Camp of Arrow Soldiers

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Contents:

Perenald

Jherinor

Halwinder

The dawn is not far away, but the skies are dark, pressing, even, churning with the prospects of quite a storm. All night the rain has fallen upon the camp from Dale, their tends stained dark with precipitation, many leaking to wake restless sleepers. The remains of what look to have been a fire, presumably before the inclement weather began its pelting of rain, smoke and hiss into the slightly brightening morning. Away in the trees overhead, a bird calls.

A tall, dark man sits moodily by the remains of the fire, whittling away at a soggy piece of wood with a small knife. The ground below him is littered with sawdust, fine pieces of wood he's sloughed away. His hood is pulled up over his face and a few tendrils of wet, black hair fall out, dripping water. Of his woodworking, at this point, it looks like some sort of bird. An eagle, perhaps. Or a falcon. Ergal, the whittler, and sometime sailor, seems too absorbed in his work to be of much use; though people walk back and forth before him, speaking in low voices, he takes no notice.

Not far from where the woodworker sits, Jherinor emerges from a tent side-by-side with a short, unseemly looking man. The two walk speak in hushed tones as they walk only a short distance before pausing, shaking hands, and parting company. As ill-favoured man scurries off across the camp, Jherinor turns and takes note of his surroundings and allowing his gaze to settle on the curious whittler. "You there," he calls to the self-engrossed man, "You may think of stoking that fire before catching cold. You'd not want a visit to the healers before the real battle begins."

"Unngh?" grunts Ergal, scowling up at Jherinor, his lip sneering. He puts down his work, balancing the wood on his knee, and holding his knife in a relaxed manner, his wrist loose. "What's that? Stoke the fire, eh? I don't take orders from people I don't know," he says, his voice low and smooth--it would be a good voice save for the tone he's using with Jherinor. "If you're so cold why don't you stoke it? Be a good boy, hm?" Shaking his head so as more water dribbles from his long hair, Ergal goes back to whittling, snorting out of his nose indignantly.

Stepping out of another rather wet tent, the healer, Nerin walks straight past the men and goes about stoking the fire herself. Once she has the fire burning better, she gets a small kettle, fills it with water and places it near the fire to warm before finding some place to sit down and wrap her cloak tightly around her,"I'll have some tea ready is a little bit if you gentlemen would like some."

Jherinor's eyebrows shoot up at the man's curt response, annoyance flashing across his features. "Boy, hm?" The young noble places clenched fists upon his hips, and widens his stance, frowning, "Perhaps I am young, whittler, but nobility knows no age. I suggest you learn so before you address your betters." Tossing a quick look at the newly arrived woman, Jherinor nods once, "Warm tea would be a welcome luxury, thank you."

Another scowl as Nerin approaches, and Ergal sighs, irritation written all over his face. "Oh, tea is it?" he says, raising one brow, and putting a hand to his chest. "Ah, yes, and perhaps we can have little silk cushions to sit on, as well? Wouldn't that be lovely?" His tone has slipped from curt to simply sarcastic, and sheathes his small knife at his belt, then tucks the whittled creature into the folds of his cloak. To Jherinor, he rolls his eyes. "And I'm not a whittler by trade, sir," he says, affecting as much stress into the word "sir" as he can muster. "I'm a sailor by trade, and though that makes as much sense as being a whittler, so it is the case. Forgive me for my insolence." He says the words, but it is quite clear that a heartfelt apology is miles away from where he sits.

"If you would perfer water, that is your choice. I prefer tea myself, and I am willing to offer it to any that will have some" Nerin says, keeping an eye on the kettle, waiting for the water to boil. After a little bit she says, addressing Jherinor,"And just because you are a noble doesn't mean you are better then others, just born to a name."

Halwinder lays alone in his cot, bandaged and horribly bruised. He sighs softly to himself. Stupid Wargs, how is he to greet the Beorn people.

"When you learn your station, you would do well to learn civility with it," Jherinor grunts, shaking the dampness from his cloak and taking a seat near the fire. "A sailor, you say?" the diplomat continues after settling himself, his tone a mixture of irritation and interested. "On what ship did you serve? Perhaps we have a common aquaintence." Turning his eye on the woman as she address him directly, Jherinor snickers, "No, a noble birth means nothing, but it did give me access to the knowledge to differentiate between decent citizens, and miserable curs." With the last comment, the nobleman glances pointedly back at Ergal.

Now that he's fueled the flames of Jherinor's haughty attitude, Ergal seems beside himself with pleasure. He leans back a bit, stretching his long arms behind him, and lets out a yawn. "Yes, I recognize you now," he says slowly, his words a bit slurred on the end of the yawn. Closing one eye, and looking up with the other, he searches his memory. "'Twas the Fiery Flagon. A few weeks past. You were chatting with my captain. Valka. If I recall correctly. Funny, she seems to tolerate you--she has a great distaste for the nobility, as do I. They do tend to think their heads are up in the clouds. It's those of us with callouses who keep this place going, not you and your sort." He snarls these last words, and looks to Nerin. "You speak truly, ma'am, but truly--who sees things that way these days? 'Tis a jaded world."

Jherinor stares at the man for a long moment, recognition slowly dawning on him. "Ah, yes, right. You're the brother of the man who died on her latest voyage." Nodding to himself, the nobleman purses his lips and studies the man a while longer. "I'm sorry for your loss," he adds, finally. "As for how your captain can stand me," Jherinor's voice trails off, and he shrugs as if it what he was going to say is all too obvious, "She doesn't know I'm a nobleman. It's not a fact I flaunt, unless, of course, I'm on official business."

Sheer hatred finds its way onto Ergal's face and he stands, his fists knotted up so the whites of his knuckles are seen through his brown hands. His lips twist, showing his teeth, and he breathes heavily. "You..." he says, his voice rough and hoarse. "How dare you. How dare you speak of such things." Anger seems to bubble up from Ergal and he stands there for quite some time, that being all he's says. His nostrils flare. "Never speak of my brother again, noble, or you will sorely regret it. Valka spoke out of turn. Out of her place. That damned woman!"

Speaking calmly, eyes still on her kettle as it starts to steam,"Gentlemen, please settle down. I have enough work on my hands without you two going at it here over the fire." Nerin stands and using her cloak as a pot holder, she lifts the kettle lid and pours several herbs into the pot to let them steep,"In my mind, nobility id no excuse for anything, but here, we are equal and past indisgretions should be left in Esgaroth."

Moving from the south of this make-shift camp site is one of the men of Beor, dressed in a green cloak. The man is around his fourtieth year, yet his body is strong, and layered with muscles, as well a slight bulge of meat around the middle. As he approaches the gathering around the fire, he calls out, not fearful of any attacks at the moment. "Hello friends. How are you this day?"

An eyebrow and a gaze follow the enraged sailor as he stands, the suprise clear on Jherinor's face. Looking back down at the fire, the diplomat shrugs once more, "No need to boil over, whittler." Motioning for Ergal to take his seat, he adds "If you've no heart to speak on the matter, we'll not mention it again." Shifting his cloak, Jherinor pulls the wrap more tightly around his shoulders and falls silent. "What..." he begins, when a new voice draws both his gaze and attention from the moment at hand. "Hail, stranger. I am well but wet. Come, join us." Raising his hand in greeting, Jherinor flicks his fingers, beckoning the newcomer.

Though the seat is offered, Ergal does not agree to it. He continues to stand, narrowing his eyes at Jherinor, regarding him moodily. Though the rage in him has dimmed, it seems, Ergal is far from sitting down next to Jherinor. "Never again," he adds, wagging a finger. "Never again." But Ergal cannot waste time arguing with Jherinor, as they are now accompanied by another. He turns to the Beor man, and grunts in greeting, flicking his hands as Jherinor has--but somehow making it appear slighly mocking. "We have some tea brewing," offers Ergal, rolling his eyes. "Though I prefer my flask." With that, Ergal, still standing, takes a swig from whatever is in his waterskin.

Standing from where she was slowly getting wetter as time passed, Nerin smiles,"Hello Cahl. Nice to see you again. You are just in time for some tea if you would care for any." Saying this, Nerin disapears into a tent and soon returns with several mugs,"TAke a seat, if you wish, though we can't offer you a dry place."

"Forgive me Brethren." Cahl says politely in the tongue of Westron. "Forgive that this village is a bit ... burnt to the ground, but to the south, on the other end is the mill. It can hold all of your troops, though it is not built for comfort, it is dry, and a bit safe. Forgive me as well, for not immediately greeting you when you arrived. We have been busy getting lumber." The Eagle Skald nods to each, as he approaches the fire.

"My name is Cahl. I am the leader of the Eagle Clan. It is a pleasure to meet you all." He says, taking a few steps to Nerin. "I believe I have seen you before lady. Though I can not remember your name."

"Welcome then, Cahl. I am Jherinor of House Karath, Representative of King Brand." Jherinor bows his head politely before turning back on Ergal and nodding his affirmation, "Never again." Looking at the volatile man's wooden piece, seemingly forgotten in the heat of discussion. "What is it you're working on there? Anything specific, or simply passing time?"

After Jherinor's flowery introduction, Ergal wipes his hands on his cloak, and nods. "I am Ergal, a sailor, once of the Grey Lady--first mate. Now, I'm a traveling and whittling wanderer, here to see the land instead of the waters," he says, inclining his head toward Cahl. As Jherinor questions him on his whittling, he turns, looking curiously at the noble. "Ah, interested now, are you? Bah, nothing at all. I used to carve decoration on the ship--the Grey Lady, she's mostly my work. Now that she's been put to port indefinitely, I've nothing to do with my hands. I've been carving little trinkets since we ran aground." He reaches into his cloak and pulls out what looks like a small wooden fish, not much larger than his own thumb, and tosses it to Jherinor. "Here. Enjoy it." There is still a steely guardedness about this man's tone, though his words be friendly.

"Yes, Cahl, we met when you came to Esgaroth to recruit help from us. I'm the Master Healer, Nerin." She smiles and pours a mug of tea for herself and one for Cahl and holds it out to him," It is a pleasure to see you again, dispite the soggy weather

"Were you speaking of the mill sir? If so, we are getting lumber to take back to the village. As I am sure you have been informed, the goblins are amassing in high pass even as we speak. I, and those here, have come to get some various wood, to take back and make weapons, armor, and for other uses." The Beorning says. His face show a bit of concern at the words spoken to Ergal, but for the time, he says nothing about the subject.

"Well, Sir Jherinor, it is a pleasure. And the same to you Sir Ergal." Cahl says, turning his attention once more to the lady. "Ah, yes. Lady Nerin. Thank you." He says, reaching for the tea, and tasting it. "Ah. IT is slightly hot." He says, after nearly burning his tongue.

Jherinor catches the tossed trinket, and grunts what could be a 'thank you'. Turning an ear toward the Beorning, the young nobleman listens to the details of the situation, his expression becoming intense. "I was sent on this expidition with very little information, to be honest. This is the first solid word I've heard of your present plight," the diplomat sighs with a shake of his head. "Unlike most others of my house, I'm not well-versed in the art of war," Jherinor continues, a tinge of distaste placed upon the last phrase. "I'm afraid I'll be of little use for weapon forging or tactical planning. My role will come later, I think."

"I keep the kettle next to the fire, so yes, the tea is hot. Sorry I didn't warn you, Cahl." Neirn wraps her cloak about her and takes a seat where she was before,"Some of our men met up with wargs just yesterday. Unfortunatly Halwinder was injured but he should be alright with time. I'm afraid I wasn't able to bring down many healers with us"

"Ah. If you know little, than perhaps you have some questions that I might answer for you." Cahl pauses a bit. "And do not misunderstand me, Sir Jherinor, for I too dislike battle, and have devoted my life to knowledge, but this is a time for war. As for your role, what you speak of, what are you talking about?" Cahl asks, moving to sit near the fire, and relax his legs a bit. Turning to Nerin he speaks. "Worry not about either subject lady. All will be fine. But I would advise you and he move to the village as soon as it is safe."

At being hailed as 'sir', Ergal's eyes widen and he shakes his head, laughing. "No, no, please do not call me 'sir'. Such things are reserved for those truly deserving of them," he says, with a bit of a sigh. Ergal listens to Nerin's current plight, and frowns. "Actually, healer, I could perhaps be of service to you, and your hurt friend. I once had a fellow of mine wounded while we were on the ship, a grievous injury, slashed through--" he pauses, swallows, and waves his hand before his face as if dismissing that particular description. "At any rate, we were quite worried that he would be further injured with the rocking of the ship, so we made a kind of hammock for him that swung, like so," Ergal says, gesturing with his hands, back and forth, "so as to aid with any jostling. I could help you to fashion such a thing, and we could move him in this."

"Why, dealing with issues that may arise between the many allies, of course," Jherinor replies, his tone a bit indignant, "That is the role of every diplomat." Taking a long gander around the sodden campsite before returning his attention to the Beorning, the dale-man adds matter-of-factly, "Many in Dale can't get along with each other, let alone with those foreign to them. Those of the northern regions are often distrustful of the elves. Those of the pastures and woodlands often suspect dwarves of ill-dealings. No small few put faith in nothing but self." Placing a hand on his chest, he bobs his head slightly, "Myself and others like me come to bridge the gap, and see to it that the allies remain allies."

"That might work. I would rather not move him but for the safty of all, it may be necessary." She frowns and sips her tea" Actually, I should go check on Halwinder, if you gentlemen will excuse me." Nerin stands, fills another mug with tea and heads towards Lord Halwinder's tent, she turns and looks back," I'm sure I will see you all again soon enough" she nods then disapeares into the tent.

"Good day then Nerin. I will see you again." Cahl says to the healer. "Well, Sir Jherinor, we are indeed thankful for the help. It is a desperate need." He says. "And I promise you, should we survive this ordeal, you will have us as allies forever." Cahl pauses. "Well, I should be going soon, I have my duties to perform still. If you wish, I can send the rest of your soldiers to the village, to get rested up, as well as make preparations, while the rest of you wait here. If whomever is in chrage here orders it, they can leave within the hour." Cahl says, standing.

Shaking his head some, Ergal wraps his cloak around himself more tightly. "And I must depart, as well, for my morning's sulking," he says, bowing his head low, in a show of mock-decorum. "I do hope you all figure out whatever it is that you do, and--enjoy it." He smiles toothily, and abruptly heads off in his own direction.

As the others take leave Jherinor rises as well. "It appears as if this little gathering is dissolved," he inclines his head to Cahl, "I've my own matters to attend to." Shaking the settling moisture from his cloak, the young man straightens the garment on his shoulders and departs, weaving among the tents until he is out of sight.

Cahl follows the pattern of the others, and leaves as well, back towards the mill.