. The Eagles will not allow that to happen to themselves without resistance.’

Rôg was revolted at the inevitable outcome of this. Maenwaith against maenwaith . . . The Eagle clan was small, rich in its traditions and its way of life, but with no resources to fight a larger clan with monies and powerful friends at its disposal. His brow furrowed as his thoughts raced furiously. ‘Where are the Eagle clan Elders, Aiwendil? Why have they not come in to aid their people?’ ‘Where are the Elder Eagles?’ he asked once again, not waiting for an answer. ‘Has no word been brought to them? Do they live so far away they do not know what is happening?’ A sudden thought came to him, making him catch his breath at the dread it brought. ‘Do they no longer care for their people?’

On this point Aiwendil was silent. His voice was soft when he spoke again to Rôg. ‘I do not know the answer to that question. I cannot even say if there are Elders such as those you speak of. Perhaps they are lost to the Clan. I cannot say and Ayar did not dwell on them, at least to me.’ Perhaps, if indeed they do exist, they have grown as forgetful as I have these many years . . ., flickered the thought in the old man’s mind. ‘I can only say again that Ayar’s clan and those others who choose to cling to the old ways will be crushed in the Wyrm’s grip if they are not given what help we . . . no, I will say what meager help I can offer. I made no promises regarding you. You will have to do that yourself.’

‘Promises? Offers of assistance?’ Rôg drew back, hand on knee, looking at Aiwendil closely. ‘What promises have you made?’

He looked thoughtfully at the frail appearing, old man opposite him; his image shifting in Rôg’s mind as if beneath the outer covering something other lurked, hidden away. The wondering thought came, unbidden.

And your offer of meager help . . . what do you think you have to give . . .?

[piosenniel]

Nerindel’s post – Sorona

A rush of memories hit her like a tidal wave. Memories of her relationship and friendship with the young woman Surinen now named leader of the eagle clan came to the forefront of her mind, but the joy of this revelation was short lived as Surinen gave her the awful news that Ayar lay seriously ill, worse still that it was believed that someone had purposefully brought this deadly affliction upon their leader. Genuinely concerned she asked if Ayar would be alright, but when Surinen dropped his gaze, she knew that her old friend was grievously ill.

"Do you know who would do this?" she asked changing her question at the young mans obvious distress. Surinen shook his head slowly but admitted that there were some among their people who might. He went on to describe how there where some among their people who believed the Meldakhar unwise and one in particular to whom Ayar's strength was a trial; although Surinen mentioned no names he did seem to believe that the latter was responsible for Ayar's sudden illness.

"But who is that, and to what purpose would this be done?" She asked, but even before she got the words out she knew the answer. Ráma's warning that her mother thought that Wyrma's real dream was to wield a power so great that she could someday humble even the mighty city of Minas Tirith came back to her. She was no longer the innocent young woman she remembered, she knew the evils the hunger for power bred in people, though she wished she did not. If this Wyrma had been corrupted by the lure of such a power and looked to hold dominance over her people, she would allow no one to stand in her way. Sorona suddenly feared for these people, knowing that this Wyrma was likely the one responsible for Ayar's condition. She silently scolded herself for not listening to the warning she had been given, worrying that perhaps she had come to late and that the things her dream showed her were already coming to pass.

"Perhaps it would be better if you saved that question for Ráma, for I know too little and talk too much." Surinen was saying. "And have only been given dreams that I don't understand," Sorona's head snapped up and she looked at the young outrider startled by his choice of words. She continued to stare as the young man looked away search the dispersing crowd for someone.

"Dreams are sometimes all we have," she sighed ruefully to herself as she followed him towards the tent where he spoke to the two men that stood guard outside the Gondorians tent. after a moment he gestured for her to follow him inside, The two Gondorians stood just to the left of the entrance, immersed in deep conversation, which stopped abruptly as she and the young outrider entered. Surinen did not stop to acknowledge the two men but crossed the tent to speak with the young maenwaith woman who busily attended the table set at the far side of the tent. Sorona however moved to join the two Gondorians nodded her head in way of a polite greeting.

"I do not believe my name was given before but it is Sorona," she smiled pleasantly. "I am kin to these people, but have spend most of my life in your lands and the lands further north, observing and learning the ways of the other races that we share these lands with, but as a result I have become as much a stranger here as you are." there was a touch of regret in her voice as she spoke but she pressed on, gesturing for the Gondorians to sit as she dropped her voice to a whisper.

"I do not know of how much you are aware but It seems that our arrival is badly timed, the leader of this clan is grievously ill and from what I have gleaned and what Rama has told me I believe that this Wyrma is the one responsible, I tell these things to you because you are friends with Aiwendil, one of the wise and therefore must be good and honourable people."

"You know the Istar also?" Airefalas asked slightly taken aback, she nodded slightly amused at the young mans surprise, "Yes, though I knew him by a different name, Thorondil, loosely translated in our ancient tongue it means friend of Eagles, rather apt don't you think considering where we are." The two men nodded and she continued, "I do not know if the old man will even remember me and If he does I fear I will not be remembered fondly. I owe the him a great debt, he saved my life once, though at the time I was less than thankful for his services immersed as I was in the darkest depths of my own despair." her eyes became distant as she remembered the horrors she had learned to forget and the life she had forsaken so she could be rid of its pain.

But feeling the troubled stares of the two men she shook herself forcing a reassuring smile, "I do not fully understand what is going on here or why fate has brought you and the wise one at this time, But I have seen this city that Ráma spoke of, in a dream, that is why I am here,"

"A dream!" Airefalas interjected incredously, Sorona's looked at him sharply, but to her surprise it was Mithadan who spoke, "you should not underestimate the power of dreams my friend," he whispered sternly to his first mate, then turning back he urged her to continue. She stared at him for a moment wondering who he was and were he had gain such wisdom, a new found respect welling inside her as she continued.

"At first I thought the dream no more than a punishment, you see I let curiosity get the better of me, I let myself be enamoured by the stories of the Nimir and the tales of sailors of a land far to the west and land that knew no sorrow or grief, a land of peace and tranquility. I wished only a look, to see the white spires that the Gondorian sailors sang about, dismissing the warnings the tales and songs gave out. I was cast back in on a fierce storm, and left with this dream a reminder I thought, that one should not reach beyond their own mortality. At first the urge to come south was strong, but I feared what my return would mean so ignored the dream, brushing it of as just that, a dream, something I now deeply regret. What this dream show to me fills me with such fear and dread, that I will only share its warning with the wise one and who ever now lead this clan in Ayar's stead, I tell you this much for I believe that Rama is right, if this Wyrm succeeds in gaining dominance over her people, your people will face a new threat and I do not say this lightly, I know first hand how the abilities of our people can be used and manipulated to bring harm to others." She cast her eyes to the ground as she remembered the things she had been force to do in her life in order to survive and in an effort to protect those she had been imprisoned with, slowly she lifted her right taloned foot to show them the mark of her enslavement, a long healed brand in the shape of an eye. The two men gasped audibly drawing the looks of the young outrider and his companion., she quickly replaced her foot to the ground afraid that any of her people should see it.

"There is something I must ask you, they I will answer any questions you have," she whispered hurriedly as Surinen turned to resume his conversation with the young Maenwaith woman.

"On my return to these lands a found myself strangly drawn to a young man who resides within the city of Umbar, I saw you both enter his house. This young man seems to be a merchant, he has distinctive raven coloured hair. I would ask what you know of him?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ayar smiled gently and stroked her daughter's curls to try and reassure her that things would be alright. Miri and Claris had also returned with Yalisha; the three were standing at the entrance to the tent. Beckoning them in with a gesture of her hand, Ayar added, "Good, you have finished your errands. Draw near to hear what I say. For Ráma may need a witness to stand before the Elders and swear her words are true. I fear some will not care to hear such things."

Ayar stared solemnly at the familiar figures who now stood before her. One a child of a dear friend, another a loyal grey-haired servant, along with the two gifted if impetuous young women who were among the most adventurous in the clan. The Eagles would need the talents of all four, and many others as well, if they were to survive the threat that was about to descend on their heads.

Ayar looked directly at Ráma and began, "Much blame lies on my head. I ask your forgiveness. I saw the danger coming, yet I deceived myself into thinking it would go away. It has not gone away, and we can not wait any longer. Wyrma and her kind desire only one thing: to destroy the life our people lead and to chase after a hollow dream of power and wealth, of dominion over others."

It was Ráma who interrupted. "Mother, you've done nothing wrong. You have kept the Eagles safe and even spoken out for other clans who were too afraid to say their mind."

The older woman shook her head. "I did too little. Long ago, I should have stood up and said 'no more'. We should have taken a stand, even if it meant bloodshed, rather than running off by ourselves into the desert. But now I finally understand. Freedom for our own clan means nothing, if all the other maenwaith become enslaved. I only wish I was here to share the burden with you for the path will not be easy."

With a heavy sigh Ayar reflected, "Times were so hard during the war. I thought when the Dark Shadow was defeated that we would all be free. Perhaps, there would be time to go back to the old ways, to remember things that even the Eagles had forgotten. With the coming of peace, it just seemed easier to sit back and rest. But there can be no rest when maenwaith raise hand against maenwaith."

Ayar's next words were directed at her daughter who still knelt beside the bed. "Whatever happens, there must be no split within the Eagles. Thorn and Narika should marry, as promised. They will be named leaders of the clan and will jointly exercise the headship, each offering their special gift: Narika, her knowledge of lore and music; Thorn, his skills as a warrior. Each will help the other find the right path. For Narika has an iron will and loves the traditional ways, while Thorn has the strength to reflect on events and decide when a change is needed. And you must help them too, Ráma."

Ráma looked straight at her mother and replied without hesitation, "I understand what you are asking. I pledge my loyalty. I will help my sister and Thorn any way I can." Yet all the while she wondered what she could possibly do.

"You must speak these things to the Elders, Ráma.....to them and, if I can not, even to your sister. The clan must use its wits and heart to do battle with claw and sword and talon and every resource they can muster. You and the others must ride out to the other clans, all those who will listen to words of reason, and rouse them to fight. Invite them to join as equal partners to put down Wyrma's tyranny."

[piosenniel]

Aiwendil and Rôg

‘Eh . . . promises . . . nothing really . . .’ The old man tried to divert the question to one of his own. ‘You’re going soon, then? And did I hear correctly, you will then return?’ He looked down and wriggled on his cushion; fumbling with the hem of his robe, he pulled the cloth of the skirt out straight, over his knees and tucked it in more loosely about his lower legs.

Rôg snorted at this all too apparent evasion and tapped him on the arm again. ‘Your promises . . .?’

Aiwendil settled back with a long sigh and seeing the young man following his movements expectantly, he began. ‘The problem of promises began long ago,’ he said as if to himself. ‘It’s the Ladies, isn’t it? The men you can reason with – why you can’t do such and such and so forth. But a Lady - they always seem to get that little hook in somehow and can’t be refused . . . and somehow, in the end, the promise must be kept, though it take years to do so . . .’

Oh, my sand and stars . . . this may turn into such a long answer that I will lose the thread of what I originally wanted to know! Rog leaned forward, intending to pay close attention to what ever twists and turns the old man might make in his telling.

Surprisingly enough, the old fellow recalled himself from his ruminations. Looking at Rôg from beneath lidded eyes he wondered if he had spoken too much of that first promise. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, his eyes now on the young man’s face, and spoke of the request from Ayar . . . the one to help her other daughter, Rama. He made light of it, saying that he had said he would make himself available to help her as she asked.

‘I don’t have the years on me that you do, Aiwendil. But, it seems to me that that is a rather large sort of promise you have made. Given the immediacy of danger to the Eagle Clan and the imminent death of its leader, surely this Rama will need more than just a few words from you if she and her sister are to face the coming struggle with the Wyrm clan.’ Rôg scratched his jawbone thoughtfully. ‘The way I see it, you will be here a very long time and pulled deeper and deeper into the conflict.’ His brow furrowed as he looked at Aiwendil. ‘I’ve seen some of your little tricks and I half think of you as some reluctant magician of sorts. But, no disrespect intended, you seem a little . . . wobbly . . . if you will, at times. And these seem times that require more than wobbliness. Are you certain you should stay here? Perhaps you should come with me . . . it might be safer.’

Aiwendil huffed a little at the assessment of himself as ‘wobbly’. Young upstart! he growled to himself. Why I could show . . . He stopped himself before the words left his mouth, and would be drawn out no further on this subject. He had made his promise and he meant to see it through as needed. ‘I’ll not be going with you,’ he said instead. I’ll be perfectly fine here.’ He eyed the young man from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. ‘And besides, you’re coming back” Isn’t that what I heard you just say?’

‘Yes,' answered Rôg. 'I’m uncertain, though, how long I’ll be away. You could still come with me. Then, we could return together.’ He looked at his friend hopefully.

But Aiwendil only shook his head, his blue eyes glinting though the two companions sat well within the shade.

[Child of the 7th Age]

“And now,” murmured Ayar, “I would speak privately with my daughter.”

Miri and Claris had departed, with only Yalisha remaining behind to tend to Ayar's needs. The young healer quickly countered, “Not now. You are tired and must rest.”

“Tired or not, I will speak with Ráma." Summoning her last bit of strength, Ayar sat upright in bed and reassured Yalisha that their conversation would be short. Yalisha promised to return shortly and then slipped away, leaving mother and daughter alone in the tent.

“Mother, are you sure?" Ráma pressed. "Perhaps we should wait.”

With a glint of a smile, Ayar retorted, “Rama, I am ill, but my wits are not addled. Trust me for there are things I must say.” She leaned over to place a kiss on her daughter’s curls before continuing. “First, tell me of Umbar. Not the part about Wyrma or her grand city, for I have heard more than enough about that. I want to know what happened to you.”

Ráma responded with relish as she began to describe the mysterious Eagle who had followed her across the desert and her strange encounter with the two Men of Gondor. Ayar listened carefully but said little. Her eyes registered faint surprise at the name of ‘Sorona’. When Ráma went on to describe Bird, Ayar stared quizzically at her daughter. “Are you certain? This Mithadan spoke of a maenwaith living in the north whose raven hair was marked with a single silver lock?”

“So he said, although the part about the north sounded peculiar to me.” Ráma observed, having no idea what her mother really meant.

“Very peculiar…..” was all Ayar would say.

“But is it possible?” queried Ráma. “I thought our people all lived near the desert of Harad.”

“Possible? Yes, it’s possible. How soon you forget what I taught you! For many years, our people lived in Beleriand, afterwards migrating eastward and then to the south. Only each clan prized its independence. Some chose to linger in one place longer than others, or to push further down the route in hope of staying out of harm’s way. Even in the Third Age, there were clans that split asunder. So it would be possible for a maenwaith family or two, or even part of a clan, to have turned away from the main line of march that led down to Harad. But whether this would account for the mysterious Bird, I really can not say.”

“As to the other, if you should ever see Sorona, tell her that an old friend often thinks of her with affection. Speak to her respectfully, Ráma, for I believe she has known great hardship. Indeed, I am surprised to hear she is still alive.” When Ráma pressed her mother for more particulars, Ayar would only say that it was not right to divulge anyone’s secrets unless that person wished to share their story freely.

"But that's enough of me!" Rama objected. "You said you had something to share. We must be quick or Yalisha will come back and turn me out of the tent....."

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg hid his reluctance, poorly at best, to discuss ‘shapechangers’, as men termed them, by passing the basket of flatbread to Airefalas. The man looked at his offering in surprise and declined. A few moments of awkward silence ensued, during which Rôg looked to Aiwendil to intervene. But, the old man looked on in some amusement and lifted his chin slightly to Rôg, encouraging him to handle the younger man’s questions as best he might.

‘You’ll excuse me if I lecture a bit,’ he began, putting his plate aside. ‘Shapechangers is a term used by those who don’t have the skill for changing. And often it is heard in an . . . unkind way. Better you use ‘maenwaith’, ‘skilled folk’. An Elvish word. Less offensive. And in some ways it’s been taken over by the clans and made their own now for their collective self.’ He looked at the younger man, wondering if he’d ever traveled in the northwestern regions. ‘You have maenwaith, you know . . . in the upper regions of The Great River. Beornings, they term themselves. An interesting clan . . . they only take the shape of bears. In fact, before we left Minas Tirith, we saw one in The Seventh Star.’ He shook his head at the remembrance of the gigantic man who had been challenged by the Captain’s wife. ‘It was the first time, actually, that I laid eyes on the Captain’s wife, Mistress Piosenniel. She was . . . well, let me say, she had been wary of the stranger and when he addressed her, she did not receive him well.’

‘Pulled her blade on the Beorning is what she did,’ he heard Aiwendil say to Mithadan who had looked over at the mention of her name. ‘Thought he might put the children in danger in some way. Never mind he towered over her and outweighed her by a good ten stone if not more.’ Mithadan’s brows went up in alarm. He was quickly reassured the Beorning had backed down. ‘Invited him for a visit, she did,’ the old man continued. ‘He’d asked about Bird, as I recall . . .’

Mithadan and Aiwendil fell to talking about the incident as Rôg took up his conversation with Airefalas. He gave a very brief description of the maenwaith clans in the south – a brief reference to clan names and what they signified; how the maenwaith were organized for the most part within each clan and the loose organization they shared as a whole, saying that his family had been traveling traders and had interactions with many of them. The picture he drew was colored, he knew, by his own clan’s view of things . . . stressing the fiercely held autonomy and independence valued by each clan. ‘Though,’ he said, ‘since I have returned, there seems to be some shift in the way of thinking of those who are said to lead the confederated clans. The Eagles, and other of the more outlying clans, I have heard, wish to keep the traditional ways while those who live more in concert with the men in Umbar wish to move toward a mannish style of life.’ Rôg’s quiet nature had often allowed him to be overlooked in conversations in the camp, allowing him access to various bits and pieces of what was going on within and without the camp.

He made no mention of his own clan or its whereabouts. Despite the fact that Aiwendil seemed to trust Mithadan, both the Captain and his First Mate were Men. Nor did he go into what details he had gleaned in the past days about the Eagle Clan. Old cautions learned from childhood die hard. He did address the direct question – ‘. . . does this mean that you share their ability to change shapes’. ‘As for me,’ he said lightly, before passing on to questions of his own, ‘My clan is also . . . maenwaith. And I have a little skill in changes.’

‘But tell me, I know little of you or of your Captain, save what has happened here in the South. Are you both from Minas Tirith? Have you sailed with him long?’ He paused for a moment, wondering if he should ask, but natural curiosity stayed his hesitancy. ‘What sort of man is your Captain, I wonder . . . to have such a dauntless wife. And who is this maenwaith they call friend?’ He leaned forward and spoke with a low chuckle. ‘When Aiwendil first found out that Mithadan was here, in camp, he said a very strange thing about him and Piosenniel.’ He gave a quick glance toward where Aiwendil and Mithadan sat, their attention on their own conversation. ‘People of honor, he said, but wherever they go, trouble follows . . .’ He spoke lower. ‘I half expect to see Mistress Piosenniel come bristling into camp at any moment, blade drawn, to effect your rescue! Though I’m sure,’ he added quickly, ‘she will stay at home keeping her own little ones safe until your return.’ He drew back and spoke in a more normal tone. ‘And what of you? Is there a wife and family waiting for your return?’

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas noticed Rôg's skillful avoidance of discussing any specifics regarding himself or the Eagles, but let it pass without comment. He had promised Ráma that he would not pry, so, in keeping with that promise, he had adopted a strategy of asking questions to learn what information he could, but to back away when the other party began to get uncomfortable. Since Rôg was clearly not comfortable discussing specifics, Airefalas made himself content with familiarizing himself with the basics of maenwaith history and culture. He listened intently to Rôg's lecture, grateful to have it all explained at last and in such a way that required very few additional questions on his part. The feeling that he was floundering blindly finally began to recede a bit. At the mention of the Beornings to the north, however, he made a short exclamation of surprise. He had not been aware of them either.

"You miss a lot on land when you spend your life at sea..." he murmured under his breath as Rôg concluded his explanations and turned the topic of conversation back toward him and Mithadan.

"But tell me," continued Rôg. "I know little of you or of your Captain, save what has happened here in the South. Are you both from Minas Tirith? Have you sailed with him long?’ He paused for a moment. "What sort of man is your Captain, I wonder . . . to have such a dauntless wife. And who is this maenwaith they call friend?’ Rôg leaned forward and spoke with a low chuckle. "When Aiwendil first found out that Mithadan was here, in camp, he said a very strange thing about him and Piosenniel." Airefalas noticed him send a quick glance toward where Aiwendil and Mithadan sat, their attention on their own conversation. "People of honor, he said, but wherever they go, trouble follows . . ." He spoke lower. "I half expect to see Mistress Piosenniel come bristling into camp at any moment, blade drawn, to effect your rescue! Though I’m sure," he added quickly, "she will stay at home keeping her own little ones safe until your return." He drew back and spoke in a more normal tone. "And what of you? Is there a wife and family waiting for your return?"

Airefalas laughed. "Though I have only met Mistress Piosenniel on a few brief occasions, I would have to say that your first impression is probably the more apt one. I don't think I would be surprised at all to see her come bristling into camp, as you put it." He cast a amused glance at Mithadan. "Now that you mention it, I wonder what's keeping her..."

"But seriously," he continued after a moment. "This is the first time I have sailed with either of them and, as such, I cannot vouch for Mithadan or Piosenniel one way or the other in terms of honor or trouble except to say that they do carry a similar reputation to what you describe in Minas Tirith." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "My personal experience with Mithadan on this journey, however, has earned him my respect as a man of honor, good judgement ...and action. But, as for the maenwaith they call friend, I'm afraid you shall have to save your questions for Mithadan. It was only the evening we left Umbar that I first heard mention of her."

He shrugged helplessly and paused to take a few bites of the meal that had begun to grow cold on the plate in his lap.

"And you?" prompted Rôg, reiterating his earlier question. "Have you a wife and family awaiting your return?"

At that, Airefalas grimaced slightly and put aside his plate. "No," he said finally. "There is a lady that I had hoped would become my wife, but - at this stage - it doesn't look as though that is going to happen." At a questioning glance from Rôg, he added, "Her father has taken a disliking to me and she, being devoted to him, is not likely to defy him. Actually, he has informed me that if I don't break off the engagement upon my return to Minas Tirith, he will break it off for me." He rose and walked in the direction of the closed tent flap. "So there you have it," he finished with a bitter laugh. "The short version of the story, anyway."

As he thought about the situation surrounding his engagement to Isabel, Airefalas' face darkened noticeably. On the morning he had first set sail with the Lonely Star, he remembered he had been furious with Isabel's father for his high-handed pronouncements and ultimatims regarding his daughter. Now, the farther removed Airefalas grew from the situation, the more he began to doubt himself, whether his love for Isabel was genuine or merely a deep infatuation born of the many pressures of Minas Tirith society. Granted, she was a beautiful woman, the sort to turn the heads of men on the street, but she was a silly and fatuous creature as well, prone to constantly batting and poking him with her fan. He remembered with a rueful smile the evening that he had gotten so outdone with her and her fan at a ball that he had taken the fan away from her and pitched it out the window into the back of a passing cart. She had left in a huff and refused to speak to him for a week until he had finally given in and purchased her a new fan. Now, so many miles away in the desert, he found himself wondering, aside from her beauty, what exactly it was that he loved about her and why he was so determined to go back to Minas Tirith and win her. Though his motives were faulty, perhaps Isabel's father wasn't so wrong after all...

"Ego," Airefalas said aloud, frowning to himself. Maybe that was what lay at the root of it all, not love.

"Excuse me?" asked Rôg politely. "I don't think I quite follow you."

"Sorry," answered Airefalas, looking back at the other man with an apologetic smile. "It's a complicated situation - please excuse me for stewing a bit." He came back over and took his seat again on the cushion near Rôg. "And what about you? Have you a wife and children awaiting you at home... wherever it is you come from?"

[Nerindel]

Nodding modestly Latah gestured for both her and Surinen to be seated. Taking the place offered her she looked upon a generous supper of cooked meats, cheeses and freshly baked breads. The delicate aroma of the spices filled her senses, and she knew she had truly returned to the place of her birth. Latah proving to be the host her cousin boasted her to be graciously helped her fill her plate and then poured her a bowl of fresh goats milk another taste of the desert that she realised she had missed. Before eating, she bowed her head and gave thanks to the spirits of their ancestors, asking them to bless and watch over Latah and her family, for the kindness they had shown this weary messenger.

As they ate, Surinen and Latah made pleasant conversation about the weather, trade and the general musings of the day’s events. Sorona listened intently, but soon her mind wandered as she struggled to piece together the missing segments of her life. That Ayar was clan leader could only mean that her father had passed on from this life, a fresh pang of regret tugged at her heart and although she knew he would not have passed on alone and unloved she regretted not having been able to tell him how much she loved and admired him. He was a kind and loving father and a wise leader, she missed him dearly!

“Are you feeling alright Sorona?” Latah asked, concern sweeping her delicate features as she caught the forlorn sigh of the eagle.

“What, eh no my apologies, I was thinking of my father,” Sorona smiled apologetically.

“Forgive me for prying but my cousin tells me that he thinks you are of our clan, perhaps your father is here, I could find out for you if you like?” Latah offered.

“I thank you for your kindness, Latah but I do not think you will find him. I have been gone such a long time and he was not a young man when I ….” Sorona paused for a moment as she remembered the circumstances of her departure, “left,” she finished pushing the horror of that day away and forcing a smile in hopes of masking her pain.

“But come there is no need for such talk at dinner, I would hear of what I have missed these past twenty years, tell me do the old tellers still visit to share their wisdom and pass on the tales of the past, so much has changed that I feel a stranger among my own people.” Sorona smiled warmly, recalling her times spend wide-eyed listening raptly to the old teller’s tales.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘A wife . . . and children . . .’

Rôg’s features softened; he had not thought along these lines in a number of years. And now the young man’s questions reminded him that his parents would be prompting him in a similar manner, and soon after he arrived back for his visit, he thought. Rôg chuckled as he began to answer the question.

‘What you've asked caught me by surprise,’ he said to Airefalas, ' . . . pleasant surprise.' ‘I’ve no wife, or children yet, either. But, I’m leaving soon to visit my family. My mother and father will be reminding me it is time to lay aside my wandering life and fulfill my obligations to the family.

‘Your roving days are done now,’ he said in a higher pitch, mimicking his mother’s sweet, insistent voice. ‘It’s time that I had grandchildren. Your father and I have consulted the Elders about our choice for you. We’ve only to speak with her parents to make it official.’ Rôg shook his head, saying he could see his father standing at his wife’s side, nodding his head at her words.

‘I have an older sister – but she has left me in the lurch,’ Rôg continued. ‘She won’t rescue her baby brother this time.’ She had declared several years ago, he told Airefalas, that she would not be marrying. Nieces and nephews would be enough for her she had written to him; she intended to study herbal lore and follow in one of their father’s older sister’s footsteps as a healer. The duty of carrying on the family line would fall to him.

‘And to be honest, I don’t begrudge my sister her choice. My parents will choose someone well suited to me. I’ll be a good husband, I think . . . I have my father to model after in that role.’ He smiled at his bemused listener. ‘Love will come, if that is what you are thinking of; it follows a learned respect for your companion I’ve always thought – rounds it out with an abiding easiness in the other’s company, and an assurance of mutual support.’ He grinned as he finished this pronouncement. ‘Of course, as in all things, the theory is much neater than the actual sequence of events.’

Miri’s bright little face intruded suddenly upon this chain of thought. Rôg’s own face brightened at its appearance, and at the remembered enjoyment he had felt teaching her that simple change. He leaned forward, touching Airefalas lightly on the arm. ‘And of course, there will be the children. The Winged One willing! Many of them, I hope . . . wife willing, too, that is . . .’

Aiwendil’s attention had turned to Rôg. It was nice to see his young companion relaxed in someone else’s company. And speaking of personal matters at that!

Rôg nodded at Mithadan, who was also looking his way. ‘I must say you have a very enjoyable trio of children. I met them only briefly, but they speak well for you as a father. And your wife, she seems a very good mother.’ He paused, looking at Mithadan, to gauge whether he had offended. It was hard to tell sometimes around Men what was acceptable and what stepped too close to their sense of privacy. Rôg sat back for a moment, a sudden thought come to him. This was an area he had not thought previously to discuss with Aiwendil. But now curiosity got the better of him, and he asked without thinking . . .

‘And what of you, Aiwendil? You are of an age . . . are there sons and daughters you have kept to yourself . . . and fat little babies who call you grandfather?’ Rôg frowned, trying to recall without success any mention of family by the old fellow. ‘Where are your children scattered?

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Halfr had to step briskly to keep up with Wyrma’s energetic stride. He managed to do so with the slightly stiff bearing that showed his military training. He did not have to look at Wyrma to know that the muscles of her jaw were tightened; he knew well enough how angry she was after seeing the destruction of the building stones with her own eyes, though she had said very little. He did not venture to speak until she turned to him.

“You have heard nothing from Korpulfr.” It was a statement, not a question. She was certain that he would have informed her immediately had he gotten news from his son.

“No,” he said, shaking his slightly greying head, “but it is said that the absence of news bodes well.”

“Not all that is said is true,” she answered, with a curt laugh, “though I too think that one of us would have heard if something had happened to him or Tinar. Hasrim at least has a level head on his shoulders and enough experience to keep himself out of trouble.”

Halfr refrained from commenting, merely enquiring, “Do you want to send a messenger out to search for them?”

“Not yet,” she replied, somewhat absentmindedly, and he did not press her further.

They reached the imposing building which housed both the official rooms and her living quarters. Though neither of them said so, they both thought how good it was that it had been completed before the hoarded building stones were destroyed. They walked up the few steps that were more decorative than necessary at its front entrance and turned down the hallway to her office room. When Halfr closed the door behind them, she spoke again. “I have an idea where we can get stones to continue building.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“The fire in the haven of Umbar destroyed the buildings there, but the stones of the larger warehouses will have survived,” she said. “I will send word to our people in the city that they should take advantage of the confusion there and gather what they can. Prepare several of your men with wagons to transport the stones here. They should meet the others under cover of night just outside the city walls, far enough from the gate that they will not be observed by the guards.”

Halfr bowed and left the room to give orders to his men. Wyrma sat down at her desk, shuffling the papers on it with unseeing eyes. Before ringing the bell that sat on the corner of the table, she breathed deeply, wishing that she could go herself, could stretch her wings in flight, feeling the wind in her feathers.

But why can’t I? she thought suddenly. I could take a look at Galandor’s ships and then see if I can locate Tinar and the others. The thought was so tempting that she had to push it to the back of her mind forcibly. There it stayed, beckoning to her imagination. Perhaps one day soon…