Wind, water and stone.

The Dúnadan pressed his bulk upon the stone wall, it's touch cold and greasey as the rain lashed and lulled all about. His hooded head leant back onto the stone, his palms clung like limpets upon the surface. His breath, weak and rapid, his pulse clearly audible within his ears, the beating and pounding of his heart druming against his chest - wishing to escape. A shiver crept it's long fingers down his spine. The adrenline was almost too much, his sinews and fibers urged him to turn about and draw his sword. Halbar closed his wisened eyes to the World and opened his ears, the hard boot steps of the brigands become clear to hear as they drew near. Along came a loud cackle and jest, surprisingly audible above the din of the rain. He shot out his right hand and griped the handle of his blade, anger ensewed within him and he almost failed to cease himself from drawing the poor-blade. Halbar's knuckles turned white, the tendons like shods of iron as he gripped the leather bounds of the hilt. His eyes clenched shut, he shallowed his breath. The many foot steps where closer now, and he heard clearly their barer's words. His stumock churred, he felt compelled to vomit, the sickness of nervousness was becoming too much. A moment passed, how long he could not, or did not wish to guess, he could not resist any longer. A flash! A pivet! And a grunt, he turned about on his unexpecting foes and sighed. Nothing, no one. Nout but a grey vail of rain. Halbar cursed and grunted as he seathed his blade, angered with himself and his weakness to not stay his blade. "No matter... Nought but shadows and ghosts." He muttered with a single prolonged sigh. The stench of the nearby boggy heathlands was hot and thick despite the heavy downpour. He looked to and fro, gazing upon the ancient ruins of "Crossing-Place", Tharbad upon Gwathló - Greyflood by Men. To the North of the old river-port sits Nín-in-Eliph, and it ran it's course through the City south through Minhiriath to Lond Dear, which once marked the Southern border of Cardolan. One upon a time, this once most important Port-City was the heart of the Númenorean explorations to Middle-Earth. Before then a Elf refuge by the Noldorin jewel makers of Hollin. Now, nought but water, wind and stone. Halbar has made his way South along the River Swanfleet, dotting his way from Fort to Fort - the ancient Watch-posts of the Numenoreans. Now he had reached Tharbad, trying to traverse his way to Vinyalondë, or Lond Daer, the port at the mouth of Swanfleet, founded by the great mariner Aldarion. The City's dark stone, rock and shale was a stark contrast to the wide open plains to the South and North - and imediatly outside the confines of the old ruins sat the Marshlands and fens, dotted with many small eyots and bogs. The old masonary of the City was cast in a dimmed sheen as the water clung to the sullen surface of the stone. Dour and drab did it appear, 'Old Tharbad', a city once shared by both the South and North Kingdoms. Halbar guessed himself to be the only Dúnadan to still yet visit this far South of Arnor. The old Man shuddered and the beadlets of rain were flung from the fibers of his hood and the bristles of his unkempt beard. He skulked his way through the ruins of the City coming across and avoiding many of the theives and vagabonds that now inhabit it. Many of whom bore many Dúnedain and Númenorean trinkets, which ofcourse angered the old ranger. Halbar was a Cardolan born Dúnedain, hence his wishing to see Tharbad for the first time in many years - not much eltes would draw him from the Barrows or the wide plains of Minhiriath. This ranger had visited and indeed 'lived' in the South reaches of ancient Arnor all his life and rarely ventured North of the East Road-Greenway Crossing. By now though, he had lingered too long in the City and even the South, he needed to hasten out with and return Northward. But, perhaps, the charms of the ancient days and little remains of the Elves called and lured him. The rains grew heavier and the consequent mist clung dormant to the ground. Halbar made his way slowly and warily up the short hill side, the shale under boot making very little noise as his wisened, measured steps trod carefully. Thick tussocks of grass and reeds sprung randomly and unequally hither and dither, long sweeping willows and other 'water'-trees grow from the bases of old buildings, now flooded as the quagmires retreated Westward. It was growing to Dusk as he set eyes upon the small crator like vale, and the Sun's last long, finger-like rays groped the World for the last and their light reflected off the flooded pools within and about the gulley. It was a shallow dyke and at all ends ran a short ruined, callasped Wall - many segments depicting Númenorean insignias. The water these pools held in their grasp rolled and rippled as the lashing rain thundered down upon thier surface. A short while past and the brigands all stood and left, going Eastward. Standing, Halbar felt heavy - perhaps tired or due to the soaking his clothes had recieved - he shuffled wearily down the brae and into the camp heading striaght for their fire and ultimately their food which he soon grasped and stacked away within a haversack. Turning about and cringing as the shale churned and groaned loudly beneathe his feet he strode toward the various packs and barrels, finding nothing of value. Old trinkets, maps, pappers, rotting fruit nothing of value save the last. He delved his hand into the dark depths of the backpack and produced a letter, cealed with wax and set into the wax was an unclear Elf-like insignia. Halbar opened it and read it's stained surface, though only minute parts were readable. "Dear Amloth ...My son who was borne within a helm away from the melée and chaos within the Dike... ... I reside here in Tharbad for a time... I will... before I shall go North perhaps... Meril I will return to the North and to the Angle.. Devoted father and husband." With a great crack of thunder Halbar shot his vision up to the top of the oposite slope to the vision of one of the brigands staring at him. They both stood still, it felt as though time had stopped all together, nothing moved till the coming of another bout of thunder as the Man yelled. Crying to his friends and fellows he throw his arms toward the Ranger. Halbar tucked the letter wthin his tunic as the snap of an arrow resounded in his ears, with a swift about he was up the brae and away, his figure soon lost in the grey sheen of the tossing rain...