================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Fri Oct 01 20:09:28 2004
Bree time: Late Afternoon 5:28 PM on Sterday of Spring - April 29,1433
Moon Phase: Full Moon
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(OOC) This is a continuation of a scene between Drystan and Coronach, so IC time is approximately 9 pm. Ignore the above.

Bree, Outside the West-gate
To the east and north lies the village of Bree which is nestled under the western flank of Bree-hill, a grassy mass against the skyline. The East Road crosses by a causeway, but where it pierces the hedge, it is barred by a great gate. The village of Bree itself looks to have about one hundred stone houses of the Big Folk, some above a road carved into the hillside with windows looking west. On the higher slopes, above the houses of the Men, are many hobbit-holes also looking west. On that side, running in more than half a circle from the hill and back to it, there is a deep dike with a thick hedge on the inner side. There is a good assortment of traffic going through the gate: men, hobbits, and sometimes dwarves.


Stars slowly take over the sky, scattering their showers of thin silver light over the landscape and stilling all that is of day and warmth and work. A few last farmers amble towards Bree, intent on a night of drinking. A cow twitches her tail irritably and grumbles about the state of the grass. And the squealing shriek of the western gate being pulled shut knifes through the quiet air. A square of light falling on the road slowly narrows, and along with the screeching of unoiled hinges, hoarsely muttered imprecations float into the night.

"Stupid gate."
"Orter build us a new one, they ort."
"Shaddup, will ya, yer almost shut."


Out of the night comes the steady clop clop clop of a horse, moving along at a leisurely walk. The eyes of men might have difficulty picking the approaching steed out of the murk of the swelling night. The horse is black as jet, and its rider is arrayed in a grey cloak. Even more difficult to discern would be the companion walking alongside. He is similarly arrayed, but is somehow even less visible.

Still, they are there. And they are drawing closer.


"Didjer 'ear that?" The gate pauses its mournful squeal as if to listen, and into the ear-numbing quietness, hoofbeats fall. The guard spits once, meditatively, then turns to peer along the dark road. "'Oos out there?" he calls. "Tis gate-shutting time, don't ya know?"


The rider lifts his head, starlight picking out the soft edge of a hood and nothing beneath. His frame is bent forward, as if beneath a pressing weight; he makes no reply.


"Of course I know," comes the response, the voice alien and disembodied. "This is why I am here ere the closing of the gates. Or, near enough, by your reckoning."

Strong, this voice. It booms as if it were delivered by one standing by the Gate-Warden's side, and yet both rider and companion are still far off. Elegant it is, and beautiful, but it is also quite cold. Out here in the dark of the dying day, it might even seem chilling, like a voice issuing from a sepulcher.

It is, most assuredly, not human.


In the light, the guard's red and sweaty face glistens as he stares along the road, eyes slowly widening. Something drops through the yellow air and splats on the ground, and he returns hurriedly to the work of shutting up the town; in the process disturbing the sleep of a number of its citizens. Grunting and panting, the fat man slowly shoulders the gate closed, looking nervously behind him now and then.


Clip clop, clip clop.

The horse walks closer, and closer. A gaze cast back over the Guard's shoulder would by now reveal the horse, and rider, but possibly not the ghost that drifts along side.

Clip clop, clip clop.

With inexorable slowness, the travelers approach the gate, moving through the damp, cool night more swiftly than the recalcitrant gate can be pushed to.

"Wait."

The voice is now one of command. It is not menacing, for there is no malice in the tone. But it does ring out in the voice of one who is accustomed to being obeyed, and this assured timbre may be enough to cause the gatekeeper to pause in his work.


The gate is nearly closed; only a thin rectangle of stony road is lit now. A word, a single word, yet it staggers the guard as though it were a hammer and his feet pause in their efforts. Again it is quiet, but for the man's frightened breathing and the nearing steps of the animal. At last, ponderously, he turns around, putting his back to the wooden barrier; his hand clenching white-knucked about the pommel of a short, not-very-sharp sword. "Wh..who's there? An... an' whaddya want?" The quaver in his voice is smoothed out by growing belligerance; fed no doubt by fear.


A soft, fleeting sound that might be a laugh drifts, potent with irony, from the hooded rider.


"I am here," the graceful, cultured voice answers, accompanied by a rush of wings and night-bird feathers. Overhead, the clouds part, revealing the moon riding a black sea at the full height of its glory. Silvery moonlight pours down upon the road, illuminating all in hues of blue-black and argent. A new, earthbound, constellation is born as the wind blows back the cloak of the walking figure, and the moonlight shines on cuirass and mail. The stars flare in answer.

"I wish to speak with you."


"Yes 'n that's all very well an such, but WHO is ya?" the Breeguard asks truculantly, eyeing the shimmering stranger with disfavor. "And whatcha want to say?"


There is no laughter. No mockery is made of this demand, and yet, somehow, amusement is conveyed even as the questions are answered.

"Who am I? I am many things, and known by many names. I am the hunter of steeds and the catcher of rats. I am the turner of long knives- bending blades back upon their makers. I am the swearer of oaths and the master of none, and I am the commander of confessors. I am the one who walked Bree's length and breadth countless times, yet has never passed her gates. I am the Ghost of Barrow Hill, and I am the Horse Lord."

"I bring you a gift, Master Warden."


The man blinks. Once and then again, and a puzzled frown works its way into wrinkles. "...what?" he asks. "Yer a ghost?" Two things are too much to hold in his mind at once, and slowly, glacially, the man's(?) last words worry into being. "Oh no, I ain't takin' no gifts, yer cain't be bribin' me, that's called Disputin' w'th Guard." The long word comes out carefully, proudly and very wrongly.


The silent figure has stiffened. Now that it comes to it, the gift is tense with misgiving. Black eyes (not without a certain detatched amusement) flicker over the garbled guard, the shaft of torchlight - the welcoming stretch of night behind.


The travelers are by now, quite close to the walls of Bree. The features of each mannish form are now revealed in full- as much as their subtle, shifting cloaks will allow. The one who walks is the one speaking. Tall he is, and fair, though most of his face dwells deep in the shadows of his hood. The chin, though, can be seen to be narrow, pointed, and alabaster. The lips are thin and equally pale, and grey eyes flash from the darkness. His bearing is graceful- inhumanly so. Shoulders not exactly narrow are made broader by his mail, and- disturbingly- the steel hilt of a sword can be seen.

"I am the Bearer of Gifts and the briber of none. I am the threat of death and the promise of life. I am the mistaken executioner and the disarmer of foes. I bear cold moonlight in a pilcher, and pour it forth at will. I am the speaker of truth and the weaver of lies."

"This gift is not a bribe. It is freely given, with no expectation of recompense. If you refuse it, I shall only have to give it to another. It might advantage you to accept."


"Uh huh." The guard snorts. "Been drinking a bit over, 'ave yer? Well then, let's see this 'gift' o' your'n. Ain't saying I'll take it or naught," he hurries to add. The starlight falls into his brown eyes, both suspicious and greedy at once, yet honest enough by his lights.


"It is a package slightly damaged in the transport, but I assure you it will heal itself astoundingly well." The speaker extends an arm, gesturing to his mounted companion. "Behold, a horse thief. He goes by the name of 'Thorn,' I believe, and he has caused no small amount of grief in your town. Most recently he absconded with the steed of my kinsman, and both horse and rider were recovered- the steed in better shape than the taker. Do with him what you will." Grey eyes twinkle. "If I might make a suggestion, delivery to the magistrate by you might enhance your reputation a bit. Or, at the very least, earn you a pint or two of ale."


Tension crawls over the Man's jaw, wandering eyes focusing sharply on the guard, a dare in their black gleam. But Thorn offers no more than that; his silence is empty.


The guard comes forward a step and peers up at the mounted man. "'Orsethief, yer says?" He leans forward heavily and squints into hooded shadows. "Thorn... 'eard that name somewhere... Thorn... Right." Straightening, the guard hawks and spits; a globule that arcs into the dust. "'E stole a 'orse. Right out o' the Pony stables. There were a paper on it. Yer done the right thing," he tells the elf expansively. "Us'll take 'im in. Gotcher 'orse back, did yer?"


"We did indeed," The elf says, smiling thinly. To his companion he makes a quick gesture, indicating that Thorn should dismount. "Come, come, Master Thorn. We should not keep this gentleman waiting. He has many duties to perform, not the least of which is delivering you to the magistrate. Also, he has the gate to close and his reward to drink."

"You also have things to do, but this we have discussed."


What little expression colours the captive's face drains to stillness. Thorn hesitates. Then, rebelling against every instinct, he slowly complies, slipping in heavy silence to the ground. He sways a moment, wounded arms bound tightly behind, then grimly finds his balance.


Coronach strips the grey cloak from his captive's shoulders with deft motion, and leans forward to whisper a few swift words. "I ... ... ... ..., ... remain ... ... ... ..., ... ... .... ... ... ... passed to ... ... the Rangers. ... ... well." He then takes a step back, tossing the cloth over the horse's back.


"'E been drinking too?" the guard asks curiously. He claps a meaty hand on Thorn's de-cloaked shoulder and pushes him towards the gate. "I'll have no trouble from you now, laddie, jus' come along quiet-like an' we'll put yer t'bed."


A face taut with an indefinable ... plea? Curse? turns to the soft words. The glimmer of black eyes search grey. And then the young man nearly buckles. A half-stifled cry, abruptly bitten off, is joined to the wrenching of his arm from the ungentle grasp. He breathes deeply, nostrils flared.


"A trip to the surgeons may be in order," the elf interjects smoothly, and is that a touch of compassion in his voice? "And I would be less rough with his shoulders. he lost an argument with my sword."


"I said...! Oh." The guard clumsily reaches for Thorn again, whispering his fat hand across the material of the man's shirt, and pats his back gingerly, urging him towards the slitted gate. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Din't know yer was injured."


Swiftly mounting the patiently waiting horse, the elf watches his prisoner being pressed inside the walls of Bree. What can be seen of his face is inscrutable, but certainly his eyes follow the wounded man's progress most closely. His boots are slipped into stirrups, and slack reins are taken in hand. "Good evening, Master Thorn. Good bye, Master Warden."


There is a pause, which a pale Thorn occupies at some cost by standing straight beneath the awkward patting. A single, inscrutable glance is cast back. Then he allows himself to be herded into the waiting town.


The Firstborn waits until the man is pressed into the town, then turns his black horse and heads back into the night at a brisk trot. If any eyes remained to watch, he could be seen passing down the road and out of sight, a shadow moving under the moon. The rumor of the horse's hoofbeats, however, is discernible for longer. At the last, it can be heard to move from a trot to a canter, and from a canter to a gallop, as the elf urges his steed on to great speeds with an urgency that can only be guessed.

Horse and rider speed off into the west.