Old South Road - Dunland <<Redvyrne County>>
You are close to the mountain peak named Methedras and you can make out greater detail in the crags and spikes of the rocks that cover the sides of it. Through this area, you can barely see your way because the road is faint and overgrown with grass. The only evidence that the road was ever here is that the grass is thinner and of a different variety from the surrounding plains. The trees are sparse off in the distance, but help to break the monotony of the horizon.
Obvious exits:
Southern Gate leads to Courtyard <<Crebain Keep>>.
SouthEast leads to Old South Road - Near Methedras.
Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
Real Time is: Fri Feb 14 07:36:13 2003
IC weather is: Wind: fresh - Clouds: dense
IC Moon is: Not visible
IC time is: Mid Afternoon
IC date is: Monday, Day 2 of July in the year 3028.
[Elladan(#24151)]
A cold wind rises, blowing down from off the snow-capped peaks of nortwhard looming Methedras, troubling the hinterlands of the Dunland fells with its mountain chill; above, the clouds throng grey in the afternoon sky and hide the sun. All is grey and grim about the road and yon wall of Crebain Keep, that does well to hide the tent and cap there before its gate, one shelter for one man, the only sentinel a great roan horse stood by. A small fire is kindled there, but none sits by it that can be readily seen.
[<#10738>] The Gates of Crebain open, and a small group of half a dozen cloaked in green with a band of purple pass through - a patrol, perhaps? For they head away southwards at speed. Not so the other figure who leaves the Keep, a woman with hair of red, dressed in practical leather and with something - a small satchel, it looks like - slung over one shoulder. After conversing with the guards for a while she turns her steps towards that thin thread of smoke that wend its way upwards, sign of a campfire.
Only to pause, hands on hips, when it seems that the fire has no tender. Her features contort in a scowl and she utters a phrase of disgust. "<Dunael> Should have known he'd try to sneak off."
[Elladan(#24151)]
"I little understand your words, if not their tone," says a voice, and at first one might not seem able to guess from whence it came; summer birds might not yet sing so sweet as its sound, though; then of a sudden, Elladan moves, clear now to be seen tending the Roan stallion that is his mount; "Perhaps you will speak plainer, Dunland-Woman; why have you come? Do not trouble me with your scorn."
Marja's head turns at the sound of the voice, the scowl remaining on her face. She looks up towards Elladan, biting her lip as she concentrates on the words, peers round to see that he is - as far as she can ascertain - alone then starts to fumble with the straps of the satchel. "I come to see you still here," she retorts. "And ... bring bread." She pulls out a small loaf, dark and dense. "You eat?" Perhaps the thought lies in her mind that a demon or an otherworldly spirit would not need to break fast?
[Elladan(#24151)]
"I am still here," Elladan allows, "and it seems me only the poor guest refuses that which his host offers." With a hand, he waves her toward the fire, "I shall eat, as I may." Says he, 'ere he moves to join her there.
Marja takes a few steps towards the fire, but remains standing, turning green eyes on the stranger - and the tent. The loaf is held out in one hand for Elladan to take. "Why you come to Dunland?" she asks at last. "Why you bring horse here? You not trade, have no goods." Limited Westron or no, she seems determined to win /some/ answer she can understand from the tall, uncanny-looking traveller.
[Elladan(#24151)]
"I am travelling home;" Elladan says, cocking his head to one side; "Is that so strange to hear? My horse, he carries me thence."
"Is strange when man comes from Forgoil lands," Marja responds, then looks to Elladan's steed. "The horse," she pauses, lips moving silently as she searches for words, "You steal him from Forgoil?" A gleam comes into her eye at that query.
[Elladan(#24151)]
"I am no thief," Elladan answers sternly, and as if to reinforce his point, the great steed at his back neighs its own derision; "Morrach is no horse of Rohan born," the stranger furthers, "He has been with me on many journeys, but never before into the lands of your Forgoil."
Marja stares at the horse, wide-eyed - but when nothing more than a neigh is forthcoming, her attempt at fact-finding continues. "Is not ..bad to theif horse - no, steal horse from Forgoil," she asserts, and for a moment the faintest of smiles spreads across her face. '<Dunael>Pity, that.' Then it's back to the Westron. "People here, they keep horse. Maybe you loan him, they let you pass?"
[Elladan(#24151)]
"I will not give or loan him," Answers Elladan, and the roan snickers its assent to that, flicking its ears idly, 'ere it bends its neck back to the grass, "He is my friend, not my servant, and goes where he will; as to the rest," he tosses his head towards the fort, "I shall pass through soon enough." With that, he falls silent, looking to the bread that the maid once offered.
Marja frowns at that, speaks once more in her limited Westron. "If I choose, I not let you pass through," she states. "I think you friend of Forgoil, no walk here. But ... I not choose." Probably just as well. She breaks off, noting the direction of the man's gaze and the forgotten bread. "You take?" she suggests once more, then something occurs to her. "You fear to eat? It is good, see." She tears a small hunk from the loaf with her free hand, brings it to her own red lips and takes a small bite. Once more she offers the rest, her frown now conveying puzzled consternation as much as displeasure.
[Elladan(#24151)]
Brow raised, Elladan assays a morsel in his turn, masticating thoughtfully; he finishes the mouthful and offers at the last: "These Forgoil are not our friends, nor either our enemies. We passed through their lands because we meant them no harm, even as we do you;" a thin smile, "The people of Dunland are neither our friends, nor or our enemies; unless they choose to be one, or the other."
[<#10738>] Marja disposes of her bread with quick, neat, bites, brushing the crumbs from her lips when she's finished with a swift motion of her wrist, her green eyes staying fixed on Elladan as he eats and speaks. The stranger's words are weighed carefully, and in the end she shakes her head. "<Dunael> He who is not for us is against us," she murmurs in her own tongue, then returns to imperfect Westron. 'The words in our speech - I say man who is not friend is enemy. If you not enemy, you should show friend ... ach,' she breaks off in disgust, 'I not have right words.'. And it doesn't seem to occur to her that such advice cuts two ways.
[Elladan(#24151)]
"One who would ask after the trust and friendship of the Dundedain," suggests Elladan, "Would do well to earn it." But he shakes his head, "Have I not come here in friendship, and sat before your gates alone? If I am indeed your enemy, then say it so, and waste not the time I might spend in travelling home by other roads, and returning hither with an army and war, to prove you right."
The first words are met with a puzzled frown, and the woman's lips part slightly. "What means 'Dunedain'?" The rest of Elladan's speech is met with an attempt at scorn. "You want me to fear? You come back with army, we fight ... as enemy or as friend." The scorn fades, to be replaced by a more thoughtful expression, and she offers earnestly, "If you bring men to fight Dunland's fight, that show friend. I not have words, but our leaders maybe speak of this?"
[Elladan(#24151)]
"I would not bring an army hence to fight for you," Elladan shakes his head, "that is not in my power nor is it my desire; you are not our enemy, Rohan is not our enemy. We have little truck with the world of you northmen, we of the Dunedain - that are my kin." But he adds: "I say so, but it is not my desire to come hither with fear and death for your people, either. I seek only to travel this way as I return home. Will you hinder me?"
Marja shakes her head. "I do as leaders say. They say 'not kill'. Marja Telartair listen." She looks away from the stranger for a moment, "One other thing, would show friend. In Dunland's north, is always Orcs. You live north - maybe one time you come fight Orcs? Not need big army, just ... some." And then, "When you others come, when you speak with leaders, ask pass through Dunland, you say this." The advice, or order (ludicrous though that would be), or whatever it is, is accompanied by a decisive nod.
[Elladan(#24151)]
"We shall see," Elladan replies at length; but then he glances skyward, and to the gathering dark. "Night comes; I will go to my rest. You would do well to return to the fastness of your keep."
"I go," Marja retorts with a toss of her head, green eyes fixing again on Elladan. "What want I stay here? I go warm hall, much ale ..." She grins mockingly at the man for a moment, her earlier fear of his 'uncanniness' not in evidence. "Good-bye, stranger-man."
[Elladan(#24151)]
"We ranger-filth do not bemoan the road or the hard earth," Is Elladan's only answer, "Farewell," he bids her, before turning back to his tent; which, now only as the Dunland woman stands to leave it; by some enchantment of his presence alone perhaps, with its sickly fire and thing canvas, seems as homely as any stone-built hall, and warm, the tall grasses bending towards it fron the ground, soft and welcoming, as if the earth itsself rejoiced that he were there.
Marja nods and walks away, turning only once to look back at the strange fellow and his fire. She shrugs, snorts and reenters the Keep.
ELLADAN
A tall man, surpassing seven feet in height; his shoulders broad and heavy set, his limbs thick with muscle and yet still lithe and slight. Raven black is his hair, dark as death of night, long tresses falling lanquidly to meet his middle back. If such features were not enough to mark him one of high lineage, descended even from the Sea-Kings of Sunken Numenore, then but the briefest sight of his fair face would affirm it. Elven-fair is he, for indeed the blood of the Firstborn flows within his veins, this son of Elrond. His visage is ageless: high brow and chiseled jaw, features pearlescent white. Jet-black hair untouched by frost, eyes as grey as a sea under storm.
Attired after the fashion of his northern kindred is he, yet in garments more seeming fair: silver-grey is his hooded cloak, wrought of something like wool, and yet unlike. Its colour shifts by the while, either by some trick of the eye, or through some enchantment in or of its making. Close fit breeches, ashen grey, meet oiled leather boots high at his calves. A loose shirt, seemingly of linen, white, pleated at the cuffs and somewhat about the collar, tucks in beneath a weightless belt, wrought as if out of silver, set with pearls, damascened with gold. Studs are at the hip for a scabbard to depend upon.
MARJA
A tall, proud woman, straight and supple as a young tree. Her tight-fitting leather tunic and heavy breeches accent distinctly feminine curves, counterbalanced by layers of taut muscle - an impression of controlled strength is gained by watching this one's movements. A long sword in a plain leather scabbard hangs at her left hip, a dagger at her right.
Her head is topped by a crown of flame; locks of fiery red have been pulled back into a single long braid that is wound tightly round her head and pinned at the nape of the neck. Below this circlet of fire her creamy skin is smooth, her heart-shaped face oddly soft in comparison with the rest of her: a slender nose, slightly upcurved; eyes as green as the new spring leaves; full lips of a deep blood-red.