8/27/2008
Mountain Pass Ascent

The footing on this dry and cracked slope continues to be treacherous. The mists that give these mountains their name are biting and nippy in the thick fog of day.

The pass splits into three directions here, one climbing higher, one leading down the western slope, and one which cuts straight through a divide in the peaks before you. The upper path leads up through the clouds, almost to the fringe of the mountains snowy caps. Heading west will take you down into the mist enshrouded lower reaches of the pass, and southwest leads around a jumble of rocks and along the foothills adjacent to the mountains.

Between the western and southwestern passes a steep mountain with sheer faces rises, split in the middle as if by a giant's ax. The rising slopes of the mountain overlook this deep bay between high cliffs, and close it off from view. Only a narrow trail penetrates the cliff face where the two halves of the mountain join, passing between two upraised crags through a crack only thirty feet wide.

There are no clouds overhead to block out the view to the perfect blue sky, the sunshine is bright and warms the Mountains of Mist. The early afternoon autumn air is refreshing and brisk.

Contents:
Galharth
Thorhur
Mobeorn




The bloody night has come and gone, and with its passing, so too have passed any remnants of the orcs that attacked. Those goblins that heeded the orders of their orc commander fled this part of the pass, and those not lucky enough to run fast were pursued by the Beornings...and a huge brown bear. Morning now warms the mountain pass, and with its coming, Mobeorn makes his way back down toward the pass from the heights around it, the man looking none the worse for the wear. The other Beornings have already returned.

"I'm sure the Guards and the humans have things under control, we...." Galharth says as he steps out of his tent, talking to someone hidden deep inside. Upon catching sight of Mobeorn, the Tailor lets his words halt and he narrows his eyes as if searching for something. "Um.... we'll talk later, I've another matter to attend." Letting the flap of the tent fall closed, the ellon approaches the Beorning with some hesitation. "Mobeorn," he says quietly. Emotions flicker over his expression and it is clear he wishes to say something but is having difficulty speaking it.

The shapechanger, though, first does a quick check of the camp, looking to see that all the Beornings are accounted for and none are badly wounded. It's not until he is satisfied with that that Mobeorn actually gives his attention to the tailor. "Your folk are hurt?" he frowns. "The orcs withdrew, and I know not why. I can only assume they'll be back with the night."

"There are none among the firstborn injured," Galharth says softly, openingly staring at the Human. "There were many things about last night that revealed strange happenings." He says nodding at Mobeorn's comment. "While one might expect to meet Orc in these mountains, one does not expect to watch a man become a bear." Clearing his throat, the Craftmaster looks to the mountains and frowns. "Perhaps they were testing us to see what resistence they might encounter?"

A flicker of amusement passes through Mobeorn's eyes as he listens to the elf. "I think, perhaps, that the eyes of the firstborn are easily fooled. The High Pass, I think, deceives the mind and the senses far more easily than it should, no?" He shrugs, lightly, watching the elf closely as he adds, "you have not much experience with the folk of the Anduin Valley, do you?"

"Still, I am glad to hear that your kind is unhurt," Mobeorn continues in an easier tone. "And aye, the orcs are but testing. The real attack will come as we head east and are hard pressed by the terrain and the weather. If we don't cross soon, snows will impede us."

"A statement far from truth, mellon, for the eyes of the firstborn are keen to see much that is far beyond the eyes of mortals." Galharth says firmly as he glances back to look at the Beorning. "I may be but a Tailor, but I know what I saw." Shaking his head, he steps closer to Mobeorn. "Alas, I can claim no experience with your kind, but I think the time has come for me to do so, and perhaps even learn your language."

At the mention of the Orc, a heavy sigh sounds from the Craftmaster. "I detest conflict. The test they set before us last evening was more a test of the humans, so little was seen of our kind, save for a few arrows and downed orc. Perhaps that might turn to our favor when they come again."

There is a bit more amusement flickering through Mobeorn's eyes--he is obviously enjoying the elf's confusion. "I suppose you are right, though," he does concede after a few moments. "Though this is not a matter that many know or allowed to see, yet neither is it secret. And only in great need and in the presence of those I know are foes of our common enemy would I personally allow outsiders to see what you saw. Lith, the harper, was one I trusted with such--something about the man told me his heart was true, perhaps. Or perhaps it was that he nearly got himself killed defending our lands against a foe he needn't have fought...."

Mobeorn pauses a moment. "In any case...I trust you with this, tailor. I hope that my trust is not misplaced. And if you wish to seek out those the Northmen that have allied with my kin and who have knowledge of ...things...I will not hinder it. Though your kind is quick to hide its secrets, I must say," he snorts.

Again, another snort from the beijabar. "I would hope that your folk have more stout hearts and sharp blades or accurate arrows than they showed last night. Otherwise things may go poorly for us. The orc know we are here. They know we cross. They will come out in greater numbers, mark my words."

"I'm honored with your trust," Galharth says sincerely. "And apologies for our secrets. I can only say that long life and experience are our excuse to hold back that which could be turned against us by those who at first call us friend." A slight shrug of one shoulder follows with a pause of his words. "I can only say that once trust is earned, it is eternal."

At the mention of the firstborn's performance, the tailor crosses his arms over his chest. "We'll do what needs done, should the attack come. Of that I assure you."

"It's not a matter of should, tailor. It is a matter of when and where. But aye...I'll take your word on that," Mobeorn replies. He looks the elf up and down, briefly. "Do you yourself take to arms?"

"As for your secrets...." Well, here the skinchanger shrugs. "There are none that you have that I wish to know, if it is true--as I've heard rumored--that you come from the enchanted woods south of our lands. My kind, at least, have no interest in straying that far south. But for you, if you wish to quench your thirst for knowledge, I would suggest a stay in our village." A smile plays again on his face. "If one of the firstborn can stomach it."

Cecilia wanders out of her tent, yawning and stretching sleepily. She looks around slowly, then grabs up her pack and carries it to where Mobeorn and Galharth are talking. They're both given a sleepy smile, "Good morning.. were you hurt at all, Mobeorn?"

For an instant the Tailor's lips press tightly together. "I can only defer to your wisdom on the matter of Orc in this area, for your experience far outweights any I might have. I'll speak with our guard, so that they might prepare or arrange whatever can be used in our defense."

"We can endure much, Mobeorn, so a stay with your kind is a simple matter. I will take the offer home with me, and then one or perhaps a few will venture to your land to discuss matters to our mutual benefit."

Turning as Cecelia speaks, he offers the woman a smile. "We're well. How are you this day? Better I hope?"

'I'm fine, lass, thank you for asking,' Mobeorn replies, gesturing to indicate he is unhurt. 'But you were wounded?' he follows on the elf's question.

'A stay in our lands?' Mobeorn seems amused that Galharth is interested in his suggestion. 'Actually, I spoke with one of your guards, I believe it was. Celemir? He indicated an interest in some sort of joint patrol or a signal system for aiding us. I was surprised by that, but I'm not about to turn down help from the firstborn against the enemy.'

At that, Mobeorn winks at Cecilia. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" He laughs at whatever it is he has said to her. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" ANother wink to the girl.

Cecilia nods quietly, sitting down with her pack now. "It's just a scratch, from an arrow." She pulls up the sleeve of her shirt and begins unwinding the neatly wrapped bandage on her arm, wrinkling her nose at his private words and not responding. She sets about changing the bandage, cleaning the line along the deep cut and applying an ointment carefully before wrapping it again. "I hope there isn't a scar.." The young woman murmurs.

"As, Celemir...." Galharth says as if considering his words. "He was once a Guard but has since retired from service. He forgets sometimes that he can not speak for our Guard or make arrangements without some discussion with those of rank within the Guard first." Smiling patiently, the Tailor shakes his head. "Perhaps he might consider a return to active service since it seems always near to his thoughts." Tilting his head slightly and looking beyond the camp where the elven guard might be lurking, he adds, "Speak with Maglind, for he holds rank among our people and can speak with authority."

Turning to watch the woman heal her hurts, the ellon looks to the elven tent. "If a scar is a concern, perhaps you might speak with one of our healers to share matters of trade. I'm sure they would be glad to speak with you."

"Hmmph..." Mobeorn frowns. "I _did_ seek out and speak with Maglind after you advised me to, and we have plans in the works. But Celemir then approached me afterwards to discuss things, and I thought he spoke for your guards." He shrugs. "I'll deal with Maglind moving forward. There's a threat in Mirkwood to be dealt with. In the meantime, make your folk ready to move--we shouldn't linger here while the sun shines."

Nodding in reply, the Tailor moves towards the tents. "I'll see that my people are informed." Galharth says as he opens the tent and disappears within. From inside, his words are heard in a muffled tone, telling one and all to prepare to move.

Cecilian finishes binding up her arm with a fresh bandage, nodding at Galharth's advice as she stands again. 'Maybe I shall.' And after the elf has moved on she turns her attention to Mobeorn. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Cecilia's words make Mobeorn laugh, and he shakes his head. "Is it really that bad?" he answers her in Westron. "I would think that you'd be toughened up to teasing from your brothers, lass. And that you'd know how to defend yourself from such as Oisin. He's got quite a mouth on him, doesn't he. Probably deserves to be slapped down. But, generally, I stay out of the affiars of the Northmen--such matters are your business and not the problems of me and my kin. Unless there is evil being done in teh village--then I'll step in."

Cecilia considers this for a moment, then nods. "Fine, I'll deal with him myself. You're right.. " The young woman wipes her hands clean of the medicine, then begins packing all her belongings up in preperation of moving on. "Those orcs were so disgusting. The heads of their own kind.. "

"And one of ours," Mobeorn grunts. "Did someone see to his proper burial?" he glances around. "If not, I'll do it myself now."

"There was?" The girl shudders, her face sorrowful. "I don't know.. I wish we could kill all the orcs." She pulls the pack onto her back. "Do you need help with it?" Cecilia has no desire to deal with such an old corpse, but better than leaving it out in the elements any longer.

Mobeorn pauses, looking at the healer for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, you shouldn't have to deal with such horrors. Leave it to me. But get ready to move," he advises. "We'll not stay here long." With that he walks across the rough campsite here, heading toward the Beorning guides to talk to them.

(fade to black for the Galadhrim)