elessar_telcontar | First Feather [Action/Voice]

[He could hear running water, but it was not the Anduin. The flow was too fast and the bed too shallow: a bubbling stream rather than the mighty river. It was like the laughter of a child, not the roar of the great Anduin. Aragorn slowly opened his eyes. Above were dark trees and a cold, bright sky, but the sun had shifted and the season seemed wrong. His body was aching and sore, though he didn't recall being struck. There had been orcs, he remembered. They were under attack and he'd heard Boromir's horn and run toward the solemn call. Boromir. The memory returned to him and stabbed at his heart like an icy blade. He had arrived at the clearing too late and found the Gondorian dying on the cold ground, his chest pierced by thick-shafted arrows; his bright lifes-blood mingling on the hard earth with the black ooze of his felled enemies. With his last breath the man had pledged himself to Aragorn and called him king.]

My brother.

[Aragorn's voice was hoarse, his throat dry like parchment.]

Forgive me, Boromir: I have failed you.

[He sat up slowly, wincing in pain. He didn't recall being struck, and if the orcs had attacked him while he knelt over his dead friend then why had they left him alive? And why had they... taken his clothes? The cool breeze pricked at the man's bare arms and chest and he realised with a start that his clothes and cloak were gone and he wore only a thin pair of white trousers. His weapons were also nowhere to be seen. Nor was Boromir, though his absence seemed more reasonable when Aragorn realised that he was no longer on Amon Hen. As orcs were not known for stripping their enemies, moving them and then leaving them alive, if injured, in woodland clearing, it was clear that someone else had done this, though to what end Aragorn had no idea.

Moving more stiffly than he would have liked, Aragorn searched the clearing quickly for his weapons, but there was no sign of sword or bow or knife, nor of his clothes. All that he could find was a book resting in the soft grass, bound in dark leather. There was no title on the cover, but Aragorn could clearly make out an image embossed in the soft leather: a bare tree crowned with seven stars. Whatever the book was, it was clearly meant for him. The book was lighter than it looked. Leafing through a few pages, Aragorn was shocked at the contents, for the images on the pages moved, as though under some enchantment. He had seen images in fire and smoke and water, but even in Elrond's library at Imladris he had never seen such a book, with images that moved as though alive. And it was not only the images that were a surprise: there seemed to be voices speaking to him from the pages, soft and whispering like voices carried on the wind.]

Would that you were here with me, Gandalf, to tell me the source of this magic.

[Aragorn closed the strange book quickly, but felt compelled to hold on to it and take it with him. Unwilling to venture out both naked and unarmed, the man picked up a sturdy-looking branch and swung it as if wielding a longsword, inhaling sharply as a shock of pain ran up his spine. Aragorn laid down his new sword and began to run calloused hands up his back, searching for a wound that might need urgent attention, but felt no blood. He was surprised the find something protruding from his back, but it was not the sword or axe or arrow he might have expected. It was something... feathery?]

What new strangeness is this?

[There was thankfully no sign of any orcs, but perhaps there was someone close who could tell him what was happening. Perhaps, wherever he was, Legolas and Gimli were also here. Drawn by the sound of rushing water, Aragorn made his way to the nearby stream and began to follow it east, hoping that he might find someone along the riverbank, or that it might lead to a settlement. After a short hike of around two leagues, Aragorn crested a small hill and saw below him a fairly large but unwalled town. There were houses and a large open square, several larger buildings, though none looked fortified or seemed obvious great halls. The town was a mile away still, but Aragorn could see people moving around the market square.]

Why do they all have wings?

[Well, the best way to find out what was going on was to ask someone - even if he wasn't dressed for company. Carrying his enchanted book and his makeshift wooden sword, Aragorn headed toward the town, hoping to find some answers, and with luck his friends. And some clothes.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ah yes. All shall hunt in fear of the Ranger and his mighty...stick. Perhaps you are compensating for something?

[There's a wry twist to Zevran's lips, the tanned, leather clad expanse of him a fluid figure against the stark expanse of the snow and wall against which he leaned. What this man has to tell, well. It is strange to him, but not as much as it was the first he heard of it. Then it had only been in theory but now? This was a man that truly believed it.

This makes it no less strange to him.]

You've elves that are Lords in your world? Should you ever return please, by all means, take me with you.

[Being mocked, however gently, was not something Aragorn was accustomed to, and not something he would tolerate in excess.]

They are counted wise, and called lords and even kings, but they do not think themselves better than men, nor speak to mock them. If you were taken to my world, such words would mark you out. No elf that I have known would speak so, nor question my reputation as a Ranger of the North.

Reputations only have weight when the context is known, Ser. I am afraid to be told that you are a 'Ranger of the North' means little to me aside from the assumption you are better skilled at hunting come winter than those elsewhere.

Marked out or no it would be a far better deal than I might have in my own world. Should an elf call themselves lord or King they'd be swiftly hunted and killed for fear they would rally the rest of our kind into daring to think we are equal to men.

Not knowing to whom you speak is a reason to treat with more respect, not less. Ser.

[It was not like Aragorn to react so harshly to mere words, but perhaps the fact that the disrespect had come from an elf, and was therefore so unexpected, had riled him.]

I am sorry to hear that the elves of your world are so poorly treated. Though the elves of mine are so respected because they show respect, and do not treat men as lesser beings, though it may be true.

Respect is something to be earned, not freely given. At least in my world.

[Zevran shrugs, neither argumentative nor condemning. It's too cold to be riled up by much of anything, especially something that seems to be little more than a clash of cultural expectations.]

Besides. I am not the one waltzing about with a stick as though it were a sword. If a blade is what you require there are more than enough to be found at the smith's. Perhaps you will find something familiar enough there.

And did I not earn it in thwarting your hunt?

[Aragorn shares the sentiment, but believes the same of disrespect, and he has not earned the disrespect this Elf has shown him.]

I would rather a sword than a stick, but I would rather a stick than no weapon at all, in an unfamiliar place. I will visit the smith in the hope of replacing this stick with something more suitable. Perhaps when I am more formidably armed we will speak again on more equal terms, and steel will earn me more respect than wood amongst those that would be counted equals. Until then, ser, I bid you good day.

[Aragorn's tone is polite but taut as he nods in farewell and turns his undefended back to the elf, walking out of the alley.]

Oh I am impressed by your skill, no doubt, but respecting a man's skill and respecting a man are two completely different things. Now that you would count me as an equal without knowing me- that, Ser, earns you a measure of my respect. It is not something most men would offer so readily, different world or no.

[This man is fortunate in that Zevran is being relatively ambivalent rather than disrespectful in earnest. At least until the man turns his back.

He shouldn't, really.

Of course that is reason enough for him to do so. This man is worn and wary but could use a little loosening up. Worst comes to worst? He'll be sworn at and chased off. Or beaten with a stick. Acceptable risks.

It's a fairly silent motion, crouch, scoop, pack a bit of snow. The toss is as accurate as one could make it, aimed at the center of the man's back.]

[Aragorn has not felt that sensation since he was a boy and would play in the snow in the hills around Imladris with Elrond's sons, his adoptive brothers. To be struck by a wad of cold snow thrown in play by a brother was something quite different from being struck by an Elf just met who had already shown ample disrespect. He spins on his heel, his body low and stick held en garde, a defensive pose, ready to strike at the merest provocation. His tone is low and serious.]

You are fortunate that I will not strike another over tossed snow, or we might see if your skill with sword is akin your tracking. You could not best me with stealth - do you wish to know whether you could best me in this? Leave now, and this meeting need not end for the worst.

[This day began with a vicious fight on the banks of the Anduin and with Boromir breathing his last in his arms. A grievous morning followed by abduction to a strange new land. This was not a day to cross him.]

[Now that is an unfamiliar stance. Once again Zevran considers his footing, the weather, his current level of armament. Daggers, knives, garrote, yes- but not a proper sword on him by any means. He hadn't thought to wear one openly in a long while.

Then again he has not been quite this much of an ass in public for a long while either. He lifts his hands in a placating gesture, mindful of the knives just up his wrist.]

As you will, Ranger. [He imparts as much respect into the title as he is able. It is not much but it is a great deal more than he had bothered with earlier. It is too cold a day to be beaten for being a fool.]

[The glint of steel beneath the Elf's cuffs is unmistakeable, so Aragorn is glad when the Elf stands down.]

You may call me Strider, should we meet again. If we do, I hope that you will remember that the Elves are an ancient and noble people, not rough speaking brigands.

[The insult is perhaps unwise, but Aragorn is in a sour mood. His sword arm not wavering, he waits for the Elf to turn and leave.]

And perhaps you might note that I am not one of your elves.

[The insult does not bother him, for in this instance it is true. Aside from that he has been called far worse with great regularity. Once he's certain the stick and the arm connected to it is not going to dart out in some manner of attack he ducks back around the corner, taking his leave.]

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