South Brethil Ravines of Teiglin
The narrow gorge continues here, the waters of the Teiglin having cut a deep groove into the rock with years of turbulent and unceasing currents. The stone ravines channel both water and wind and even the stifling heat of summer is tempered by mist and breeze, where lush green vegetation crowds the path. The path broadens considerably as the stark stone faces of the ravine soften and recede gradually into the forested lands ahead; eastward can be seen the cleared land of a frontier settlement. The river continues where it widens out of its stone channel, and veers slightly southward in its course.

The dim, red-tinged haze of the dying day's last rays of light bathes the scrub and tree-clad lands here along the Teiglin's gorge. Evening approaches fast, and the autumn day has grown increasingly cooler since the passing of noonday. A harsh, biting wind blows incessantly from east to west, at times howling as it flows through the steep stone corridor formed by the passing of the great river's flowing waters. There, along the treeline just south of the cleft in the rocks walks the Beorian, Istadris. The tracker strides slowly towards the east, gradually following the winding river as it journeys deeper into the forest of southern Brethil. A sheathed longsword hangs at his right shoulder beside his heavy pack, while a strung bow and quiver half filled with arrows dangle at his left. The lean adan's grey eyes have narrowed in the gloom, though he searches wearily along the rock and shrub-strewn grounds along the edge of the gorge drop.

Marking a path from the southeast, following the course of the river whose noisy rush fills the deep gorge, a single figure moves amongst the ?. A cloak of gree is about her shoulders and a tall stick aids her steps, placed firmly before each one as she makes her way over the uneven terrain. As the way broadens out, she diverges from the river, stopping after a moment at a cropping of rock to take a glimpse westward where the sun's last light flares red over the distant mountains. Squinting, she turns away, shifting her gaze to the way behind her, frowning at nothing but the trees that creak and sway with the hard wind. Her cloak snaps out, and catching it with a hand she starts on again, judging her path with percarious steps and a noticeable limp.

The lean man's brisk strides carry him quickly over the uneven, rock and shrub-strewn ground along the edge of the Teiglin's gorge. His hands rise to grab at the leather straps of the pack biting into his shoulders, and he shrugs uncomfortably beneath the weight of his supplies. Not far from the very edge of the drop, next to a great outcropping of massive boulders that nearly block his path, Istadris comes to a halt. His brow furrows as he turns on the spot to survey his surroundings before once again turning towards the southwest to seek a way past the rocks. With a low sigh that is drowned out entirely by the roaring of the river below, the tracker begins clambering cautiously up the boulders. Then, just before reaching a section of flat ground that stands his own height above the ground below, Istadris suddenly freezes. His eyes narrow as he looks past the rocks far below into the gorge, where even now a single figure emerges into sight by another outcropping of rock perhaps some hundred paces to the southeast. Uncertain, the woodsman waits where he stands and watches the other approach in his direction.

The walking stick thumps upon the earth with each step that Finnabair takes, though her progress is steadily made. Mist and spray from the turbulent river has dampened her hair and cloak, leaving it to swing with a heaviness about her. At an angle upon her back is both the axe and longbow that are hers, strapped firmly together and bouncing against her with every step. Ahead boulders block the way of the path, causing it to wind tightly around in the narrow gorge and Finnabair makes her is continuing on toward the long shadows they make when she lifts her gaze to the top of them and finds the silhoutte of a figure standing, watching. Pausing and leaning upon the heavy stick, she shields her eyes with a hand and then signals with a wave.

The lean Adan stands motionlessly upon the portruding rock, his right hand pressed flat against it for support. His grey eyes narrow in the reddish haze of the sinking sun, and he stoops cautiously forward to look more easily upon the distant figure who walks far down in the gorge ahead. Noting the other's signal wave, Istadris raises his own left hand in response and scrambles further along the rocks towards the sheer edge of the gorge. The gradually deepening darkness of the coming eve have bathed the gorge in shadow, and though the last rays of light still bathe the lands above the river, the walls of the cleft and the waters of the Teiglin are obscured and shrouded. Seeing no easy way to climb down to the river's edge from where he stands, Istadris instead rises to one knee upon the rock and lifts both hands to his mouth before bellowing out a single word in question, "Finnabair?!"

Light is fading fast, the red glow softening up into a dark blue then black night's sky as Finnabair watches the figure move about the top of the gorge, looking down from its towering heights, seemingingly in search for a way to the bottom. Crooking her arm around the staff she bears, Finnabair cups her hands, "Istadris?", she shouts back to the caller at the top of the gorge, her voice echoing off the rocky walls several times before fading away. Catching up the walking stick again, she, with a hurried and awkward gait, moves back from the river and the noise that nearly drowns out all sound.

Istadris holds still upon the rock outcropping, one hand falling back down upon the smooth, cool surface as he awaits the distant figure's reply. The echoed name seems indication enough for the tracker, who then quickly rises from his kneeling position and carefully edges his way forward along the rocks until finding smoother ground beside the sheer drop once more. With quicker steps now, he hurries along the edge of the gorge until he stands almost above the ranger beneath. "Now how did you find your way down there?!" He calls out, only half amusedly, "Is there any way near here?" The tracker glances back over one shoulder and to the treeline before stepping closer to the rock and sinking down to one knee once again. "I have no rope, Finnabair!" He shouts, hoping the words will carry over the roar of the Teiglin's flow.

Finnabair now holds the staff out at arm's length, continuing to watch Istadris scramble futilely about the top, finally ending his search when he finds no way. Wiping at the wet strands of hair that cling to her face, she chuckles to herself and cups her hands again, "Then you shall have to fly, Istadris!", she shouts back, words bouncing off the walls and returning to her as they find their way over the roar. "I cannot tell you the way down from there as that is not the way I came! Go on to the crossing at the river!", she calls, pointing to the northwest, "I will meet you there!"

The tracker stoops down near the edge of the drop, his hands bracing the soil for support as he leans over to look down upon Finnabair in the darkness of the gorge below. Her words carry, though he strains to hear their meaning over the howling wind and roaring waters of the Teiglin. "The crossings?" He calls back, nodding before she can answer, "Aye, I will start that way, and see if there is a way down further north west." With a disatisfied shake of his head, Istadris rises to his feet and steps away from the edge of the gorge, once again turning to peer uneasily into the darkened trees that stretch out into the southern tip of Brethil's forests. His quick strides carry him back towards the rock outcropping, but there he veers in his steps and vanishes between the silvery birch and green-clad pine trunks instead, to find away around them. Hearing the call of his answer, Finnabair nods, signals with a hand again and starts off too, paralleling the river in its path northwest and keeping an eye to the top of the steep cliffs until Istadris slips out of sight, his figure receding quickly into the night's shadows. Above the trees a near full moon has risen, it's pearly white sheen brightening the path, making it a silvery line to guide her halting steps through the black gorge.

Guided only by the pale light of the silvery moon, Istadris picks his way through the tall grasses and shrub-dotted slopes along the river Teiglin. The lands have begun to flatten out here at the edge of the guarded plains, and the steep gorge through which the river flows further southwest has eased down and almost disappeared into the featureless terrain of this area. The coming dawn is yet several hours away, and the brisk winds have not as of yet ceased in their biting gusts. Chilled to the bone, the tracker at last finds a sheltering outcropping perhaps some dozen yards south of the Teiglin's dipping banks and settles down to wait there for the approach of Finnabair. With the heavy pack off his back and resting on the ground beside his weapons, Istadris eases himself back against the grass-clad slope and continues watching the river's edge to the southeast.

To the southeast the shadows lie dark and heavily shrouded by the black night and little can be within their midst. A low fog clings to the earth, swirling about just a few feet off the ground its damp chill sinking deep into everything. Appearing out of the shadows comes Finnabair, walking stiffly along the path that bends and travels alongside the river, her walking stick thumping softly upon the ground and rising high enough to top her head. Trying to keep her going quiet, her grey eyes peer through the darkness, searching the way ahead and the bank of the river next to her.

The tracker remains seated upon the moist grass, his back to the outcropping that provides some shelter from the bitingly chill winds. Though the late night is a dark, gloomy one, the silver moon provides some measure of lighting, and the flowing river's waters at times glitter with its silvery rays. The approaching ranger's shadowy figure emerges at last from the inky darkness along the river, and Istadris sits up to watch her closely. Sure it is Finnabair that approaches, he at last makes to rise and raises a hand to call for her attention, though he offers no call in greeting. The lean man moves hurriedly to approach her, studying her movements with a quizzical eye and noting the walking stick in her hand. "What happened to you?" He asks at last in a hushed voice.

Short, halting steps carry Finnabair toward the place where Istadris lies in wait. Movement from out of the shadows draws her to a halt and she relaxes when she sees that it is him that rises and walks toward her upon the path, coming aside her with his question. Looking wearied stops again, leaning heavily upon the staff she meets his gaze with a short, bitter laugh, "I had an unfortunate meeting with an orc on the way back from Dor-lomin. Drawing her cloak closer about her when the wind seeks to tug it away, "How long have I been gone, Istadris?", she asks with brows knit together.

Istadris peers cautiously into the foggy gloom beyond where Finnabair walks before looking curiously back to the injured ranger. A deep frown mars his tanned brow as he looks to her wounded log, and his left hand rises up to scratch idly at the side of his bearded jaw. "I have been looking for you neigh on three weeks now." He says, beckoning her back towards the sheltering rocks, "And I did not leave until two weeks after we Hador's men had arrived at the crossings. It has been a while, and the others likely wonder whether it is perhaps time to send a search after me." With a dismissive shake of his head, the tracker paces slowly back to sit down upon the moist grass, "I take it you finished the beast who injured you? I found traces of fighting, and the remains of one of the creatures further northwest along the river."

Finnabair moves off the path toward the rocks, setting her staff against them and sinking with a sigh to the ground, grateful for the respite. Nodding, she leans back against the cold rocks, stretching out her stiff leg and massaging it above the knee, "I did, had to before it finished me, which it nearly did.", she says quickly, "Three and two weeks!", she exclaims in a hushed voice, "That long? I wonder how that can be.", she says, shaking her head and frowning. "But Sionell made it back safely?.", she asks, turning again to the woodsman.

The woodsman stoops aside to tug his heavy pack over to where he sits and rests it before him. "Finish it you did." He utters, with a slight shake of his head, "I recognized it as your handiwork, and followed your tracks further south." Though he looks to Finnabair as he speaks out, Istadris idly undoes the buckles binding his pack. "Sionell is safely back in Amon Obel, while Hador's men have already departed." He answers, even while sorting through the few belongings he has carried with him. "You left some confusing traces, Finnabair." He says, before pulling out small bundle and laying it across his knees. The tracker unrolls the thin cloth to reveal a handful of dried meat strips, which he promptly offers to the ranger. "I may have lost the trail, if I had not found signs pointing south and east." With a quizzical arching of his brow, Istadris again looks to Finnabair and speaks on, "Why did you not simply seek help at the crossings, if you marched past so near them?"

Glad to hear news of Sionell's safe return, Finnabair laughs quietly at the remark Istadris makes and answers, "My handiwork, eh? Do you mean by the way I nearly hacked it in half, clear through its chest as though it were a tree?", she asks, leaning lower and propping herself up with an elbow, "As for why I did not stop at the crossing, in truth I cannot recollect ever passing it so that is something I need to answer for myself too.", she says, falling silent as she reaches for the offered strips of meat and chewing upon one. Finishing it and shrugging, she shifts and settles down with an arm behind her head as a pillow with a yawn, "Istadris, I have been walking all night and do not think I can keep my eyes open a moment longer.", she says, eyes already closing and murmuring something unintelligible to herself.

The tracker's questioning frown deepens at Finnabair's response, though he chews thoughtfully at one of the dried strips of meat before speaking out in answer. "Aye, rest here, then." He offers, "I shall keep watch. I have been cautioned that the southernmost reaches of these woods are at times frequented by bandits and gangs of ruffians." With a quiet yawn of his own, Istadris settles back against the moist ground and turns to watch the river's glittering waters. "Tomorrow..." He adds, his tone betraying confusion, "You must explain to me how you came to end up here so far from the crossings without remembering any of it." Without another word, the lean woodsman raises himself up higher and leans back against the smooth rocks, falling silent and letting the other find some rest before the coming of the new day's dawn. Finnabair snores.