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Despite his early misgivings, Ónar seems to warm to the elvish hospitality, and enjoys his pipe as he listens to Findrahil's tale. He does however wryly embellish it, with comment on how hobbit cunning and dwarven determination secured their escape from false imprisonment from the Elf-King's donjon.
Upon the groups parting, the warrior leans into their host and guide with a hard nod;
"I thank ye for the reception Master Findrahil. One warmer than I expected from an elf..."
Ónar looks a little troubled, but continues his farewell;
"... Afore we go I would ask you a question to which you may never have an answer. I have dreamt of my own death. It lies in the Deep... to the foreboding sound of drums. I believe the Watcher in the Water to somehow be the key. Should this ever have meaning to you or your kin, let it find my ears..."
He pauses, nodding to himself briefly before continuing;
" I also leave you with an answer, without a question. I oft dream of things foretold and yet to pass. Know that the favour ye hold with the King may not last. Why I cannot say.... but your clemency to us moved me to speak. Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu."
Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu: Blessings of the Ancestors Upon You (A farewell)
He bows to the tall elf, before shoulder his pack and axe as he joins his companions.
As they approach the scene Ónar keeps his axe shouldered.
The dwarves eyes warily take in the countenance of the band before him as his axe moves from shoulder to hand with a growl...
"Make of us slaves would you laddie? Know that I am Ónar; Son of Óin of Thorin's Company... I bear a coin from the hoard of Smaug the Golden as proof of my lineage! AND YOU CUR, YOU THREATEN ME WITH FETTERS OF SLAVERY!"
As he speaks the warrior's cheeks flush red and his knuckles whiten!
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19th December 2946: The Parting
"Many thanks for your words. Savo 'lass a lalaith, Findrahil!"
Harry turns to Belgo and Halla.
"It has been my absolute pleasure to help assist ye in your hour of need. I only hope happiness for the two of you. Farewell!"
When Ónar speaks of his dark foreboding, Harry's expression turns more serious, with concern in his voice:
"Friend Ónar, I know nothing that could explain your visions. But take some heart that it is a matter that I will follow up if I can find those who can shed light on it!"
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19 December 2946: The Journey
Harry looks upon the scene with undisguised appalment.
"How could you treat man in such a manner? You have run yourselves ragged in the chase to seize these people, then threaten slavery? Who is your liege? Who is the lord who contenances such deeds?"
Numbed by the incessant cold, Illyria's wits are not as sharp as usual but it's clear enough to her what is going on. Where once she would have rushed in, she now waits with her hand on the hilt of her sword. She and her companions are outnumbered, after all. If this can be dealt with peacably then that's ideal.
Sitting astride Fæstlîeg, she looks down on the proceedings, ready to charge in as needed. She is not inclined to let these two be dragged off to their fates. Slavery is an abomination to the free folk of the Eorlingas.
The man's flushed face regains a measure of sobriety and caution as Onar addresses him. "I did not see you there, Master Dwarf. I have no quarrel with your kin, and indeed it is my father Viglund who ensures that the Vales up to the Grey Mountains remain passable for your traders. It costs us dearly in blood each year as the orcs return, and vile things crawl out of that accursed forest."
"I am Viglar, heir of Viglund. I repeat: I have no quarrel with you - I am here on a family matter. But let me and mine past."
He looks briefly in Harry's direction, with a sneer. "The fat man blusters, but I know him not." His attention remains on Onar.
The woman, his sister Aestid, looks at you pleadingly but - obviously terrified of Viglar - says nothing.
Think, Harry!
Bergur's mouth tightens as he looks at Aestid's tear-streaked face, but he forces himself to remain calm. While these men were clearly exhausted, they also vastly outnumbered their party. And if this 'Viglar' were the son of a lord, interfering could have consequences long past this night.
"Greetings Viglar, son of Viglund. I am Bergur, son of Ragni." He does not bow, but does incline his head slightly in greeting. "As you have wisely ascertained, we are travelers all and unfamiliar with the customs of your people." (At least he is, although perhaps Harry knows more.)
His voice hardens. "However, family matter or no, you are attempting to abduct a woman against her will and torturing a bound man. Additionally you speak of slavery, which I had thought was only a custom of the Enemy and His agents. Not the Free Peoples of the North. Surely you can understand why we would find this...troubling."
Until about 500 years ago, the people who lived in the Vales of Anduin - the land between the Misty Mountains and the forest of Mirkwood - were united under the rule of the Éothéod, a tall folk of horse-warriors who migrated South at Gondor's request to aid in the wars against the Shadow. The few people who were left behind were fractured and divided, easy prey for the orcs who marched out of Gundabad and the goblins who had taken over the Misty Mountains. As the Necromancer's power grew, there were few with the will to resist and the land fell under the influence of the Shadow. Even those Men who stood firm became hardened and bitter in their constant struggle for survival.
Viglund has been chief over the East Upper Vales since before the death of Smaug and the defeat of the Necromancer. He never bowed to the Necromancer and his people, the Viglundings, have endured much - but at great cost. Alone among the Northmen, they still practice slavery, putting their thralls to work tilling the fields so that the Viglundings can better concern themselves with matters of war and defence (which are the same thing to them).
There is great rivalry between the Viglundings and the Beornings: part of this is rumoured to be personal between Viglund and Beorn (who are said to hate each other), but also the Viglundings covet the richer, more peaceful land that the Beornings have claimed as their own.
Viglar gives a sour laugh. "Do you think I care one jot for your troubles?! I have enough of my own, else I would not be in this frozen wilderness in the dead of Winter chasing after my ***** of a sister!"
His voice drops to a low growl. "So, I ask one more time: will you let us past, or no?"
Harry raises his voice, just a little. Which is still noticeable by his standards.
"I may be pudgy and no warrior. But my people are not alone out of all the men of the North in keeping slaves, even with the Necromancer's defeat. You have no excuse to keep thralls with his banishment, unless you count petty spite against the Beornings!"
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A low growl came from Morwen's throat as she stepped up to places herself between this group of so called men and her own group. "I don't give two s#$+s about your trouble. But you've gone and made it my problem." Morwen spoke low, and her voice was hard, all in such a way to force one to listen to what she was saying. While she spoke she slowly unwrapped the blue scarf she always wore, exposing what had been kept concealed beneath it. A pendant upon a silver chain. The depiction was that of a serpent curled in an infinity symbol, but with it's mouth opened to the heavens and within that mouth was a brilliant golden flower set with a striking emerald in the center. "I am Morwen, of house Isildur and heir of Rhudaur the fallen kingdom. I am of the Dúnedian that still hunt those walks." Morwen explained as she slowly wrapped the scarf around her wrist and arm. "So this is what is going to happen. You're going to let her go, you're going to return home empty handed but intact. If you do not, I'm going to remove the part of you that allows yourself to be called a man. You've already insulted one of my friends, and your very existence is an insult to me. For those like you who treat their own kin as such are no better than that of goblin kind. So what will it be Viglar? Empty handed, or emasculated?" Morwen asked pointedly, it seemed the number with him didn't matter in the slightest to this woman.
Viglar seems to wilt in the force of Morwen's glare, much as the frost would retreat before a blazing fire. He cannot meet the Dunedain's eyes, but glares malevolently at the rest of you. "Very well, take them! A pox on you all." He pushes his sister away, and she sprawls into the snow.
"I will not forget. You have made an enemy this day and I will see to it that we bring your end." He spits at the ground by Morwen's feet. "Alright, you rabble. Let's get moving, it's a long way home." Without another word, he and his men depart.
Aestid picks herself up and brushes the snow off her fur cloak in as dignified a manner as she can. She gives Morwen a confused look. "I have no idea who you are or what just happened, but I thank you." She's about to say more, but she is interrupted by a groan from the fallen Beorning and runs to his side. "Ranulf, no! Oh, please, please don't die, please..."
Harry would have seen himself having great difficulty meeting the gaze of Viglar. But Morwen's bearing shows his petty spite as fog before her dawn.
Aestid's cry snaps him to attention.
"Bring water!", the Breelander calls to the others as he races over to the pair.
As Harry kneels beside Ranulf and swiftly begins retrieving the trappings of the healer, he says to Aestid:
"I will do what I can. I will!"
He sets to work, seeing how dire the situation is.
Illyria realises that her hand is still on her sword-hilt as though it - like the rest of her - doesn't quite believe how the situation resolved itself. She looks at Morwen with incredulity. So she just tells them to go away, and away they go? How did she DO that?!
But there was no doubting the tone of voice, of someone born to command. There was more royalty in her little speech than in anything Fengel might say in a year. It makes her acutely aware that although she was given a position of command, she never really earned it. And with that realisation, a flood of unpleasant memories come rolling back - but now is not the time.
She gives the redhead Ranger a nod of acknowledgment. "Nicely done." She tries to keep the negative emotions out of her voice. Fails.
Walking over to where the fallen man lies, she wordlessly passes Harry a waterskin before trying to draw the woman away from her fallen companion. "Our healer works best without an audience, I think. Why don't you tell us how you ended up here? We have only your brother's version of events, so far."
Ónar's stern expression does not fade as he watches the men back off, he does however nod appreciatively at Morwen's words;
"Aye. Put in their place without bloodshed... Most impressive."
As the others move to tend to the Bjorning he maintains a vigil, adding wryly;
Course t'was the threat o' facing a warrior o' The Lonely Mountain that likely sent them packing!"
Much like the others, Bergur can't quite keep from gaping as he looks at Morwen. His history lessons may have been...somewhat eclectic, but he knows the name of Isildur.
"Yes." He swallows hard. "Nicely done." He's not certain what else to say.
For now he joins Illyria in trying to comfort Aestid. "Don't worry, Harry is quite the impressive healer. He kept us all alive through an impressive number of scrapes in Mirkwood; I've no doubt that...Ranulf...will be just fine. Are you injured?" She doesn't look it, but best to be certain.
The pale-skinned, dark-haired woman resists momentarily, before allowing Illyria and Bergur to lead her away and let Harry work without interruption. She gives a grateful nod to Bergur: "My thanks to you, Sir, but I am unharmed." She rubs at her upper arm with one hand and gives a rueful look. "Save for some minor bruising and a wound to my pride at needing the aid of strangers to save me from mine own kin."
"As for how I ended up here... my brother's tale is truthful as far as it was told. My father did betrothe me to one of his loyal lords, Othbald." She shudders. "A man in his seventies and twice married already, and with a vicious reputation for feeding his enemies to his hounds."
Her gaze softens. "I met Ranulf when he visited on trade: we have no cattle, or cheese, or honey to match that of the Beornings, nor do they have grain or crops in the abundance that we do." She genteely glosses over the fact that the agriculture is built on slave labour. "Ranulf is a kind man, and he makes me laugh; we were to pledge troth to one another. And when my father swore to marry me away to Othbald, I sent word to Ranulf and stole away in the dead of night. I took a horse and hoped the snow would cover my tracks, but my horse stumbled and broke her leg and the snow stopped falling - even as I reached the Forest Gate I could hear the pursuit. We ran as fast as we could, but I am unused to it, I slowed Ranulf down and now - and now I fear..."
She wipes her eyes and steadies herself to regain a measure of composure. "Whatever happens, I am in your debt. And the House of Viglund honours its debts, always."
Harry continues to work with a diligent and swift pace.
Without looking away from his labours, he speaks:
"I can stop his bleeding but the chill will be the end of this man. We must get him to a safe place, with warmth, for him to rest properly!"
Harry will spend at least ten minutes, healing Ranulf this much:
Morwen watched them leave, her eyes narrowed. If she saw any show of them turning back or even looking back with the thought of attack upon their face she was ready to step in. But the longer she watched her eyes seemed to be looking off into a vast distance, eyes wider than before she started. Yet when the others praised her she began to put her scarf back on and returned to reality. "I'm sure." Morwen said to Ónar's words. "I did what has to be done. I can't stand by when people are worse than s~#%." She told the rest.
"Then we go back to Findrahil." Morwen said when she heard Harry's words.
"Illyria, can you carry Ranulf on Fæstlîeg? You could get back to them much faster than we could. We would be on your heels" Morwen asked of the rider.
Morwen looked to the young woman and said "Few in Middle Earth respect women. Oh they'll say they do, but the moment you speak out against something they want you to do suddenly your opinion doesn't matter." With a sigh she motioned for her to follow the rest of the group. "We're going further south in a bit, would you like some come with us? Get you and Ranulf back to his people when he recovers?" She asked.
Illyria nods. "I can put him on Fæstlîeg, but Findrahil has moved on," she reminds the Ranger. "The elves left with Belgo and Halla, remember? I think we should press on for this tavern we were told about - it can't be that much further."
She hopes. She could really, really do with a drink and some alone time to think about what she has seen and heard tonight. Her tone of voice is slightly short as she addresses Morwen, but that could just be because it's freezing cold and she is keen to get moving again.
Bergur tilts his head slightly as Morwen speaks. It's...interesting, to hear her opinion on how people treat women. He himself has had little experience with the matter.
(On the streets, Brigg had been an urchin, not a girl. Gender mattered little among the orphans on the street, and most were simply assumed to be boys. Ragni hadn't learned otherwise until she'd finally trusted him enough to give him her name. Under his care she'd spent a few years as a girl, but she'd still been young when he'd died and then she'd joined the army as Bergur. She's never really lived as a woman.)
Not that it mattered. Not right now.
"I agree with Illyria. Elves are hard enough to track under optimal conditions, or so I've heard; tracking them in the dark through a snowfall would be impossible. We can't be that far from the inn, if our map is correct. Findrahil did say it was only a day's journey away."
Bergur busies himself with helping Illyria secure Ranulf onto Fæstlîeg. She has to do the heavy lifting, but while she maneuvers him into place Bergur can use rope to tie him to the saddle.
"We should go. The quicker the better."
As the others engage the lorn lovers Ónar leans on his axe, listening and mulling their options;
"Aye. Pressing on would be a canny course."
Hefting his axe and pack once again, the doughty dwarf looks ready to make haste;
"The sooner we get the big lad to safety, the sooner we can enjoy a pint, a pipe and the warmth of fire..."
"Right..." Morwen breathed out. Half of her mind was obviously elsewhere. "Harry, can he ride?" Morwen asked. "I doubt he'd be able to walk and carrying him will slow us down and likely lead to his death. If it is only a day away we should be close... hopefully close enough."
Harry seems to think that it will be ok to let him ride and indeed much faster than trying to support him while walking.
Ranulf is heavy-set, like most Beornings, and it is quite a job to get him into the saddle - and it is slow going to keep him there (still much faster than walking though). He flickers in and out of consciousness, not really aware of his surroundings, but his hands do at least grasp the reins of the horse.
At your much-slowed pace, it is desperately late by the time the inn comes into view. The harsh, driving wind whips up the fallen snow into something approaching a blizzard, and but for the light of a single torch burning feebly at the door, you could have walked right past it in the dark. The building is made of elaborately-carved wood and thatched with straw; in daylight, or a Summer evening, it could look like a friendly, home-ish sort of place. Right now, it is boarded up, the storm shutters firmly fixed over the windows like barricades; and no light shines within. A weathered sign, with the name of The Easterly Inn painted on it in blue and green, swings on squeaky chains in the bitter wind. Only the feebly-sputtering torch outside suggests that it is inhabited.
A knock on the door brings nothing but silence - at least at first. Some moments later, there is a shuffling sound and then a bang as a small hatchway (large enough for a child's head) opens up stiffly in the door, perhaps 3 feet off the ground. A sleepy-looking small face with a mop of curly hair looks up at you warily. "Hello? Yes? Well? What do you want? If you're bandits, I should warn you to look elsewhere for your pickings! There are a hundred fierce warriors in here, and we're all armed to the teeth." His own teeth chatter, and not from the cold: he's clearly scared out of his wits.
Harry focuses on Ranulf and monitors the Beorning's condition as closely as he can.
When he sees the dual-openings, he smiles, remembering similar things from Bree, and gladly steps up to it, only having to lean down a little.
"Master Hobbit! I am Harry Kettlegrass, a man of Bree. We have a wounded Beorning man here who needs a warm fire to rest by. May we enter forthwith?"
Illyria blinks as the smaller hatch opens in the door and a child's face peers up at them. What is he doing up so late? And shouldn't his PARENTS be the ones to answer the door?
She's too surprised to say anything, and she simply watches as Harry makes the introductions.
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Ónar grumbles at the delay, keen to warm his bones by the fire with a pipe and pint as companions...
"Playing for time. Damnedable Hobbits. Likely hiding his best cuts, cheeses and beer afore he opens up to us..."
The Halfing's face looks surprised as Harry steps forward. "A Breelander! A long way from home, aren't you? And your companions, hmm."
The hatch slams shut, and you hear the muffled sound of a rapid conversation taking place on the other side of the door, before there's the welcome noise of bolts being unlocked and the clatter of a beam being removed from the door before it swings - cautiously - open.
In the pale glow of a single lantern, you see two short folk: Hobbits. Both are in their nightshirts although the nearer one has a dagger in the belt he has hastily put on, while the rear one waves the lantern as though it might be a useful weapon. The one who spoke to you is at the back, with a wary, frightened expression; the one at the front looks similar enough to him to be his brother, but his face shows his more easygoing temperament - although he is still cautious as he regards you and he gives you a polite nod rather than the more customary bow.
"Greetings travellers and well met - I hope... Come in, quickly please so we can get the door closed again. It's rather chilly out as I'm sure you noticed. If you'd care to lead your horse round the side, there's a stable there."
He hops from one bare, curly-haired foot to the other. "There is of course, the small matter of, er, payment."
Wordlessly, Aestid steps forward and removes her earrings (beaten silver chased with gold), dropping them into the halfling's palm. He blinks in surprise. "Oh, uh, that is, uh, unconventional but..." he looks at them, assessing their value, and beams. "That will do very nicely."
He offers you a formal bow, this time. "Dodinas Brandybuck, at your service. Everyone calls me Dody. This is my brother, Dindy. He will go and get the stable open for you."
Dindy is still rooted to the spot, but at the sound of his name he gives a start and scurries away. Dody gives a small not-quite-a-smile. "You'll have to forgive him - we weren't expecting any travellers for the next month or so, especially this late at night."
"My thanks, Master Dodinas Brandybuck, Esquire! We were originally tasked with finding you, you see. No less a figure than King Bard of Dale sent us with a gift for you!"
Realising that he is starting to go on, Harry adds:
"Ranulf here is sore wounded and needs warmth badly. Friends, we need a blazing fire to place him near, and as soon as it can be done!."
Illyria helps the wounded man off the saddle and indoors as quickly as she can manage, before returning to Fæstlîeg and leading him into the stable. Once there, she breathes in deeply several times, savouring the musty smell of hay and straw that seems to form the essence of any stable. It has a calming effect on her.
She removes her stallion's tack and bridle, bit and saddle, and lifts each one of his hooves, inspecting them meticoulusely and cleaing out any pebbles and dirt that she finds there. She then takes a handful of straw and vigourously brushes his coat, removing all of the burrs and knots that have accumulated over their journey these past few weeks. It's good exercise and it serves to warm her up.
Once that's done, she gives a nod to the halfling Dindy who opened the stable up for her. "My thanks. He will be comfortable here, i think." She does her best to stifle a yawn, and her curiousity. She longs to ask this person what he is, but senses it would be rude. Harry seemed to know, she makes a note to ask him at a convenient moment.
She gives Dindy a smile. "I'm ready to join the others now."
"That's right. I had almost forgotten about that when that filth came along." Morwen said with a sigh as they got in. Nodding at Harry's second statement she added "Without such he will die. Harry stopped his bleeding but he need to have a place to recover."
"In other words master Brandybuck, your inn is his only hope for life now."
Bergur starts slightly when Aestid removes her earrings. In a low tone, he asks her, "Are you sure you wish to give those up? We have coin enough." He well knows the value of small sentimental keepsakes, (a small silver comb that had once belonged to Ragni lies in the bottom of his own pack), and doesn't want Aestid to give up anything she might regret later.
Then again, it's entirely possible the earrings mean nothing to her, or even bring up bad memories, and she is happy to be rid of them. He simply wants her to know that she has a choice.
Meanwhile, he smiles and bows to the small halfling. "Bergur, son of Ragni, at your service. Thank you for letting us in, Master Brandybuck." Seeing the slight concern in the small eyes, he adds, "I understand you were not expecting company. If it would make you and your brother feel more at ease, I for one have no objection to leaving my weapons in your care."
"However, as my companion mentioned, looking for you is the primary reason we traveled out this way." He makes a vague gesture towards Ranulf. "We ran across Ranulf and Aestid by chance, but it is fortunate that we did. Harry is a skilled healer, but hypothermia is not easily overcome for a man already sorely wounded."
Ónar enters, "clopping" his heavy boots from any mud or dirt from the road .
He tips the nod to the hobbit patrons as he enters;
"My thanks Masters Brandybuck. Ónar, son of Óin at your service."
As the others begin to discuss the treatment of the Bjorning, the dwarf eyes the inn, his gaze scouring its content for signs of refreshment... At Bergur's words he chuckles gruffly;
"Laddie, our hosts have better things to do than port your arms... Perhaps tho' the little Masters could secure us some of their fine ale to slake our thirsts? Or a hearty spread to fill our bellies?"
Bergur starts slightly when Aestid removes her earrings. In a low tone, he asks her, "Are you sure you wish to give those up? We have coin enough."
Aestid looks fiercely at the shorter youth. "I'm very sure. Don't even think of trying to argue after everything you've done for us." Her tone brooks no dissent, as befitting the daughter of a lord.
" We were originally tasked with finding you, you see. No less a figure than King Bard of Dale sent us with a gift for you!"
Dodinas looks in surprise at Harry: "King Bard? Really? A gift? What is it?" He looks even more astonished when Bergur offers him his weapons - they're clearly over-sized for him. "That's, uh, very kind, nice gesture of, uh, trust but no, thank you. I'm sure I wouldn't know what to do with them."
The mention of the injured Beorning distracts him. "Of course, of course - come in, I'll get some blankets." He rushes around in a flurry of activity, throwing logs on the still-smouldering fire before disappearing down one of the side passages, returning moments later with several pale wool blankets. "Here, let's put him by the fire."
A few minutes later and there is a blaze of light emanating from the hearth, illuminating the room. You see that you are standing in the common room of a slightly unusual tavern: the tables and guest settings are all sized for humans (as is the ceiling), but the stairs, the entrance to the kitchen and the leather-upholstered bar are all clearly sized for halflings.
Dindy returns some moments later with Illyria and the two brothers urge you all to be seated: regardless of the lateness of the hour, it would appear that hospitality is an almost sacred duty for these people. The table is soon groaning under the weight of food: preserved meat, oatcakes and pickled vegetables mostly, as nothing grows or is harvested in the dead of Winter. Dody apologises as he labours under the weight of a ham that is almost as big as he is: "Sorry for this poor fare, we weren't expecting visitors this late in the year! I hope this will be enough." He looks anxiously at his brother. "Should we open a second ale cask, do you think?"
Once you have all eaten and drunk your fill, Dindy leads you up a small, winding staircase and to your rooms. These are comfortable enough, although slightly chilly from disuse, but the two Halflings provide extra blankets and wood for the stoves.
You pass the night in comfort and safety.
"Do not worry Dody." Morwen said with a small nod of thanks, "This is more than enough during this time of the year." She told them.
While the group sat around and drank and ate, Morwen watched the fire. After a few moments, of obvious contemplation, she asked the group "Do you have any questions you want to ask?" Taking a drink from her cup before adding "This maybe the only time I answer questions. And no question is stupid." She warned.
Bergur's eyes widen at the sight of the spread. "This is marvelous! Far better fare than I would have ever dreamed of asking for. Thank you again for your hospitality."
He is glad to see that the food is mostly preserved; he doubts they'll be able to eat all of it and the thought of wasting any makes him shudder. This way anything they don't eat can be put in the larder for another time. For similar reasons he shakes his head when Dody suggests opening another cask. "While I can not speak for the others, I don't usually drink too much. Let us see how far we get into the first cask before opening another."
Later, belly full and nursing his second mug of ale, he looks curiously at Morwen. He does have questions, many of them, but he's been afraid of offending the usually-taciturn woman. This is an offer that she herself says may not happen again. He should take full advantage of it.
"Earlier you said you were 'of house Isildur and heir of Rhudaur the fallen kingdom.'" His memory is good, so he's able to quote the phrase exactly. "I don't know anything about your people, but wouldn't that make you someone important? So...why did you leave your people and travel to Dale?"
"Hmm." Morwen hummed at Bergur's question. Taking a drink to mull over the best answer she could give, Morwen leaned foreword just a bit, looking at the fire that danced upon the logs warming the room.
"The Dúnedain are a larger group than you'd think... even with how small we are." Morwen explained as she pulled the blue scarf away to show the pendant once more. "They set up two Kingdom, The Kingdom of Gondor and The Kingdom of Arnor. Isildur was the last King of both kingdoms, after the death of himself and his three of his four sons, his fourth son Valandil took the throne of Arnor but not of Gondor. Arnor thrived till it came to the tenth king Eärendur. Upon his death, his three sons broke Arnor into the three kingdoms of Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur. After that fracture, the kingdoms constantly fought. It is from the line that claimed the lands of Rhudaur that I come from." She explained as she removed the necklace and held the pendant out for all to see. "Those of the line of Isildur and the three kingdoms have trinkets that where made to mirror the ring of Barahir. I've never seen the ring myself, but if my necklace is anything to go by it must be something like this. It is the only thing we have left from the Kingdom of Rhudaur." She paused long enough to take another drink and clear her throat.
"Some what important." Morwen answered with shrug of her shoulders. She returned the necklace to her neck before continuing. "I'm a woman. This world prefers men." She stated bluntly. "My father is my people's chief, and my younger brother was to take his place before he died. One would think being my father's only surviving child I'd be the one to take his place... however it seems my uncle's son thinks himself the better choice." Morwen sighed, obviously annoyed at the aspect. "Then I had an idea... they wouldn't think so much of him if I got us a chance at retaking Rhudaur. But to do that I need an army, and Kings are the ones with armies. I came to Dale to get in King Bard's favor, and hopefully even King Dáin II Ironfoot." She admitted honestly. "That is my goal. To return the Dúnedain of Rhudaur to their lands, and take my rightful place among them."
Harry smiles broadly:
"Ah, the hospitality of hobbits is one of the great joys of this world! I am indeed far from Bree. I have hardly time to miss it, with everything I have seen since. I would gladly partake in any food you have to hand. I doubt we shall need that second keg this night!"
****************
When Morwen starts talking, Harry almost interrupts, and then thinks better of it.
Eventually though, he seizes his chance!
"Morwen, you have placed me in quite the predicament! Only questions now? I suppose then I shall have to make them good ones!"
"First of all, do you have any idea what became of the Ring of Barahir? That would be a fine way to stamp your authority for all to see!"
"Second, do your people keep records of Bree? Back in the days of Cardolan or even Arnor? I would dearly love to read over such!"
"Third, how many know of your lineage? I imagine it is not a well known matter."
"Firstly, some what. The last King of Arthedain, Arvedui, gave the ring to the Lossoth of Forochel. A way of thanking them for the help they gave. Then we heard that some of the Dúnedain where able to ransom it back however words of were it is being kept now is harder to get. Just that it is in good hands. While you would think it would make a stamp of my authority, you're half right. To me the Ring of Barahir belongs to the line of Isildur that come from those of Arthedain. If I wanted to reclaim all of Arnor, then I'd completely agree. But I'm not."
"For your second question yes and no. We have stories but no written record. Much of that was lost when all the kingdoms fell. If we find ourselves in that area I'll introduce you to those who keep the stories we do have." Morwen promised with a nod.
"My people know... You all now know. Maybe a few who hear the name and see the pendant might be able to know if they remember their history." She shrugged then finished her drink and set the cup aside. "But seeing as it isn't something we openly speak too much about I doubt there are many more. The line of Isildur is small enough as it is... and my people have a... prophecy of sorts. Some people don't like prophecies."
Illyria hadn't realised until she started eating just how hungry she was: she is used to long journeys on horseback, but even by the standards of the Eorlingas it has been a long while since her last proper meal. Her hosts may be small, but they are gracious indeed, and her plate (and ale-cup) never seem to empty. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she puts down the last forkful of food, physically unable to eat any more.
She listens with interest to Morwen's story. She has heard of Isildur of course, but she has never been to Gondor, never seen the Tower of Guard. She knows next to nothing of their history. However, her people have a rich fund of songs and tales, and Morwen's tale and the mention of the Ring of Barahir jogs something in her memory, an old, old song. Once the Ranger has finished speaking, she softly sings:
"Proud are the words, and all there turned
to see the jewels green that burned
in Beren’s ring. These Gnomes had set
as eyes of serpents twined that met
beneath a golden crown of flowers,
that one upholds and one devours:
the badge that Finrod made of yore
and Felagund his son now bore."
She shakes her head at any questions. "I do not know who Beren, Finrod or Felagund were. It's just a song we sing."
She looks at Morwen. "I'm glad you said there are no stupid questions because I think I'm about to ask one. What are the Dúnedain?"
Ónar sits enjoying his pipe and the fare offered by their gracious hosts.
The dwarf seems more at ease now, his furrowed brow easing somewhat as he enjoys the words and tales being shared.
"That sounds about right." Morwen said when Illyria finished the poem. "Fits the look of my pendant in some regards. The flower of gold, the serpent, and even the emerald. Though mine sits in the middle of the flower and not the eyes. Guess they wanted a bigger jewel." She added.
"To your question Illyria, I can only give you basics. I'm not one of the story keepers. So here is what I know. Our people came to middle earth from the sea. We where known as Númenoreans then. They set up the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. We're similar to you the Rohirrim, as in we're mortal. We die when time whittles our bodies away... however if my death isn't violent or illness driven... I'll see your great grandchild married and even possibly have children." Morwen explained. "The normal lifespan of us is two-hundred forty to two-hundred fifty years. However we tend to have shorter lives because we're often killed. I'm twenty-nine. I'm almost still a child to my people. We don't even start to look middle aged till we reach our sixties. That is only if we've had a hard life."
Then Morwen looked to Ónar with a slight smirk on her face. "I believe you're the closest here that would have a chance to keep up with me years wise. Our hosts being the second."
Harry's eyes grow wide as he absorbs the implications of Morwen's words.
"Wonders lie even in the blood! For what it is worth, I would be glad to have you check in on any great-grandchildren of mine.", Harry says, glad of his company.
Ónar chuckles at Morwen's jape, raising his mug with a nod;
"Aye lass... We dwarves are indeed long lived, and those of us who are blessed can match the two hundred and fifty years of the noble Dúnedain..."
The warrior pauses, as if mulling his own words. As he does so his brow furrows in concerned thought;
Blessed not to be ill-augured.
He takes a deep puff of his pipe, but he remains silent...
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Illyria listens with a certain amount of incredulity, but the fact that nobody else at the table challenges Morwen's story - and the way that Morwen clearly is telling the truth - forces her to accept what she would otherwise dismiss.
A bit wide-eyed, she takes a swig of ale to gather her thoughts and takes refuge in some good-natured humour: "I've seen you fight, there's no way you're dying of old age!"
Morwen gave a slight chuckle and shrug of her shoulders at Illyria's words. "I don't know if I should take that as a compliment or insult." She said.
"But, either way I must give everything... My people shouldn't have to wait for some prophecy... To wait in the shadows while being hunted." Morwen stated, then let out a long slow sigh. "Not that even my people would care..."
All things considered, there are worse places to spend the depths of Winter than in an inn staffed by Hobbits. The food stores never run out, among other things; and it is warm and dry. Dody and Dindy prove to be good hosts and nothing is too much trouble.
Under Harry's watchful care, Ranulf makes a full recovery and is quick to express his gratitude to you all. He and Aestid are formally betrothed to one another on New Year's Day, although Ranulf makes it clear that he cannot wed without first presenting her to Beorn and receiving his liege's blessing.
The Winter outside is bleak, but indoors it is cheery and warm. The time flies past almost before you know it.
19 February 2947
The ground is still icy, and there is a damp chill in the air, but the last week or so has brought rain, washing the snow away - in most places, anyway. Here and there on the ground, banks of white still lurk in shade and shelter, where the meagre sun has not the power to dispel them.
It is fair to say though that the worst of Winter has departed, and in taking its leave has brought a small, but steady, trickle of visitors to the Easterly Inn: merchants for the most part, eager (or desperate) to get their wares to the markets of Dale and Esgaroth before their competitors do. For some of these traders of course, the Inn is their destination - and after nearly two months of preserved, pickled, dried, salted and smoked food, both Hobbits pay what you might consider to be exorbitant sums for the year's first vegetables - especially mushrooms, for some reason.
That evening, Ranulf approaches you with an invitation: "Aestid and I have decided that the way is clear enough for us to leave here and travel to pay our respects to Beorn. We would be grateful for your company - once we are there, I can reward you for saving me and I have no doubt that once I have introduced you to Beorn, he would want to give you his thanks for rescuing one of his kin."
He pauses. "Unless you have other plans?"
Harry beams as Ranulf comes around.
"Hello, Ranulf! I am Harry Kettlegrass of Bree, from Breeland, and I am most glad to be able to converse with you. I for one would gladly meet your liege."
Ónar enjoys the simple fare brought to the door and tables of the inn. The dwarf shares a pipe with any merchant, keen to hear any news of the roads and outside world.
Between feasts and words he contemplates their journey thus far, mulling what he could have done differently but also addressing concerns and facing fears...
At the offer from Ranulf, the warrior nods graciously;
"Well met big lad. Good to see you up and about and thinking o' the road. I cannae speak for the others, but like Master Kettlegrass here I would be honoured to meet your Lord who both hosted my Far and the rest of Thorin's Company, and stood with them at the Battle of the Five Armies."
Morwen spent many days of the winter alone before the fire or looking out the window at the falling snow. The ranger seemed to be contemplating something through the many days of winter proper. Though she did no completely ignore he travel companions, those they saved, and their hosts.
When the winter came to a more manageable time, and Ranulf seemed back on his feet, talking of leaving and even invites to meet the famed Beorn came up. She also understood why their hosts paid so much for mushrooms. Chopped and mixed with eggs, or grilled over the open fire they where amazing.
"I've nothing against meeting the leader of your people." Morwen said with a nod. "Also I want to ensure you're safely to your people. I didn't save you two just so you both could fall back into her brother's hands upon your journey home." She explained.