Brethil's Roleplaying Logs

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.

A cool, yet relatively calm autumn evening swiftly approaches, and the last rays of the sinking sun's dying light creep slowly away into the unseen horizon. The forest grows only little more sparsely here near the eastern edge of Brethil, and though the Sirion remains well out of sight beyond the press of trees, its powerful waters can still be heard in the distance. A new encampment has been raised between stands of tall birch trees, where it is sheltered from the biting winds by the sloping lands to the north and south. A low-burning fire crackles near the eastern edge of the gathering of shelters and tents, and near there by the roots of a lofty oak, stands Istadris. Clad in armour, yet cloakless despite the growing chill, the tracker moves through his drills and exercises with renewed effort. His left arm hangs unbandaged at his side, while the unsheathed longsword's blade sways in the firm grip of his right hand.

In the waning light, under lengthening shadows cast by the lowering sun, Aldawin returns to the center of camp from the westward edging line of tents. Stopping to pour herself a warming brew set in one of the pitchers upon one of the cook-fires, the healer's idle and somewhat weary gaze strays eastward to where a figure illuminated by another of the low-burning fires is engaged in weapons practice. Drawing the cup of tea up for a quick sip, Aldawin starts forward eagerly towards the eastern edge of the camp, confirming her curious gaze with a soft-called greeting to the woodsman. "Aye. You are feeling better, it seems..."

From the darkening west, upon the road, six figures move swiftly toward the encampment, their path taking them along the edge of the forest. As they near, five of the shadows slip away into the woods and disappear, leaving the last to arrive alone. Through the tall trees Finnabair comes, stepping into the firelit camp, her cloths and armour showing signs of recent wear with a number of slashes and tears about them; the height of her bow and arrow set intact upon her back. But walking with no sign of injury she makes her way steadily into the camp, heading past the centre, beginning to remove the items upon her.

The sword in Istadris' grip is swung in practice against a seemingly invisible opponent--at first brought downwards from high overhead, then thrust quickly upwards as the tracker lunges forward upon his right foot. Halting only upon hearing Aldawin's query, the woodsman turns quickly to her, edges a step backwards, and lifts the naked blade to rest it upon his armoured right shoulder. "Aye, I am fine." He replies, before clenching his left fist and shrugging the same shoulder experimentally. "Sore at times, but I am slowly regaining my strength in that arm." His grey-eyed gaze strays past the healer's own momentarily, and the sword's tip is lifted in greeting to the arriving ranger. "What news, Finnabair?" He calls softly, while hurrying towards the fire she herself approaches.

Aldawin smiles in approval as Istadris confirms the sound healing of his wounds, yet as he spies Finnabair and sets off quickly in inquiry of his own after her, the healer simply watches after him for the moment, sitting upon one of the larger stones ringing the fire and sipping at the tea within the wooden cup.

Finnabair halting a few steps beyond the fire, Finnabair lifts the weapons off her back and carefully lays them upon the ground as she begins to release the straps of her armour. Lifting a weary gaze to Istadris' quiet call, she acknowledges him with a nod, "No fewer than seven skirmishes in half as many days.", she says hoarsely, shrugging off the leather armour and drawing it around in front of her. Surveying the damage a moment, she sets it down gingerly moves her fingers over the small cuts, though few, have gained past the armour. "They were small groups though, not near the size as did attack the camp." Looking about, she finds Aldawin not far away and lifts a hand to the healer and while eyeing her sip at her drink the ranger unconsciously wets her parched lips.

Istadris steps over a discarded iron pot left near the fire's crackling flames, and comes to a halt a few paces from where the ranger stands. The sword is turned slowly in hand, and he stabs the blade's tip into the ground by his side as he hears the other Beorian's reply. "It has been quieter in these parts." He comments, turning then to look to where the healer has remained upon her sitting stone. "But I've not ventured out past the northern border yet, since being injured." With his right hand pressed atop the pommel of the sword, the tracker leans lightly against the weapon and speaks on, "One of the Marchwardens that came through here told me of a meeting with the yrch in Dimbar, just north of the fords east of here. It was Branwyn, the very same you and I had met some years ago. She fought two of the creatures, then escaped fearing more. It happened no more than two days' march from here."

Finnabair's eyes flick back to Istadris and run quickly over him, "I had forgotten you were injured.", she replies with a note of apology in her voice, "I remember Branwyn. You had already spoken of her to me not long ago.", she adds, seating herself before the fire, "So now the Eldar of Doriath are drawn into it.", she ruminates, leaning back upon her elbows. "Were they yrch coming down from out of Anach?", she asks, looking up at the woodsman.

Istadris paces around to stand behind his own sword, and places both hands upon the weapon's pommel as he stoops slightly forward to look upon the ranger. His grey eyes narrow at her question, and the fire's flickering light is reflected partially within them as he considers the response. "She did not know that." He says after a brief silence, "Only that they came south along the dry river bed. Two of them, she saw, yet there were likely many more." With a slight, uncomfortable shrug, the tracker steps away from his weapon and glances aside, over the fire. "I mean to go out once again." He says, not meeting the other's gaze, "I can hardly draw my own bow yet, but I wish to have a look at the dry riverbed for myself."

Finnabair sits up and leans her elbows upon her knees as a scout comes by offering drink. Accepting the cup and asking for the jug and another cup to be left she pours quickly but carefully, spilling not a drop, "I do not think they could have come from the old road. Where in Dimbar were they?", she asks, reaching out to offer him a cup, "North or south of the road? If you go out,", she adds, eyeing him again, "Let me go with you. But why the riverbed inpaticular?"

Istadris sinks down to one knee before the seated ranger, leaving his right hand atop the pommel of the longsword where it stands by his side. "I wish to see the riverbed because this is where Branwyn encountered the creatures." He says, reaching out to accept the other's offered cup and quickly lifting it to his lips. "From what she explained to me, it would seem they are a long way further north than the old road." He adds then, with a thoughtful frown, "At least a day and a half march from the fords, she said. They came down the dry riverbed that runs along the Sirion, and north of the Fords here in Brithiach. If we are to go, perhaps we should see if Branwyn would lead us to the place she found them."

Finnabair pours herself a drink and quenching her thirst quickly with it, pours another, setting the jug down between the two of them. Both her brows jump up at his answer and she lowers the cup that was poised before her lips, "Is that the first we have heard of yrch moving through those parts?", she asks, "And only two? If they came from the east then they must of slipped past us. We did travel northward a good ways north. No wonder we saw so many small groups skirting about. They must have been looking for a way through.", she says, taking another short drink as she frowns with thought. "

The woodsman also lifts the cup to his lips, and drinks deeply of the cool ale as he hears out Finnabair's reply. "Nay, I find it unlikely they would have come across Brethil's border from the west unnoticed." He says with a quick shake of his head, as he rests the near empty cup over his knee, "I think they would have come south between the Sirion and the Crissaegrim, along the eastern bank, then perhaps skirted those mountains to the riverbed before turning southwards again." His right hand tightens around the pommel of the sword at his side, and he rises suddenly to his feet. "From Tol Sirion--or what once was Tol Sirion." He adds grimly, "They have made that isle their abode."

Finnabair swallows bitterly past the ale and nods, "That isle and other places.", she says, setting the emptied cup upon the ground and glowering at the fire. "Then north we will go and have a look.", she says, glancing over at him, "I do not like that you cannot draw your own bow but there is little point in arguing with you. You will go anyway.", she says, lifting herself up to stand as she retrieves her discarded armour and weapons from off the ground, "When do you want to go? You will have to give me at least a morning to repair this.", she says.

Istadris quickly drains the last from his own cup and stoops to set the empty vessel down beside Finnabair's. His narrowed eyes turn to the discarded weapons and armour set down near the ranger. "Aye, take tomorrow morn to repair those, then." He says with a nod, "That would give me time to find Branwyn and see if she would accompany us or not, I expect." The woodsman lifts the sword from the ground at his side and turns it expertly in hand then, before sliding it easily back into the sheath at his right shoulder. "I shall not stray very far tomorrow, unless needed." He adds, as he begins to depart, "Find me once you have repaired your gear." With those words, the tracker turns on his heel and crosses the small glade to retrieve his cloak where it has lain upon the ground near the roots of the lofty oak. He is soon vanished from sight then, swallowed up by the evening's coming gloom and by the towering trunks of the birch trees all around the camp.

Finnabair bids Istadris a good night and watches as he walks away before turning and making toward the low tents nestled within the trees. Kneeling down before one that is her own, she tosses back the flap and pushes her things inside, crawling in after them and letting the door fall back into place.