Olin Silverbeard seemed as patient as the stone upon which he sat, waiting for the others to arrive. Having that Dwarven capacity to show little of what he felt, Olin burned slowly with a single minded impatience that built up gradually until it erupted in a torrent of Dwarven expression. Olin sighed. He had only sighed three times in the last two days that he had waited here on the rock and only another Dwarf would recognize how impatient a fellow he truly was. A lesser being, say a man or hobbit, wouldn't notice it at all, though an elf might, they being such a queer sort. Olin hoped that none had been asked to join. To help pass the time, Olin brought out his pipe, carved cunningly in Dwarven manner out of a soft white stone. One of his numerous cousins, Olfur it was, had brought him some pipeweed out of the southern Shire, that land of hobbits that straddled the great East-West road. After cutting it up into thin strips, Olin stuffed the pipeweed into his pipe, lit it, and was soon puffing contentedly. The sky, already somber, was greying rather quickly and Olin kept a perfunctory eye on it should he need to unpack his tent. Just as the wind picked up suddenly, and just as sharply died away, the pounding sound of a horse's hooves could be heard on the road below. Then it softened to a thuding repetition as the horse left the road and began climbing the hill. Someone had arrived. Durninghelm the Horseman, Rider of the Mark, fell warrior, and all of twenty years of age, urged his mount, Hrecca, onto greater speed, rippling the swaying grass, pounding the earth with cloven thunder, as the two, man and mount, raced for home. Winter's camp had been posted and Durninghelm's people would return to the mouths of the Entwash River to wait out the season and guard the Eastern Emnet for King Frealaf Hildeson, first King of Rohan to come from the Eastfold. It had been more than two days since Durninghelm crossed the Entwade ford and he was eager to see his kin again; Hrecca too wished to return, having smelled in the air the familiar grasses of the Eastern Emnet where she was foaled. But more than that, there was an urgency in her stride, coaxed out of her by Durninghelm's insistence for speed. The White Wizard, Saruman, but ten years homed in Orthanc and wise ally to the Horse Lords had sent word to the men of Rohan that bands of Orcs were assembling in the southernmost Misty Mountains and in Fanghorn Forest, readying to raid. Riders were sent out to warn the winter camps of their peril and order them to muster as best as they could until the Marshalls of the north could be assembled to deal with this unexpected evil. So bent was Durninghelm on his need for speed, that he failed to note the figure hiding in the grass, appearing as it did as if out of nowhere. A dark giant it seemed, appearing twelve feet tall, but thin like a reed, yet unbowed in the wind. Hrecca screamed and reared as she tried to stop and it was all Durninghelm could do to stay astride her. The black shrouded wraith was but a deathly pale face that could only be seen in short glimpses as the wind whipped the black rags it wore, the rest obscured and hazy. It stood there, making not one gesture of threat or friendship. Gathering his wits, Durninghelm called out, "Who or what are you, to delay the King's messenger on an errand most urgent?! And by what leave do you visit the Mark, where only the King may say who enters? Speak! I command you." The gargantuan yet wispy figure lifted its arm slowly and pointed a frail bony white finger at Durninghelm and as it spoke, the sound of the wind died away, though Durninghelm could still feel its touch upon his face. "I come for you, Rider of Rohan, Durninghelm the Horseman, of the North March, who rides the wind to rescue his people." Durninghelm pulled Hrecca back, laying his hand upon his sword, wary of this sorcerous wraith that knew his name, his errand, and could command all voices of sound to die as it spoke. "How come you to know my name?" Durninghelm cast his eye about the apparition, fearing that it was some creature bred out of the distant pits of Dol Guldur and its nameless Necromancer. As if in answer to his thoughts, the shadowed wraith spoke again saying, "Fear not, young Rider. I am not that which you fear. I know your name as I would know that of any being that has a name to be called by." The wraith went on, perhaps to prove its point, "Your father, Hrulf, was a valiant warrior and an honest man. Your mother, Hildred, to whom you owe your beauty, was as kind as she was lovely. Your brother, Eurdig, would have been a great horseman, had he lived." "Shadowed wraith," Durninghelm gasped, "your words are like poison to me. Why do you speak of my family as if they are done? Does your tortuous existence give you forboding of dangers yet to be?" "I speak of nothing that is not already fulfilled." Durninghelm's unbelieving ears heard no sympathy in that toneless voice and swallowing fear that arose like a lump in his chest, Durninghelm spurred Hrecca on past the Wraith of Doom, onward with all the speed that a true born mount of Rohan could draw upon, never once looking backward. Seven leagues onward, Durninghelm rode like one of the fabled sons of the North Wind until he could espy far off the climbing spiral of smoke rising higher into the sunset sky. Grabbing a polished ram's horn that was strapped to his side, Durninghelm blew a clear note, loud above the noisome breeze, winding it until his breath failed him while Hrecca bore him to the smokey ruin of what was once his home. Other riders, having seen the smoke and following the beckoning horn call to aid, rode on, arriving in darkness. They made camp as best as they could, among the smokey ruin of the wintercamp, the spilled entrails of horses and men creating a stench of death that permeated even their sleep. One of their number, young Durninghelm, labored through the night, burying the dead by torchlight. He had been the first to arrive but did not speak of what he had found, working silently and alone. As morning approached, the work of burial already a third done, a grimed and grim Durninghelm still laboured, oblivious to his companions. As the the first strokes of Sun lit the land, the young rider left his sad work and made ready to mount his horse, a beautiful lean mare of not more than three years age. Climbing onto her, he rode toward where three graves stood apart, bowing his head, silent and alone. Eon, an old veteran who had fought with Helm Hammerhand at the famed battle of the Deep, did not fail to notice the pained expression on young Durninghelm's face, and drew much from what was unsaid by the youth. Eon strode softly to stand by the young rider's side. "We ride in pursuit." "I will come," Durninghelm told him. Eon breathed deeply, the odours of burnt grass and morning dew intermingled, noting the tired condition of the youth and his mount. Eon nodded his consent and strode off to put the camp in order. Three men were left behind to finish the task of burial, while fourteen others prepared to ride on in pursuit. Durninghelm refused to ride another fresher horse, and so the fourteen rode off seeking vengeance. Scala, the tracker, read the tortured passage of the orc raiders, noting that they travelled on foot, with great speed, and more ominously, continued to travel in daylight, unlike any Goblin raid the old tracker had ever seen. Scala told Eon what he had found. Eon nodded and they continued to ride. They had ridden hard for two days, their ranks swelling to twenty as other riders joined them in the hunt. The band they sought was a large one, some sixty fleet-footed orcs, less seven killed in a skirmish with other riders the day before. Word brought by the new men told of another battle farther west, where a large band of goblins riding wolves had sought to strike another camp. There had been a tremendous fight, and all of the goblins and most of the wolves had been slain, though not without cost. Word was also brought that other warriors rode to delay the pursued orc band while reinforcements could be brought up. Ahead, there were sounds of battle. The orcs had lost many, but had killed many too, and the odds had evened over time. The orcs had formed themselves into a square bristling with spears. The riders, lacking in armour and archers, found the formation too daunting. Eon decided to send for archers and content himself with preventing the orcs from escaping. He had lost twelve men and more than a score wounded. He merely sought to win now with less cost, even if it meant less glory. High in esteem, even among the veterans, rose the name of Durninghelm, who forsook safety for bold strokes. Three orcs he had slain singlehandedly, and though he was wounded, still he remained active, disdaining rest and succor. Hrecca had been wounded, so Durninghelm rode a dead rider's mount. "Time to withdraw!" Dama, a fellow rider, called out. Durninghelm chose not to hear him. There, in the pack of filthy orcs, he could see one wielding Cwellenbrand, the sword of Hrulf, the sword of his father. Grasping his horn, he brought it to his lips and blew on it with all his life's breath so that his father would hear him in the land of the dead and take note that his son would avenge him. All the riders looked to where Durninghelm rode, charging the line of orcs, casting his spear and pinning an orc to the ground, its arms flaying wildly. Durninghelm bore off, heedless of the spears cast by angry orcs seeking their own revenge. One spear struck his mount in the haunches, wounding the animal sorely. In reply, Durninghelm winded the horn again, spurring his horse to charge. Eon yelled for him to stop, but it was too late. Durninghelm jumped just as his mount did. Orcs stabbed upwards with cruel spears that found their mark, but could not prevent the massive horse from crashing through their line. Into the breach poured the Riders of Rohan, their horses beating down the orcs while men hacked and stabbed. Durninghelm stabbed one orc, but lost his sword, lodged in the creatures ribs. Having no other weapon than his hands, he grasped for the orc wielding Cwellenbrand. The orc tried to slash him, but Durninghelm grappled its arms and pounded the creatures face with his helmeted head, breaking the orc's teeth. The orcan line disintegrated and the Riders broke formation also, hunting down their prey. Durninghelm strangled the orc until it let go of the sword and then, grasping Cwellenbrand in his own hand, hacked the orc to pieces. The battle was over. Bloodied, Durninghelm sought out Hrecca. The sword of his father that he had brandished in vengeance was now sheathed. Mounting up, he rode off for he had seen something, or someone, at the very end of the battle, watching with no more compassion than one might view a cockfight. "I know you now!" Durninghelm screamed to the wraith, "You are Death." "No, Durninghelm Horseman. Death is but a maggot that clings to my flesh. I am something far more greater than you could ever conceive." "Give back my family, you scum of darkness!" So saying, Durninghelm drew his sword and charged the wraith, swinging. "I will defeat you! There's no victory here for you!" The sword never touched, but passed through as if striking air. "You cannot harm me, Rider. Though I appear to you, I am caught in another time, always beyond your touch." To the other riders, hearing his battlecry and having come to aid him, it appeared as though Durninghelm fought with himself, or with some fit of madness, charging the air, screaming challenges and curses, while conversing with unseen vapours. Finally, Durninghelm, fatigued by battle and grief, stopped and allowed poor Hrecca to rest. "What do you want of me? Do you seek my death also?" There was no answer. Looking up, Durninghelm found himself still mounted on Hrecca, but both were standing in the midst of the deep forest. It was night and moonless, but somehow the stars seemed brighter and Durninghelm could see the grey forest in all its tangled measure. "Behold your precious Rohan, as it existed in another time." The magician wraith swept its arm widely, encompassing all. Durninghelm looked out as if in a dream. There was no Rohan here. "This is the great forest which, by your time, has shrunk to tatters and rags of its once great dominion. Only the wood you call Fanghorn and another patch by the River Branduin keep alive the quiet glory of this time you see now. Durninghelm shivered in the night, the cold starlight wrapped about him. "Tell me, Rohirrim," the wraith went on, "where is the splendour of your people now?" "I do not know what to believe in," Durninghelm confessed. "My eyes lie to me, or would I have that believed. Tell me, wraith, pity this dreamer and tell me my family lives, but beyond a wakeful morning and but a hard ride away." "Is that what you wish, Durninghelm? I have some measure of power within me, as you have seen. Would you serve me in my fashion and do my bidding as I see fit if I could do that which you have wished for?" Durninghelm turned to the wraith, "If you can make forests appear and sweep away the land of Rohan with but a gesture, than I believe you have the power I seek. I will follow you, for know that I would storm the gates of the Valar to save my hearthkin, and force the mighty to return that which is mine." Durninghelm's voice was grim and hard as he said this. "Then you would be vain and foolish, even if you could fulfill such a boast. Not even the Valar on their high thrones can take back that which is the gift of Iluvatar to Men. Nor I myself, though I can change the course of time in small ways if it suits my purpose, for that is my realm. Know me, Rider. I who have brought you to the morning of the world's birth. I was of old named by the Elven Quendi - Namo, Proclaimer of Fate, Mandos of the Halls of the Dead." Grim and fell and real the wraith now seemed, and full of dread fell purpose and dark glory. Durninghelm cried out in fear and bowed his head down, his mind in terror of the power he felt. "I have come for you, Durninhelm of Rohan, for you and other such beings of the past I will send to dwell throughout the ages and thereby can my own Queen Vaire pluck thy memories and from them weave a Tapestry of Time that will be the guide when Iluvatar breaks the world and remakes it anew. This is then what I have sought you for and for what duty you have now sworn. Do not forbear your oath, for when the songs of your life are woven into that which shall be again, then will your family, which you love more than all, then will that be made to live again. You are but a small voice in the Song, Durninghelm, but nonetheless precious for it." "What must I do, Lord?" Durninghelm asked, still unwilling to bring his gaze to meet the dark pits that were the eyes of Mandos. "But live, young one. Just that, live and follow your heart. I will send my Maier to guide you and your companions, fellows in spirit from sundered times. You and they will dwell in the ages and set about in quests and perils, but that is for the choice of your own spirits. The fact of your dwelling in such disparate times will bind the themes of reality to one, such that all the jewels of time, as seen by your eyes, shall be set side by side in the Tapestry of Vaire, for Eru's remaking." "I do not understand, Lord." "It is enough that you will do it. Understanding can come later." The forest was gone; in its place, the wide fields of Rohan, but without orcs and men. Only emptiness without and within could Durninghelm feel as he spurred Hrecca onward. A voice he heard, if hearing could be said of the mind, telling him to ride north to the ruins of Amon Sûl, on the Hill of Weathertop. Leagues he rode, past fields and farmstead, the land at once familiar and alien to him. Here were no tenders of Rohirrim flocks, but the men of Gondor, who called the land Calenardhon. The name of the land seemed familiar, like some echo out of the past, before the men of the Riddermark had come into their own. He rode through other lands also - Dunland and its sullen people, not so hostile to the blond-headed stranger as time would one day make them, the ruins of Elven Hollin, Cardolan and its warrior princes, active and alive and if stepped out of history in resplendant glamour, a lost kingdom come to life. And finally, growing on the horizon as Hrecca thundered the fields of Arnor, the Weather Hills, once bastion to the Kings of Arthedain, now the reminder of ruin. The men of Cardolan spoke of the icy darkness of the north, as it reached out to cover the Dunedain. Men spoke the name Angmar seldom, but when they did, always with respectful dread. At night, Durninghelm dreamed vast visions of times gone past and times yet to come. It was as if the Valar Mandos would have his servant schooled in the lessons of time. And always there was the warning that Durninghelm must be careful and not try to change time, but to let it happen and become one with it. Finally the day approached, a somber day, where Durninghelm traveled the Great Road to the Hill of Weathertop and climbing its ruined causeway, came at last the summit, the place where they would all meet. There at the top, one awaited him already. Durninghelm had never seen a dwarf before, but knew them by their description as a hardy, dour folk, given little to chatter or friendship. "Greetings Dwarf. I am Durninghelm, son of Hrulf, Rider of Rohan, Knight of the Riddermark." The dwarf got up and bowed low, his beard almost touching the ground. "Olin, son of Gwalin Silverbeard, at your service." "Have you waited long?" Durninghelm asked him. "Two days," Olin answered. "And from whence do you come?" Durninghelm pressed him for more, dismounting from Hrecca while the young mare busied herself with the grass of Arnor. The dwarf sat down and waved his arm westward, to lands Durninghelm knew nothing of, save in dreams. "My father's brothers and their father's brothers before them have dwelt in the Blue Mountains." The dwarf struck a bit of steel against a dark piece of flint that he pulled from a pouch. "I say I come from Rohan," Durninghelm spoke the last with more emphasis, hoping to impress the dwarf. "I said Rohan, sir Dwarf. Do you know it?" "I dreamt of the name once, I think," the dwarf confessed between full cheeks of air, blowing his ember to flame and tending it with dried grasses. "But I do not remember my dreams much and the names get all mixed up. They seem so full of elven lore and I find the elves so full of themselves that I can little bear to remember my dreams when morning comes." "Then you are indeed one of my companions," Durninghelm seemed relieved to confess. "I wondered myself if I were not living a waking dream ever since I left the Riddermark, or" he paused, "that which will one day be Rohan." The dwarf looked the young manling over, while pulling out his pipe from behind the rock, puffing more smoke than the green wood of the campfire put out. Watching the dwarf in this new occupation, Durninghelm couldn't help but ask, "In all my modest gleams of dwarven custom, I have never heard that they could consume fire and breath forth burnt gasses." "Perhaps I will teach you the talent someday. For now, let us content ourselves to wait upon the others." "Are you so sure that there are any others?" Durninghelm pressed. The dwarf sighed. If such manly impatience were to impart itself upon his own nature, then no more would he be fit for proper dwarven company. Interaction with lesser beings would have its costs, it would seem. Still, Olin prayed to the Master of Time to send him no elves. "I say to you, sir Dwarf, what of the possibility that we alone serve dark Mandos in his designs? If there are others, where are they and when will they come?" Olin sighed again. "They will come in their own time, if they come at all, young Durninghelm. And our urgings will bring them no sooner so I urge you to rest while you may." The dwarf was as conversant as a stone and Durninghelm felt he might turn to Hrecca for more good speech. So, quietly, using his cloak for a pillow, the Horseman of Rohan lay down, closing his eyes and letting the sun, now burning through the cloudy sky, warm his eyelids and ease his travelled mind. Grey clouds stuffed the sky with morning gloom, save for the winsome sun, peeking out like a humble child of radiance. Araval leapt from stone to stone, master of fallow lands, as were all his kind, the Dunedain Rangers of Arthedain, which was in itself one of the last of the exiled Kingdoms of Numenor. The Rangers were the guards and knights of the King's frontier - King Argeleb the Royal, heir of Isildur of old. Araval loved the King. The Rangers called him the `Old Man' and what a grand old man he was. The darkness of Angmar would never claim victory as long as men like Araval guarded the frontiers, while the `Old Man' planned his cunning stratagems at Fornost. But now the Hillmen of Rhudaur had cast their lost with Angmar and the Cardolan princes, their Western blood running thin, half as much fought Arthedain as would ally with her. No, the times would not be easy. Araval almost laughed when he thought about it. Lately he had been plagued with dreams, mostly about making a pact of sorts with one of the Valar. Was it Mandos in his dreams? But then, visions of false prophecy, of the downfall of the North came to Araval and he realized that his dreams were no more than the troubled mage-casts of the Witch King of Angmar, who tested the mettle of the Dunedain in more ways than in combat. Passing it off as such, Araval let their troubled rumblings fade with dawn's onset. Now rather, Araval had a more tangible quarry to consider. For a day now, he tracked a most relentless prey. Some hillman or such, well trained in stealth, no doubt attempting to enter the realm for some evil of Angmar. But Araval had a quick remedy for such, and kept it sheathed and ready for use. Night would fall soon, and judging by the day's progress, the intruder would likely be tired and would break his progress to make camp. This prey of Araval's was a wary journeyer, who trod the earth with such light feet that Araval would often loose the track entirely and have to backtrack to find it again. Night came and went in a nightmarish succession of stumbled aches and mislaid steps. Never, never had Araval had to track a man through a dark night and with Araval having to use a torch to track by. No heavy orc steps here, but wandering incessantly by night and day, this stranger had an orc's tenacity coupled with the ability to travel by dark and a man's courage to travel by light. Araval did not share both qualities and as the fatigue of the chase wore him down, Araval knew he could not keep the pace up too much longer. Saving a chance meeting with a brother Ranger who could carry on the chase, Araval was doomed to loose the spy. His last, his only chance was that he might forgo tracking and guess, as it seemed, that the spy was headed for Amon Sûl. Running hastily, Araval hoped that speed, if the spy bore true, would bring him down on his quarry by dawn. Stopping only to light his torches, Araval ran on through nightfall. The moonless dark was no friend and Araval wondered how many eyes besides his watched his flame as it travelled the empty lands between Arthedain and Rhudaur. How many enemies would he draw like deadly moths to his flickering fire, whipping in the wind of his long Dunedain strides. A whoosh of air and a sharp tug on the hood of his cloak nearly pulled him backwards. Diving down and throwing the torch, Araval felt and found a yardlong shaft piercing his hood. Had the shot been more true, then Arthedain would have been shy of one Ranger. Araval felt there was nothing more he could do in the darkness so, waiting to hear that he wasn't being stalked further, he took the bold gamble of sleeping, hoping to catch his prey under the sun. Morning came well and early on Araval roused his frozen muscles to action. He ran like a Hound of Oromë, caring nothing for the winded aching in his chest and ignoring the quivering fatigue of his legs, nor even paid heed to the sharp blurry pain in his eyes. He had but two choices, he felt - succeed or fail. His ability this day would tell which would be. Amon Sûl was less than a day's march and yet no aid or patrol presented itself yet. All was strangely barren and empty. A small hill, yet another in a painful series, presented itself and Araval found that he could go no further. Resting at the top, Araval tried to ease his laboured breathing while scanning the horizon. Amon Sûl seemed clothed in fog and he could make out nothing of the windswept bastion of the Rangers. As his gaze turned more to the land around him, Araval could see that one weary traveller rested at the base of a stunted tree, his bow laid carelessly to one side. He was less than a hundred feet away. Drawing his sword, Araval stumbled as best as he could towards the tree, little caring if the stranger heard him or not. He would charge when the spy reached for his bow. The spy never moved and Araval, gathering courage and fortitude for this one last effort, charged yelling for the glory of the North. As he came upon the spy, he raised his sword for a blow, and then froze altogether. "By Eru! You're an elf!" he declared. The elf made no serious move, save to pour some wine into a wooden cup and offer it to the Ranger. Still clutching his broadsword, Araval collapsed to his knees and gazed at the elf dumbfounded. "You had best drink the wine, Stranger," the elf recommended, pouring himself a cup as well. "I am Finduilas, Archer of King Thranduil of the Greenwood realm. And my friend here," the elf indicated the cup of wine which he had proffered to Araval, "is of the finest Dorwinnion vintage, a rare treat no doubt in these forlorn parts. I suggest you drink it. From the looks of you, you need it dearly." The elf sampled his own advice and laid back against the tree's coarse bark. His hair was sandy brown, kept long in elven fashion, and his eyes twinkled like two merry green jewels, the colour of apples in springtime. The elf observed Araval's bewildered expression. Araval said nothing for a long time, or at least what seemed to himself like a long time. But finally, after noting the elf's dress and accouterments, he spoke, his voice sounding tired and ragged, and more than a little harsh. "Elf or no, what are you doing wandering the Trollshaws at night? Don't you know there is war here? Well mannered folk keep to the road and do not travel about at night. Only spys, brigands or fools wander the hills, especially after dark." "And which are you then?" asked the elf. "Since you too, it seems, wander the hills to some purpose. A very determined purpose at that since my arrow did not deter you the other night." "I am Araval, son of Borondir, and soldier to King Argeleb. It is my duty to guard the frontier and watch for enemy movements. And since I have my duty, you will understand, Elf of Greenwood, why I now inquire as to your business here." "I keep no secrets. I go to meet some companions in a quest at the ruins of Weathertop." Araval looked at him strangely. "It is a proud elf that calls the greatest fortress of the North a `ruin.' What are the names of your companions?" "I know them not by name," Finduilas confessed, "Only that we should all meet upon Weathertop." "Then you must claim kin to half the King's guard." Araval looked the elf over again. Smelling the wine, he ventured a small taste and had already downed the cupful when he realized how his tongue had reacted to the wine's sensual sweetness and bouquet. "It was in my mind to take you to Amon Sûl," Araval told Finduilas. "Since you are of a mind to go there, then my task is made easy. Shall we be off?" Finduilas nodded his assent and the two got up and travelled on. Araval made sure that he kept a ready eye on this suspicious elf. The folk of Imladris and Lindon had always been friends to the Kings of Arthedain, but this Finduilas of Greenwood seemed of a more queer sort. Araval pressed him for talk, but Finduilas could tell him no more of his quest. And whatsmore, his knowledge of Arnor was sorely lacking. It was obvious that he had expected to meet no official reckoning upon the borders. Indeed, he seemed to be unawares of any borders and the name of Angmar carried no more dread than it might to a child, yet innocent of the world. Amon Sûl rose steadily to meet them, and the clouds and fog pulled back, whipped off by the wind. To his own unbelieving eyes, Araval gazed at the summit, to the nothing that surmounted it, where there should have been a great fortress. Instead there was naught. "What witchery is this?!" Araval ran towards the mound, light footed Finduilas at his side. As he climbed the mound, Araval gazed about him at the wreckage of the road that spiraled towards the top. There was no evidence of recent battle and conflagration. Nothing but weather worn rocks and grasses growing as if they had claimed the hill as their's for ages. "I swear, this is no dream," Araval told Finduilas. "But how could this have come to pass? Then he remembered the dreams of the past nights and a chill wind blew through him. The dreams had spoken of many things, and only a small part of the pageant that he had seen in silent slumber was the downfall of Arthedain and the ruin of Amon Sûl. "Some enchantment is on me, Finduilas." Araval grasped the elf's arm as if he were a blindman. "I am a stranger now in my own land. Where is the King?" Gently, and with kindness, Finduilas held Araval's arm and led him up the slope. Mandos had claimed another it seemed. Finduilas felt pity for the man, thinking perhaps that the Dunedain had been caught up in Finduilas' own pact with Time. Once upon the top, Alavar came to his own senses and Finduilas released him. Two others were there already, a burly dwarf and blondheaded youth clad in green raiment with the design of a white horse on his chest. Nearby, a white mare munched grass, keeping a wary eye on the strangers. Durninghelm arose as the strangers came forward. He raised his hand in universal greeting. "Hail friends, and Companions, I think. I am Durninghelm, son of Hrulf and Horseman of Rohan." The name meant nothing to either Araval or Finduilas, but both answered in kind, in the polite fashion of their times. For his part, Olin kept silent, gazing with distrust upon the fair face of Finduilas. The elf claimed to be of Mirkwood, or Greenwood as he called it. There was no love lost between the dwarves of his House and the fickle elves of That woodland realm. "This is Olin Silverbread," Durninghelm indicated Olin, who was puffing his pipe very aggressivly now. "SilverBEARD!" the dwarf snarled, his face turning red. "Greetings Olin, I am Araval, who once served the Kings of Arthedain." Araval offered his hand and Olin shook it perfunctorily. "Greetings, Dunedain. I am glad to see thee at least, in this company." Finduilas said nothing. Dwarves had always been known to his kind as a mean petty folk, with dirty noses from always grubbing about in the dirt. There was nothing in Olin's stance to suggest to Finduilas, who had seen few dwarves, that Olin was any different. The foursome sat down and traded stories about their homes and travels, though Olin's contribution was taciturn and abrupt. It was in this way that Araval learned about the nature of the Quest and the small part he was to play in the grand design of the Valar. By shadow reckoning, it was before mid-day when the next arrived. They were two, a tall Noldor Elf by the look of him and the dark countenance of an Easterling, wearing fine silvery chain and a silken hauberk. The Nolder introduced himself as Elithiren of Imladris, born to the House of Fingon in now far gone Hithlum, once of Beleriand. The Easterling set down a crossbow, sword and shield and wrapped a dark black cloak about himself to keep warm against the wind. He told his name as Kelinor, but did not state where he was from. The two sat by the fire and Elithiren added his tale to those of the others while Kelinor remained silent, listening. All the while, Durninghelm gazed darkly at Kelinor. The stranger had an Easterling cast and the Easterlings were always enemies, from time immemorial to Durninghelm's people. They were a cruel and base folk and Durninghelm found it rawly hard that Time should cast one such as a quest fellow to a Rohirrim. Durninghelm decided well enough that he would not trust this man, regardless of the wishes of Mandos. Elithiren, save from Olin, was greeted well. And even Olin found within himself a begrudging respect for the tall handsome Noldor elf. For Elithiren was kin to those people of Hollin, or Eregion as they called it, who traded and gave friendship to the dwarves of Khazad-Dûm. And though Khazad-Dûm was of the House of Durin, and therefore not of Olin's folk, still there were dwarf-friends in the elves of Hollin, strange as it did sound. As for Finduilas, Elithiren was like a brother never known and two greeted each other warmly. There had been bad blood between their people over the kin slaying at Aqualondë, but neither had had a hand in that and the war that overthrew Morgoth of old also ended the bad blood between their peoples. All elves now thought of themselves as one people, the Quendi. But as Elithiren spoke Quenya, and not the Silvan tongue of Finduilas, both had to use the mannish Westron to communicate and their speech was understood by all. Of the men, Araval considered Elithiren, as an elf of Imladris, a natural friend and ally. Durninhelm distrusted all the fair folk, having had no dealings with them, but of the two, found Finduilas more affable than the distant eyed Elithiren, companion to an Easterling no less. "Ivenethor! Ivenethor!" The crowd called out to him and the other champions of Gondor, come back to the glorious admiration of the people they had saved from the trepidations of the Corsairs of Umbar and the cruel black men of Harad. The Knights of Dol Amroth rode victorious from yet another war. The year was 1050 in the Third Age. Gondor was supreme and its King, Hyarmendacil, ruled a vast realm encompassing many lands: the fields of Pelennor, Lossernach, Anorien, Calenardhon, Lamedon, Dol Amroth, Belfalas, Dor-en-Ernil, Lebinnin, Ithilien, Wilderland and the Vales of the Anduin, all of Rhovannion outside of the Greenwood forest, Umbar, and now Harad and the Haradwaith. His great black stallion, Remmenath, spirited and wild to all save the hands of Ivenethor, danced and neighed, sharing in the people's delight. Fair maidens scattered flowers and the fragrant blossoms showered the knights until it seemed they wore the petals for clothing. The celebration that ensued lasted a fortnight, with men drinking until they dropped and then drinking again. All the people were merry, free at last with only the future and glorious conquest ahead of them. It was as if Gondor had refounded the power of Numenor that was lost. Ivenethor stayed with his people for a week, sharing in their glory and hearing his name praised and, for once, allowing himself to enjoy it. Nothing was too good for the knights and brave captains like Ivenethor and many was the grey eyed maiden that cast her winsome eyes toward him. A man of lesser modesty might have made something of that status, but Ivenethor was a man of high caste, believing that nobility was a fact of spirit, and not of birth. Therefore, so that the wine of conquest should not make him too much its slave, Ivenethor left Dol Amroth, heading north. For whilst in the south, a desert spirit of sand, wind and dark trappings had approached him with a challenge out of time. It was nothing less than to fight evil throughout the ages and thereby win such glory and renown that even the Valar themselves should stand him by their side, when the world was broken and remade anew. So Ivenethor, Knight of Dol Amroth, Champion of Gondor, rode north through Edhellond, Enedwaith, Eregion, Cardolan, north even still to the Tower of Amon Sûl, where the great Palantir of Arnor lay. But as he rode north, through Cardolan, in what should have been a fair and fertile realm of the Northern Dunedain, Ivenethor noted that a change was there in the land. The smoke of battle hung over everything and the sky was often red with bloody sunsets. There were battlegrounds with countless dead, old veterans and youths barely old enough to hold a sword lay intermingled with the corpses of dark orcs and even trolls. Such sights lay scattered several times across his path. It was sad, this vision of the future, and Ivenethor rode on, his spirit darkened. Remmenath bounded up the dike onto the great East-West road. Away, to the west, a cluster of villages lay where roads crossed, east-west and north-south. East lay the tower of Amon Sûl and the white tower, bastion of the Palantir - except there was no tower. There was only a barren top, like the bald head of a greying man, and a wisp of smoke on the summit. Others had already arrived. Ivenethor rode on. Ahead on the road, a small child or species of beardless dwarf was arguing with a group of five horsemen. One of the five snatched up the sack which the child carried and scattered its contents, mostly cooking pots, onto the ground. The other four loomed over the child menacingly until they noticed Ivenethor riding up, fully armoured upon Remmenath, a demon-horse of Harad, its blood red eyes burning with hostility. So appearing, Ivenethor daunted the men and they backed off. But one of them, speaking in Westron, called the rest cowards. They were five against one so they should have at him so that his finery and horse could be theirs. Well, this left no doubt to noble Ivenethor. These base men were obviously highwaymen and had chosen the small dwarf as their prey. "Leave off that little one villains, or answer to a Knight of Dol Amroth!" His challenge did not go without effect, but the five seemed determined and, after a slight hesitation, spurred their horses onward. Ivenethor leveled his lance and charged, spurring Remmenath forward. Upon the top of Weathertop, the battle did not go unobserved as the mound had a commanding view of all the surrounding countryside. Upon the small ribbon road, little antlike forms could be seen scurrying, the only distinction being that one ant seemed shinier than the rest. Shielding his eyes, keen eyed Finduilas gazed downward seeing what spectacle there was in the fight. "I see a great knight clad in silver and gold, riding upon a huge black steed, at combat with men with axes and swords riding smaller horses. On the road there is a Perrianaith. Hearing this, Durninghelm whistled to Hrecca and grasping his spear, leapt upon the mare and rode at great speed down the ruined causeway, his white form diminishing until he was almost as small as the rest. Upon the road, Ivenethor rode right through the charging horsemen, gutting one. Remmenath's great bulk hit another horse square on and the smaller brown mare toppled over, pinning her screaming rider beneath. One of the highwaymen swung an axe at Ivenethor's helm, but the Gondorian parried easily with his great shield and punched the highwayman with the same before spurring Remmenath on. The beardless dwarf was nowhere to be seen and at the place where Ivenethor first saw him, he turned Remmenath about and leveled his lance for another charge. The three remaining highwaymen had regrouped for another try, but seeing Ivenethor bear down on them, their courage left them and the ended their charge mid-run. As it stood, it would have been served them better had they run on and swerved aside. Instead, as they reared their horsed around, Ivenethor's long lance speared one and easily reached out to lance another as the man tried to flee. The robber whose horse had fallen on him had freed himself and tried to flee with a broken leg, but Remmenath brushed past him, hurling him off the high road, rolling head over heels into the dusty ditch and bracken at the base of the dike upon which the road was built. Only one highwayman was left, and the man kicked his horse, urging it to jump off the road. Remmenath followed well behind, speedful for such a large horse. The lighter horse had only just managed to put distance between itself and Remmenath when the great black stallion showed its hidden strength, running much faster than one would expect of such a large animal. Ivenethor leaned out and, punching with his lance, speared the highwayman in the lower left back. The man screamed and fell backwards rolling over the end of his horse, falling dead onto the dusty grass while his terrified horse rode onwards. Ivenethor rode back at a relaxed trot, and Remmenath soon climbed the dike back onto the road. The wounded highwayman, sole survivor of his band, groaned as he crawled away into the plain beyond. Ivenethor ignored him, searching instead for the waylaid dwarf. "Greetings, Sir Knight." It was the little fellow. "I thank you very much. I hadn't quite thought I was going to survive that one." Ivenethor laughed. "You are welcome, little one. I am only sorry that I didn't arrive earlier to prevent their rough treatment of you. Are you injured?" "Oh, no sir," he laughed. "Just a little flustered. I really am grateful, you know." The little fellow found his cap and, after dusting it off, bowed with it, low to the ground. "Fromdo Fairfellow, Sir. And if there's anything I can do" "Up with you, Sir," Ivenethor laughed, "Arise now, it was nothing I say. I am called Ivenethor, a simple soldier, so you owe me no courtesies." He gazed down at Fromdo. "But tell me, what manner of person are you? Are you a young dwarf not come into fullness? But for your bearing and your curious feet, I would name you a child of men." Fromdo looked down at his feet, the hairs on the top dusty and in need of washing. "I am a hobbit, Sir. That is what we call ourselves. And we live in the shire." The hobbit pointed west along the road. "This road, though I'm sure you can't see it, runs right through our land, beyond the Brandywine River. The town I live in is called Bywater and there I am known as an excellent cook and gardener, services I would gladly offer you if it would help repay in any way what I owe you." Again the hobbit bowed low. "Good Mister Fairfellow, and you are a fair spoken fellow. If other hobbits are like unto you, I've no doubt that you are a merry folk indeed and it does me good to do you service. But you say the Brandywine River, surely that must be the Branduin as we men call it. If so, you are a fair way from home. I would escort you you home if I could, but I go to a meeting that I would not miss." "Well, bless me, I too am going to a gathering of sorts." Fromdo gathered his things as he spoke. "Do you suppose it could be to the same one?" Ivenethor chuckled. "I am afraid not, Master Hobbit. I go to a great gathering of warriors, fell elven fighters, grim dwarves and broad armed men. I wish I could take you with me, for no doubt our purpose could be leavened by the mirth I see in your face. Still, though I go but a little way farther, I would have you with me if we travel the same way. I go east." "So do I," Fromdo announced, pleased. "Then give me your hand, Master Fairfellow." So saying, Ivenethor leaned over and pulled Fromdo up and placed him and his pots on the saddle before him. Then they rode off together. They galloped leisurely for only a couple of miles, but Fromdo, unused as he was to horses, thought it was hours of pounding aches, mostly on his backside. Before Weathertop loomed entirely up on their left, a clip and clop of a fast rider running out of the east took their ease away. Ivenethor grabbed his lance and held it ready. Ahead, a blond warrior, helmed with a green hauberk came charging forward. He held a spear which, when nearing them in his speed, he held aloft and yelled. "Hail Gondor! Rohan, your ally is come!" Durninghelm rode up to them. "I am Durninghelm the Horseman, son of Hrulf, Rider of Rohan." He nodded to the knight. "Greetings Durninghelm, son of Hrulf. I am Ivenethor of Dol Amroth, and if you are indeed an ally of Gondor, I am glad to hear of it." Durninghelm nodded. Ivenethor went on, "I do not know where this Rohan is, but you appear like the Eohthraim of Rhovanion, who often fight for the Kings of Gondor. And if Rohan is like unto their breed, you are welcome indeed." "Indeed I should be," Durninghelm answered, "For Gondor and Rohan are the best of friends and will be unto the end of time. Perhaps you shall dream of it, sometime. But now come and I will take you to the others." Ivenethor introduced Fromdo to Durninghelm and as they rode on, Fromdo had to recite his people's history all over again, for Durninghelm had never seen a Hobytla, as he called Fromdo. When they reached the base of Weathertop, Ivenethor and Durninghelm halted. "Well, here we come to a parting, Master Fromdo Fairfellow. I must go on." "Well, indeed we have," Fromdo slid off Remmenath, "and I wonder how you have shifted it out." Fromdo shook hands and said goodbye to both Ivenethor and Durninghelm and even patted Hrecca on the nose. "Well, fare you well gentlemen. Goodbye." They nodded, but to their surprise, rather than continuing down the road, Fromdo stepped neatly off it and, even as they watched, began the long climb to the top of Weathertop. Ivenethor called out, "Where do you go, Master Hobbit?" Fromdo turned around and pointed upwards. "No doubt not such a grand one as yours, but an adventurous enough gathering I'll warrant, least wise for one such as me." Durninghelm and Ivenethor both laughed. Ivenethor yelled back, "A grander one is ours, still only because you shall join it." So saying, he rode down the dike and up the hill, followed by Durninghelm. Plucking Fromdo up again, he told him, "It seems, Sir, that we shall be in need of a cook and gardener after all, or so Time commands us." Sancwyrl, Dunnish shaman and master of beasts and fowl trod the now alien soil of Arnor. His people were an ancient people. They had lived in the northwest of Endor since the time men first awakened under the sun and stars. But time went on and other men, fell men out of the sea, came into their lands and, though friendly at first, soon became conquerors, usurping the land of his people and taking it for theirs. And their allies, the Strawheads from the north, they had come too and made war upon the men of Dunland and everywhere were his people pressed. Sancwyrl, as priest to his people, told them what the spirits said to him through stone and leaf. The wizard Saurman would use them, making them slaves. He was stirring them up to make war on Rohan, and though Sancwyrl hated the Strawheads as much as an man of Dunfearn, he saw the folly of selling to Saruman. There were great forces at play and his people could do best to keep unto themselves. But when he told them this, there were those amongst them, spies of Saruman maybe, that jeered and taunted him and called him a coward. They promised the people revenge for their old defeats and the gold and jewels of the Kings of Rohan. So the people were swayed and lost their way and began to prepare for war, casting Sancwyrl out. The Lairds and Chiefs would not listen to him. They had grown haughty and proud, listening to the Saruman Wizard's words and told him he would die if he returned. So, Sancwryl left. Travelling the empty lands where the elves once lived before the Dark One came to kill them and take their pretty rings, there in the land of Eregion, called Hollin by men, there a spirit came unto Sancwyrl. No mere spirit of stone and leaf, but a star spirit, all white and dark at the same time. And the Great Spirit promised him to see many things and learn much if he, Sancwyrl, would serve him. Sancwyrl listened and in the spirit's words saw the past times, that which happened so long ago that it was before time. He heard the music of the making of the world and the coming of the elves, the terrible elves with the light in their eyes, the sad elves as they waged war and died and then came the men. And the men, they were proud and they made war upon the Great God, but he slew them all and put their land under the water the men that were now were not a great as once was. All these things he saw and then, when the spirit left, he went to where the voice of the spirit said he must to, to the land of the Men of the North, where those who came out of the sea once lived. He called an eagle and sent it on before, and his/its eyes saw the people there, walking to the hill where a short stone man, the dwarf already waited. Sancwyrl snarled as he/eagle saw that one that rode fast to the hill was a Strawhead. Such he would have to aid, for a time, but thenWhen he came very close to the hill, then he called a wolf and sent it ahead of him. There he/wolf smelled the men smell, the dwarf smell, the gentle elf smell, and another smell he did not know. He/wolf smelled the food and the horses and he/wolf was excited and hungry. Sancwyrl tried to calm the wolf but wolf was too far away and he/wolf was so hungry too. He jumped on horses, unable to stop, but tall elf man with bow shoot him/wolf. Sancwyrl/wolf felt the pain as he/wolf died, arrow in his/wolf's chest. There was much pain and then everything was darker until blackness. Groaning, Sancwyrl got up and went to a spring. He washed his face until he did not remember wolf pain and then went on to help those that had just killed him. "Good shot there!" Araval had just himself notched a bow, but it was unnecessary. Finduilas had riven the beast mid-jump and it now bled to death, howling mournfully. Araval pulled out his knife to put the beast of its misery, but it was already dead. So he skinned it and, using sticks, set its skin out t dry. Fromdo and Elithiren went back to conversing and Olin started another pipe which got Fromdo to digging for his. Quiet, unseen, unheard even by elven ears, Sancwyrl walked up and sat down by the fire. He put his hands out to warm them and Fromdo gasped as he saw the arms all full of blue swirled tattoos. Then everyone gasped and pulled out weapons. "A Dunlander!" Durninghelm scowled, "What are you doing here?" Sancwyrl smiled, his brown face dotted by blue tattoo marks. "I am Sancwyrl, of the Dunfearn. I am here to be one of you. Now I say no more so give me food." They all looked at each other but not knowing what else to do, sat back down. Olin handed Sancwyrl a plate full of beans and some bread and bear, all of which Sancwyrl devoured, making noises like an animal. Everyone introduced themselves but Sancwyrl ignored them. Gradually everyone's conversation resumed and when Sancwyrl finished eating, he ignored any attempts to include him in their talk. Rather, he just stared at the fire, only now and then shifting a menacing glance towards Durninghelm. "Vardamist, your temper will be your undoing." Again the words spoke out of her memory, like a goad, a fairy whisper, haunting in its lyrical sound. And the femininity of the voice, oh yes, and how unconscious the elf was, walking there beside her, of the effect that voice had on those around her. How innocent and naive the elf woman truly was. Eledhwen had said those words this morning, with no more weight than she might have said, "toast" or "jam", and yet, it had seemed almost like prophecy. Lesser men would fall down and worship her. Vardamist simply desired her, and desiring her hated her, and herself as well. Damn her, Vardamist thought. The elf was fell and fickle and a creature of enchantment such as the Valar might cling to. And elves? Who could trust an elf? "It is not me, you cannot trust, Woman of Numenor. What malice and lust you have for me, you find within yourself. I do not put it there." Like dry stones cracking in the desert sun, such was the effect of her words to break Vardamist's enchantment. Her pride filled her and anger boiled, but she kept her silence, wary for having been found out. How unbearable to keep company with a mind reading elven witch, no matter how lovely. And Eledhwen, as she walked there beside Vardamist, Sea Princess of Numenor, she offered no more of her thought, being content to feel the breeze upon her face and taking joy in it as if it were a thing new to the world, come to existence for her mirth alone. She laughed for the sake of laughter, and it seemed to Vardamist's dark spirit that the sun brightened at the sound of her voice. Eledhwen was a child of the Vanyar, fairest of all that dwelt in Aman, seeming like Valar themselves. None of her kind had walked the soil of Endor since the last battle against Morgoth and the eternal darkness. And now that Eledhwen was here, it was as though the earth woke up to feel the light touch of her feet. They walked on in silence, only speckled by the laughter of Eledhwen's sunlit mirth. Amon Sûl, southernmost of the Weather Hills loomed above the road ahead. It's height dominated all the countryside, no doubt why it had been chosen as the sight of a fortress. But that had been long ago, by the reckoning of men. The golden haired lady of Aman and the dark warrior of Numenor trudged off the highway and onto the grassy soil of Weathertop, Eledhwen's lightness and Vardamist's strength carrying them quickly to the top. A motley collection awaited them and Vardamist snarled when she saw what a ragged lot Mandos had chosen for her, for she was of Numenor and its proud warriors, even the most common were like kings unto this poorly herd. Eledhwen was more generous in her thoughts. Even though she had seen the light of Aman, it shining still in her eyes like living Silmarils, still the wide lands of Endor were lovely to her, and their sad misty dells held a fascination only another elf could understand. As for her new companions, she could only smile with joy, seeing two of her brethren amongst them. For everyone else, it seemed as though two of the Valar had descended, so that all might worship them. Finduilas and Elithiren were taken with surprise as Olin, of all people, gave up his seat and offered it to the Lady Eledhwen. Kelinor arose and gave his place to Vardamist, but the lithe armoured warrior said nothing, no word of thanks as she sat down. Brief courtesies and introductions on Lady Eledhwen's part had only begun when a loud raucous banter and hawing let everyone know that yet another had arrived. "Brave Hearts! True Friends! Take Hope and Good Cheer! Know now that Toolin Thrumpkin be here!" There, standing just outside the circle, dressed in rags of the brightest hues and grimed with dirt and mould, stood a specimen of Dwarfdom that stood beyond definition or description save in modest measure, lest the teller be accused of falsehood. Who could believe the impact that Toolin, as he called himself, had upon the party. No less an impression did he make than Eledhwen and Vardamist, for like a comic character out of fable, wearing a soiled broad rimmed hat that might once have been red, hefting a rusted chipped battleaxe, and riding of all things, a huge fat teated snorting lady hog, he sat there upon his pig mount, Elfwine, while the others gazed upon him with awe. And like one of the Valar himself, Toolin defied comprehension. Greeting" Elithiren began, but stopped as Toolin literally took matters into hand by dismounting and going up to greet each companion individually. He reeked but everyone tried to be polite and say nothing, little knowing that he would not have cared. Last of all, he came to Olin. "Brother Dwarf, I have come at last. We shall be kin, you and I, so that you will not yearn for the company of your own kind." Olin sighed, and hearing Thrumpkin call him kin, he silently wished he was an elf. Later, after all had rested and eaten, the questfellows gathered around a fire that burned in strange colours. The elf-woman, Eledhwen had made it, adding odd bits of grass or liquids drawn from cut crystal vials that she produced from her pack. "Do you think there are others like us?" Durninghelm asked. "Others whom the dark one has trapped into this strange venture?" Ivenethor turned to him, answering in a voice loud enougth to answer this question that lay in the mind of everyone there. "Time is a broad avenue. I do not think that Namo would trust to us to travel all of its length by ourselves. There is only so much that a person's mind can fathom. I do not doubt that we are not alone in this quest. And who knows that through the courses of time, we might yet meet others like us, travellers in the ages." Eledhwen said nothing. Gazing into the fire, following the course of the spoken thoughts, she espied a vision which only she could see. A fierce raging storm dumped snow on two lonely travellers, while unseen to them, another on horseback approched them. Her minds eye gave truth to Ivenethor's words. They were not the only ones caught in the web. OUTLINE OF THE COMPANIONS (Information generally known to all) OLIN SILVERBEARD: Olin was born in the year 1975 of the Third Age and lived in the Blue Mountains. His people are descended from the dwarves of Nogrost, once a great dwarven city of the 1st Age. Olin appears as a robust, neatly attired dwarf of modest means. He has a great white beard, balding head, and wields a hammer and sword in battle, while wearing leather armour. Like many of his people, Olin thinks little of elves, as there was bad blood and warfare between them in the First Age. He dislikes Finduilas, respects but dislikes Elithiren, and is in awe of Eledhwen, thinking her the most beautiful living jewel he has ever seen, desiring to posses her, but not trusting her. He likes the hobbit, Fromdo Fairfellow, and is neutral about most of the men, liking Durninghelm best of their folk. He is frightfully embarrassed by Toolin Thrumpkin and refuses to admit that Toolin is really a dwarf. Olin is 135 years old. DURNINGHELM THE HORSEMAN: Born 2749 in the Third Age in the land of Rohan's East Emnet, near the mouths of the Entwash. Durninghelm appears as a young man of twenty years, blond hair and blue eyes. He wears a chain coat with leather leggings and padded cloth along his arms, carries a shield, spear, and a longsword, which he calls Cwellenbrand. He also knows how to use a bow. Durninghelm if friendly and outgoing and well versed in battle for his young years. He distrusts the elves and recognizes that Sancwyrl is a natural enemy. His greatest prejudice, though, is for Kelinor the Easterling. He likes Fromdo and Olin, and even likes Toolin, as long as the dwarf doesn't get too near. His best friend though, is Ivenethor. ARAVAL: Born in 1315 in the Third Age, Araval served King Argeleb of Arthedain as a warrior and scout. His blood is pure Westernesse (Numenorean) and he resents Vardamist's pretensions. Araval wields a broadsword, longbow, shortsword, and waraxe. He is dressed in light leather and does not have a shield as yet. He is of broad stature, with brown hair and grey eyes. He is 41 years old and wears a beard, (Note, 41 is still considered young for a Dunedain). Araval is friendly to Finduilas, Elithiren, Ivenethor, Olin and the hobbit Fromdo. He greatly admires and adores the Lady Eledhwen and treats Vardamist with courtesy for the sake of their common blood. He tries to always stay upwind of Toolin. FINDUILAS: Finduilas was named after an elven maiden of great renown. That his namesake was female gives the menfolk great amusement, but the elves don't seem to care. He was born in 3297 of the Second Age and participated in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. He was wounded at Dagorlad, and again, many years later at the Battle of Five Armies, just outside of Erebor, the lonely mountain. KELINOR: Kelinor was born on the battleplain of Dagorlad in the year 2996 of the Third Age, but grew up in the coastal city of Umbar. He served with the armies of the Dark Lord, Sauron, campaigning mostly in the east and south. Later transferred to Dol Guldur, he was captured by the Grey elves of Lorien on a scouting foray against their land. They kept him prisoner, and he grew to repent his former service and sought to live with the free peoples of the West. By the time of the War of the Ring, he was serving the King of Rohan as a foreign volunteer, claiming to be a man of Cardolan. Kelinor appears in to be in his thirties, with dark hair and eyes and slender build. He wears a chain coat and a Mithril shirt; he wields a short sword, mace, crossbow, shield, and a longsword he calls Dwimmerthane. Kelinor is friends with Elithiren and friendly to Araval and is mostly aloof to the rest. ELITHIREN: Elithiren is a High Noldo, or High Elf. He was born in the land of Hithlum, under King Fingon, when men had first come to Beleriand during the First Age. His father was killed, fighting alongside him at Nirnaeth Arnoediad (the Battle of Unnumbered Tears) and his mother later left for Aman at the beginning of the Third Age. Elithiren was mainly a warrior and still carries his father's sword, Ancleavel. Barely surviving the First Age, Elithiren elected to remain in Middle Earth and dwelt in Eregion (Hollin) until Sauron destroyed that nation and he had to flee to Lindon where ruled King Gil-Galad. He later marched with the elven host to Dagorlad. There Elithiren was wounded and therefore did not participate in the siege of Barad-Dur and the first overthrow of Sauron. After the war, he dwelt at Imladris and delved into the studies of magics. Of the elves in the party, Elithiren is second only to Eledhwen for beauty. He is blond, blue eyed, and dresses in blues and greys. He wears no visible armor. Elithiren is friendly and conversant, as are all the elves. He does reflect on his own superiority now and then, but doesn't let it affect his dealings with the others half as much as Vardamist does. He likes Ivenethor and knows Kelinor well. Finduilas he considers a little unsophisticated, though a nice enough fellow. IVENETHOR DRAGONSLAYER: Ivenethor is a Peredhil,. or Half-Elven of Dol Amroth. He was born in 1022 of the Third Age and served King Hyarmendacil in may campaigns, fighting Easterlings, Haradrim and Corsairs. He is of noble blood and resents how Vardamist treats him as some sort of half-breed bastard. His father was from the house of Dol Amroth and his mother was a noble Grey elf of Edellhond. Ivenethor wears full plate and helm, wields a lance, broadsword, and mace. His crest is that of a dragon painted on a black field. Ivenethor is friendly to all, enjoying most the company of Araval and Fromdo. He is in love with the Lady Eledhwen. Vardamist he tries to ignore and he does not understand Sancwyrl. Toolin, he actively shuns, fearing the Dwarf might smudge his armour. Ivenethor is a true champion knight. He defends the weak and always upholds the tenets of truth, justice, and good for all. Ivenethor has sandy blond hair, hazel eyes and is broad shouldered and of great girth, and is pure muscle. His black stallion Remmenath is a heavy war horse that runs as a medium war horse, capable of short bursts of speed. Remmenath was captured by Ivenethor in Harad as a colt, a prize won from the property of a slain Haradaic Chieftain. Remmenath is a Deamon Steed, most rare, and has ruby red eyes that glow in the dark. Remmenath has infravision and can run in the dark and can run miles without resting. Remmenath also has to have blood and flesh in his diet. FROMDO FAIRFELLOW: Fromdo was born in the Shire in the town of Bywater. He is a most affable and comfortable fellow, who enjoys cooking, gardening, and visiting relatives, of which he has lots. He would have gone on in this pleasant lifestyle had not a most peculiar wraith accosted him on a stroll one pleasant summer's eve. Well, it was enough to uncurl the hair on one's toes and Fromdo found himself packed off to, of all things, an adventure, which we all know is something no self respecting hobbit would ever do. Fromdo has straight brown hair and twinkling brown eyes. His face is round and happy and he dresses in slacks, shirt and waistcoat. Fromdo gets along well with everyone, though Sancwyrl makes him a little nervous at times. Most of all, he loves to listen to the elves and is always willing to hear a tale or two of elven yesteryear. SANCWYRL: Sancwyrl was born in the year 2898 of the Third Age and appears as a young man in his early to mid-twenties. He often goes without much clothing (naked if he can) on warm days, when his body and face can be seen to covered with spiral swirls of dotted blue tattoos. In cooler times, he does resort to clothes. Sancwyrl has bright red hair and vibrant green eyes, coupled with his blue tattoos, it makes him quite a colourful fellow. He is not above donning pigments to highlight his colour, especially if he knows he's going to enter battle, which he does so naked. He fights with a short bow, preferring poisoned arrows, and wields a curved long knife with runes on its blade. Sancwyrl has an affinity with animals, almost seeming to be able to talk to them and has a keen knowledge of herbs. He dislikes Durninghelm, he fears the elves and he often finds himself wondering, as he looks at Fromdo, what hobbit tastes like. PRINCESS VARDAMIST OF ARMENELOS: Born in the year 1818 of the Second Age in the Numenorean city of Armenelos. A second daughter of a noble house, Vardamist trained as a priestess-warriour, keeping alive the exploits of martial ancestors who helped build the greatest Empire ever seen in Endor. Vardamist is very attractive physically, with black hair and grey-blue eyes. She wields a beautiful two handed sword and battleaxe in combat and is armoured in Black Dragon's hide over black plate. Her helm is cast in the figure of a Sea Dragon. She also uses an ironwood spear and a composite longbow carved of the horns of black unicorns. Vardamist dislikes elves, even Lady Eledhwen, though she wants her for her beauty. Of the men, she considers Ivenethor a half-breed mutt, Araval a true man, though a colonial with no culture and practically a savage, Kelinor and Durninghelm lesser men to rule, though Kelinor would make a fair servant since he at least speaks passable Adunaic, and Sancwyrl little more than a beast, perhaps good for an afternoon's hunt. As for the others, she considers them very little, if at all. Obviously she is not well liked, but there is hope she might warm up with time. She is very beautiful and would be accounted so even amongst elves, and, until she speaks, reaction to her is quite favorable. Vardamist is outspoken and blunt, but very knowledgeable and is easily the best warriour within the party, which is possibly why they tolerate her at all. LADY ELEDHWEN: Eledhwen is a Vanyar, or Fair Elf, rarest of the elven peoples, being entirely unknown outside of Aman, where the Valar dwell. Mandos approached her in Taniquetil, where she was born. Eledhwen has insatiable curiosity, so the chance to explore Middle Earth, which she had never seen, was a god send to her and she readily agreed. Amongst her own people, she had a reputation for being reckless. There is no birthdate for Eledhwen as time is not counted in Aman. She was born in Aman when the two trees still lived and loved Feanor from afar, but learning of his cruelty forsook love for knowledge. Eledhwen has Golden blond hair and blue eyes that are at once captivating and soothing. Her skin glows with radiance and Eledhwen must take pains to disguise herself lest people around her fall down and worship her. Even elves are not immune to her charms as she is accounted fair, even for one of their folk and in Aman, she is considered to be a Princess. Eledhwen wears nothing but silken gowns and gems. She is a sorcerous of some sort, though what her powers are, she will not say. She enjoys best the company of the elves, though she alone of the party will tolerate Vardamist with some compassion. Of the men, she is mostly tolerant, much as a mother might be with children. This attitude disheartens Ivenethor. The hobbit Fromdo is a special favorite of hers and she always makes time for him. She shows much grace towards Olin and even Toolin, though she is not above throwing a few clean spells Toolin's way. TOOLIN THRUMPKIN: Toolin was born in the year 44 of the Second Age in a sundered Dwarven community far to the south of Endor. He is a rogue and delver of earth secrets and is a character to say the least. He dresses in whatever is handy, mostly colourful rags stolen from the laundry of others and wears a broad brimmed hat and wields a battleaxe in battle. Under his rags, he wears a ring mail coat. He never bathes and is deathly afraid of water. Indeed, it takes him a good half hour to cross most foot bridges. Unlike other dwarves, Toolin genuinely likes elves and always seeks them out, bothering them with his friendliness until they give him some wine to go away. He is not above begging or borrowing (stealing) but is always generous with what he has, not that anybody would want it. Of the party members, he likes everyone, but especially Fromdo, as he's the cook. Fromdo for his part will throw tidbits to Toolin to keep him away and not spoil the other food. And Toolin's brother Dwarf, Olin, ignores Toolin, trying to pretend he doesn't exist. But that doesn't bother Toolin. He always remembers where true kinship lies and makes sure that Olin always gets the first batch of Pigsmilk. Toolin rides a huge female hog, which he calls Elfwine (much to the consternation of any elves). He sings to her and also makes a marginal living off her, gleaning money from people so that they won't have to buy her milk.
Back to Middle Earth Page
Back to Main Page