Brithiach: West Bank of Sirion

The river Sirion flows quietly from the northeast here. Windswept plains of gorse and grass grow right up to its edge. The river is shallow enough here to be forded and the road seems to continue on the other side. To the West the road skirts along the north edge of a forest. Silvery green birches and pines dominate its growth, and a high hill amidst stands out as well to the south.

Flitting like green ghosts amidst the woods that they call their home, the Haladin keep a watchful eye on the borders of their land, particularly the northern one. The morning fog, as yet undispersed by the heat of the sun makes it even harder to detect the figures waiting amongst the trees, and the whisper of the one who comes to bring report to Corrin of the approach of strangers is no louder than the rustling of leaves against each other in the wind. The brown-haired Warden nods to the scout and signals to the handful of others present to disperse and hide in positions of ambush until the newcomers should make their appearance and be identified.

Riding in one of the carts, her left arm bound in bandages, Aldawin half-dozes with the sway and creak of the wheels. The day is pleasant enough and the misty morning refreshing after a sleepless night. The chirrup of songbirds in the birches lining the road is hopeful sign to the healer, and every now and then she opens her eyes to survey the subtly changing landscape.

As the wagons roll cautiously over the narrow track beside the river, Emeldir surveys the heavy forest to the west from atop her steed, who trots alongside the wagons. Remembering what Barahir has shared with her about the Haleth, she knows there are watchers, particularly at the edges of the forest and she wonders now if they have received word of the Beorian party's visit. Haldir would have sent someone to meet with them, and now Emeldir guides her horse towards the front of the party, to see if the scouts accompanying them have heard any word from Brethil yet.

The sun has breeched the horizon and its bright rays are softened by the fog that lies thick about the land. Trudging through the shallow waters of the Sirion, Finnabair steps onto its west bank and turns back, looking upon the first of the wains that rumble along the road, the line of them fading away quickly in the dense fog. The Beorian woman turns away from the river, which burbles over the stones laid down to make a smoother passage across, and begins to walk the road that takes up on the other side, the edge of the forest lying dark and silent to the south.

As the first of the Beorians crosses the river, a lone figure emerges from the fog and walks along the road towards them. The man is tall and brown of hair, and holds his arms out away from his body to show he is unarmed as he walks towards the Beorian party.

There is no end to the quiet murmurs of Beorian folk that ride and walk along the road, their thoughts turned to the near-end of their journey as they enter the great forest of Brethil. Aldawin continues lulled in a half-sleep, picking up fragments of conversation, though not heeding much of it, when the cart shudders of a rough spot in the road, and the healer is jarred from repose. With a wince, she sits up slowly and braces herself with her right arm, catching sight of the one--obviously not Beorian by his appearance--that approaches the travellers.

A short distance back along the Beorian travellers' column, seated uncomfortably upon a tiny, donkey-drawn cart, rests Istadris. The wounded woodsman fidgets impatiently with the fuzzy blanket that lies bunched atop him and stoops against the side of the cart as he strains to see through the foggy mists that creep and roll across the river crossing. "Who walks there?" He asks of one of his injured companions, who shrugs unknowingly while gazing towards the looming eaves of the forest ahead.

The scouts leading the Beorian travelers espies the tall man as he approachs, calling for a halt to the wains behind them. "Sire, we are come from Dorthonion, to the north," a man speaks up in greeting, making a low bow. "Word was sent to the Haleth from Anach, that we were on the way," he adds in explanation, turning his head to see if Lady Emeldir is near by, even as the gentle gallop of hoof-steps announce her arrival. Drawing her steed to a halt, Emeldir dismounts, making a curtsy, "Greetings, milord," she offers politely. "We travelers come from Dorthonion, seeking shelter among our kin in Brethil," she says, gesturing now to the wains behind her. "Our women, children and those still gravely wounded from the fighting. Will ye escort us, please, to meet with your leaders?" she inquires.

More of the Beor begin to spill across the river, those set as scouts fanning out once they reach the other side. Finnabair walks with them, surveying the edge of the forest, when a shape emerges out of the trees and shows himself, arms spread out in a manner that would announce him as no threat. The ranger raises her hand up, clenching the first to call the others to a halt and her grey eyes flint through the trees, searching them quickly before returning to the man that stands on the road ahead of her. Assessing him and frowning deeply as Emeldir rides up and dismounts to converse with the stranger, she motions for the others to take up positions between the Lady and the forest.

The calls of the scouts far ahead across the river are muffled by the thick fogs, and further drowned out by the creaking of wagons and hushed murmuring of the Beorian travellers. Still, the exchange taking place between Emeldir and the seemingly unarmed stranger is not unnoticed by Istadris, who frowns and scowls with frustration as he watches from the cart. With a low groan, the wounded woodsman heaves his good leg over the edge of the cart and clambers awkwardly down to land heavily upon the same foot. There he stands a moment to catch his breath and balance, while one of his companions offers the spear to his waiting right hand.

The brown-haired Haladin bows slightly in response to Emeldir's curtsey, having listened without comment to the words of the scouts who preceded her. "You would be their leader?" he asks her in a thickly accented but still intelligible way, "We have expected your coming. How many are you?"

Now quite fully awake, the cart having jerked to a halt, Aldawin scoots forward to view as best she can the meeting taking place between the Lady and the stranger at the fore of the caravan. Shedding the blankets that cover her, the healer rises to her knees and steadies herself with her right hand against the rough wood of the cart's side. The man's voice carries in the quiet dawn, but only as clips of words--there being to great a distance to hear clearly.

Dipping her head, Emeldir replies, "Lady Emeldir, wife to Lord Barahir of the House of Beor, milord," she introduces herself in formal fashion. "There are a goodly number of us, milord," she answers further, nodding with her head to the line of wains which vanishes into the mists now. "Conditions in Dorthonion have deteriorated, and twas no longer safe for us to remain there, unfortunately," she adds, her voice lowered somewhat. "The foul beasts of the enemy encroached even unto Anach fortress, where we had been staying. And the fort had little in the way of defenses," she explains to him. "Will we be welcomed in Brethil, milord?" she asks.

While the scouts keep their eyes to the stranger and the forest, Finnabair moves toward the trees, her eyes narrowing upon them as the sun slowly begins to inch its way in through the eaves. Behind her she can heard clips of the conversation carrying on the gentle breeze that stirs the grass and leafy bows of the forest of Brethil ahead of her, the man's speech sounding odd amongst those of the Beor.

Inclining his head in return, the man introduces himself, saying in his clipped, accented way, "I am Corrin, son of Corso. I serve as Warden for this part of the woods." There's a brief pause, as the man looks past Emeldir at the long line of wains. A cautious frown crosses his face, and his next question is, "How far behind you are the enemy? Has your Anach fallen?"

With hurried, heavy steps, Istadris paces unevenly along the line of horse and donkey drawn carts and wagons. The woodsman favours his injured right leg still, though he no longer appears to rely so heavily on the spear he bears for support at his side. His left arm hangs heavily bandaged from a sling at his chest, and yet the same hand clutches weakly at the folds of the warm, forest green cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders. The lean Beorian halts as he reaches the dipping, muddy banks of the river crossing, and stares unsurely at the ford's slippery, rocky passage. The Haladin stranger's accented words drift across to where he stands, however, and Istadris' sharp grey eyes widen with some surprise at the other's own introduction.

Emeldir's eyes register surprise at the Warden's question, "I am please to meet ye, Corrin son of Corso," she replies to his introduction first, then moves quickly to re-assure him, "None of the enemy's soldiers follow us, milord, and Anach still stands," she tells Corrin. "We did encounter a small band of yrch while passing through Dimbar, however," she shares, adding, "They are drawn to the land there, so desolate and barren," her tone somewhat bitter, thinking of the destructions wrought upon northern Dorthonion.

The healer's gaze narrows as she continues to watch the two conversing in the distance, but a brow is raised as she sees the woodsman Istadris stop at the banks of the river. Reaching a hand habitually to brush the hair from her face, Aldawin carefully stands to her feet and clambers over the front of the cart, hopping to the ground. Supporting her left forearm of her right, Aldawin scowls briefly at the ache this causes, but meters her steps quickly towards the river wending the outside of the line of wagons and others who stand in interest of the meeting.

The scouts stand protectively close to Emeldir, no weapons drawn but at the ready, cautiously eyeing the Halethian and heeding the call of the Ranger Finnabair.

Istadris stands unmoving at the grassy edge of the river's bank, glancing uneasily between the slippery rocks of the ford and the Haladin stranger who stands before Emeldir up ahead. His right hand clenches firmly around the worn haft of his spear, and with a cautious step, he starts down towards the ford. The woodsman pays little heed to the remaining Beorians behind him, and moves on unaware of Aldawin's approach. His narrowed eyes search the shallow waters before him, and he weaves a careful path towards the other shore of the crossing even as the Beorian lady speaks on, and the scouts search the trees at the edge of the great woods.

"Dimbar?" repeats Corrin, then nods, "Yes, they go there." Another pause, possibly as he searches for the right words. "You are welcome to seek shelter in our lands. For now. But you must not stop here," he says carefully, "The tower of Minas Tirith has fallen and there are many...great wolves there. Proceed along this road and we will guide you."

Too late to reach the woodsman before he has started to ford the swift-moving waters, Aldawin merely chuckles as she reaches the edge, herself, and calls to him, "I do not suppose it would have done any good to tell you to wait for a wagon to bear you across!" Eyeing the shallows, Aldawin plunges a booted foot into the clear waters then follows with another.

Listening closely to Corrin, Emeldir supresses the surprise on hearing of the fall of Minas Tirath, nodding her head slowly at his offer, "Thank ye, milord. We are welcome to stay, then?" she asks, hesitant, uncertain of his meaning, her brow furrowing briefly now. "Ye will guide us to where tis safe to stay, that is?" she asks, hoping that makes it more clear. "We bring supplies and such with us, and will gladly work for our keep, those who are able to work," she offers in addition.

"It is not for me to make that decision," says the Haladin stiffly, "For we did not know your numbers. Still, we do not turn allies away in their time of need. We will take you to a place as safe as any other in these woods." As Istadris and Aldawin reach the water, he notes absently, "You have wounded also, I see."

The lean woodsman stands mere steps from the far edge of the crossings when Aldawin's call reaches him. Drawn still by Emeldir and Corrin's conversation, Istadris glances curiously towards the two who stand upon the grassy shore ahead before halting unsteadily amidst the slippery rocks and turning back to face Aldawin. "Come on!" He calls back simply, before trudging a few last steps across the shallow waters to stand upon the muddy bank, where the Haladin's voice is clearer and more easily discernible.

The tone of the Haladin leaves Emeldir uneasy and uncertain of their welcome. Glancing to the scout at her side, she ventures, "Did your Lord not receive word in advance that we were coming, then?" she inquires, voice quietly controlled, masking her confusion. "For Lord Barahir surely sent word by scout, milord. And we do not plan on staying long," she shares with Corrin, "only until word is sent that tis ... safer for us to return to our homes."

Picking careful steps--and at a pace slower than the woodsman's fording--Aldawin grits her teeth at the misstep which makes her jerk her left arm out in the instinctive attempt to correct her balance. But the remaining steps are surer, and soon she is across and upon the spongy banks, where she slows her pace and listens on. "Word only reached us very recently," replies Corrin, still clipping off each of his words, "Your scout ran afoul of some of the enemy and was delayed. He no longer lives, and we only found the one if you sent more. I still await word from our leaders on what is to be done." Once again, there's that pause as Corrin thinks before speaking on. Still gruff, but now somewhat gentler, he adds, "But be assured. We will not turn you away."

Cautiously passing beyond the edge of the treeline, Finnabair walks with her bow held unstrung and down at her side, her grey eyes alighting upon several figures that lie half-concealed among the trees. Drawing to a halt, she waits while they step out and approach her with curious looks and words she cannot understand, though they talk and gesture amicably at her. Unbidden, a smile comes over her and with the forest folding in around her, she steps in further under the dark eaves of Brethil.

Emeldir dips her head amicably as Corrin's tone softens some, turning more welcoming. "Thank ye, milord. Will ye now guide our travel party to your safe haven, please?" she requests politely. Those standing guard near their Lady keep a close eye on the Haladin, seeking to ensure not only her safety but that of the others as well. "I have not yet met any of your people, Corrin, though I look forward to it. Lord Barahir has visited with the Haladin several times, though," she adds quietly, now leading her horse closer to the forest of silvery birches.

Istadris plants the butt of his spear's worn haft against the grassy ground just beyond the river's crossing, and waits there until Aldawin has reached his side. "Come..." He urges further, with a beckoning nod to the healer. The wounded man's cool grey eyes stray past Corrin and Emeldir, and he too seems to search the greenery and shade hanging beneath the eaves of the great forest. With slow, weary steps, Istadris moves to approach the Beorian lady and the Haladin warden, pausing only a yard away to hear their words and to watch the other man, a curious look in his eyes.

"I have met some of yours, lady. Or I would not speak your tongue," answers Corrin briefly. As he turns to lead the way onwards, however, he notices Istadris looking at him and returns the other man's gaze in a somewhat puzzled manner, as if trying to place him. Aldawin also gets a look, but not one as curious as the gaze he directs towards Istadris.

Nodding silent acknowledgement to the woodsman, Aldawin, too, looks with fair curiosity at the Haladin who speaks with the Lady Emeldir--his features now plain to view. A movement in the trees surrounding draws her gaze as well. And, cradling her arm as before, the healer turns slightly to face the greener shadows of the forest in silent scrutiny.

The hazy, dim morning light glimmers in the curious grey eyes of Istadris as he watches the Haladin warden speak to Emeldir. His right hand slides up the spear's wooden haft, and his outstretched index finger reaches out to tap lightly at the flat, leaf-shaped iron blade tipping the weapon. "You are the son of Corso, you say?" He asks quite abruptly, his attention still fixed upon the other man, "Corrin?"

Strolling slowly beside her steed as she leads him, Emeldir shares with Corrin, "There are several healers among us, milord. We have brought our balms and salves, and would be glad to meet and share with your healers," she tells him. Her steed nickers softly, and Emeldir turns to pat his neck reassuringly.

"Yes, that is.." the brown-eyed Haladin blinks a moment, then asks, "Istadris? Is that you?" Another of those pauses, as Corrin tries to find the right words, then he simply allows a smile to break over his face, and says, "Ha!"

Istadris trudges forward heavily, coming to stand a mere pace before the Haladin warden. His brow creases with a faint, curious frown as he studies the other's familiar features. "Aye, tis me." He states in reply, his thin lips curling with a vaguely amused smile. "I would never have recognized you." He admits with a thoughtful nod, before venturing a low chuckle and leaning more heavily upon his spear. "Even here, I would have hardly expected it..."

Aldawin turns from the forest shadows back to offer a smile and a deep nod to the Lady Emeldir, but then looks curiously at the two men upon their exchange of seeming recognition, the grey gaze flicking between the two under the knitting of her brow. "You know eachother?" She voices the obvious with the hint of a smile, which broadens at the Haladin's half-laugh of surprise. She looks plainly at the brown-eyed man, but her gaze is turned to rest upon Istadris, questioning.

Corrin reaches out and places one hand lightly on the Istadris's uninjured shoulder, and says to Aldawin, "Istadris is my father's sister-son." Looking back at the injured woodsman, he says, "We have much to speak of. But not here. It is not safe here. Tonight, we'll speak." Inclining his head to Emeldir, he goes to lead the Beorians into the woods of Brethil.