Brethil's Roleplaying Logs

Birch Row
True to its name, Birch Row is lined with many birches, the tall, silvery-barked trunks dappled with splotches of grey and black as the mantling leaves turn and flutter in the fickle breezes. This is a pleasant lane of mottled shade or light--depending on the time of day. Neatly-tended gardens of herbs and brilliant blossoms stretch before the simple but finely-crafted dwellings of wood and thatch, both partially hidden behind the sheltering trees. From here the dirt road continues east and west to more homes, northward to the summit, or south to what looks to be a large garden area.

A cold autumn night has fallen over the sprawling forestscape of Brethil, and the hillside is bathed only in the pale light of the half moon which is at times blotted out by rolling clusters of dark clouds overhead. A biting wind howls and drives the sparsely falling snows wildly over the narrow lane that traverses this part of the hill, and the sharp, snapping sounds of whipping branches can be heard from the treetops with each gust. There, along the lane of trees walk a pair of cloaked figures side by side. The Beor woodsman strides briskly towards the hill's top, his lean form stooped against the chill winds. The tracker bears both bow and sword tonight, as well as a light pack and bedroll at his back. His left hand clutches tightly at his cloak, holding it close to his collar to keep the cold out, while his right holds on to the cowl of his upraised hood as the winds threaten to blow it off his concealed head.

Walking in step with the woodsman is Aldawin--easier to determine, perhaps, as she makes no attempt to keep the cloak's hood in its place. Instead she keeps her head slightly bowed as the wind whips the dark hair about her face; her hands are both grasped to the cloak's sides, keeping them clutched tight about her as she walks against the gusting, chill winds. Every now and then she hazards a glance upwards as the curled and dampened leaves peel from the ground to be tossed and blown in the current.

At the east end of the row Finnabair comes, a heavy cloak whirling around her on the howling wind and the hood thrown back. The darkened path is a dim silvery line before her, lit by the waning moon high overhead through the bare, wildly swaying branches of the birches and as she heads for the courtyard at the end of the laneway, she lifts her gaze and finds two dark shapes making their way. As she veers her steps to give them room to pass and the distance shortens between, both figures become recognizable and she hurries onward to join them.

In one of her upward glances, Aldawin sees the solitary figure travelling along the lane, and raising her head to gain a better look, seems to recognise the other at about the same time she, herself, is recognised. Her grim expression only lifting a little, the healer gives a nod of her head with the call, "Hello, Finnabair." Despite the warmth of her covering cloak, the Beorian healer shivers--her words as well affected by the chill as she says, "Dreadful cold turn of the weather." The observation is all at first uttered, though the searching glance given the ranger betrays words yet unspoken.

The woodsman strides on in silence, his brow furrowed beneath the sheltering cowl of his upraised hood. His keen grey eyes shift frequently between the moist ground directly before him and the darkened pathway further ahead, and it is soon enough that he finds Finnabair approaching from the other direction. "Finnabair." He calls simply in greeting, the softly uttered word almost drowned out by the healer's own call. Halting beneath the branches of a looming birch, Istadris draws a pace back and glances sideways upon Aldawin, before again looking to the ranger, question evident in his own grey eyes. "You know the way to Nargothrond well, Finnabair?" He asks, seemingly unwilling to waste any time with other matters.

Finnabair stops before Istadris and Aldawin, grabbing at the edges of her cloak too in a vain attempt to keep the wind from tugging it away from her body. Giving them both with a nod and a quick worded greeting, she says over the wind, "That it is, Aldawin.", turning with a look of surprise at Istadris' question, "The way to Nargothrond?", repeating it and frowning now, "Well enough. Why?"

"We have need of elven healers here, Finnabair," Aldawin says quickly. "The illness that has beset those of Amon Obel is fast taking its toll upon the Haladin who have been tending the sick." She glances quickly to the woodsman and presses her lips together, blinking against another gust of chilling wind. "It might be wise for you, as well, to be gone from the Hill by this journey."

Istadris glances once more to Aldawin at Finnabair's questioning, and falls silent as the younger Beor speaks out in reply. His arms lift clasp over his chest, beneath the folds of his warm cloak, though both hands still pull at the garment's edges. The biting winds howl shrilly as the cold gusts pick up once again, threatening to blow the hood off of the woodsman's bowed head. With only a simple nod to acknowledge the healer's explanation, Istadris speaks on. "The Doriathrim are too difficult to contact, and may not be willing to help." He says, "So Felagund's folk are our only option. You know the way, and can make the journey swiftly."

Finnabair's frown turns to a cringe and she lets go the edge of her cloak, "It might be wiser to stay on the Hill.", she says flatly, appealing with a look to Istadris, "You know I will have no welcome in Nargothrond. Though I do not think they would turn me away. Not for a call to aid so grave. If it is as bad as you say, Aldawin, I will go.", she says, turning back to the healer.'.

"Please, Finnabair." Aldawin's tone is almost pleading, and the very words are uttered in a bitter whisper as chill as the wind. "I would go myself, but we both know what folly that would be." The healer attempts a smile at the jest, but it seems lost in the near-desperate words. "I shall be needed here on the Hill, besides," she adds, drawing the cloak's folds closer to her chin.

The woodsman's right hand rises up to tug at the low hanging cowl of his hood as Finnabair speaks her concerns, and he can only dip his head in agreement. "You would have a much better chance of being received in Nargothrond than I, Finnabair." He says, again clasping his arms over his chest, "And it is of dire importance. Felagund's folk will see this and let you pass." With a slight shake of his head, he speaks on, "I know no others who could make the journey as swiftly as you, and without need of guidance."

Finnabair smiles blandly back at Aldawin and laughs bitterly at the added comment from Istadris, "But the chance is little better.", she says, nodding reluctantly, "As soon as I have gathered my things then.", she says, checking the eastern horizon for hint of dawn, "This will not be a happy journey. There or back.", she sighs heavily and lets her shoulders drop, "I will be off within the hour.", she adds, turning back the way she came to retrace her steps.'.

"My thanks, Finna," Aldawin says as the ranger turns heel to retrace her steps, though the words are blown and muffled as the winds rage on, and her cloak's edges whipped by the obstinate weather. The healer watches a moment after Finnabair's departing steps, and calls over the even's mournful wail, "Journey safely!" after which she looks to the woodsman, doubt still harboured in the expression.

Istadris watches through narrowed eyes as Finnabair turns to depart, and his farewell is delayed momentarily by the particularly loud howling of a passing gust of wind. "Go swiftly, and tread silently." He calls quietly, though the words are hardly heard over the chill winds. Once the Beorian ranger has vanished into the deep gloom of night, the woodsman turns once more to face Aldawin. His shoulders heave with a low, inaudible sigh, though he speaks no words for a moment yet. "It is a matter of time now, then." He says at length, before leaning back against the birch trunk and gazing towards the hill's darkened top.