The Hunters and the Hunted - Ranger RPG

Seven Stars and Seven Stones and One White Tree.
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The morning was early, early enough that the city did not stir at all except for an occasional city guard on patrol. The sun would be expected to show up after an hour or so, and yet it was not clear whether it would happen today: heavy clouds covered the sky and poured down icy sleet that made the cobblestones of the streets slippery and felt unpleasant on any uncovered skin.

Even though the weather was unpleasant, and it would have been nice to stay in bed under the cover of warm blanket, Faramir had asked any willing Rangers to gather outside the Great Gate. He could not help but wonder how many would respond and exchange the comforts of indoors for a brisk early morning walk, being whipped by sleet no less. Besides he had not really provided any reasons for why he needed the Rangers, leaving them to guess and decide whether they would join a mission that was not clearly set out before it was started.

Attempting to hide from the worst of the sleet, Faramir leaned against the wall, his small pack at his feet, and looked out over the Pelennor Fields from under his hood. He had come much earlier than he had asked the others to come, but it was rather enjoyable to have a few moments of peace and quiet without anyone trying to get his attention either to provide some services or ask for advice, or any other such thing. But it was likely that any early risers might appear out of the Gate.


Instructions:

- If you are a Ranger seeking some adventure, come and join, stating how you found out about the mission (word of mouth; note on the notice board, etc.), describe your equipment, and whether you have brought a horse with you.
- Not a Ranger? Well... could still find a place for you, perhaps? :wink:
- Be nice! (You know the rules...)
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Black Númenórean
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How his father still knew seemed to know everything that went on around the White City, Kamion did not know, but when Darellon Balakân had come home the night before with a knowing look in his eye and barely a limp in his step, the Dúnadan knew something was afoot. Since before their king had left fosterage, his father had served the City, and had had many years to nurture the relationships that now brought information to him in his old age. And when Darellon had told Kamion that Faramir was ranging out in the morning and looking for a party, the younger man hadn’t asked any questions, merely packed his things. An oilskin pack with its top rolled down three times and buckled against the morrow’s promised weather (Darellon was certain it would be foul) contained rations and supplies, and his sword, freshly brushed with an oiled cloth, lay beside it in preparation. Before dawn Kamion arose and broke his fast, and despite his attempts at silence, his father materialized behind him as he was making for the door, and laid a gnarled hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Take care.” The aged Dúnadan said gruffly, and Kamion smiled, crinkling the corners of his odd cobalt eyes.

“Don’t I always, father?” he clasped Darellon’s hand in return, and slipped out the door. The weather was as bad as his father had predicted, and Kamion couldn’t resist the involuntary hunching of his shoulders against he icy sleet, protect though he was by an oilcloth cloak. It kept him dry, but the first shock of cold after the warm stone dwelling was a harsh awakening. It might have been an extravagance to keep their home warm all night, but Kamion wasn’t about to allow his father to take a chill. Deliberatly unclenching his shoulderblades, the towering Dúnadan strode with purpose through the city, until he came to the Great Gate. He spotted Faramir without trouble, tucked into the lee of the wall outside the gate, an auburn shadow in the pre-light gloom. He approached, close enough for greetings, but not close enough that Faramir couldn’t stay in quiet reflection if he felt like it. It seemed he was the first to arrive, and who knew how long they would wait for more to arrive.

“Morning,” Kamion offered, nodding to the other. As he did so a line of water dripped from the hood of his cloak, into the front of his shock of black hair, and onto his nose, where he blew it away. “Beautiful day.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Unalmis Raxëlilta

The hour was not yet so that the city or indeed even the sun herself was roused. Which might have accounted for the rain which revelled in seizing opportunity. Unalmis of course had tired of rest far sooner than was sensible, and had been engaged some time already in gazing from his window at how the evolving light slowly painted the world in a new day. Never one to be contented with looking, not when there was the chance he might be missing out on something more, the young man had hastened about his steps to come out into that world, tripping over the picture frame that served as the Barracks door. His room-mate was also heading out and indeed they almost collapsed in a heap of both trying to get through the same exit at the same time.

It was not mere curiosity nor his typical restlessness that had took him from the comforts of his room however. There had been an excitable encounter the previous day, when he had run into Prince Faramir of Ithilien, about the Headquarters. Not … literally .. run into. Which was some rare blessing, given his tendency to bluster about all buildings like a breeze seeking escape. The noticeboard had boasted opportunity for Rangers to venture into the forest, and that alone would have summoned Nal even if he had not learned of the legendary Ranger Leader’s involvement. He had no sooner told Beren, but that Ranger insisted upon coming too, to 'keep an eye on' him. They took separate paths toward the assigned meeting place however, as each had a tiny errand to complete along the way.

Foregoing the stables, the young man assumed that a horse would be hindrance if they were going to really explore into the forest. Also it would take a lot more time than he could currently stand to commit, in order to ready one. Drawing a brief glance over his shoulder, back at his father's rooms on the second circle, Unalmis rallied onward, unwilling to be beaten to the gate. The hooded bottle-green cloak was as effective a body tent as he might hope for on his jourrney, and a mossy scarf had swallowed the features of the lower half of his face. The air that he blew there in such close quarters leant him further warmth and his trews were of a deep enough brown that would not showcase quite how drenched they were truly become. A leather, tan-brown tunic held a layer of further comfort against the olive green shirt that puckered through the laced rings all up either side. At least his tall, dark boots were warm and dry within, and the matching tan-brown bracers warded chill off his forearms. Green leather gloves, for all that they were finger-less, added some attempt to shield against the climes. As he knew the best way to dry off was to run, Unalmis determined that this was the fastest if not the most effective approach, given the persistent downpour. Observing quite who was already stood waiting did not discourage his speed, any more than did the grease of rain-slicked cobblestones.

His arrival was a little ungainly, betraying some overexcited thrill. The short sword and bow which he had done his best to silence, were standard commission, nothing to write home about, but both well tested on the training grounds and ugly as all practical things can prove. A full quiver slung across one shoulder completed the balancing act, while the mismatched collection of small leather bags hung hidden but various small supplies from his belt. Slender cords of rope for snares were wrapped about the ankle joint of either boot, to save space for the like of a water bottle to hang too from his waist. But pride of place had been allotted to the knife, shod in it’s veteran trappings, close to reach. As though there were any doubt of how swift he could brandish the primal tool, he practiced whipping the blade in and out, just in case, a fidget’s tell. As neither of the two taller men had spoken to him yet, Unalmis simply nodded his head once, half hoping that neither one would recognise him and send him back to his bed, for sake of inexperience in the field. How else, after all, was a person to obtain it ? A smile that neither would see was holding court across his jaw, celebrating the fact that he had beaten Beren there.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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Dunulf strode down the light-starved streets of Minas Tirith, towards the Great Gate. Dawn had not yet risen, and he had promised to gather outside the Gate for a mission – at the Prince of Ithilien’s suggestion, no less. He stepped hastily and used the butt of his spontoon as something of a support to keep him walking so swiftly on the cobbles. Dunulf supposed that in the dark, muted attire of his gambeson and new trousers, he would not be a particularly obvious figure in the premature light of the morning. At least his cloak was warm, and his boots were comfortable. He was still far from used to the weight of a sword at his hip, however; the bow over his shoulder was far more suited to him, as was the quiver on his opposite hip.

At this point, he found himself thanking the Valar for the tread and grip of his boots, for the sleet underfoot was discouragingly slippery, and for the foresight he had had to bring a warm drink in his second flask. His pack was only small, but he felt uncomfortable with the idea of carrying any more weight than he already was.

As the Gate loomed ahead, Dunulf steadied his stride somewhat at the sight of the other men. One of them was surely the Prince, and it would do him no good to appear over-eager and green on his very first outing. One of the men fidgeted with a short blade, reminding Dunulf of his own tucked away in a sheath beneath his quiver, but he resisted the urge to join in. He was surprised to find that, as he approached, another of the men beside the Prince was of an equal height to him – perhaps he would have to become more accustomed to this, as the Dúnedain of Gondor were considerably taller than the Rohirrim whose company he was familiar with.

He greeted the trio at the Gate with a nod and a vague gesture of his arm, and settled against the white stone, brushing the water and sleet from his cloak as he did so. “And to think that I believed Gondor to be sunny,” Dunulf muttered in amusement.

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Faramir

He stood against the wall so calmly that he could have been considered a part of it by a less careful observer, and yet a prepared mind and careful eye would not be fooled, as it became clear with Kamion's approach. Faramir stirred slightly to shake off the small puddle that had formed on his right shoulder, and his face concealed by the hood as it was showed appreciation. It would be good to have an experienced Ranger, as the previous day had proved that quite a few young and inexperienced people were willing to take a hold of opportunity to leave the walls of the city.

It did not take long for two of the above-mentioned people to join them, one after another, and Faramir decided to forsake the quiet thoughtfulness to greet them.

"It is great to see that this apparently nice weather has not held any of you back from this outing," he spoke, a grin playing on his lips. "And well... if we had only sun I figure Gondor would have become a desert," he responded to Dunulf's comment.

"Do any of you have a knowledge of anyone else joining us whom we should wait for?" Faramir asked, glancing at Unalmis in particular. While there was no immediate rush, he did not intend to stand about for too long. It was still early, and the sun had not risen yet - or what could be assumed of its rising considering the circumstances - so there was a possibility of some more people joining if the word had gone out.
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Éowyn
Éowyn
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Arnyn

She hadn't been very sociable since the Rangers' return from their last mission, to the south. She had been... desillusioned... but also very occupied. There were her Ranger duties, there was her devotion to her training regimen - and then there was the house. She'd moved back into her house in the Fourth Circle after the mission, but years of neglect had left it in dire need of a complete overhaul: cleaning, renovations, you name it. It had taken up a lot of her spare time. That, and her reading - an old pastime she'd enjoyed picking up again, now she had easy access to all the books she wanted, being back in the city instead of out in the northern wilds.

Of course, cleaning and house renovations weren't exactly would Arnyn would define as her calling. Responding to a message on the bulletin board saying Prince Faramir was calling available Rangers to the Great Gate, however... That was a different matter entirely. Repainting the living room could most definitely be put on hold for that. She hid the lower part of her face into the thick scarf she'd added to her usual ranger gear. Even if the weather was less than ideal. Her winter cloak was no luxury today.

As she made her approach out of the Gate, she caught Faramir's last words. "Me," she said, nodding at the four men already gathered there. "Gentlemen." She recognized Kamion, Unalmis and, of course, Faramir - but there was one present who was unknown to her (Dunulf).
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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Mourgan

The bite of rain had him pulling the hood of his cloak down further as he made his way through the early morning darkness to the designated meeting place.
He muttered to himself about shoe choices and how he preferred to take his horse but it wasn’t his choice so he turned the corner to see the final stretch and at the end he could see the outlines of those gathered.
He caught a very familiar voice as he approached the group. Arnyn. He was pleased to see her familiar face although mostly covered by a scarf. He sent a quick nod of welcome to each, Kamion, Unalmis, Faramir, Arnyn and a new face ..Dunulf. The others he’d gone to battle with and counted them among people he trusted with his life..literally.
“I’m here too. “ he raised his hand and waved abit. “Morning all.”
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

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Beren Camlost
(Interaction with Isys permitted by @Ercassie )

Before they saved Hattie from her malicious owner near the swift river Erui, it was Nal who woke his roommate; the big man, Beren Camlost, would have overslept frequenty otherwise. The energetic black hound with the soft dark eyes and bouts of boisterous barking would leave her mattress, or whatever resting place she chose, to get Nal up then leap on Beren's bed. She would incessantly prod her other dear rescuer with her paws or lick him in avid persistence until he was awake. She would jump at him when he rose up to stretch; Hattie forbade Beren to ready himself for the day until she had a significant amount of pats and kisses. Hattie insisted Beren or Nal play with her before they left their barracks room. She would present her heroic gentlemen with a ball made of Harad tree rubber; they would give it a toss so the dog gamboled across the room trying to catch the rebounding toy with rapturous elation. Needless to say, things were either shattered or knocked down in Hattie's earnest persuit of mayhem. Neither man was concerned enough to rectify this accordingly.

The men and the hound didn't like being housebound so they Beren and Nal took the Patterdale with them on Ithilien hunts & hikes with Addhor, Narradir, and Aileen. Hattie enjoyed a good romp through the lebethron groves of Beren's farm in Imloth Melui, chasing rabbits and squirrels as well. Huan II, the white wolfhound Lady Airien gave him, considered the smaller dog inferior but suffered her presence. This morning Nal was taking her to Addhor so his father could watch Hattie since he would be gone with Beren on a mysterious scouting mission in Faramir's company. Hopefully on their return, they would discover Addhor in one piece....

Nal had told Beren recently about the assignment. Misfortune had befallen the adventurer recently so he as apt to answer the call; he needed the distraction but also anticipated his time with friends and bonding with his son, Mourgan.

Nal was leaving in a rush simultaneously with Beren who was desperate to find Isys; Beren worried that he was still short on penance making up for his recent foolishness at his friend's winter pub and was eager to make amends. "Fleeging luck," Beren swore when he crashed into Nal. Beren went down. He collided against a pedastle supporting a marble bust of Denethor II. "He was a son of a warg anyway," Beren remarked, looking at the shattered sculpture and muttered, "Poor Narradir," under his breath. He glanced about, hoping Faramir wasn't in earshot. Despite the depravity or shortcomings of one's father, a son loved his old man. Unless that son was Hatholdir, of course.

"We've got to stop leaving like this, kid," Beren insisted, thrusting a finger at Nal with a mock glower and spoke airily. "Respect your elders. I'm older so I'm the first out the door. Got it?" He said this with a comically arrogant expression which Nal was probably used to by now. He gripped his forearm for a fleeting moment, rubbed Hattie goodbye, then departed in the opposite direction.

Turning the corner, Beren nearly ran into Isys next. Her mother, Lady Eressild of Lond Col, was kin to Beren's gemstone associates in Lebennin to whom his oversea mining guild sold ores and jewels; Beren had met Isys during the last mission and healed her. They became fast friends and he often visited her coastal estate since. Beren asked her just the other day if she wanted to prepare together for Faramir's mission. He was already dressed for the venture. Beren wore a brown gambeson beneath a cloak as green as his breeches and gauntlets to better conceal himself in the fair aisles of Ithilien. His ancient elvish longsword was sheathed in in Khallador's Northern Dúnedain scabbard, one built of strange black metal bejewelled with flaming gems. A snarling face of a bear formed the upper part of the gold hilt, detailed with roaring features and carnelian eyes. Below the fair Oiolairë handle was a pommel resembling two claws holding a disc displaying a bear's paw print. Due to the inclement weather, Beren had put his sling in the pack slung over his shoulders which housed a bag of stones, bedroll, tinderbox, hithlain rope and other equipment.

"I was hoping you wouldn't change your mind, milady!" He gave her his best charming smile. "About that night at your pub..." He mentioned following a moment's slight hesitation, fearing the worst. An awkward pause, his words trailing off. "Let me make it up to you," insisted Beren, discovering his voice at last after clearing his throat. He gestured grandly to the quarters he shared with Nal. "I'll make you any drink, the beverage of your choice. We don't know what we're going to face out there so we need a bracer."

He led his friend toward the room. "Welcome to our man cave, Isys." Beren swung open the door, leaned against the doorway, and smirked. The place was ridiculously cluttered. "I know it looks like Gondolin after the Fall but I assure you it's the dog's fault," Beren lied smoothly to Isys. He took one of Nal's socks off the back of a chair to toss in a wooden laundry bin across the room. Beren's farmhouse would have been this wrecked were it not for Aileen, his daughter and Mourgan's half-sister, but the tidy lass wasn't here to dole out cleaning responsibilities or mercilessly throw away junk.

Beren slapped Hattie's stuffed rooster chew toy off one of his many storage chests in the room and opened it, revealing another chest inside. Beren called it his pub cellar and winked at Isys, lifting the lid. Buried in ice cut from the lofty peaks of Mindolluin and delivered to the kitchens of the barracks were several bottles. Each contained some form of liquor, ale, or cider.

"Would you like a hurricane before you go insane?" Beren asked Isys in a singsong voice. A hurricane was a drink, one he and Narradir enjoyed concoting, including the silly jingle he just sang. Beren made the beverage for Eressild when he dined at Lond Col. It was richly sweet, contrived of rum - light and dark - with Belfalas citrus fruits and Lebennin passionfruit, tart pomegranate syrup and garnished with a slice of Isilherven orange.

Isys turned down her mother's drink to request a Seaweed Scotch Cocktail instead. "You're the only woman I know who's obsessed with seaweed," Beren commented with an amused shake of his head. His grin widened. "In fact, that's the only reason I ordered this delectable treasure from a distiller chum of mine in Pelargir..." Beren removed a bottle of greenish Anduin Dry Gin, seaweed-infused, from the chest. "I would recommend something hot, considering the fact it's the Helcaraxë out there, but if Hobbits can eat ice cream in the winter than Isys of Lond Col can have a scotch on the rocks on a cold day, I reckon." Beren asked her to get a couple of cups, honey syrup, and a shaker of salt out of his Ithilien oak sideboard he bought from Addhor. He took a mixing glass from a compartment in the chest then filled it with some small cunks of ice. He poured the gin inside with an ounce of white Port and the syrup Isys handed him; he added a teaspoon of single malt Anfalas whisky and a pinch of the salt. Beren presented Isys the stirred brew, smiling like a hero who just received his medal then made the same cocktail for himself, limiting himself to just one.

Now fortified for the troubles of their scouting day, Beren led Isys out and accompanied her to the Mess Hall to pack rations for their journey. Beren worked one pump while Isys used the other, filling their wineskins with fresh water from a natural spring then they came to the Little Mess, a smaller room outside the feasting hall. It was reserved for special meals of soldiers either returning from a quest or beginning one. Beren packed hard cheese, dried meats and oven-baked kale chips. "Pretty sure we can't get a three-course meal wherever we're going, milady," Beren answered through snorting laughter when Isys told him what she wanted to eat. He smiled fondly at his friend. She was a bit absent-minded but Beren liked her quirky personality. "They have no oysters for travelling but there's dried strips of clam and salmon." He passed these to her to put in a knapsack. "Oh, look. It's gorp. The bakers liked my idea. They stocked our pantries with it." Beren showed Isys wrapped bars consisting of oats, fruit, raisins, and nuts combined with honey or Harad chocolate. "Good ole raisins and peanuts!" Beren exclaimed, sounding like a lumberjack hick straight out of the Chetwood. He prided himself for devising the healthy treat and its clever acronym. "I made gorp to snack on hikes or at camp. It weighs lightly and it's easy to store. Gorp is nutritious and improves your stamina." Beren took a cursory glance around the Little Mess; when he was sure they needed nothing else, he walked out with Isys and took his green mask out of the pocket of his cloak.

"To the Great Gate, not the stables." Beren had been certain Isys wouldn't be pleased about this. "Listen to me, it's not the best decision to take a horse on a reconnaissance mission," he advised her, pulling the hood of his cloak over his unruly dark hair. "We can't have you dismounting every time we need to study tracks and steeds sully the very signs we try to ascertain." He genuinely knew what he was talking about, seasoned scout that he was, and hoped Isys would trust him. It was dark and silent as a tomb in the White City. Dense roiling clouds mantled the heavens, pouring torrents of sleet. As they navigated the slippery cobbled streets, Beren's strong hand launched out to grasp Isys' sleeve to catch her from falling. "I wish we were on your sunny beach at Lond Col, building castles in the sand," Beren confided whimsically to Isys through chattering teeth, chilled by the icy rain pelting his bearded face. Beren beamed in spite of the deluge, noticing a crowd of Rangers forming outside the Great Gate which Gimli and his Erebor Dwarves built of steel and mithril. "You mind stumbling again, Isys?" joked Beren. "It's time for the Great Adventurer and Savior of Damels to prove his quality..." When Isys faltered on the slicked stone of the wide court once more, Beren lunged to seize hold of her sleeve again but tripped over his own tooled boots. For the second time this morning, he collapsed. Flailing his muscular arms cartoonishly, Beren skidded across the stony ground and a whirling limb swatted Isys. They both plummeted in a heap before the Rangers assembled against the high wall near the towers and bastions of indomitable stone guarding the new Great Gate. Beren mumbled a laughing apology to Isys, helping her to stand rightly this time, then limped toward their awaiting comrades.

"Good morning, son!" Beren cheerfully hailed Mourgan. "You see how nimble your father is? I Learned a thing or two from my graceful Elf friends, I hope it shows." Beren's grin was hidden behind his mask. Although Nal, too, wore a scarf Beren knew his smile mirrored his own. "Laugh it up, kid. I'd like to see you beat me when it's not raining oliphaunts and I don't have a woman to escort. Stuff it, buddy." He said, "Good day," to Arnyn and Dunulf then saluted Faramir. "Freezing but willing and able, sir." Beren shook Kamion's hand. "Glad to share another thrilling day with one of the finest swordsmen in Gondor." Kamion it was who taught Beren how to wield a blade. Not for the first time Beren was struck by how familiar his vivid cobalt eyes were. Beren could have sworn he had seen those odd bluish orbs in the face of another soul...but again said nothing.
Last edited by Eriol on Sun Jan 17, 2021 6:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Ilisys Azrubêl

Since arriving in the city, she had made it her business to know what she required to be aware of, and that those who had no business being aware of what she required to know, were not. The complete nonsensity of that point was enough to ward off most of the people with no patience to understand her. Ilisys had little care for being understood. In fact, cryptic was often the surest armour at the noblewoman’s disposal. The sun-shy dawn found her wandering the corridors, moon-faced and bare footed, and as yet undecided whether she ought partake of Prince Faramir’s expedition. Whether she sought for some sign, or simply a reason not to go, it turned out that she met the appointed hour, with neither of these things to hand.

Beren caught her in the common room, running a single laced glove along a long shelf of squatting tomes. The bold Man spoke of hoping that she wouldn’t change her mind, after their meet in the pub; which surprised her, as she had been rather offset at his uninvited touch and interest; so imagined he’d hope she would in fact change her mind on the subject of him .., and forgive him. When he promised to make it up to her, and gestured toward his chambers, grinning widely, she could almost imagine her mother’s raise of brow. Thankfully he meant only to brew her a drink, likely to educate her how it ought to be done, after the pub endeavours, and though he asked what was her favourite drink of all time, she never did presume he’d manage to accomplish it. He did. And whether that then was her sign, or simply out of intrigue what other surprises the day might yet offer, Isys agreed to go find some suitable attire for traipsing through the forest.

This did not include any of the horses in her possession, but apparently the best impression she might make of a tree. The woman of Dol Amroth was no stranger to dressing up, or down, or to suit, or stand out for that matter, so she blended the best she could from the clothes at her disposal. Secreting her selection beneath a woollen green cloak, she bustled the dark coil of her braid into an orbit of her brow. Grey eyes peered out dubiously at the mirror which she had not yet raised from it’s reflective puddle on the floor, and checked for the single silver bracer which always enveloped her left forearm. Twinned long knives nestled as a pair of folded wings in a clandestine back brace, and the typical, unreadable expression was painted across her distinguished features.

Their journey to the gate was haphazard, not least because the lady still held her untouched drink in one hand, and sought to stabilise a lengthy spetum in the other. The gleaming blade twirled as might a flat and ineffective parasol as their atypical parade descended the Circles, and her choice to step only on certain cobblestones, in no certain order or sense, nor even straight line, did nothing to improve their speed.

Unalmis saw the approach and grinned as broad as he had for each new companion who had swelled the group. “Beren did say he would come, sir, but he’s no doubt been delayed, sweeping some woman off her feet,” the youth answered with pointed timing to Faramir, just as his room-mate did exactly that.

My Liege, we bring GORPIlisys met the waiting group as she rose up the length of her polearm, her drink largely still unspilt. She glanced back at her escort and then at her satchel to explain the food Beren had counselled they bring from the Mess. As though any could put two and two together to make sense of her. “An honour,” she laid an elaborate curtsey in front of their group leader, presenting Faramir with the (now rather weather-diluted) drink as she arose a second time.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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Dunulf
At the Great Gates


Strangely, now that he was experiencing it properly, Dunulf found himself rather enjoying the rain of Minas Tirith. It carried not the viciousness and hardness of the rain to the north, nor did it soak the ground to fickle and capricious mud he was so used to while tilling the fields of Rohan. Valar, one could step soundly at first and submerge to their knee the very next pace. This was far nicer. No danger of sinking up to his nicky-nacky-noos as if trout fishing. Of course, the cobbles were positively treacherous, but the countryside would not be as smoothly rounded and beaten down as to encourage slipping.

As such, Dunulf found his lips curling upwards lightly at Faramir’s weather-related musings, and let out a small, low chuckle in response. Beyond that, like the Prince, he too was wondering if this was to be the extent of the party’s size.

No sooner than he could think on it, newcomers arrived. The first, a woman, seemed highly inconspicuous with her scarf hiding her lower face – though he was a little surprised by the admittance of women to the Rangers of Gondor. Perhaps this was a Gondorian thing … or mayhap limited to the Rangers. Either way, it was yet another thing he would have to become accustomed to. While the womenfolk of Rohan were hardy and tough, and easily roused to wrath, they rarely fought or trained with the men. It was not unheard of, that was true, but it was certainly unusual and never a sight he had encountered on the border of the Eastfold. Although her face was covered, she was clearly known. Another experienced hand, then, it would seem. That was a welcome addition, since Dunulf was worried that perhaps there would only be so few of them, and two being so seemingly inexperienced in the field – himself included. He nodded in return.

Right on her heels arrived another, a man this time, seemingly non-descript in his hooded cloak. Again, the man seemed known, judging by the greeting nod he gave them all, and the confidence with which he held himself. He seemed friendly, too, Dunulf thought. At least, his almost jovial wave would suggest as much, and Dunulf returned it with a raised hand.

Turning to idle reflection, he took a small sip of his heated broth and breathed out. He had always been taught to be grateful for the minute things in life, to treasure the mundane, and quite frankly he had never found such a brew as majestic as he did now in the drizzly cold of an Anórien morning. All he longed for now was the joy of movement, that his joints might not stick as though forge-welded together. With that in mind, Dunulf clicked and cracked his knuckles and stretched his legs slightly to keep them from turning to sloth.

Most of all, he was simply eager. He was eager to prove himself to the Prince and to the Rangers. He was eager to prove himself to his dead father, regardless of how often the man had told him of his pride. Perhaps more, though, Dunulf wished to prove himself … to himself. It was imperative for him that he find himself a home and a life truly worth living, serving Gondor. Otherwise … well, he knew not what alternatives would lie in store for him. Simply put, he refused to burden the company he kept and refused to burden his own mind with failure or hesitation. Neither of those could come to pass; that, he would make sure of.

A short while later, he found himself sharply roused by a clattering of bodies and stones. Two bodies, to be precise. A lively pair, he mused, his lips twitching more than a little now. It was a rather comedic affair as the older man, Beren if he'd heard correctly, greeted his son and the others. It lifted his spirits to see such delightfully cheerful souls – perhaps a little overly cheerful for his general liking, but it would be different on a mission, he surmised. In fact, he might have even dared to call it a pantomime, especially as the woman clambered back to her feet. Such levity would likely be most welcome.

Besides, even if it turned out that they were irritating later on – they brought food! That made them good in his book.

Good day indeed!” he chuckled. Perhaps this mission wouldn't be as daunting as he first thought, for he was in good company.

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Faramir
At the Great Gates


With the arrival of Arnyn and Mourgan to join them, Faramir began to think that their group would be quite well set up with a mix of experienced and less experienced members, so that they could each learn one from another and build good teamwork. Just when he thought that with satisfaction, his attention was drawn to the thud of falling people and clattering of weapons on the cobblestones. With a furrowed brow he watched the ensuing silliness unfold before him.

"This is not exactly what I would call a dignified arrival," he said, mostly in response to Unalmis who had said Beren would come as soon as he did actually appear. Faramir was not opposed to light-hearted fun and humour as it was a good way of bonding and lifting the morale, yet at the same time he expected all Rangers to demonstrate professionalism when dealing with any mission, even if it was a mere jaunt to the training grounds.

"Do we look like a circus troupe to you?" he addressed the new arrivals, his voice calm, and yet bearing a promise of an approaching tempest. Taking a glass from Isys he set it down on a small stone projection in a wall.

His grey eyes settled on the pair, his voice gained a certain authoritative quality that did not permit any objections or talking back, even though he did not raise his voice: "You come tumbling out here as if you had just spent a merry night at a pub. Do you think that I called for Rangers to gather here because I was looking for companions to do a pub crawl with?" For a moment Faramir released Beren and Ilisys from his gaze to glance at the other members of the group, before returning back to them with renewed intensity. "Now, either clean up your act, or go back and report to your superiors, tell them I have declared you unfit for duty and in need of due punishment. Pick your options."

"Does anyone else think this assignment is just a joke, and I had you come out here for the sake of merriment? If so, the Great Gate is that way..." his thumb indicated over his shoulder to the entrance into the city. "Otherwise, get into formation and prepare to move out. I want to see two neat columns here instead of having you scamper over the Pelennor like a flock of geese chased by a cook with a knife."
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Arnyn

Mourgan would join them as well; another familiar face to the tall blonde. Her long braid was covered by her cloak and her hood was half raised against the rain - she'd pulled it back slightly to allow for herself to be recognized by the group.

When Beren and Isys joined them, Arnyn was glad for her scarf: it hid how her jaw dropped at their arrival marvelously. The Ranger greeted his son first, the others next and Faramir last. Beren hadn't seemed this cavalier or this lacking of any sense of protocol on their last mission, Arnyn thought.
She crossed her arms. While it was always good to have positive people in a group, she wasn't convinced that this was the time or place for such behaviour. And in the presence of Prince Faramir, no less, who probably hadn't called them here for fun and games.

He also seemed to have rubbed off on Isys at least somewhat, although the female Ranger had been a bit of an enigma at times to Arnyn on their last mission, as well. It was her finally handing a drink to Faramir that made Arnyn hide a smile under her scarf. It coincided with the chuckle from the man she did not know (Dunulf). Admittedly, it was quite humorous.

Curious as to Faramir's reaction, Arnyn quietly waited for it. And she was not disappointed. In fact, his reaction was most satisfying in her mind, and made it quite clear that Faramir had indeed called them here on business - as was to be expected.

"Ready, Sir," Arnyn replied neutrally - although her eyes were twinkling. She stepped forward, uncrossing her arms and pulling her hood all the way forward to shield her from the weather and stay as warm as she could. There were eight of them, so they would probably be moving out in pairs, yet Arnyn was never one to assume. She also wasn't one for asking questions. Faramir would give them more information as he saw fit.
Last edited by Arnyn on Tue Jan 19, 2021 6:57 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Mourgan
Great gates

He thought perhaps he would be the last to join their party but with a clatter and jovial voice he turned to see two more join them.
He watched their entrance and scowled to himself. When his father greet him he return the greeting with a short nod causing rain to roll down his hood and dribble off the edge.
He turned his brown eyes to Isys as she seemed to curtsy while trying not to spill her drink. His brows furrowed slightly at watching this and he had to turn to look at the equally unimpressed Faramir as he laid down some instructions
They were ordered to line up and he wasted no time falling in line behind Arnyn.
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Ilisys Azrubêl and Unalmis Raxëlilta
Setting out from the Great Gate


They were the sorts of questions that did not encourage answers, but demonstrated clearly who was leading this mission. Ilisys was impressed at Faramir’s ability, to know they had been in the pub last night. She had heard of course that those who trained for service in Ithilien were keen-eyed scouts and trackers, but she had never imagined they might be so accurate in their observations. She might have been concerned over following an officer she had not worked with before, after the last mission, but this new comrade was a well known national hero, and it was a trial to conjure up any doubt in his command, however cross he seemed.

Warder would have reminded her that this was not the first time she’d been mistaken for under the influence, and in the Prince’s defence, he knew her not. Few did. Besides there being the matter of the alcoholic drink she had presented him with. But any exhibition of balancing said drink (which she had not more than sniffed at), in the midst of falling foul of even fouler weather conditions, clearly was not enough to impress the man before her. She would have to up her efforts if that was her intention.

Ilisys Azrubêl, falling in, sir” she announced with grey eyes at the ground and a cool expression which ignored Nal’s barely disguised snort at the choice of wording. “Not a goose,” she added, in a far more serious tone than the claim might suggest. Still, it was a promise of sorts. Finding a fellow polearm enthusiast amongst their number, the lady found her place in one of the two forming lines, aside Dunulf, whose weapon she noted, approvingly.


Unalmis was not quite sure if Faramir was sharing an opinion with him, or else a warning, as it was clear quite what was not being encouraged here. Honestly it was taking all that the young man could master not to laugh, or poke fun of Beren for such an entrance.

I could absolutely race you up all seven circles and be back, before you even reached the first, old man,” he muttered toward his room mate, as they passed one another, finding place at the formation. His spirits were not dampened by the Prince’s disapproval, for he’d known far worse things than stern words, though it was a new experience to hear them aimed at others not himself. Moreover he was still very excited to find out what their mission would entail exactly. It was still much of a mystery.

There were some grand faces that he recognised from their last Ranger outing; Kamion, one of the leading scouts, Arnyn, who had previously been a commander herself ! Mourgan, who had been his fellow in the same taskforce last time around. The tall man with the spear, he had not seen before, but they were all going into Ithilien. Ithilien ! Nal decided to fall in near Kamion, since Beren himself had spoke so well of the man, as had Ilisys, in fact. Watching what better men did, might distract him from the want to beg details of their Prince, of what they were in for. Somehow he supposed that Faramir would be more interested in what his group could tell him, what they might notice and what they might manage to do about it, than what he might spoonfeed them. This was certainly not the family friendly outings which the young Ranger had grown to love. This was, at last, the next level. And all that came with it.
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Caladcyll, arriving at the Great Gates

No matter how in shape one can be, there is always room for improvement. That’s one of the many things Caladcyll’s father drilled into him over the years. Running from Ranger Headquarters to the Amory to the Roquen Express then finally to the Great Gates showed Caladcyll how true this was. Despite his ability to run long distances with little need for rest, the race through the city in order to get everything done on time was a test he was not expecting. He had never run in armor, be that leather armor or chainmail, and the added weight, combined with his overall nervous energy, left him drained as he rounded the corner. Seeking to rain in his potential embarrassment, he slumped next to the wall, closed his eyes and took in deep, rapid breaths. He could feel his heart trying to burst out of his chest. “Gonna need to do better than that,” he said aloud to himself, mimic his father’s mannerisms down to the pseudo disappointed ‘tsk’ he always added. He opened his eyes again. He could see flecks of light appearing and disappearing as his breathing evened out and his heart slowed down. “Nothing to get to excited over…” he breathed, “just… the first day on the job.” He smiled and laughed quietly. He hadn’t expected there to be a mission for him to go on within minutes of him joining up and giving his Oath, but he was absolutely not going to turn down the opportunity either. This was a chance to meet some of his fellow Rangers, to feel them out, and to find where he would ultimately fit in. The sooner the better too.

In a perfect world, Caladcyll would have liked to have been early, find a place to sit back and observe those as they came in, but this was not that perfect world and he was arriving on the later half of on time, that weird space of time that is technically passed the deadline but before the assignment, task, or event takes place. He was going to get the reverse of what he was hoping for, instead of observing, he was going to be observed. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He was used to people watching him work but at least when he was working, he was, well he was working so he didn’t have to feel the observation. Now, he was about to have no choice but to just stand there and be observed. “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s not a crusty bunch of old men chewing tobacco smelling of fish guts and sea salt.” He chuckled. He adjusted the armor and the sword belt for what felt like the millionth time since he’d put it on this morning, and unbound his long, dirty blonde hair. Half of it had fallen out of the leather tie he’d pull it up into on his half marathon. His first impression with the rest of the Rangers was nigh on as important as the meeting with the Prince. He retied his hair, cupped his hands over his mouth and nose, and took in a deep breath. Exhaling, he rounded the corner and made a beeline to the folks garbed in various shades of green and brown. As he neared, Caladcyll realized the Prince had beaten him here. How in the seven stars did... All he could do was chuckle. He’d spent enough time preparing, it was time to get a move on.

“Caladcyll Markov, reporting for duty,” he said, doing his best to drop the enthusiasm from his voice and sound as professional as he could.
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In short order, a number of others joined them- familiar faces and newcomers alike. Before Kamion had been able to reply to Faramir’s question of who else might be joining them, Arnyn answered the question with both voice and presence, and he gave her a comradely nod in return of her greeting. Beren and Ilsys arrived then- bringing with them a mood that did not match the weather. But Kamion merely grasped his wayward friend’s hand and smiled at Ilisys, hoping Camlost wouldn’t get into too much trouble- or, at least, that he wouldn’t drag Mourgan along into it. The lad had plenty of opportunity for making his own follies in the service of the rangers. Kamion bit the inside of his cheek just slightly to keep a smile from creeping onto his impassive face inside the hood of his cloak as Faramir responded to Ilisys and Beren’s tumultuous arrival; he was by no means laughing at the Prince or even at the two miscreants, but at this playing out exactly as he had predicted in the instant before it happened. Kamion stepped into action at Faramir’s command to form up, glancing at Arnyn as he passed her to share in her amusement. Where Arnyn had positioned herself at the front of the formation, Kamion settled in at the back of one of the columns. Unalmis had fallen in with him, and the towering Dúnadan gave the young man a wink, gesturing for him to take his place in front of him. “Back for more, I see.” As the rangers were finishing their assembly, a final person hurried to join them- another new face (Caladcyll). Being at the back of the formation Kamion was closest to the latecomer, and nodded to the place next to him, at the back of the other column. “Just in time, I think,” he had not yet had a chance to introduce himself to the other unfamiliar ranger (Dunulf) but took the opportunity to extend his arm to this one. “Kamion, son of Darellon,” he said, by way of brief introduction
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Faramir
Minas Tirith to Osgiliath


The Rangers did not loiter and formed up quickly enough; Faramir was also satisfied that Ilisys did not continue the silliness. "Well, apparently you are too nimble for a goose else you would have smashed that glass," he commented to her, one corner of his lips forming something of a grin. As Caladcyll rushed up to join them, he acknowledged him with a nod of his head and noted that Kamion was taking him under his wing for now.

"I expect us to reach Osgiliath in about three to four hours," Faramir then informed the lined up Rangers as he looked them over once more to assess their readiness. While technically there was no need for haste, he intended to keep up a steady pace and see whether the more experienced Rangers had not lost their stamina and whether the new ones would be able to keep up.

"Move out!" the Prince raised his voice so that everyone could hear him and set off, leading the way at an easy run. It felt good to be on the move, since a little bit of chill had found its way under the protective layer of the warm cloak. Now and again he glanced back to see if everyone was still keeping up, though he believed that in case something happened and one of the Rangers could no longer keep up, he would be notified.

When they had covered the better half of the distance, the rain gradually stopped, though the sky remained covered in clouds, and the sun did not grace them with its visible presence. At least that would ensure that the occasional muddy puddles in their way would not get any bigger or deeper, which was good as Faramir did not make any attempts to evade them and led the group straight through if any happened to be in his planned route.

Meanwhile, separately from the Rangers and a considerable distance behind them, there was someone following them. The person made sure to move forward rather inconspicuously in the shadow of any homes or trees; if anyone looked back and spotted the follower, it would be difficult to determine who it was and what was their purpose of travel. It did not seem to be any late recruit since there was no effort to catch up with the group; or else it could simply be an early traveller who was trying to avoid rain by choosing to stay under what cover could be provided by trees.


~~~
OOC: Questions to consider:
1. Would you be able to keep up with the pace? Lag behind? Experience pain?
2. Would you notice the person in the distance, and what would you do about it?
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Arnyn

The run was actually kind of nice - it allowed her to warm up quickly, and she was glad when the rain stopped and she could push her hood back, so some of the gathered warmth could escape.
Arnyn jumped over the smaller pools and puddles which Faramir made no effort to avoid, and accepted running through the larger ones. In the back of her mind, she wondered if this was some kind of test. But if a Prince could get his boots wet, then why couldn't she?

She wasn't sure how much time had passed exactly, but from her previous experience with the distance, combined with Faramir's estimate and the progress they'd made en route to Osgiliath, she would say they were about 1.5 hours or 2 hours in once the rain let up. Not for a moment during her time away from the White City had she let her physique slide, nor had she slacked off since their last mission, so the run was not a problem. She did wonder how the rest of their group was doing, especially the ones she did not know. For the first time since their departure, she looked behind her at the others.

It seemed that some had formed pairs, but there was at least one more person running alone - like she was. At least she wasn't the only one, she suppoed. It did make her wonder whether she was sending out some unfriendly vibe, or whether there was another reason they'd all chosen to fall in behind her rather than someone taking a position next to her. Deciding not to take it to heart, her dark brown eyes drifted off. Someone was heading at least more or less the same way they were, keeping to structures and trees. Arnyn made a mental note, but didn't comment on it. She didn't see an immediate problem - not at the moment.
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A run, was it? Or if not a run, at least a steady trot, to make Osgiliath in that time, Kamion thought as Faramir gave his instructions. The Dúnadan was no stranger to long marches and had always prided himself on presenting a tireless front to those he had been responsible for during his long career as a sergeant, to help keep up morale- which meant keeping fit enough to believably pretend he wasn’t suffering even when he was. Kamion came from a long line of Northern rangers; ranging was in his blood, and he had found in his youth that he quite enjoyed running, and it became an exercise as much for pleasure as for fitness in his daily training, and a time to reflect. Though his long strides and steady cadence could easily have taken him to the front of the pack, Kamion kept to his place at the rear, and half his attention on the youngest members of the contingent. Would any of them tire and flag? Whose feet would begin to suffer first? They made good progress despite the weather, and at length the rain slackened, then ceased entirely. With a skill born of long practice, Kamion removed his oilskin cloak without breaking stride, rolling and stowing it away with equal ease. It was a relief to be free of the thing- though it had kept him dry from the cold sleet, after a certain amount of time and exertion, the cloak had the tendency to become a bit of a steambox. His skin tingled pleasantly in the chilly air, and as Kamion made one of his routine brief surveys over the terrain behind the group of rangers, he spotted a figure- not close enough to be identifiable, but close enough that it was clear they were traveling in the same direction as the rangers. The corners of his mouth tightened slightly. Looking forward again, Kamion could see Arnyn glancing in the same direction- chances were she had seen the figure as well. He too chose to say nothing for the moment, and turned the tension in his mouth into a slight, encouraging smile for those closest to him.
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Beren Camlost

"Yes, I suppose I did sweep Isys off her feet," Beren replied to Nal, chuckling, and glanced at her. "She ought to be formally commmended for her balancing prowess. Nary a drop sloshed over the rim despite that fiasco." He shrugged. "I would have enjoyed seeing Isys achieve the same feat barefoot, alas."

His grin was hidden and his laughter muffled, entertained by Isys' declaration of Beren's baking abilities. Saluting Faramir with the mixed drink was just "icing on the cake" as they said in Bree.

The mask concealed Beren's frown when Arnyn crossed her arms. He decided it was a wise idea to cut the cavalier act this outing indeed; it was actually possible, considering how he sensibly maintained military bearing on the prior mission (except the moment he slapped treacherous Macardil; the punishment was deserved, fleeging arse that he was).

Faramir's commanding presence intimidated Beren. The Prince's acerbic reaction regarding the graceless appearance with Isys only fueled Beren's determination to conduct himself mannerly today.

"No, Captain," Beren agreed solemnly. "If there wasn't inclement weather this morning I wouldn't have slipped. In all honesty, I was trying my best to keep Isys from falling, sir, and injuring herself. Needless to say, I botched the attempt. I assure you, Prince Faramir, I was not to trying to appear foolish purposefully nor will I do so in the field. I am capable of boosting company morale without resorting to silly antics, sir ('I am?' thought Beren unsurely)."

Beren didn't answer Faramir when he asked if the Rangers looked like a circus troop; one, because he withered beneath Faramir's penetrating stare and two, he tried painstakingly not to reply with a comedic response.

"No, Captain ('Well we would if you gave me leave to capture oliphaunts from the Harad Jungle. Isys can walk a tightrope. I've seen Nal do contortionist tricks with his body after the Umbarian Incident. I know this one Beorning who can loan me his hound which stands on hind-legs and carry things with its fore-feet. I'm good friends with a Bree candymaker and Gandalf the White left all his fireworks to me. I have a rich baritone for singing. Kamion can swallow a sword for the joy of the crowd. I don't know how talented the rest of the lot are, sir, but I think we can make this work.' Fortunately Beren restrained himself from trying to convince Faramir. That would not have ended decently)," Beren acknowledged hoarsely, feeling destraught. The Prince's censure was castigating but he mourned the loss of the drink Faramir abandoned. It was a terrible waste of gin and seaweed. At least Isys forgave him; "it's the thought that counts" as they said in Bree. Beren stifled a relieved sigh when Faramir looked away from him but he did frown. The Prince of Emyn Arnen would never down glasses of Langstrand Black Label with Beren and Narradir. He brightened in seconds, reminded himself that Lord Golasgil was still keen.

As the two files were formed, Nal drifted past Beren. "I could race you to Cair Andros and back to the Great Gate before you reached the Pelennor townlands, boy!" Beren's absurd boast, quietly spoken, was outrageous. Beren heeded Faramir's strict order but couldn't let the whippersnapper one-up him with hypothetical nonensense, declaring he could beat Beren running every Circle of the White City. The light of Beren's green gaze didn't quite match his cold tone of voice (a profound murmur, let the Reader understand. In fact, Beren wasn't entirely sure Nal heard it nor even himself or Ilúvatar in his Timeless Halls. It was that marvellously low-pitched, a wonder really). Their jokes made him feel at ease as did Kamion's strong clasp, reassuring him they were still mates.

Beren fell in with Isys since Nal joined Kamion's side and Dunulf who seemed receptive to good humor. Mourgan seemed different, cooler...taciturn. He would try to wheedle the truth from him in Osigiliath or at camp. The change in his son's demeanor worried Beren. Perhaps he was hurting, too, that Nelladel changed her mind; maybe something else disturbed Mourgan and he needed his father to console him. Beren was resolved to draw the answer from Mourgan by any means necessary and help his son. "I came here to be part of his life since I missed so much of it already," Beren had told Nal candidly during one of their late-night talks at in the barracks. He couldn't rekindle his romance - "that ship has sailed" as they said in Dor-en-Ernil - but Beren wouldn't give up on Mourgan so easily.

"You have my sword and sling, Captain," said Beren readily. "Also, my healing skills have doubled since our last venture. I've learned much from Nessa de Argosy since then."

Beren exelled at running well through damp wilderness. He was tested in a deluge on earlier Gondorian campaigns and evaded vile things in storms with his kin amongst the Rangers of the North. He was a large brawny man of great stamina who kept himself fit with daily excercise and proper nourishment. He felt energerized despite the icy torrents, sustaining good pace with his cohorts toward Osgiliath. Beren was not the least bit distressed by the inevitable collision with muddy puddles. He never fussed over getting dirty.

The sleet slackened, affording Beren a glimpse of blurring motion in the stretch of woods they were passing. The mysterious traveller lagged behind them. The stranger was indistinct from this distance but Beren had experienced enough unpleasant surprises in his adventurous life and was usually wary of them. "We're...being...followed," Beren informed Isys and Denulf with labored breath, exuding as much seriousness as he could muster. "I rather...speak to Faramir....about this....than keep silent. We could be....jeopardized if this person...turns out to be...a danger to us all....might be a scout....for enemies....better to be...prepared." He looked over his shoulder for the umpteenth time before facing forward once more. "Who wants to....address the matter...with the Captain?"
Last edited by Eriol on Sat Feb 06, 2021 9:04 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Mourgan Alarion

As he'd come to expect with Faramir there was little time to waste and they were quickly on their way. It was a steady pace and it took a good mile or so for Mourgan to catch his stride and pace. Telling himself to breath and focus on the path ahead. It seemed spending a good year at the bottom of a bottle had it's repercussions on the body although to look at him he seemed in good shape, inwardly it was a struggle to keep himself focused.

He didn't even attempt to miss the puddles, he sloshed right through them and kept moving forward as the rain pelted his cloak and the water ran down his strong, stubbled chin. He cast a side glance now and then to see how the others were holding up. He noted how his Father, Beren, was doing. He half smiled to himself at seeing his old man showing the younger ones how to do it per say. Turning his eyes forward and saying a silent prayer for the slack in the weather he stopped mid prayer and narrowed his wet brows.

They were being followed. He tried to focus to see if he recongnized the image but at that point it was mearly a dark blurr. Nothing recognizable to him. He cast a quick look around at the others to see if any of the others had noticed the follower and it seemed they had. Mourgan lowered his hood, the difference in the warmth of his cloak and the cool damp air caused the hairs on the back of his neck rise but he paid little attention to it since he was more focused on their shadowed figure.

Knowing someone for whatever reason was keeping pace with them made him uncomfortable and leery. For the moment he chose to act normal, nothing had happened so to raise the alarm might do more harm then good. He turned his face forward but he occasionaly cast a side glance to keep track of the figure.
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Faramir
Osgiliath


Perhaps driven forward faster by the rain during the first hours of their trek, the Rangers reached the outskirts of Osgiliath even a little ahead of the time Faramir had set for them. Slowing down to a brisk walk, the Prince now led the team through the streets of the city that still lay in ruins awaiting revival.

There was no longer any sign of the person who had followed them in the distance, and it could as well be that the stranger had only gone to one of the furthest farms, or perhaps chose a different way through Osgiliath. At any rate, Faramir was not aware of any such thing, as he was solely focused on choosing their route and relied on others to keep an eye out for anything else.

Choosing a small courtyard among the ruins near the northern wall of the garrison that provided a reasonable shelter from wind, Faramir came to a stop and set down his pack and bow as a sure sign that they were to take a break.

"Gather round!" he called, looking at the Rangers. "We are taking a moment to rest, so have a snack and drink some water to keep yourselves hydrated." As if to set an example, he drank heartily from the flask of water that he kept at his belt.

"Also, you probably wonder why I called for your aid," he then spoke, looking from one Ranger to another. "There is a situation that might be nothing and might be serious. Recently we found a horse which was all tacked up, and yet without a rider. The saddle was covered in dried blood..." Faramir let the fact sink in, and then continued. "At best it may be some hunter's horse that has escaped from its owner, and the blood is animal's; it could also be that the rider is injured and has fallen off the horse, and perhaps can be found and helped. And it may be that someone has killed the rider, and we might or might not find a dead body."

Leaning his back against the wall he shifted some of the weight off his legs to rest, as he provided the last bit of information: "The horse may have come from anywhere near the road leading east from Osgiliath or maybe even from further reaches of Ithilien. Any suggestions on how to proceed, considering that it is not sure that we will find anything of importance?"

While he had his own thoughts, Faramir wanted to see what the Rangers would make of the information he could provide and whether they would come up with a good solution for further actions.
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Balrog
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Osgiliath? Caladcyll inhaled deeply and nodded to his commander. At least you’ve had a nice warm up he told himself dryly. Despite himself, he grinned. Country running was much more his style, city running was too frantic and anxious, too busy trying to avoid people and keeping from crashing into any random cart that turns a blind corner. Beach running was his favorite (he enjoyed torturing himself early in the morning), the feeling of the salty air, the soft, sinking feeling of the sand. He shook himself, bringing him back to the present. Osgiliath in three to four hours? The young man wasn’t sure if that meant the pace was going to be steady or grueling but judging from the reactions from his fellow Rangers (that was going to take some time to get used to saying, even in his own head) the pace was somewhere between steady and brisk.

"Move out!"

The sound of the commander was like a clear bell. Caladcyll was pushed into movement. His legs, with minds of their own, began to move a brisk pace. His breathing in the beginning was slow and even. With each lungful of air, he felt invigorated. The air was cold and wet, but that only added a sense of exhilaration. The running energized him. He didn’t run as fast as he could, however; outpacing your fellows when you’re the newcomer would likely end with him tied up in a sleeping bag and hung upside down from the tree. He had learned the hard way, back in Pelargir, he’d joined a junior sailing league and proceeded to make everyone in his cadre look like idiots when it came to knotwork and sail knowledge. He woke up the next morning hogtied and daggling over the edge of the ship. He’d learned quickly the value of teamwork over individual glory. Naturally, his father had also made sure he was properly aware of how stupid he’d behaved.

Half a hundred thoughts occupied Caladcyll’s brain as he ran, one foot in front of the other and again and again and again. The rhythmic thumpthumpthumpthump of his boots on the ground had partially hypnotized him, anesthetized his sense of the passage of time. It was oddly comforting. Caladcyll’s thoughts ran the gambit. From exhilaration and eagerness over what awaited them in Osgiliath, to trepidation and anxiety over the same thing, to a sense of wander and amazement. The young Gondorian was a lover of the sea, but the green fields and gray mountains had caught ahold of his soul in a way he hadn’t expected, nor was he able to quite put into words the emotions he felt upon seeing them all around, with himself in the middle of a great vastness. The fields were much like the sea, they rolled and curled and bounced like the waves, but they were slower and more methodical in their movement. They moved with both inexorable slowness and with great alacrity at the same time. Instead of a boat, he had only his legs to carry him around the wild, unpredictable bends and dip, the ditches and the depressions. He could not shake the image of him running through green waters, sending great verdant splashes of water high into the air with his every step. Occasionally, so wrapped up in the imagery in his head, Caladcyll nearly lost his balance, stepping a little to wide here or a little to hard there. He thanked the lords of the sea that kept him afloat that he never took a tumble and rolled down on an embankment.

On one occasion that he had to dramatically correct his trajectory from running through a rabbit hole, he looked back and thought he saw someone through the mists. He didn’t stop but he slowed as his body twisted for him to run backwards (not something he did often) but as soon as he tried to focus on the object, it melted into the shifting shadows that wafted over the landscape. He shrugged and turned back around, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. Something in the back of his mind told him that wasn’t normal. An alarm bell, quiet but persistent, told him that figure he’d seen was wrong. But what had he even seen? Caladcyll couldn’t say what, or who, he had seen or even if he’d seen anything at all. Shadows and mists played all sorts of tricks on the mind, on sea or on land. He tried to push the incident from his mind, but every dozen strides the image came back to the forefront of his mind, creeping cold and amorphous. What had it been?

For the first time on the run his body felt cold all over. He shivered despite the sheen of sweat that covered his forehead. Ought he bring it to the attention of the commander? To one of his fellow Rangers? Indecision churned like spoiled milk in his gut, his gorge rose. What if nothing was wrong, was he simply being paranoid? It happened often enough to sailors; through a trick of light and shade, they would think they saw something below the waves but time again it was nothing. But, what if? Sometimes the shadows were the tentacles of a kraken (or worse).

Calm yourself! he chided. Now is not the time to get your boxers in a twist! If it is something, then someone else will have seen it. He was not satisfied with the argument, nor could he dispute it. It left him feeling cold and clammy. He prayed to the sea lords that someone else had seen this mysterious figure or shape or whatever and had the intelligence to discern reality from exhaustion.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Unalmis Raxëlilta and Ilisys Azrubêl


Neither the pelting onslaught from above nor the sloshing mire underfoot made for ideal conditions to inspire their start. The challenge put to them by the esteemed Captain though, discouraged complaint. It was hard to begrudge such an officer who clearly expected nothing of his charges that he would not undertake himself. “And then you’d awake,Unalmis shot back at Beren’s bold though clandestine, claim, and “Just try to stop me,” he dared Kamion, both with an unquenchable grin, and neither of which was wise to retort toward such veterans.

Otherwise, he began well, as might any who find the son of Darellon immediately stood behind them. Any disappointment that he would struggle now to witness the scout’s great feats from that angle, were entirely drowned by Nal’s efforts to refrain from plunging forth with as much vigour as he was wont to usually. For one, he understood there would be need to pace himself, and for the other, well, soaking the soldier behind him by deliberate diversions into puddles .. was not the best way to make a good impression. He could usually have cared less. In fact, marked attempts might have been made to embark on securing some splashes of camouflage, fresh from the sodden world at hand. A Ranger must be an intrusive part of his environment, after all. But as though a conspiracy at large to keep him from such antics, the rain began to diminish, more so with each step they stole.

The steady improvement toward sturdy ground meant equally less chance of his veering off course or slowing down, both of which he was likely to manage otherwise, mostly to defy the monotony of their course. Keeping up was easier when there was someone you did not want to trip over you by stopping suddenly. Keeping stride so that you did not stumble into the someone in front of you either added more complexity to the goal. To be fair, running itself was not the issue. Nal was possessed of an inexhaustible energy that his father was still waiting for him to grow out of. The problem was usually focusing it and in this case, working as reliably as an ordered cog in a well-oiled machination of control. A tattoo of feet played out their bass beating of progress, and Unalmis did not break step as his hood fell back from his face. Still curiosity and ever any cause of distraction, led him thereafter to note their pursuer. Even as Beren broached aloud the subject that the others were acknowledging in silence.


Those who stride ahead shall find others behind them,Ilisys returned vaguely to Camlost’s observation about being ‘followed’. Whether she had paid heed to the stranger who was skirting about their periphery of view, she did not clarify. The Lady Ranger was altogether plagued else by the quarrelsome gravity of her polearm, which might easily trip her or one of her companions if she did not manage it. Unused to walking in lieu of riding, not to mention keeping uniform in any understanding of that term at all, she had developed a gait of rather childish galloping design. It fared her well, although drew more than an occasional sideglance from the likes of Unalmis. Particularly when she employed the tail of her tool to thud at intervals at the out edge of their party. As though it were in fact a means to vault from one foot to the other.

Their advance lost speed as the path fell gradually from the fields of their passage to the firm paving stones of Osgilliath. Or the remnants of what had once been Osgilliath. Evidently the King’s masons and architects were primarily concerned with properly recovering Minas Tirith, the sanctuary and shelter of his civilians, before embarking on the remodel of the former Citadel of Stars. As Faramir briefed their small party as to what in fact had brought them out thus far, Isys surveyed the scene with her grey eyes, turning over the Prince’s words at her ears.

The horse might speak of a start to the mystery,” she ventured, seemingly addressing a broken stone balcony which lay as much in despair as disarray on the ground. Clutching her hand in a fist against her breast bone, as she was become prone to do of late, the Lady found the Prince’s face amongst those gathered when she recalled them standing at hand. “A hunter’s saddle is no more alike to a nobleman’s, as is a rouncey akin to a grand destrier. How fine and worn were the dear steed’s shoes, how was his bridle fashioned, and what state was he found in ? Fearful ? Or simply forsaken ?

Unalmis, who she held in her sights at the conclusion to her circling contemplation, simply reached for his carried water to quench his throat after their run. A tactic both to suggest he might speak, once he were better recovered, or that he wished the time it took to consider the options some more.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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Faramir

The short break at Osgiliath gave Faramir enough time both to observe what effect the run had on the group, as well as to brief the Rangers on their task and decide how they should proceed from here. At any rate it seemed that the exertion had not worn out the newest and youngest members of their party, of which he was not too surprised - younger folk often could easily deal with physical difficulties if they were fit, or else go on merely fuelled by their enthusiasm. Yet, getting this far in a neat formation was the least of concerns; now they would have to find out what had happened with whoever who had ridden the horse in Ithilien.

The description of the situation and the guesses Faramir had provided had called forth additional questions from Ilisys, narrowing down the options.

"No, it was probably not a hunter's horse - there was nothing that would testify of it. Nor was it a nobleman's horse," he responded. Of course, they had inspected the beast upon finding it to learn what they could, so the Prince provided further detail to answer the woman's prompts. "There were no saddlebags or any sign that there had been any and had been removed, so we assumed that the rider was not travelling, perhaps just a short errand. The horse might have been borrowed just as well, and could belong to any farmer on the Pelennor Fields."

Faramir's glance still looked from one Ranger to the other, as he tried to gauge their reactions, as he added: "The horse might have been out there for a day or two, so any initial fear might have passed, yet the animal was somewhat skittish at first, and it was not an easy task to catch it. I doubt though that the rider had meant to go too far off the eastward road, so perhaps we should not expand the search to the uttermost north of Ithilien."

He still did not provide any further directions on what they should do, awaiting the suggestions from the Rangers themselves. They might not always have a commander to give them ready-made orders for each separate decision, and they'd need to make their own when faced with difficult situations.
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Beren Camlost

Prince Faramir chose a small courtyard amidst the ruins near the garrison's northern wall. The company paused here for a rest. Beren was quiet for a moment, slowly turning in place imagining Osgiliath in bygone days. "Before the Great Plague and innumerable battles this broken capitol had been a city of splendor," Beren told Mourgan, drawing an arm around his broad shoulders, encouraged by his smile. "Do you see it?" Beren asked him with a wistful tone, his opposite hand grandly sweeping over the melancholy horizon of crumbled turrets and shattered domed buildings. "Lofty towers and palatial homes wonderful to behold! There were quays here once where tall ships came out of the sea bearing gleaming treasures and heirlooms of grandeur. Your grandmother, Maira Camlost, is a scholar of Minas Tirith and instilled in me a passion for our country's lore. You should visit her in the Pelennor Fields. Gram will fill your mind...and your stomach!" Beren chuckled, holding Mourgan tight against him in a fond paternal embrace.

"I've noticed you been distant lately," Beren said with a bit of awkwardness, finally addressing the oliphaunt in the jungle. It hadn't even ben a year since he'd return to Gondor and been spending time with Mourgan; until now they never had a heart to heart conversation as father and son. "I can tell something's been stressing you. I want you to know you can talk to me. I am certain you've heard tales about my sordid past and maybe some embarrassing things I've done since I've returned but... though I'm not perfect, I'm your old man and I'll try to help you; if I can't, I'll listen. Maybe we have more in common than we've thought..." Beren stepped away and clapped Mourgan on the back, giving him a reassuring wink and what he hoped was a comforting grin. "You need energy." Beren handed him one of the bundled treats from his pack. "Gorp, good ol' raisins and peanuts! I bake these snack bars at Ranger Commons; wanted something a little different to nourish us like the Elves with their lembas and Dwarven cram. Gorp is nutritious and replenishes stamina on a hike."

Beren was attentive, hearing Faramir's debriefing. He kept silent, assuming his peers were apt to reply with their own thoughts and suggestions but only Isys answered. Heaving a deep breath, he thought this was the best chance for Beren of Gondor to show his quality.

"If we the consider the rider didn't venture east, Captain," said Beren, "we shouldn't expand our sphere of scouting near Emyn Arnen, your northern eaves of Ithilien, I agree. I propose we look for the survivor or his body here in deserted Osgiliath." Beren let that sink in, starting to slowly pace the courtyard as he spoke to Faramir and the Rangers. "Due to the inclement weather and the unfortunate passage of time, I doubt we'll find any bloody trails," presumed Beren, his voice gaining strength. The Tower Guard had faith that his experience would be a boon to the company and that he could redeem himself in the Prince's eyes for his behavior this morning. "If we follow hoofprints in the muddy grass, we could track them back to a source which may lead us to the missing rider...or whatever it was that felled him." Beren lifted one gloved finger, signifying that as option one then raised another to indicate the party's second choice.

"We split apart. One group will roam the fields outside Osgiliath while the second party scours the rubble this side of the river." Beren laced his hands behind his back. "There were years when I left Gondor on errantry with my Arnorian Ranger kin and King Elessar in the wilds of Eriador. The region is rife with ruins like this Osgiliath's and we pursued many kinds of vermin hiding in the wreckage of Cardolan and Arthedain. I suggest we proceed with caution; Orc remnants or Southron outlaws could be hidden and traps laid. Debris might endanger our trek as well." Beren furrowed his eyebrows in grim brooding, looking toward the burnt fields of Imlad Morgul and the still slowly revolving hideous ghost-like face of the Moontower leering into the morning air. Aragorn wanted it utterly destroyed but this had not happened yet. "For millennia since the Ringwraths and vile things claimed Minas Ithil for their own people have spoken of walking shadows in Osgiliath," resumed Beren darkly. "Ghosts haunt the vacant windy courts, so the legends say. I believe them because I was with King Elessar at Pelargir and beheld the Shadowhost of Dunharrow." Beren's bearded face was grave, trembling where he stood. Following a shuddering breath, remembering the grey spectre that was the King of the Dead breaking his spear before the Heir of Isildur, Beren gave Faramir a resolute nod to indicate he was finished speaking. "The decision isn't mine but these are the best ideas I have, Captain." Beren took a seat, scattering brittle leaves off on a pink marble bench, and waited for the judgement of the Prince.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Balrog
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They stopped in the ruins and huddled together in a group. Green and brown cloaks blending seamlessly into the rubble and overgrowth around them. He was not out of breath, but he did take in several deep nosefuls of air. It was cool, sending an icy, electric charge into his lungs. He felt giddy, his fingers were tingling and his feet felt restless. Despite having run for the sea knew how long, he felt as if he could run the rest of the day. In spite of himself and the seriousness of the situation, he smiled, his tongue lulling out in a strange display of exhaustion and anticipation. The feeling slowly subsided as they rested, the tingling in his fingers subsided and the giddy feeling of boundless energy gave way to a feeling of floating contentment. Caladcyll closed his eyes momentarily, taking the moment but doing his best to stay focused on the task at hand.

He had not been the only person to see the mysterious figure in the mists as they were running. He should have felt better about that. But he didn’t. The general consensus was that it was a riderless horse. That might have been all well and good but there was still a shadow over his mind, a cold set of fingers reaching toward his neck. The hair on the back of his neck rose and his forearms broke out in gooseflesh. He hoped they were right, that it was nothing more than a riderless horse who’d gotten lost.

Unintentionally, given his position close to the middle of the pack of Rangers, he began eavesdropping on a conversation between one of the older Rangers with one of younger looking recruits. Try as he might to push it out of his mind, curiosity (and impropriety) got the better of him. From what he could tell, having only starting listening halfway through the conversation, it seemed like the pair were father and son. He frowned and had to stop himself from turning and looking. The older one didn’t seem nearly old enough to have a son in the Rangers.

Mind your bloody manners you daft punk. The voice of his father stopped him from turning, and his cheeks blossomed (waves above let the rest of them think it’s just from the run). Still, despite the spectral warning of his father, Caladcyll couldn’t stop listening.

Gorp? What the seven depths was gorp? Involuntarily, the young man made a face of disgust. The word sounded like it was another name for gull shire. Peanuts and raisins? Why in all the world would someone call peanuts and raisins gorp? Whoever was in charge of naming things needs to be taken aside and told they were an idiot when they called something that didn’t come out the back end of a seabird gorp. It sounded like a wet plop on the deck.

“What I wouldn’t do for some dried halibut, or some smoked tuna stripes. I’d take that over gorp any day.”

Wait. Had he said that out loud? Oh merciful waves! He coughed loudly and stepped forward, trying to act as casual as he could without turning himself into a floating embarrassment.

“I’ll admit, that being new to the inlands, I am not as familiar with the layout and geography of the region,” he was surprised he’d spoken again, but at least this time it was to his eternal shame. “Are we sure this horse isn’t the bait for some sort of trap? I mean, I would pray it’s something as innocent as a horse that’s either gotten lost or that a rider is out somewhere, but I’m having my misgivings about it.” He looked at the Commander for a moment, afraid that voicing any opinion at such a low rank would be frowned on, then shrugged and decided to continue, there was a looming shadow over this whole event, the cold fingers were starting to tighten. “I think split up might be sensible,” he said, agreeing with the older Ranger he’d accidently eavesdropped on, “for my part, I’ll volunteer to search the ruins. I’m afraid with my lack of geographical awareness might hinder the group going out into the fields.”

Sure, tell the Prince of Ithilien what he should do with you, that’ll help win people over. His father’s voice was probably right, but the fish was out of the net now and there was no way to reel them back in.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Faramir

While he was rather well aware of the other conversations, the Prince did not show in any way that he had heard them and kept the focus on the task at hand, though a flicker of a grin appeared on his face at seemingly wistful mention of fish by Caladcyll.

He listened carefully to the suggestions provided both by Beren and Caladcyll, and after a thoughtful moment said: "The horse was actually found on the other side of the river, not here in Osgiliath, though not exactly within the boundaries under my supervision. My people examined the near vicinity for clues: as far as the hoof prints could be tracked, it seemed that the horse had been grazing and walking here and there, and no sign could be found of the owner. We assumed that at least a day or two had passed, and it was difficult to track the horse's movements further back - there were other hoofprints and marks of the wagon wheels. I would say that we should focus more on the eastern bank of the river, though a look through Osgiliath on this side of the river might not hurt."

Faramir's gaze drifted towards the sky as he looked at the clouds that did not hasten to disappear, and the possibility of the returning rain still remained, and even now it was likely that much of the traces they would have been able to use were already washed away.

"Ah, I doubt we would have to worry about orcs while investigating the ruins on this bank - the foul creatures are not that dumb to come within easy reach of the garrison stationed here, and those that do are immediately eliminated by the patrols," he assured Beren, nodding to the walls of the garrison next to them. "Yet, it cannot be excluded that if someone did harm to the the rider - they might be hiding out here and have successfully managed to avoid detection."

"We would have to split up sooner or later either way to cover more ground, keeping in mind that there are so many unknowns in this situation, though it doesn't look much like the horse was purposefully left as the means of setting a trap or an ambush," the Prince continued. "And, Caladcyll, if you know that you would not be able to figure out your surroundings and find your way back, make sure to always be near your comrades."

"Have any of you heard of someone looking for a lost horse though? If the animal had been borrowed, the owner might be looking for it," he asked, and then looked at the group again. Arnyn and Kamion had not spoken yet, nor a few of the less experienced Rangers.

@Moriel, @Arnyn, @Dunulf, @Isolde Alarion
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Mourgan Alarion

He'd barely taken a seat against one of the large fallen pillars when he was joined by his Father, Beren, who wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He was abit surprised but kept it to himself. Fatherly/Son moments had been few and far between so he simply sat and turned his gaze to the imagened scenery that Beren was laying out before him.
When asked if he seen it he half nodded and shrugged. "Uh..sure." He tried to sound encouraging not wanting to burst their moment with the reality of his limited imagination.
"Gram?" He half murmered, unaware he even had a Gram till that moment. There was much they still needed to speak of but she sounded nice and he liked the idea of having a Gram to stuff his belly. He nearly grunted at the tight embrace, although showing a few grey hairs anyone would be a fool to think Beren didn't still possess strength.
Beren then addressed the distance he had towards him. It became obvious that he wished to help him through whatever it was he was going through even though he himself wasn't sure what that was but at least he knew he'd be a willing ear if needed and just like that the subject changed and he was left with an odd mixture of raisens and peanuts. Gorp? He looked at with a wrinkled brow. Studying it. "Well uhh..thanks. I could use something I suppose. " He pinched off a piece and tried it.
It wasn't bad really. He continued to eat it as his attention turned to Faramir and the ideas the others were giving.

When asked if anyone had heard of anyone missing a horse Mourgan shook his head. "I haven't heard anything but has anyone checked the local pubs? I just mean a lot can be gleaned from pub talk if you just listen. Good place for information if we happen to come across one." Well, he'd thrown in his thoughts but when suggested they split up he nodded in agreement.
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

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Dunulf

Faramir was harsher perhaps than he had imagined, but he could understand why. A mission was indeed no jovial circus act. That did not, however, mean that it should go entirely without comic relief and levity. All too many men could succumb to boredom and tiredness without the humour of their comrades to keep them in good enough spirits, and he had learned in the Eastfold that good spirits made for good fighting units and that closeness with one’s fellows led to coherence in battle. Nonetheless, Dunulf nodded, suitably chastised by his Captain, and fell in line where he found himself joined by Ilisys and Beren.

He acknowledged the woman’s approval of his weapon with a mirrored nod – it was indeed nice to see someone wield a polearm alongside him. Dunulf found himself glad of this fact, and even gladder that he had been joined by the two initial merrymakers. “Dunulf,” he introduced himself to them, nodding again to the pair. “It is good to meet you both.

With that, the company moved on, and his feet found a steady beat on the ground of Pelennor Fields. He enjoyed the smacking of his boots against the ground, and he shifted his stride to match his comrades’ pace – he did not wish to be caught out of line or thought to have been showing off, after all. The light rain made for a refreshing element to the run, and one that Dunulf found most satisfactory. He had always enjoyed running, even back in the Eastfold, and had become rather an adept runner, especially in wooded land and upon rocky outcroppings. It was almost a shame that their route would not provide him that pleasure. Nonetheless, their trot towards Osgiliath was fundamentally cathartic, breathing strong life into his limbs and filling his lungs with fresh, clean air.

Dunulf kept his head facing directly ahead, for he had found in the past that the slightest distraction would be liable to cause him to trip or stumble into his running partners, and he sincerely wished to avoid knocking his spontoon into any of them – particularly Ilisys alongside him, as a fellow wielder of polearms. He did note, however, that some among their company would develop a habit of looking about them, and always in the same direction. Perhaps then, they had seen something – or someone – and were monitoring the being’s progress.

With practised ease formed from years of running errands for his parents, he swung his flask up to his lips mid-stride and took small sips throughout the travel, beginning to feel filled with warmth by the broth within. On one such occasion, he heard Beren’s staccato words, and turned his far-seeing eyes to the wind such as he had observed his fellows. Sure enough, there was an indistinct shape, man in nature, at the perimeter of his view. Dunulf nodded. “You are … right,” he said, his breath waning with each and every word. “I believe we should tell the Prince … it would not do to be caught unawares … even though it might be … naught but a … farmer … or a wandering citizen … posing no threat.

No sooner had his mind been made clear than came into close vision the war-torn walls of the Citadel of Stars. Her proud white walls that once had shimmered, now lay in ruin, for it seemed that of all the cities of Gondor, this was perhaps the least bestowed-with-care from the roaring of the Anduin to the rolling hills of coastal Anfalas. As a company, they ran into the city and settled themselves within an abandoned courtyard.

There he listened idly to the chatter of his new comrades, and sunk deep within his own thoughts – thoughts of success and of the current situation. He felt strongly that their Prince and the rest of the company should be aware of the man seemingly following them, but he also acknowledged that it might simply set them upon edge or make himself seem easily scared. That, however, was a calculated risk, and one he believed to be worth it.

My lord,Dunulf stepped forwards and began, having listened to the briefing given and the responses of the men. “You would know better than I of this horse, but it sounds somewhat dissimilar to the farmer’s horse we might be contemplating. I know little of the farmers of Gondor, but I would imagine that such a horse would be strong and sturdy, and from my own experience in the Westfold there are very few farmers who equip a horse – even for a simple errand – without packs of some kind. They are often too valuable to the farmstead, as well, to send for a mere errand unless it were a matter of great import.

However, if the horse were lighter and sleeker, perhaps it was a messenger’s horse, or that of a simple traveller. From what I have been able to garner on my travels from Rohan, the Gondorian people are far less rich in horses than the Eorlingas. I saw few families without wealth who owned a horse, and those who did had very specific purposes for such animals.

Dunulf breathed carefully and pondered what his next words ought to be.

I would say there is also some sense in approaching this with caution as if it were a trap, even if this turns out to be a simple case of a missing person, my lord. Dried blood should not be taken lightly, although I would wager we should consider that if the rider was attacked, it might not be entirely their blood. In fact, it might not be at all.

Dunulf shook his head. “Then again, if it were not the rider’s blood, I would expect them to have returned to the horse by now.

He turned now to Beren, and then to Mourgan. “Beren makes much sense and posits a fine plan, but I believe Mourgan has the right of it when it comes to gleaning information from the people of these lands. I would suggest conversing with the locals but being on one’s guard. If so, let no member of the company go alone in case they discover more than they had perhaps hoped to. For my part, I would volunteer to do as you wish – my mind is open, and I am almost out of ideas of my own.

I doubt, too, that this is the work of shades. With few exceptions … such as the Ringwraiths, barrow-wights, and the now-gone Oathbreakers … rumours of shadowy, ghostlike figures are exaggerations of far more mortal and normal dangers lurking in the shadows without being seen. I honour and understand your belief, Beren,” Dunulf said with near certainty. “But it is greatly unlikely for this city, deserted as it may be, to be inhabited by wraiths or ghosts. The Oathbreakers of Dunharrow are long gone, for they fulfilled their purpose and restored their honour with King Elessar. The Ringwraiths would not patrol these shores, for if the enemy still remains there would be far more pressing matters for them to take care of than striking fear into townsfolk and travellers through the Citadel of the Stars. Nor are there, to my knowing, cursed barrows in Osgiliath. These are not, after all, the Barrow-Downs of Cardolan. No, it is far more likely that if something lurks it be Orkish or Southron, or otherwise mischievous but mortal in nature.

He took a step back, and paused, turning once more to face the group.

One more thing …” he said, trying his utmost to sound confident and at ease. “There is a possibility we have been followed. I know many of the others in our company – such as Beren, who pointed it out to me – have seen the figure trailing us at a distance in the treeline. I also know they have said naught of it, perhaps because they wish not to panic prematurely. I would suggest however that informing all the members of our group, and our Prince of this possibility would be mature and sensible, not premature action. At the very least, I feel it will reassure some that they are not seeing shades or feeling unduly on edge.

At the end of his speech, he turned around and walked casually towards Caladcyll. “Worry not,” he muttered. “I too am new to these lands. Stay confident and true to yourself, and you will suffer no evil.

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Faramir
Osgiliath


Having heard several view points, Faramir found himself satisfied that the Rangers, even those who had recently joined, were able to judge the situation well and offer valuable suggestions.

"Someone following us, you say?" he asked after the last comment from Dunulf, though he did not look much concerned about the fact. "It may just be a local, but then again if not - let us keep an eye out for whoever that is; can't exclude the possibility that someone might want to interfere with our business."

He cast a glance at the sun that was still partially covered in mist, and yet was chasing away the dark rain clouds. The time was passing, and if something had to be found they had better not waste any more of the precious hours.

"Right then," the Prince laid out the plan after some thought. "While splitting in teams might be a good idea to cover as much area as possible, yet I'd suggest we remain together for the time being and cross the river to investigate the woods in more detail and further than my people did."

Having provided the Rangers with enough time to take a few more sips of water or finish their snacks, Faramir then led them on away from Osgiliath, casting a passing glance at the banks to see any possible tracks or marks of a boat being dragged. There was nothing of interest, only someone fishing further up the river in a small boat. Once they had walked some distance along the road on the eastern side of the river, Faramir stopped. "Let us spread out and examine the woods around here; stay within sight of each other, or at least within hearing distance, pair up if you do not feel too confident in this environment, and examine everything: ground, undergrowth, tree branches..."
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(bumping up the thread with updated last post)
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Unalmis Raxëlilta and Ilisys Azrubêl
Crossing the River/Into the Woods

The flint sky was streaked by the potential for sunshine, but as yet the warmer climes remained begrudging. Equally beyond their reach stood any sort of quarry, as far more questions than answers were spawned in the investigation. This did little to faze Unalmis who embraced their new assignment to explore the Ithilien side of the River with an undeniable sense of ardour. As much for where he was now destined as where he was departing. Some of the others had swiftly dismissed the idea of spectres, but Osgilliath was nonetheless a very real reminder of all that could be built up, brought to ruin. The uneasy recollection of quite what Minas Tirith could so easily have stood also, and had, for that matter to some degree, following the siege .. Stone, hard as it was, still bore it’s brunt of scars and as might an ancient veteran, so slouched Osgilliath. Bent, broken, the skeletal bones picked bare of once proud glory, it’s cratered avenues and shattered streets eyed their intrusion with a weary sort of acknowledgement. Nal seriously hoped there was no plan to stay there overnight.

Ithilien now, on the other hand, his heart lifted with every step closer. Like coming home, though he had been both born and bred in the White City. The woods sang their chorus of an entire natural congregation, all that lived and breathed there .. a stark contrast to where they had just passed through. The young Ranger stumbled eagerly across the bridge, little expecting to find much sign about the pounded causeway. No, it would be the woods where they had best chance of observing any trail. Not least because the Prince had said, the horse was found beyond the east side of the river. The rain, naturally, would have rendered the soft earth there far more suggestive to their every slightest impact. The news too, that Faramir’s folk from Emyn Arnen had already scoured the area threatened to deflate much hope of finding what experienced Rangers could have missed.

The more he thought about it, the more that the young man considered how likely this was all simply a hypothetical puzzle meant to train them.

Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” he mumbled, barely half serious, and not to anybody in particular as they literally crossed the bridge into the woodland awaiting them. His fellows were seeming to lean to the suspicion that this was all some sort of trap or bait, and not set up by their Captain. “Perhaps the stranger following us, is in fact the mysterious rider, chasing us down to ask if we’ve seen his horse,” he glanced up from the mutter, as feet closed in by, and found Ilisys meet his eye.

We hunt with hawks,” she mentioned, leaving him blinking and without translation, as the lady overtook and then staved off Beren’s concerns. Seemed her former healing attendant was still on duty, or just feeling guilty for the recent spill. The Belfalasian was determined to prove herself stalwart, after her previous injury, and she knew full well how focused he would be on impressing his son. So allowed him that opportunity.

Personally she would have preferred to have explored Osgilliath. There was a peril though in the intrigue. She might wander the dead streets and forget wholly about any horse, in favour of easier supposings. The horse itself was a mystery, she pondered, much less the one it’s tracks posed. Isys was inclined to agree with the Rohir, Dunulf, that any missing horse would have been reported by now, particularly if it had been borrowed rather than owned by it’s missing rider.

Being somewhat of a fish out of water in the ever-enveloping woodland, the Lady elected to shadow Unalmis, making him quite self-conscious of her hovering just behind him, every few steps. It was not long though before he found the means to discourage her keeping such close quarters.

If the horse was grazing, we could look at what vegetation might have appealed along the most obvious paths,” he supposed, inspired by Faramir's mention of 'exploring undergrowth'. “If we follow signs of any disturbed and damaged plants the horse might have fed on, or broke through when it was still driven onwards ..” he staggered in the line of thought, having recognised belatedly that he was sharing it aloud. Unabashed, he shrugged and searched out the face of the Captain he was eager to impress. “The rain would have less impact on what grows up than it has had upon what's laid on the ground. There might be scat too, which the rain, having soaked, will be hard to judge how long ago the horse arrived there. But if you break it apart, and it’s drier inside, then it might tell us that ...

Scat,Ilisys repeated, in an ambiguous tone of response. The young Man stopped short, as a consequence, wondering quite how long he might have gone on at that subject before recalling that there were ladies present. And Princes too. There was, after all, making an impression and then there was leaving an impression and he wasn’t quite sure which he had just managed. The lady in question was of course no help at all.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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