The Summons RPG

[piosenniel]

Burzdol’s post

Islist Scorn sat awaiting the next move from his friend, Elleradan, in their game of chess. Suddenly an Elf burst into their tent. The Elf looked very tired as he stumbled in and sat. "Are you Grod Scorn?" the Elf asked, without looking up.

"No, I'm sorry. He's out on a mission, tracking orcs I think. Why?" his son replied.

"Are you his son?" the Elf seemed not to notice his question.

"Yes. Why?" Islist was getting impatient.

"Here, take this." he said handing the Ranger a folded piece of paper.

The ranger started to read:
_____________________________________________

Grod,

I am sending Elven messengers to as many Ranger groups as I can. Aragorn is in trouble, and requests your help. Bring as many men as possible - meet him at Minas Tirith. Come as quickly as you can. This is very rushed, but we don't have much time. The Dark One’s forces are moving closer to ours every second. I have said before that his Eye was on Rivendell, now it's fixed on Gondor. Sadly, if you don't come, Gondor will fall. And much of what is good will fall with it.

Make haste!

Elrond
_____________________________________________

"Let me read that," Elleradan, the other Ranger said, grabbing it. As soon as he had finished, he quickly grabbed paper and quill. The man started to scribble plans, when he finally finished he looked up, satisfied.

The Ranger said, "Islist, here we start out, then to here, across there.......we are going right?"

"Yes! Find men and we'll go."

"Good, so here's the plan."

[piosenniel]

Himaran’s post

Elleraden quickly made revisions to the map. Soon, they had found a route south to Gondor, their ultimate objective. "We had best gather the rangers, and get provisions for the journey."

Islist nodded. "Go and call together any rangers that are at the camp. We march south at dawn."

Sadly, only seven other rangers were left at the camp. When he met him at the tent, Elleraden told Islist of the news. "Well, should we send for other rangers, or do we take only those here?"

[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen's post

Dûrvagor watched the buck make its way carefully towards the stream, its ears pricked for any sound of movement. Hearing none, it dipped its slender neck gracefully and took a drink from the stream. The ranger crept towards it, skillful as a cat, bow and arrow drawn. In a split second he stood and shot the arrow. The twang of the arrow hissed through the air stilling the surroundings.

In that instant the deer morphed into a stunningly beautiful woman with long curly black hair and a slender form. She turned quickly and caught the arrow which turned into a telescope as she held it to her eye. As the tube turned towards Dûrvagor he saw a little boy that resembled the woman before him. He had big blue eyes and dark black hair. The boy was standing barefoot on a ship deck, practicing knots. Then Ravenwyn came over and scooped him up in her arms, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Dûrvagor’s hand went to his own cheek where he suddenly felt her kiss. Then the boy faded and the scene changed.

The ship was docked at the ports at Harlond and Ravenwyn looked sad. The ranger saw a younger version of himself standing with her, saying their goodbyes. He watched solemnly as she walked up the plank onto the ship—it would be three years until he would see her again. And then they would have to decide what to do with their relationship—

The sun peaked the eastern hills, spreading its morning rays over Dûrvagor’s face. The man blinked and sat up. He had fallen asleep in front of the fire—which was now a black patch of burned log—having been too lazy to set up his tent. A group of rangers had just left to track an orc party a bit south of where they were and he had been relieved of duty for a while. He had taken the time to replenish his arrows and mend his cloak and the sole of his right boot.

The day came quickly and he was soon talking with others about things that needed to get done and spent the afternoon hunting. It was a success and he returned to the camp with a fair sized buck and four conies. He was just finishing up his hearty meal when the elf came and entered Islist’s tent. A few minutes later, Elleradan came out calling for the rangers to come hither and listen to what he had to say. His news was troubling, and Dûrvagor had hoped to stay put for a while. However, the honor of aiding Elessar was enough to make him eat his sword. All present volunteered and Islist ventured out, holding a piece of parchment, and addressed them. . .

[piosenniel]

Earendil Halfelven's post

He lay close to the ground, listening. The hoovebeats of a horse came closer. For two days, he had heard the sounds of a rider somewhere out there, but he had never been able to find the rider. Now the rider was coming to him.

Aravir slinked away into the deepening shadows of dusk to await the rider. As the last rays of the sun disappeared, the rider came up over the rise and into Aravir's full view. It was an Elf. The horse was at a slow trot.

He stepped out into the path and called, "Hail, Ellorwen!"

The elf recognized him and smiled while he brought his horse to a stop.

"Hail, Aravir of the Dúnedain. At last, I've found you," he said as he dismounted.

Aravir and Ellorwen shook hands in greeting. Then the elf handed Aravir a message.

"This message comes from Elrond. Aragorn is in need of his kin," the elf said.

"Aragorn!" Aravir replied as he read the message.

To all Dúnedain,
The enemy, Sauron, has arisen again. He has rebuilt his tower in Mordor, and his army makes preparations to assualt Gondor. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is in need of his kin. All Dúnedain that receive this message shall meet near Dol Goldur to make ready to answer Aragorn's call.

Elrond

Aravir folded it back up and returned it to Ellorwen.
"I'm on my way," he said. "May the Valar give you speed on your journey, Ellorwen."

"Thank you, elf friend. May the Valar aid you and the Heir of Isildur in this time of peril." Ellorwen mounted and galloped away.

Aravir looked north towards the Grey mountains. He was in northern Mirkwood on his way into the north on a personal mission. He was going to have to postpone his journey into the Forodwaith. Aragorn needed his help. As the darkness grew deep, he turned southward towards his destiny.
_____________________________________________

It had been two days since Aravir had received the message from Elrond. He had been traveling for two days and two nights and finally he was in sight of the meeting place. He quickened his pace.

[piosenniel]

Helkahothion's post

Bramen was outside his tent, fixing his old boots again. His was slapping the nails in the bottom to support the shoes better as an elf came rushing past. He was curious what his business was here. He finished up his shoe and put it on. It fitted nicely again and he strode over to the tent where the elf had entered.

As he entered, he saw the two boys discussing plans. He left that to them. It was not his cup of tea. He wandered what was going on when he was welcomed inside the tent.

"Come in, we need as many of the rangers as possible." Grod's son beckoned him.
Bramen entered the tent and closed the front behind him. He got the note and read it. Then he re-read it a couple of times and sat down for a while. He looked at the map where all sorts of scribbles where placed. The yellow paper had all kind of small notes and Bramen was surprised to see the cleverness in them. Bramen asked if the route was determent and the boys simultaneously confirmed that bit.

"Good. I will go to my work place and gather some things for down the road. Will you be needing anything?"

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post

Sorlas sat by the camp fire, Fletching new arrows for his quiver. As he stared at the flames he recounted the events that had brought him here.

It had been a cold night in late september, he and a few other rangers were patroling the boarders of the Shire, when three dark clad riders on black steeds came apon them, knowing what they were and knowing that they were out matched they fled. The Riders persued them east, they some how managed to get to Rivendell and there Elrond told him about the camp in Mirkwood, he wanted to return to the shire, but Elrond assured him that he would be of greater help if he was in Mirkwood.

He was disturbed from his thoughts as his knife slipped and nipped his thumb, he sucked at it for a minute, then went back to Fletching the arrows. He had been here for five months now and he was growing restless, he had heard rumors that the one ring had been found and that the Dark lord searched for it.

Suddenly an exhausted elf stumbled across the camp to Islist's tent. 'I wonder what that is about' he thought to himself as he watched, a few seconds later Elleradan came out of the tent and summoned them to Pack up and join them. ' what could be so urgent that he would summon them at once', he thought to himself as he picked up his fresh arrows and put them into his quiver.He then made his way over to Islist's tent to find out what was going on.

[piosenniel]

GaladrieloftheOlden's post

Herevion lay in a tent near the campfire, stroking his scar delicately with one hardened fingertip, thinking, the warmth coming from nearby almost lulling him into sleep. He could not even remember whether it was night or day, and they felt the same to him in his usual indifferent state. He was merely wondering whether he should leave the camp of Rangers or not, for he, though liking to learn new things, of which there were a-plenty here, wanted to test some of them in action again, for he was young as Rangers go. He pulled his finger from his scar and begna to rub his fingers through the weaving design embossed upon his long silver knife.

Suddenly, he heard voices outside of his tent. He propped himself into a sitting position and then stood up, bending down to get out of the door, for the voices were unmistakably coming in his direction. The messenger outside waved him over. “You have been called to the house of Islist Scorn,” he said, and flicked his hand vaguely in the general direction of it, though Herevion knew very well where the tent lay. He looked at the messenger cooly. “Thank you,” he said, with no emotion showing in his voice but the barest amount of courtesy, and started off towards the larger tent, content not to wonder till he got there.

[piosenniel]

Tarien Ithil's post

The light of midday peeked through the trees.

Rinoas was sitting at the foot of a huge tree. He lit his pipe and took a puff. A perfect ring of smoke sailed into the air and dissolved into nothing.

He heard the other men discussing the journey. An Elf had arrived at the campsite with a piece of rolled parchment.

Aragorn's messenger, thought Rinoas.

[piosenniel]

Arestevana's post

Tarannon II stood with hand on the hilt of the short sword at his waist. His fingers drummed the pommel impatiently. Peering into the leafy darkness of the forest around him, he watched for signs of life. Again he attepted to block out the small noises of the camp several hundred feet away. Unsuccessful, he ventured a few steps forward, trying to shake a growing feeling of uneasiness. He glanced up at the sky, watching a small feather of a cloud skitter across it. He listened to the familiar, if intruding, noises of the camp site...the light steps of his fellow rangers, the crackling of the small fires, small chimes of metal on metal as swordsmen tested their skills. Suddenly the noises changed. A slight decrease in volume, followed by a more substantial increase both in volume and in speed. Tarannon half-turned, hearing voices and movements. He paused, then swung around decisively and headed toward the tents.

Reaching the campsite moments later, Tarannon found it partially disassembled. Listening to the talk around him, he deduced that their assistance in battle was called for. Looking around he caught sight of someone standing at the door to Islist's tent. He looked again. An Elf! Now what's this about? He thought. Edging nearer the tent, he caught a few words from the obviously exhausted messenger. "Lord Aragorn....Pelennor fields....needs your help...." Excitement, a rare if not obsolete emotion in Tarannon, now threatened to overwhelm him. Battle was coming! Battle on the Pelennor fields! He watched as Elleradan joined the messenger at the tent's entrance, the thrill of battle so strong in him that it blocked the man's words, even loud as they were. He did not nedd to hear them to know what they were. Smiling grimly, he reached for his own saddle bags, already packed, and untied his granite-colored stallion. A summons.

[piosenniel]

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[Burzdol]

Islist walked between his horse and his tent, preparing to leave as soon as possible. As he started to add his provision bags, a sound of galloping horses came through the small camp. His father, Grod, and his men were back.

The horses stopped short os Islist's tent. The ranger scanned the horses, his father's was there, but the man himself wasn't. The rangers quickly dismounted and took someone into the hospital tent. He knew who it was, his father. Islist rushed over to see him. Grod lay on a bed, a large sword wound in his left shoulder.

"Father, are you allright? What happened?" Islist asked.

"I'm fine son. Just a little cut on me arm. Nothin' much. So, why you packing?" he said in his usual cheerfu tone.

"Elrond sent a letter, we must go aid the heir, Lord Aragorn. We leave tommorow. I thought you would be able to come after you arrived, guess not."

"Don't worry. As soon as this heals up, I'll bring my party to aid you. You best not waste your time here, you've got to pack. Run along now."

"Heal fast. Goodbye father," with that he left the tent.

He arrived back at his tent and went back to his packing.When he had finished, he walked to the center of the town. As he passed them, he told the members of his party to come with him. Soon they were all there.

Islist jumped on a beer barrel and started, "Every one, we leave at this time tomorow. Actually, meet here at sunset. We shall leave then. Tonight, get every thing packed on your horse, then strip it down. Keep it in a pile inside your tents. Remember how it went on. Tomorow I want you all to rest and say goodbye to the others not coming. You are coming because of your skills and loyalty. We need no other rangers. The ones that have just arrived will come as soon as possible. The time to get more rangers is too great, so we must not try. I expect you all to be on time, and any one who is not is left. Do I make my self clear?"

"Yes sir," they all answered together.

Islist's stern face suddenly turned to a smile and said, "Now, let's celebrate one last night," and he jumped off the barrel, grabbed mugs, and within minutes had every one a mug of dwarven malt beer.

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: Burzdol ]

[Arestevana]

Tarannon grabbed a mug and shouted for a toast. After three hearty cheers had been given for the Lord Elessar and for Islist, he drank deeply and set his mug on a vacant stump. Striding over to his campsite, he unpacked his horse and set his things aside to wait until nightfall.

Tarannon wandered over to Bramen's tent and ducked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. He saw his friend sitting in the corner, diligently polishing an arrow shaft. Tarannon watched the work progress, gaining new appreciation for his friend's work. Though he had made his own arrows for many years, they were nowhere near as fine as this. Bramen paused once to look up questioningly at Tarannon, who merely shrugged. Talking was not his favorite pastime. He watched for several minutes more before, overcome with restlessness, he moved outside.

Struggling to stay his impatience, Tarannon glanced up at the clouds. Storm brewing, he thought. He could not keep from wishing the sun to sink; for darkness to come. He paced around the edge of the camp. Finally he stood still, staring into the fire. This lasted for only seconds, and then he was off again. He moved back to Bramen's tent, hoping his friend could calm him.

[Himaran]

Elleraden grunted in frustration as he attempted to clean the pot covered in a thin film of sauce. No matter how hard he scrubbed, nothing seemed to remove the sticky mass. The door behind him creaked open. "May I assist you?"

Smiling, the ranger lowered the pot into the sink and rubbed the soap over it again. "No thank you Hellen, I can manage. But could you get me another cake of soap? I'm almost out."

Elleraden had spent much of the evening preparing for the journey, before having a final supper at the house of one of his dearest friends. Hellen was a plump elderly woman whom Elleraden had saved from a band of slavers several years before. She had lived at the ranger camp ever since, and had always been on of his most special friends.

Later that evening, after finishing the dishes, Elleraden hurried over to the main hall, not wanting to be late for the meeting. When he arrived, Islist had already begun his speech.

"Every one, we leave at this time tomorow. Actually, meet here at sunset. We shall leave then. Tonight, get every thing packed on your horse, then strip it down. Keep it in a pile inside your tents. Remember how it went on. Tomorow I want you all to rest and say goodbye to the others not coming. You are coming because of your skills and loyalty. We need no other rangers. The ones that have just arrived will come as soon as possible. The time to get more rangers is too great, so we must not try. I expect you all to be on time, and any one who is not is left. Do I make my self clear?"

"Yes sir," they all answered together.

Islist's stern face suddenly turned to a smile and said, "Now, let's celebrate one last night," and he jumped off the barrel, grabbed mugs, and within minutes had every one a mug of dwarven malt beer.

Conversation soon became merry, and stories were told by various rangers. Elleraden took the time to meet the new rangers that were coming with them.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor rummaged through his things, trying without success to find the clean shirt he had recently bought. Having no success he cursed, and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

“I could have sworn I—Oh yeah!” He turned suddenly and swept over to the pile of things by his mat and pulled a crisp white shirt from the middle of the pile. He put it on and laced up the front, leaving it open enough to allow circulation. The ranger then rolled up the sleeves and put on a thin darkish gray jerkin, not bothering to clasp it shut. He emerged from his tent, tying up the back of his longish brown hair, just in time to hear Islist tell them to be ready to leave later tonight and have a drink—well more or less.

Dûrvagor cheered along and raised his own tankard up for the King and young Islist. He had caught the humor in being led by Islist, who was a good half of Dûrvagor’s age, but as his friend Rinoas had pointed out, “Probably three times as mature.” It was true, Dûrvagor thought with a bemused smile. Islist’s father had been a born leader and was whom everyone could turn for consolation and advice. Dûrvagor’s parents on the other hand had been born middle-class but had worked their way up through mere eloquence and honey tongued entertainment. Ah, the ranger admired them for that. He too had inherited the talent, but had also inherited the uncanny ability with a sword that had belonged to his grandfather: a simple yet town-famous fencer of Harlond.

The ranger downed his second tankard and decided that was enough. One of their number had begun to tell a story and soon the ranger’s more favorite of pastimes was in place: telling of past “one-times”—the name Dûrvagor had given their stories.

“We should get to packing,” suggested Sorlas. Most of them agreed and moved back to their tents, gathering the few things they would need and arranging them on their horses.

“So, did he say we were leaving tonight or tomorrow?” asked Rinoas, coming over to Dûrvagor as he struggled to untie an especially tight knot on his saddlebag.

“Sunset tomorrow,” answered Dûrvagor, finally loosening the knot. “I think,” he added, not quite sure if he heard Islist right. The ranger shrugged and bent down to pick up his second bag and tie it to his horse’s saddle.

“Do ye really need all that Dûrvagor?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“Ah, go back yer own horse!” he answered jovially, shoving Rinoas on his way. Dûrvagor turned back to Pernolë: his sorry excuse for a horse. Pernolë wasn’t a bad horse, just a silly one. Tûrvagor had bought him for his son during their last meeting. Pernolë had previously been called Araroch, or ‘noble horse’—he had also been the prized steed of a ritzy city-boy. But Dûrvagor immediately decided the name didn’t fit its owner and re-named him Pernolë, or ‘half-wit’. While the majority of his friends’ horses were clever and battle-trained, his was foolish and unlearned in the ways of a true ranger’s mount. Dûrvagor promised to teach him though, and had decided that this outing would be good for him, even if Pernolë did seem to step high like a show-horse.

He hadn’t always had Pernolë. Before the white steed was given to him he owned Linteroch: a dark brown mare with white hooves and a black mane and tail. She had been his best horse and seemed to be able to read his mind. He had had her for ten years before he decided to retire her and gave him to his mother for pleasure rides around the countryside. Dûrvagor had pretended not to notice, but it seemed that Linteroch had gotten younger and healthier since he gave her up.

“The life of a ranger’s horse just was not meant for her,” Dorvawen had said, stroking her new horse’s hide lovingly.

Dûrvagor brushed away his thoughts and finished putting his things on Pernolë’s saddle. Then he took them off again and set them inside his tent, loosing Pernolë with a sharp slap to her bottom to go graze with the other horses.

“More ale?” called Sorlas from the ring of rangers long finished with their packing. Dûrvagor pretended to think on it for a while before shrugging it off with a boyish grin.

“Ah, why not!”

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion looked about him as he packed, noting everything with a cold feeling of not caring, smiling very rarely. He rolled up his needed belongings in a sack, tying it to the back ot his horse, Thoron. His sword dropped from his belt suddenly, banging on his knife and on somebody’s bow. He picked it up gracefully, and put it back in, but paused before doing the same with his knife. He stopped for a moment, led his hand dreamily along the design of silver, then sighed and stuck it into its sheath, transfering his hand to his scar, running down the length of it.

Raising a pair of bright green eyes under brows too arched to let him be handsome, Herevion looked around the room, at those he should travel with. He saw perhaps seven, perhaps eight men, all packing for their journey, almost all of them older than him. He had slightly met most of them, but he did not venture out of his tent much, so not all. One man had a scar along the left of his face, just as he did, he noted. Ironic, he thought, how we all even get injured in the same way. He didn’t want to be like the others, for sure, though he had no particular dislike for any of them. He barely did do anything much like them. He even drank differently, and certainly far less, a few drops being enough for him. This wasn’t the life for him, yet, but perhaps, when they started out...

[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Nerindel]

Sorlas was making his way to Islist's tent when Grod's Company arrived back at the camp, he watched as the riders ground to a sudden halt at the healing tent, they dismounted carrying someone to the tent, he couldn't see who it was over the other rangers. He was just wondering who it could be when he saw Islist rushing over to the tent. A look of concern spread across his face as he realised he hadn't seen Grod in the group.

He stopped one of the rangers that were now passing him to warm themselves at the fire, "What has happened" he asked, The older Ranger looked at him and seeing his expression he smiled weakly and said " Grod was injured, but not seriously." looking at the man he could see and smell the orc blood that was splattered across his clothes, "It went well other wise" he asked wrinkling his nose at the smell. The ranger Laughed noting his look and looking at his own blood stained clothes, "indeed it did, we kill the lot o' those stinking creatures" he boasted. Sorlas shared in the rangers mirth until he excused himself wishing to wash and change.

Sorlas turned to go look for Elleraden to find out why they were being summoned, but as he turned he saw Tarannon heading towards him leading his granite coloured horse, the two had become good friends during their stay at the camp. Sorlas had noted that Tarannon preferred to stay outside the camp most of the time seeking solitude, so he was surprised to see him and even more surprised to see him packed "are you leaving us" he enquired raising an eyebrow. Tarannon looked at him puzzled, then realising that he didn't yet know of the letter he proceeded to tell him about it.

"So we are to aid lord Aragorn" sorlas said swelling with pride "it shall be a great honour."

Just then Islist strode passed them saying "follow me", they followed and as they did he notice other of Islist's company followed also, some of them he knew and others he did not. He listened intently as Islist spoke to them, then he went round them handing out mugs of dwarven ale. Sorlas sipped at his gingerly remembering the day he had first arrived at the camp, Elrond had given him a message to give to Grod when he arrived, what was in the message he knew not, Grod had assigned him too his son's company, that night Islist had opened a barrel of dwarven ale to welcome him to the camp, but that is all he can remember of that night for the ale had quite a kick, of course he had heard the usual stories of what he had done but he would not believe any of it.

Sorlas then decided he would prepare and pack and his horse before he drank anymore. He found Telpëtal (Silver-Foot) grazing near his tent, as he drew nearer Telpëtal nuzzled him looking for a treat " sorry boy I have nothing for you tonight" the horse snorted and went back to eating the grass. Sorlas packed then repacked making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, once satisfied he decided to rejoin the group.

"More ale" he cried, forgetting his reservations.

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Earendil Halfelven]

Aravir's ears picked up the sound of cheering and mugs clanking as he drew nearer. He lead his horse through the forest while the sun descended into the horizon. He figured that he probably would need his horse, so he stopped at Thranduil's place and picked up his steed. He didn't want to take it into the northlands but his plans changed.

Firelight from the camps shone brightly. Aravir entered the clearing to see many of his kin having a good time as they "prepared" to answer Aragorn's call. He tied his mount to a tree near the other horses, and headed over to find the leader of this band. He saw many of his friends were already here.

"Ahhh, Hervevion! Greetings friend. Glad to see you're part of this motly crew," he said.

Hervevion looked over and nodded. Ha, good ol' Hervevion. He never was one for talking, Aravir thought. He laughed out loud as he headed off, leaving the young Hervevion to packing his horse.

"Aravir, I didn't know you were here," said a voice from behind. He turned and saw that it was another one of his kin, Elleraden.

"Hail, Elleraden. Glad to see you," Aravir said as they clasped hands.

"I thought you were heading up north," Elleraden said.

"I was in sight of the Ered Mithrin, but I was found by an Elven messanger from Elrond. And...here I am," Aravir replied. "I'll just have to put my journey on hold. The Heir of Isildur calls."

"I'm sorry to stop you from looking for your father. I know you were looking forward to that journey," Elleraden said.

"No matter. It'll just wait," Aravir said with a smile. "Oh, who's the leader of this company?"

"Islist," Elleraden replied. He turned and pointed. "He's off in that direction. It would probably be good to report to him."

"You read my mind, friend. After that, you know where to find me...by the malt beer, dwarf malt beer if my nose serves me rightly."

"Ha, you were always one to follow your nose, Aravir," laughed Elleraden. The two headed off as Aravir went to find Islist.

On the way, he saw more of his comrades of old: Dûrvagor, Bramen, Tarannon, Rinoas, and many others.

After he reported to Islist, he headed on over to the malt beer. He needed to make up for lost times. Then he saw another familiar face.

"Sorlas? Is that you?" he said.

The man turned. His face lit up with recognition. "Aravir, old friend! I was kind of hoping you'd show up." The two greeted eachother with clasp hands and a hug.

"I'm glad to see again, Sorlas. Did you find what you were looking for when we went to Fornost?" Aravir asked.

"Unfortunately, no. Maybe another journey somewhere in the future will have different results," Sorlas replied.

"Well, old friend, why don't we make up for lost time around a nice mug of malt beer," Aravir suggested with a wink.

Sorlas laughed as they headed on over to make merry with the rest. Aravir knew, that with many of his friends and kin in the group, the journey to Gondor was going to be a delightful one.

[Burzdol]

Islist seperated himself from the story telling group, and got out his favorite throwing knife. He brandished it as he traveled farther out. The ranger stopped in a clearing. With a swift throw, he buried the knife in the nearest tree with no particular intent. A rustle suddenely was heard behind him. He spun, and was about to throw, when Hellen stepped out.

"Why there you are Islist. I've been looking for you," the plump women said, walking to the man.

"Yes, well, you found me. What is it that you wanted to talk about?" he asked.

"Well, your father. He said he would be alright, but that was an understatement. His wound was infected by poison, orc poison. The wound was immediatly cared for, but it'll be awhile 'till he'll be okay again. You okay?"

Islist face showed his emotions more than usual. He looked down at the ground, and started, "He will be okay, won't he? I lost my mother to those foul beasts, and I'm not going to lose my father!"

"He'll be fine, I swear on my life......" the man left her talking to herself.

As he left he said," Don't expect me back all that soon. And then he was gone, the old women slowly walked back to the camp. Islist watched from atop a nearby tree, as soon as she was gone he hopped down. He went back to the clearing and sat in thought. Another noise in the bush revealed Elleraden, but Islist never raised his head.

"I followed Hellen here, thought you might need a drink," he said holding up a mug.

"I thank you, my friend. For everything," he said looking at the other ranger. Elleraden sat with Islist, talking and drinking, passing the hours in each others company.

[Himaran]

Elleraden soon spotted a friend. "Aravir, I didn't know you were here."

"Hail, Elleraden. Glad to see you," Aravir said as they clasped hands.

"I thought you were heading up north," Elleraden said.

"I was in sight of the Ered Mithrin, but I was found by an Elven messanger from Elrond. And...here I am," Aravir replied. "I'll just have to put my journey on hold. The Heir of Isildur calls."

"I'm sorry to stop you from looking for your father. I know you were looking forward to that journey," Elleraden said.

"No matter. It'll just wait," Aravir said with a smile. "Oh, who's the leader of this company?"

"Islist," Elleraden replied. He turned and pointed. "He's off in that direction. It would probably be good to report to him."

"You read my mind, friend. After that, you know where to find me...by the malt beer, dwarf malt beer if my nose serves me rightly."

"Ha, you were always one to follow your nose, Aravir," laughed Elleraden. The two headed off as Aravir went to find Islist.

Later, he talked with Islist over a cup of fiery dwarven spirits; a special favorite (and an occasional addiction) of his.

Aravir then returned holding up his empty glass. "Might a friend be able to fill my empty pint?"

Elleraden chuckled and obliged. "I think that we'd all better finish packing. After we finish our drinks."

It was then Aravir's turn to chuckle. "Of course."

[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Nerindel]

"Sorlas? Is that you?" he said.

The man turned. His face lit up with recognition. "Aravir, old friend! I was kind of hoping you'd show up." The two greeted eachother with clasp hands and a hug.

"I'm glad to see again, Sorlas. Did you find what you were looking for when we went to Fornost?" Aravir asked.

"Unfortunately, no. Maybe another journey somewhere in the future will have different results," Sorlas replied.

"Well, old friend, why don't we make up for lost time around a nice mug of malt beer," Aravir suggested with a wink.

Sorlas laughed as they headed on over to make merry with the rest.

Aravir and Sorlas talked long about what they had been up to since their last meeting, as they recounted their various tales other in the company piped in as they heard their names mentioned,there was much laughter and merry making. Sorlas was glad to see the mirth in the group it was little seen of late.

Aravir then got up to find a fresh ale, Sorlas looked down at his own contemplating weather it would be safe enough for him to have another. As he looked up he saw Tarannnon and Dûrvagor laughing at him

"Afraid we will have to carry you back, friend" they laughed together.

"Not at all" he laughed shareing in their jest "It's just that I fear I shall forget all before I wake... well maybe not all, that has to be the whitest shirt I have ever seen" he said jokingly tipping his mug in the direction of Dûrvagor's new shirt, being careful not to spill any on the man he had come to think of as the most meticulous and tidy ranger in all the lands.

[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Helkahothion]

Tarannon stepped back into Bramen's tent. He was busy preparing as many arrows for his leave. He always had his best shot with his own and had already packed two quivers full of them on the side of his horse; ready to be fired if needed. Bramen had stuck the last arrow in his quiver he always carried on his back and was now packing his toolbox. No matter where he went, he always caried it around. He thought it was vital to everyone's survival.
Tarannon stepped towards his old friend and Bramen smiled as he closed his toolbox.
"Need a pack of arrows friend? You should have come a little sooner."
Tarannon smiled back and sat down next to Bramen. They both sighed. Bramen had a tankard of beer next to him and emptied the last half that it contained. As he stood up, he gave his boots one last checkup and then pulled them on his feet. He beckoned Tarannon and stepped outside. He went to pack his gear on his horse. He said goodbye for now to Tarannon and gave him a broad smile. He was going to ride out again. Staying behind while the other where hunting Orcs had been very frustrating for him. It would be nice to have a little battle again.

Bramen tried his old bow again and it still worked perfectly. The string had been taken care of perfectly and age did not take its toll on it. He shot some more of his precious arrows and then collected them back in his quiver. He saddled up his horse, whose name was Horta, and bound his toolbox under the quiver on the left. Being a left-handed, he could always take his tools quickly. Bramen had packed practical. An axe for firewood, his toolbox, quiver and a big piece of textile to that could be made into a tent if needed. The rest of his packing was only food. The man looked satisfied and patted Horta.

Bramen went back to the fire where all the other man where gathered. Islist was already ready to leave and Bramen searched around the fire to find Tarannon. He found him sitting near the barrel with ale. Bramen went over and poured himself another tankard.
"Tomorrow we ride. Are you ready Tarannon?"
"Of course Bramen. Can't wait."
"True, true."
Bramen drank his ale and just talked for a while with Tarannon, on which he had grown an extreme liking, before going to his tent for sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

[ May 29, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[Himaran]

Having already gathered his rations, blankets and other necessaties, Elleraden had only to collect his array of weaponry for the trip.

Entering his tent, he found his newly polished broadsword. Sheathing it, the ranger chose several knives from the wall, along with a small, light bow and a quiver of arrows. A sad smile crossed his face as he read the name carved into the bow. It had been his father's, and was the only piece of knowledge he had about either of his parents.

Then, opening a specially carved wooden case, he withdrew his prize weapon. It was a small hatchet, which could be thrown if the need came. Its heavily polished black handle flashed in the lantern light, attached to a the cold steel of the crescent blade. It carried no jewel, but still held the beauty of an earlier age, and a greater one. A tool not for decoration, but for death.

Hurrying outside, he attached the various weapons to his leather belt and heaved the bags onto his horse. Once finished, Elleraden reported to Islist.

[Burzdol]

Islist returnedto his tent and gathered his weapons for the trip. He soon laid on his bed an old, weathered broadsword and started to clean any blood stains off as possible. He next laid out his elven longbow and three quivers full of hand made arrows.

"Islist, sir, I am ready and a few others of the camp are as well. Should we leave sooner," Elleraden asked from behind Islist.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were there."

"Hey, what sword is that? That's not yours is it?"

"It was my fathers. He gave it to me when I last visited him. It was his granfathers, so it is very old. Its name is Nariel, never failed my father yet."

"Oh, I just came to report that. I'll just leave now," Elleraden left his statement trail away as he left.

Islist turned back around to his weapons. He lifted his bed to grab three small throwing knives. No one knew about the knives, and he intended to keep it that way until they were needed. He then got a small chest and pulled out a small sack full of money thinking he would need it in the future. Islist hit the inside bottom of the chest and it broke through. Laying on the bottom was a knife. He had seen its sister weapon on his friend Elleraden. He had a hatchet that was made at the same place from the same materials. His blade was of no particular beauty, but his blade was made for the purpose of death.

The ranger looked over his armory again, then put it on his to pack pile. Then he sat on his bed until the sleep weighed down his eyes.

[Nerindel]

It was late and the company started to disperse and return to their tents for the night. With a yawn Sorlas too excused himself and ducked under the flaps of his tent, it was big enough inside to easily accommodate two but he preferred to sleep alone.

He sat down on his bed roll and rechecked his gear again, he was sure that he would forget something, he then lifted a small weather stained leather pouch from his belt and carefully opened it, checking its contains, There was some Gallows-weed, Galenas leaves, Dandelion roots and a small piece of Salierim root. ' yes, that should suffice for now' he thought. Satisfied that he could find more on the way if needed, He carefully put the healing herbs back into the leather pouch and sat it with the rest of his gear.

He then turned his attention to the weapons he would be taking with him on the journey. His long sword was by his side as always, he was never parted with the heirloom of his family, he unsheathed it to see if it needed sharpened before they left. The blade glistened in the dim light of the lantern in his tent, at the top of the blade just below the guard was engraved a tall ship with a rayed star above it, it also had the intricately inscribed words, 'Let the stars guide you' engraved on it in the noble Adûnaic tongue of his ancestors. He sighed as he slid the sword back into the sheath, he longed to know more of his ancestors but his searches had all revealed nothing, the sword was the only clue he had to his heritage. He then unfastened his belt and laid the sword by his bed.

Reaching down he pulled a small black handled knife from his boot, the edge was slightly blunt so he pick up a small wetting stone and spat on it once, then proceeded to sharpen the blade, as he worked he looked over to his long bow and quiver that sat in the corner of the tent, he smiled pleased with the arrows he had made earlier, he now had two score sitting in the brown leather quiver.

'Ah! Feathers!' he cried remembering what it was he had forgotted, he jumped up putting the stone and knife down on the bed and began searching the tent for the black feathers he had gathered earlier, he soon found them sitting in a small stone mortar at the other end of the tent. He thought to take the mortar aswell but then feeling its weight he decided against it, he took the feathers and squeezed them into the hidden pocket on his quiver, then returned to sharpening his knife.

Once the knife was sharp again he carefully placed it into the sheath that was sewn into the inside of his boot and put the Sharpening stone into his pack. Yawning again he removed his boots and flopped down on to the bed, falling a sleep almost a once.

[ May 30, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Tarien Ithil]

Rinoas Imrith puffed on the fifth pipe he'd had that day.
He scopped up some dirt in his palm and sifted it through is fingers. The sky was dark and star-spangled. Crickets chirped.

Rinoas' tent was erected beneath a tree. A lamp, hanging on a branch, was burning faintly. The murmur of soft chatter was all around the campsite.

Tarannon walked up carring a clay bowl of soup.
"Thank you," said Rinoas, and he took the bowl.
"So, where do you come from?" asked Tarannon.
"Gondor," replied Rinoas and sipped the soup. "What about you?"

"Dunedain. My mother was from Gondor, though," he replied.
The sky suddenly rumbled.
"Looks like a storm," said Rinoas.
"I'd better go to my tent," said Tarannon.

[Arestevana]

Tarannon left Rinoas and headed for his tent. He ducked inside his small shelter, double checking his pack. He removed his sword and laid it aside. Next to it he laid his bow, followed by his quiver. He felt for the wrist sheath, then hesitated. He twisted his forearm with a practiced motion and the blade flashed into his hand. He listened for a moment, and the blade left his hand with an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist. It pierced the cloth covering the door of his tent; a tearing noise followed by an audible thunk. Rinoas' voice intruded on his senses, extracting a small smile.
"Very funny Tarannon."
The knife flew back at him, not even tearing another hole in the tent's entrance. It landed at his feet. Tarannon strapped it back to his wrist; just a little looser than before.

His pack in readiness, Tarannon lay down, his head cushioned by a rolled cloak. He slept, and dreamed. But his dreams were haunted by memory. The darkness swelled around him in a protective cloak. Such a thing, darkness. A veil, for or against you. In which nothing is certain.He rolled over. It is gone, he thought harshly. Fool, let it go! You cannot call it back. Still he haunted himself. Call it back. Yes, call it back. Anything to call it back.Not my fault! Again he turned, fighting the familiar emotions. A stray arrow, nothing more. Not my fault!Not my fault. It is gone.

Then his sleep was quieted, and his dream passed. But the memory did not.

[Himaran]

When Elleraden rose early the next morning, the sun was barely peaking out over the broad trees of eastern Mirkwood. Taking a deep breath of the fresh forest air, the ranger was satisfied that he was ready for the journey.

Dressing himself appropriately for the start of the long trek, Elleraden hurried over to the lodge for breakfast. He found Aravir there already, sipping a mug of hot tea and enjoying a sizeable platter of roasted potatoes and bacon.

"All set for the trip, Elleraden?"
"As prepared as possibly, I suppose. Did you leave any for the rest of us?"

Eyeing his large meal, the ranger concealed his smile and played along. "Well, the cook mentioned that he saved some of yesterday's stew. No doubt he would give you a bowel, or two even."

Grimacing at the memory of the truely horrible soup, Elleraden hurried to recieve his fill from the morning's menu. He soon returned with a serving equal in size to that of his friend's.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor woke to the ray of sunlight streaming in through his open ten door. He rose and stretched, yawning away his peaceful sleep. The ranger poked his head out of the door and looked at the sun. It had just peaked over the eastern hills and was spreading its light across the sight.

“Oh good,” said Dûrvagor, “I’ve not slept in.” He paused, rethinking what he had just said and shook it away, dressing quickly in a clean linen shirt and a gray jerkin embroidered with blue designs on the seams decorating the front, bottoms, sides, and wings. He had a bit of trouble pulling on his boots and then realized it was because he had stuffed stocking in the foot of each. It was another five minutes before he was fully dressed, and the correct weapons and pouches hung from their correct places on his belt, and a cloak draped stylishly over his broad shoulders. Grabbing his two bags and blanket roll, he walked out of his tent and whistled for Pernolë. The white horse came stepping up from the stream to his master.

Dûrvagor finished with Pernolë, and walked lazily over to the lodge. Elleraden and Aravir were already inside, eating hearty breakfasts.

“Good morning,” said Dûrvagor, as he joined them holding a smaller version of their morning meals and a mug of herbaceous tea.

“Got your horse all saddled up and packed,” said Elleraden looking out at Pernolë who was standing awkwardly trying to figure out what was on his back and why. Dûrvagor glanced towards his horse and then back at his friends.

“Hmm? Oh, heh, that horse. No, I—I haven’t a clue what you—yeah, yeah all set. Th—that’s my horse.” He sighed dramatically adopting a nostalgic expression and then tucked into his breakfast.

[Arestevana]

Tarannon woke. He shook his head, but couldn't clear the drowsiness out of it. To much to drink? No, it took more than a mug of Dwarven malt to give him a hangover. Standing up, he stumbled out of his tent and toward the stream. He leaned over and splashed cold water on his face. Unoticed, his horse walked up behind Tarannon and made himself useful by knocking his rider into the stream. Tarannon came up spluttering. He could hear laughter from the direction of the lodge. Cursing inwardly, he glared at his steed and heaved himself onto the bank. Though he was thouroughly drenched, his head was clear and he remained unharmed. However, he also seemed to have swallowed quite a lot of rather fishy water. He walked back to his tent to change.

Now dressed in dry riding leathers, Tarannon walked to the lodge. He filled a plate and joined the three others who were already there. Durvagor grinned at him, and he smiled ruefully. Aravir appeared to be choking, but Tarannon suspected that he was trying to stifle his laughter. Elleraden looked up from his plate, glancing first at Aravir, then at Tarannon. Immediately he turned away, a poorly disguised chuckle only half hidden. Slightly hurt, Tarannon frowned. Then he thought back to the incident. Okay, maybe it was funny. He grinned. Soon they were all laughing. Tarannon laughed too, feeling happy rather than ashamed. He did feel slightly foolish, though, when Durvagor reached over and pulled a string of river-weeds out of his sopping wet hair, laughing even harder.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Burzdol]

Islist woke with a tray of breakfast at his side. Hellen was bustling around him, singing to her self. She saw him and gave a small wave, then left. The ranger ate his breakfast slowly, giving the others some time to eat before he walked out. Finally, he got up and dressed. Then he slowly put on his sword belt. As soon as he finished, he walked out of his tent.

"Good morning, Islist," Elleraden said as Islist walkecd towards him.

"Mornin'," he said back. The man sat down for a moment and got out his sword. The others all started to look at him, anticipating. They were all wanting the same thing.

Slowly, the ranger stoog up. Then he started, "So, what are you all waiting for? Get ready!"

They all jumped up and started to get ready. Islist also went to pack and started with his tent. Soon he had almost every thing ready. He went to the center of the camp, "When you're ready meet here and wait. Hurry!"

[Himaran]

Elleraden dashed into his tent, grabbing his packed bags and weapons belt. Hauling them to the stables, he saddled his horse, Halwen and loaded the packages onto him. Then he led the beast to the center of the camp.

The ranger found Islist there, waiting for the group to arrive. "One ranger, packed and ready to leave."

[Nerindel]

Sorlas had rose from his slumber early, the camp was silent and the sun had not yet risen above the horizon. Sorlas stretched and unable to get back to sleep he walked down to the stream to a secluded area he had discovered during his stay at the camp. He stripped off his clothes and waded into the stream, the water was cold and he shivered slightly as he washed. Once he had finnished and was dry he put his pants and boots back on and lifting his tunic he walk back to his tent.

By this time the sun had now risen and so also had most of the camp, he entered his tent grabbed a fresh tunic much the same as the one he had just thrown down and grabbing a leather thong he walked over to the lodge to join the others for breakfast.

As he walked he tied back his still damp hair loosely at the nape of his neck with the leather thong, he nodded to the others as he passed them to get some tea and a warm breakfast of bacon and eggs, he also grabbed two apples, putting one in this pocket to give to Telpëtal, his rough haired stallion. he then settled himself down next to the others and enjoyed his hearty breakfast.

A short time later, Istlist arrived badeing them to make ready to leave. Shoveling the last of his breakfast into his mouth, he got up and rushed over to his tent to re-saddle and pack Telpëtal. The proud horse was already there waiting for him, he smiled as he gave the horse the apple he had saved for him, he then ducked into the tent and brought out his gear and proceeded to pack his horse.

Once he finnished packing he went back inside the tent. Lifting his sword he carefully fastened it about his waist, he then lifted his quiver and bow and slung them into position on his back, he then lifted his cloak from the corner of the tent and went out and slung it across the front of his saddle. After checking all the fastenings he lead his horse to the center of the camp where the others were waiting.

[Arestevana]

Tarannon did not need to hear the word "hurry". It took him all of two minutes to grab his pack, buckle on his sword, and lead his horse over to the gathering rangers.

He switched his grip on his mount from reins to bridle, hoping that the animal would behave. "Careful, Morroch" He muttered. He tested the balance of the bow slung across his back. It had been long since a true battle. Too long.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion watched everybody grabbing their bags, running to go, saddling up their horses, with a sense of great indifference. All of his things he had readied at night, so as not to have to scurry among the other men, looking for lost belongings or just trying to get them onto his horse's back. Thoron stood ready for him to climb on at any point.

Herevion stepped through a path among the others, keeping out of their way, but not in a meek way at all. He reported to Islist quickly, not looking around at anybody else. He walked straight to his horse, Thoron, patted him on his back, turned around, and stood leaning against a wall, seeming not to see any around him, and wearing a strange expression on his face, half away in the dream world, half arrogant but still polite boredom, until Islist called for them all.

[ June 03, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Burzdol]

Islist wasn't suprised that Elleraden was the firstd one there, besides himself. The two rangers sat mounted and silent.

"Guess that was our last chess game ever, huh," Elleraden said unexpectidly.

"Yeah. But I won, so it was a good last game."

"You won, I won fair and square."

"Yes, whatever."

Soon Tarrnnon and Sorlas arrived to join the other two rangers. The all shared quick 'hellos' and then sat in silence, all waiting for the others.

[ June 04, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor patted Pernolë tenderly on the back before hoisting his saddle up on top of his blanket. He hummed light-heartedly to himself as he finished tying the necessary equipment to his horse and securing the rest of his things to endure during his absence. Then he mounted and rode over to where Islist, Elleraden, Tarannon, and Sorlas were waiting. He bowed his head slightly and waved as though they were far off. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep dramatic breath of air, grinning foolishly.

“Beautiful morning for a joy ride! Ah! Brought some apples and cheese for a picnic later should we decide to stop. No? Alright, they’re here if any o’ ye change your mind.” He glanced over towards the fields, streams, and forest before them and shook away a slight sense of foreboding before turning back to the others. “Where’s the rest of the stragglers?”

“Coming,” was the short reply from Sorlas. Dûrvagor sighed and picked an apple from the small sack in the front of his saddle. He took a big bite before looking up towards an oak where two birds were busily squabbling over nesting rights. Laughing, he pointed. The rangers lifted their eyebrows to where he gestured and then lowered their gazes again, some chuckling very slightly. He didn’t know why but none seemed to be very quick to make friends with him.

Birds of a feather flock together, was the old nursery rhyme saying. People don’t trust what they don’t understand was the one that went hand in hand with it. Dûrvagor was unlike all the other rangers, and most of them didn’t understand a bit about him or why he was full of childish levity. His duties as a ranger were noble and justified. The idiosyncratic personality of silent reverence was not present in his behavior, which was obvious in his style of dress.

Atop Pernolë in a greyish blue jerkin with embroidered silver trim, Dûrvagor could pass for a nobleman. His finely kept dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that reached just between his shoulder blades. This was one of the two tasteful jerkins he owned; the rest were black and grey. When he entered the ranger’s unit, he had determined that he would probably learn to wear the regular clothes once he had broken into the daily routine of his kind. As the years passed, things hardly changed. Dûrvagor couldn’t find a reason why they should, so he always kept one or two jerkins to wear that would maybe imply that he was a bit more than ranger.

He leaned back in his saddle and watched the birds. Finally, they decided on which branch was who’s territory and began to build nests. It looked like a race to the ranger, each one flew frantically towards the ground, gathering as many oddities in its beak as it could before flying back to its designated place. The reason for such hurriedness was clear when a two rather drab looking birds of the same species returned just to reprimand their mates on their slow progress. Dûrvagor laughed out loud again and tossed his finish apple core to the ground. Eyes twinkling he turned as another of the rangers joined them.

[Burzdol]

Islist was getting impatient when no one was showing. He then rode between tents yelling into each, "Let's go everyone. C'mon! We need to go now! You all are behind! If you take much longer I'm going to make it half rations! And the other half comes to the early ones."

Durvagor joined the crew not long after Islist returned.

"Do I get half rations Islist?" Durvagor asked.

"Sure, if you want. I get all of the other half though," Islist said sarcastically.

"Man, here you go," he started to give part of his lunch, "Just joking, hah."

They all sat, talking and laughing. Finally Elleraden started an old, well known story, "Well, my grandfather told me this story a long time ago. One time, a long time before any of us were born, there was a captured maiden. But there was this prince who......" he finished a few moments later. They all sat in memory at the conclusion. Most thinking about good times, Islist thought about something different. He heard that story when his father went away for two years. He remembered how he felt. A tear swelled in his eye and his wiped it away, not wanting to show his weakness.

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion stood, watching the other men telling their stories to one another. He did not care for such amusements, as he did not care for many things the others thought enjoyable. He was simply waiting for the time to go, and if he waited alone, he waited alone.

He took out his knife again, wanting to test its sharpness, though he knew that it would slice almost anything. He pushed lightly with it against his fingertip, drawing blood. He did not suck his finger, but let it fall, watching the tiny drop of crimson liquid descend to the trampled grass he stood on. Nobody looked at him, as though he were not there. But Herevion was used to this. It was not that anybody tried to stay away from him- it just happened naturally. But he was used to it and could not imagine another life.

[ June 03, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Tarien Ithil]

Rinoas stood by his horse and stoked his smooth neck. He had ventured out from his tent because he could not find sleep.
The journey ahead was still on his mind.

He brought out his flute from his pocket and the quiet campsite was filled with the hum of the soft music.

A few lamps were lit. The wind rustled teh leaves in the trees.

Suddenly, Rinoas heard the cry of an eagle above him. The eagle was circling the campsite, calling out.
It looked suspicious.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arestevana]

Tarannon shifted the reins to his right hand. He reached over to grasp the saddle's pommel. Setting one foot in the stirrup, he prepared to mount. Something stopped him. It was a soft trail of music. Curious, he stepped down and followed it.

The music came from a small wooden flute that rested in the hands of his friend, Rinoas. Rinoas's tent was set on the edge of camp, by a large tree. The tree hung over the tent, keeping off wind but also sunlight. Tarannon approached to find his friend watching the sky. He called to Rinoas, teasing with Islist's threat of half-rations. Rinoas laughed and hurried to gather his things, Tarannon waiting for him.
[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[ June 28, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]