Brethil's Roleplaying Logs

Deep Forest
Sunlight is strained and hardly filters down though leaf and bough in this deep forest enclave of arboreal giants. Oak and birch predominate, though a few pines struggle in the mix as well. Their rough-barked trunks covered in blotches of pale and dark emerald mosses, the trees stretch upwards to lofty heights and create a canopy of shadowy green that insulates the forest floor's loamy soil. The path is difficult to make out here, as a crisscrossing of deer and animal trails is patterned among the low-lying vegetation, but it appears to continue north and eastward.

The deep forests of Brethil are shrouded in seemingly perpetual gloom, and the leaf-and-needle-clad undergrowth at times untouched by the sun's blotted and obscured rays. Here in these woods some several miles south of Amon Obel, this is no exception, as deep shadows obscure the tangled greenery and prickly bracken that grows between the massive trunks of birches, pines, and oaks. It is in the shrub covered space between two such great oak trunks that a solitary figure crouches amidst the high grass and brambles. A low burning fire crackles before him, its flames low and well hidden by the surrounding greenery. The cloak-clad man's pale blue eyes are narrowed and strained in the gloom of the deep woods, though it is still early afternoon on a bright day high above and beyond the tangled canopy of branches. A sturdy spear rests untouched beside this stranger, but his attention is fixed upon a spit which bears some manner of fowl that roasts slowly over the low flames.

Sitting to the left of his brother, Harnard looks particularly displeased, his smirkish mouth set in a frown. "It's been a bad past few days," he grumbles, spitting into a tangle of briars, mint and morning glory set away from the fire. "There's naught to do but sit n' stare of an afternoon. I want to venture near the hill later." He shifts forward, rubbing his hands together in impatience before swatting at a gnat upon his neck. "Does no good to just sit. No good at all." His blue eyes dart nervously about the small clearing.

Following one of the forest's many deer trails, Finnabair moves with soft-footed steps over the rough ground, carefully brushing aside leafy branches that cross the path and seek to block her way. The trail is narrow, the forest nearly swallowing it up from either side and her grey eyes narrow vainly through the embrace. The air changes, the wind shifting slightly and Finnabair stops short, body poised and motionless as she turns toward it with a sniff, the scent of smoke and a cookfire suddenly present and nearby. And then the sound of a voice is heard. Glancing up and back down the trail she treds and seeing it empty, Finnabair moves along it several more yards and then crouches, discreetly working her way through the bracken toward the clearing that opens out beyond it.

The cloak-clad man glances idly at his brother, his own lips twisting with a sneering grimace. "I'll wager that is where Hadlin is now, aye." He utters in turn, the words spoken in the tongue of the Haladin, "But he'll tear us up if he comes back and finds us gone without word." With an irritated shake of his head, the ruffian turns back to rotating the small fowl over the low flames, seemingly unaware of the ranger who approaches them from one of the nearby game trails. "Damn, I do wish he'd take us along instead of those other two..." He mutters, before reaching up to slide the knife from a sheath at his breast and using the weapon's tip to poke at the roasting bird. "Where do you suppose he was headed?" He asks his brother, "All he said was to wait here for him, and not to go far until he returned."

A low half-sigh, half-grumble is released from the older of the two brothers, who stretches his legs out before him now, glaring over at Haradir with a growing frown. He, too, seems unaware of the fact they are being tracked as his voice is a shade louder of the next utterance. "Those other two," he mutters. "He takes 'em cause their as willful as a gutted fish, and they do what 'ee tells em to. Harnard reaches up to scratch behind his head now, drawing his legs back to a cross before him and leaning upon his knees with his elbows. "Well, I'm no gutted fish!" he adds, and if'n they aren't back by the time that bird is et, I'm going to the base o' the hill."

The brush begins to thin from the deer trail, replaced by the tall heights of birch and oak whose branches spread out over the clearing before her. Pressed to the ground beneath the dense covering, garbed in colours meant to blend with such surroundings, Finnabair quickly finds the wispy curl of smoke that tells of a fire burning amongst the tall grass and shrubbed space between two great oaks placed a dozen and a half yards away. Though unable to see anyone, the murmur of voices reach her more clearly, the speech the familiar sound of the Haladin's tongue. But cautious still, she inches forward till she clears the brush, then comes smoothly to her feet, moving between the trees that she uses to shield herself from sight as she draws a little closer to the men.

The youngest of the two brothers frowns deeply at the other's words, but holds his silence a moment a he rotates the fowl over the low flames. With an idle, bored glance up into the branches of the oak tree near his side, he rises stiffly to his feet and wipes the blade of his knife off on his left sleeve. "Mind the bird, will you?" He asks aloud, seemingly unaware of the ranger's lurking presence as she approaches between the trees ahead, "It is near done, now." With a tired yawn, Haradir turns away from the fire and his brother and paces several yards off into the brush, slowly circling the great oak to find some measure of privacy amidst the brambles a mere ten yards or so from where Finnabair conceals herself. "Maybe they've been caught!" He calls out, still in the Haladin tongue, "Maybe he isn't coming back, at all."

Lindros's footfalls are carefree at best, yet to his reckoning foolish, as he stumbles across a gathering of folk who, perhaps, would rather not be interrupted. After a dumbstruck glare from his bent-over, crouched stature, he begins to quirk a smile, and waves his left arm behind him, "Tis nothing.." he calls, in plain Sindarin, and adds a songbird whistle.. Lindros says, "Hence ye back to your posts, Captain Recchi.. Brind'amour..!' Lindros calls to unseen folk, as he approaches, carrying his ruse even further as he signals and calls off hidden archers. "Friends!" he calls, curling his lips into a smile."

"It'd better be done soon," Harnard says of the fowl set to roasting over the flames. "I'm hungry enough to et ten o' them!" Saying thus, he clambers to his knees and half-crawls to the fire's edge, turning in sudden alarm when he hears the voice of a stranger approaching. "Who's that!" he calls out, the narrowed gaze turning nervously to the loud-voiced stranger who approaches. "Friends?" he wonders of gruff bark. "Who be ye?"

Lindros, continuing his play that he is one among many, apparently finds it difficult to stow his axe upon his back, instead hefting it till he is within range of the firelight, before stowing the weapon/tool deftly. "Lindros, borne of Brethil am I.." he calls on approach. "Certainly..." he offers, with a feigned smile, "ye are friends.." and he squints to get a better look at Finnabair, "And surely, then.." he states, guessing, "Ye know where Istadris of Beor be?"

Finnabair leans in against the wide trunk of an oak as one of the men by the fire rises up out of the tall grass and turns toward her, walking a few paces in her direction. Slipping a hand down to the weapon at her side, she marks his progress, listening to the sound of his voice when suddenly another comes through the quietness of the clearing speaking in the tongue of the Eldar. There a man stumbles, jovially calling to the two at the fire and a look of surprise and puzzlement crosses Finnabair's face as she quickly scans through the trees to the others he calls to, finding none.

Hidden as he may be by the oak's massive trunk and by the surrounding tangle of brush and prickly bracken, Haradir freezes in his place as he hears the loud calls of Lindros. His pale eyes widen fearfully, and he at once darts a step back into the brush where he turns to seek out these hidden archers that Lindros seemingly calls to. With a last glance back over his shoulder and towards the fire's light, Haradir turns on his heel and hurries off through the brush at a near panic. His noisy passing is easily audible, even as he makes his unwitting way almost directly towards where Finnabair hides.

His glance darting between the fully-roasted fowl and the Haladin stranger, Harnard's mouth twists to frustration, and though the other has spoken in Sindarin, he continues in the tongue of his folk. "Istadr..who?" He fumbles over the name, his eyes ever narrowing until they are mere slits. "And who are ye that I should know the name Lindros?" asks the brother yet. "My afternoon meal is ready, and I've no time fer pleasantries." As if to punctuate his growing frustrations of the day, Harnard scans the edge of the clearing for his brother.

"What smoke is this?!" Lindros calls, clearly responding to the quite visible Harnard's presence. "Sure the Beor skill in fish and fowl, such that be well to serve" he asks, a bit un-nerved himself as he looks around now, his ruse revealed.

Finnabair's own eyes suddenly widen when the man, Haradir, turns and begins to crash his way toward the very place where she stands hidden. Quickly enough though she slides around the tree, keeping it between her and the man who makes no effort to have his retreat be a silent one. One eye still back upon the place where the fire burns, the loud voice of the elven speaking man who names himself Lindros sounds out clearly over the other, Haladin speaking man. Clenching her jaw and glancing between the swiftly departing brother and those back by the fire, Finnabair holds her place.

Lindros disconcertedly withdraws his axe again, his eyes now peering furtively into the darkness of the woods. What once he thought he could control, and use to his advantage, is now in his reckoning as much the domain of the Beor. He begins to back away, even from Harnard, dutied with cooking.

The rustling of branches and snapping of twigs follows Haradir's hurried, panicked escape as he flees from the low burning fire and the armed men he believes surround it. The Beor ranger's stealthy, hidden shape goes seemingly unseen by the gruff Haladin as he passes quickly by the tree behind which Finnabair has hidden herself. With quick, loping strides, he slips through the trees and out of sight once more, venturing only one last, backwards glance towards the fire where he has left his older brother with Lindros.

Lindros steps into the camp, looking about the vacant spaces and quantity of food being prepared for non-present folk. "As I was saying, good cook!" he calls at Harnard, "My Men were afeard there were Orchs afoot.." Lindros casts a worried, furtive glance into the brush, "There..err..appear to be none, and I must be on the other side of the forest ere noon.." and he turns his back, and tromps off.

Raising a hand to scratch at his head in utter confusion, Harnard tilts his head to the side and utters, "Eh?" The outer skin of the roasted fowl colored to a sooty black, Harnard's attention is drawn to where his brother has disappeared in the forest beyond. "Eh..." he utters again, at which point he takes a stick from near the fire and tries to skewer the bird, which plops next into the coals.

Finnabair watches as Haradir disappears deep into the forest and then turns back to the small clearing, only to find the stranger, Lindros, gone too, leaving the last man by the fire alone with the burnt remains of his meal. Holding back a sigh of frustration, Finnabair watches him for a moment before finally turning away herself to retrace her steps back to the deer trail, picking her way carefully through the bracken and vanishing into the heavy embrace of the forest.

Haradir's hurried steps only lengthen as he finds a narrow game trail leading further north and east, away from the fire where he has left his brother and the stranger. Soon enough he has broken into a run, his stout legs pumping at the uneven, leaf and needle covered ground beneath him as he follows the winding path towards the north and east. The knife he bears still in hand, its short, naked blade blackened by some dye and entirely untouched by the few dim rays of sunlight that manage to penetrate the heavy canopy of branches overhead.

Somewhere along the North East trail, perhaps a good deal of the ways down from the camp, a lone woodsman whacks at one of the trees designated as a safe-tree. Each swing brings about a soft *clack*, that echoes about the woods around him -- almost like a very slow woodpecker.

This woodsman, confident in his swing, is noneother than Falsten the Carpenter, out of Amon Obel. Sweat gleams off his brow and soaks his light shirt, and nearby, a small hauling cart is drawn up to take back the felled tree to the base of the mountain.