Unwelcome aid

[Eclecticon]

Wrapped tight in her cloak, listening to the sounds of the moonlit river, Esgalwen slips between memory and dream as the night-time river blurs into the sunlit waters of Ithilien and back.  In her mind, the high hall of Wuduseld and the white bluff of Minas Tirith become the same place: a single stronghold of Men who dwell at the edge of the Shadow and by doing so, fix it in place and hold fast against it.  She dreams that the High Steward Denethor holds court by the hearth-fires of Woodland Hall, giving his wise rule to this wild place. 

To the Ranger, the dream-Steward extends his hand and she sees that it is mail-clad... no, made of mail, the interlaced rings flowing and flexing as naturally as the skin on any other man.  She hears him speak but cannot understand his words, for his tongue, the speech of Gondor itself, has become foreign to her ears. 

In a sudden fright, she wakes to feel, more than see, the slump of a light and lithe body beside hers at the edge of the pier.  The reek of spilled ale and pig fat is suddenly clear in the cool air and the tones of an Elven voice, its words made muzzy with too much drink, reach her ears as Luindîs (for this is surely not Gwaithlim!) passes from the waking world.  Smiling to herself, Esgalwen shifts her weight, finding this spot, open as it is to the water and sky, as good as any other to pass a late-summer night. 

When next she wakes, it is once again with a start though at first she does not know why.  Then she hears a sound as familiar to her as breathing: that of a weapon hitting flesh, and a muffled cry of pain.  She goes to leap to her feet, hands already drawing Nimronyn, but the long night on the hard pier has left them heavy and sluggish and she can rise barely to her knees before the foe is upon her.  Mightily she struggles, as befits a Ranger of Gondor!  But against as many as now set upon her it is to little avail, and all that her thrashing achieves is to knock the Elf-maid from her pier-end perch into the still-dark water with barely a sodden murmur of protest before the loud splash.  Then dark lights explode in her skull, burying all thought beneath them. 

Hathcyn and Gwaithlim, making their way past the outer wall of the sleeping town in the pre-dawn half-light, hear the sound of a body hitting water and, without either needing to speak his mind, break into a run.  By the time they reach the pier, however, all that is there to meet them is the rhythmic splashing of oars on the river as a boat, unseen in the morning mist, makes its way downstream, and the bump and high-pitched 'ow!' beneath their feet that herald Luindîs' waking under the pier.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn looked down the river and then at the elf. "Boats. I hate boats, and borrowing one even more."

[Telcontar]

The Beorning helped the wood-elf back on to the dock and checked that she was uninjured.

"Luindîs, what new troubles beset us and where is Ætheldreám?"

[Eclecticon]

The Wood-elf, sodden, bedraggled and rubbing her head as if doing so alone would heal the inward pounding, casts a bleary look at Hathcyn.  "I don't know of your troubles this morning, but mine are a most rude awakening.  Of the Ranger I know naught.  Why, I thought she would be with you!" 

Pouring water from her boots, she seems at last to realise where she is.  "In fact, why are we here?  Were we meeting that woman of... some southern folk?  Never mind your dreams, of ethels or otherwise!  Where is she?" 


Given the circumstances, Luindîs is less helpful than she might be. 

[Eclecticon]

I'll leave this another night (my time) and move things on in the morning if you guys haven't.

[Telcontar]

  are there any other boats here?

[Eclecticon]

Hathcyn looks up and down the pier and sees a number of the wide, shallow-bottomed boats that the Woodmen sail up and down the river, more than can be needed to supply Woodland Hall with fish.  Clearly, some of the southern visitors have taken the trout's road here.  Many of the small craft have paddles tied to their thwarts. 

Nobody is here to stop us taking one, he finds himself thinking, and there is every chance we might actually bring a boat back this time!

[Telcontar]

Wariness and a need for action engaged in a tug of war within the Longspear. Equally that this was a feint to draw them away from the council and the danger it posed to one of the company. He decided.

Swiftly now Hathcyn sprung into action and lunged towards a boat. He pulled the water logged elf behind him and seemingly in one motion untied the boat and tossed a pole to the Noldo elf.

"We must pursue and hope to over take them quickly. Come Lundis, dip your head in the water if necessary as we go and ask the fishes for news."

[GandalfOfBorg]

Gwaithlim, not one to question nor feeling need to, catches the pole and pushes off.  The might of the Noldo hadn't really been tested in the ways of the water and its craft, but he would give it his best.

 
 

Athletics -  1d12 : 6, total 6
Rolled 2d6 : 5, 6, total 11

[Telcontar]

  indeed. Athletics seems to be in order.

Rolled 1d12 : 2, total 2

Rolled 2d6 : 3, 6, total 9

[Telcontar]

The boat was unsteady and the mud at the wharf deepe than the Longspear anticipated. He attempted to move the boat by force instead of finesse and had mixed results.

[Eclecticon]

Not Man nor either Elf is an experienced boatman, and their paddle and pole make unsteady progress at best into the deeper water and the all-encompassing mist of the morning.  Nor does Luindîs offer her aid, instead dragging herself from the water on to a thwart, there to slump with an expression that says to all this new, watery and mist-bound world 'pity me, who have caroused not wisely but too well'. 

Strength of arm, however, proves useful in the end, and the borrowed boat at last begins to move confidently as the current takes it.  The fog lies upon the river thick as a feather pillow, however, and little can eyes and ears make out further than a pole's reach from the craft.  After perhaps half an hour, with barely any thinning of the mist let alone sign of their quarry, hearts begin to sink until, as if called by the need of the hour, a voice sounds from across the water: "You there, travellers in the boat!  Where do you fare?"

Taken aback by this sudden hail, for truly it is usually the missing Esgalwen who would keep watch for the approach of anything capable of speech, Hathcyn whips his head about to see a shock of auburn hair spreading on the surface of the river.  Below it, a fair face and set of shoulders brings a flush to his cheeks and speeds the beating of his heart, much though he reminds himself of his vow to Aestid.  Luindîs, quickening from her half-sleep, falls toward the gunwale of the small craft, her ears visibly rising as her interest is seized by the new arrival.  Even Gwaithlim finds himself raising an eyebrow, for they are far from any habitation of Men that he has heard of, and the talk of the Woodmen suggests that the Dusky River is no longer the unbreachable moat that once it was. 

The woman in the water laughs at their surprise, the sound clear and strong as the splashing of a waterfall.  "Well then, have you never seen a maiden a-swim before?  Sunshadow, I am called.  Come, tell me your names and perhaps we will find that we have tidings for each other." 

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn paused in his poling. In fact he almost forgot what he was doing completely. The Longspear began to lean over the boat to look at the auburn haired maiden that floated upon the water, rising from the mists like a dream.

She observed him and laughed. The sound bombarded him, such a sound he had never heard, and he wished to hear it forever. He wanted to listen to the laughter and the voice forever, wherever it would go.

The Longspear sunk to his knees in the gunwale of the boat the bilge water soaking his knees. He leaned over the edge farther than was wise in order to draw that face closer to his own. Perhaps, perhaps just one kiss of those lips...were they warm, or were they cool and crisp like water on a summer day. Would her arms be the same....

The Longspear was called back from the edge and from wonder by the firm hand of Gwaithlim. The Elf noted that the River Maiden hadn't even tried to ensnare the Beorning, he pondered what she could have done if she had wanted to.

Hathcyn, stopped from slipping or falling into the water found his voice at last.

"I am Hathcyn Foresthelm, I know your sister lady for I am one of the men-folk that aided her. I.... you are the fairest thing I have ever beheld in this wood. I'll not curse boats or this river again, for this water and these soaked timbers carried me to you. Would that you dwelt in the Anduin upon the Carrock and taught the father of waters the meaning of beauty and blessed the heart of the Beornings with your laughter."

"Hathcyn." The elf spoke at his side, but the hand of the Longspear waved him off gesturing that he was busy.

"HATHCYN!" He called sterner and with more authority. This time hearing his name the man seemed to come back more to the present.

"Do you see her Gwaithlim? Have you ever seen such as this...."

"Ulmo, alone of the Vala has no bride, but if he did then this would no doubt be one of his daughters. Not even Tuor would dare strike so high, so dont tip the boat."

The River Maiden smiled, "such kind words spoken to me so early in the day by you both."

Lundis, forgotten in the boat, felt her head clearing rapidly. Perhaps a tinge of jealousy was an unknown remedy for too much celebration the night before.

[Telcontar]

Fish jumped around the boat as it now floated freely down the Dusky River. Gwathlim watched and for Hathcyn time stood still.

Lundis spoke again, "we were headed down the river in pursuit of another boat. We believe it has a friend of ours who was taken against her will. That is, until we were distracted."

Sunshadow moved closer to the boat. Her face only inches now from Hathcyn and he felt her breath upon him. Her approach was like slipping into the water on a hot summer day.

"Are you distracted?" She whispered. "You are not a Wood-man. I see the playful fox in your eyes."

Lundis cleared her throat.
"Her name is Esgalwen, a Gondorian. Did she come this way?"

She, mere inches now from Hathcyn and he in turn looked into the deep wells of her eyes.

"The fox sees pools, the sound of trickling water in the rocks, and fish at play..." Hathcyn spoke to her like they were the only two present in the boat, on the river, perhaps in all of Middle-earth.

"My sisters thank you for the service you have provided to them. But this is from me."

She rose out of the water a bit more, level with the Beorning, and kissed him.

[Telcontar]

  well i guys I couldnt pass up the opportunity. When I first read Paul's excellent set up I asked myself what would Odysseus do in this moment and it kind of wrote itself.

And if in the future Lundis calls Hathcyn a fish kisser you'll know why!