elessar_telcontar | First Feather [Action/Voice]

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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.]

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[ and -- sure enough -- the moment the man raises his makeshift sword, sharpe's hand is dragging at his heavy cavalry sabre. drawing it free of its metal scabbard. he doesn't lift the blade, but it's certainly in play.

and he certainly uses its presence to dissuade any confounding invasions of his personal space. ]

You're mad. [ the major says. rather simply. ] Bloody barmy. Get the hell back, would you?

Aragorn stops himself when he sees the drawn blade - considerably more dangerous than his long stick, which is not even sharp. The ranger lowers his weapon and raises his empty hand in a placating gesture.]

Boromir, you know me. Though seeing you alive I think perhaps I am mad.

He took a moment now to take a closer look at the other man - the man that he had been sure was Boromir. His hair was shorter, though, and this man had no beard, only a soft fur of blonde stubble. His face, though, and his voice, were those of the man he had watched breathe his last that very morning.

You are not Boromir. He spoke of a brother he left in Minas Tirith - are you Faramir?

Eladan and Elrohir could not be told apart except by those that knew them well, so perhaps Boromir and his brother were just as alike - though he did not recall the Gondorian saying they were twins.

Sharpe. [ he growls his name, refusing to lower his weapon. ] Richard Sharpe. Major. South Essex. [ he clings to these titles as though they're all he has left. ]

Dunno who the bloody hell this Boromir bastard is, but I ain't him. Nor his brother. I have no brothers.

[ that i know of. ]

Forgive me.

[How can it be? This man is so like Boromir. His language is a little less refined, though.]

Though Boromir is no bastard - he is the son and heir of the Steward of Gondor. And he is not disposed to hide his identity, so you must speak the truth. Greetings, Richard Sharpe. I am... [he pauses a moment, unsure how to represent himself to this man who clearly values rank] I am Aragorn, Captain of the Grey Company and Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North.

Well. [ ever so cautiously, the sword is lowered. ] There you have it, eh? I can't be your bloody Bormir for I am a bastard -- son and heir to no one.

[ and (at last) he sheathes the blade. a captain, eh? in his army, at least, a major outranks a captain and so he develops a false sense of security. ] Never heard of the Grey Company, I'm afraid. Nor the Dune--[ he can't remember the word any longer. but.

north? ] North of what?

[He exhales a breath he had not realised he held as the vicious looking sword is sheathed, his posture relaxing a little, though still ready to defend himself in an instant if Sharpe's friendship should prove false. The ranger lowers his own weapon, leaning on the stout stick like a walking stick rather than brandishing it as a sword.]

The Dunedain. The heirs of Numenor. And north of... most everything. The Dunedain keep most to Arnor, in the far northlands of Middle-earth. And South Essex is a place? Your homeland?

[ ...some other world, then. he's used to hearing of them, now. though this one was entirely new.

sharpe hems and haws as he decides on his answer. ] A piece of it. England, though, is a fairer approximation.

[Aragorn rolled the name is his head, but it was not familiar.]

England - is that east of the Misty Mountains? I have travelled much and seen most of Middle-earth, but do not know that name. You do not look like an Easterling, nor a man of the Harad, yet I have ranged from Angmar to Dol Amroth and from the Greyhavens to Erebor and yet have not heard of England.

[ by now, sharpe understands that there are people from differnt worlds. worlds that know nothing of his england or its allies. its enemies.

even still, he has to keep trying: ] What of Spain? Portugal? France?

I am sorry, none of those places are known to me. Nor, I think, is this place. I doubt now that I am still in Gondor, as I was. What land is this? Is this your England?

'Fraid not.

[ now. finally. he gestures to the path, indicating that they should continue onwards. ] Leastwise, it's not part of England I've ever been to.

[Aragorn follows Sharpe onto the path and begins to walk, always keeping a close eye on his new travelling companion.]

Are there any others that live here?

...The village numbers a few hundred, but our numbers fluc-- fl-- change. Every two months, raw recruits like you arrive.

[Aragorn does not help the other man with the word he cannot quite find - it is politic not to correct those that offer aid.]

Some hundreds? That is more than a village. And those that arrive - they all come with no knowledge of how they came to be here, as I have?

So it seems. Some take better to it than others; some are grossly accustomed to the wildly weird.

I a not unused to strangeness. Though meeting a man with the face of one I knew is stranger than even I am accustomed to. Forgive me, but your face... as you say, this place is... strange. Where is the village?

...Just this way. Not far. Not far at all.

[ he casts a finger down the path. ] There's a river to our side, we're as good as following into town.

I had been following the river in the hope that it might lead somewhere. Do you live in the town, Major?

I am...billeted there. Not sure if 'live' is the rightest term for it.

[The other man's tone seemed hesitant]

By your tone you do not mean to be here any longer than you must. If I had a mind to escape, would you match it?

Match it? Aye. [ he sucks in a breath before his warning: ] But many have tried for many a year, now. So I'm not so certain what matched minds'll accomplish, in the long run.

[He considers the warning, a grim set to his face]

Enough matched minds, with true purpose, can accomplish anything. Are there others of like mind, that might join us?

Doubtless. I'll let you make that call for yourself, Mister Aragorn.

Perhaps you could be of service by introducing me to those who might be of use in any plan? Fighters, or wise ones, who might match our purpose?

There were once a handful I would have named immediately, but they are gone now. Let me speak in confidence to those I know -- and let yourself settle down long enough to learn the whole situation -- and we will see where we stand.

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elessar_telcontar - 2013-02-01 13:39 (UTC) - Expand

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