Arahen meets Urses



 Twilight comes early after midday in autumn in the land of Forochel. Arahen stood facing the inlet leading to the great bay contemplating the perpetual cloud of frost emanating from each exhalation. Any time she removed the wool scarf from her face, the mucus in her nose froze instantly and her eyes seemed to never quite stop aching from the cold. Her angular features and exotic raiment drew many a curious eye as she strode in her heavy coat toward the Great Lodge to take a last hot meal before the southward journey across tundra and glacier to deliver news of the delicate state of play in Forochel. Her tokens of embassy and gifts had been accepted by the Elders of Sûri-kylä, despite the whispers of some of the assembled chiefs who warned of the danger of attracting further unwanted attention from the Guaradan, who now openly served the master of the Black Tower of Mordor.

As Arahen made her way up the corduroy path to the Great Lodge her attention was drawn to a knot of local people parting to allow passage of a singularly haggard individual through the fishmarket. Clad in a torn fur lined coat covered in long frozen gore. The Lossoth were a hospitable people despite all the hardship of their daily existence and it was not unknown in their villages for some wayward traveller to be brought out of a blinding storm and into the communal lodge. This one, however seemed determined to stand on his own, though his gray hair and beard were encrusted with ice and his skin the pallor of the tomb. At first she took him for an elder of the edain. One nigh to the Halls. But she saw no lines on his face. She approached and at first, in his grim struggle just to press forward these last few paces he noticed her tall form not at all. Then the dim spark in his eye flashed brilliant and he started. Arahen took his arm in hers and draped her great fur cloak over his shoulders.

“Take this, friend until we get inside at least. Were you lost on the glacier?” She spoke with the drawling accent of one whose native tongue was Sindarin. Which drew the man further out of the dull survival trance.

“I must speak with Yrjana,” he muttered insistentl as Arahen gently tugged him toward the path.

“Of course,” she answered, walking by his side. He glanced at her several times, obviously curious that another foreigner in this inhospitable country had encountered him. As they made their way inside the cavernous lodge tent, the heat of the great fire, the scent of cooking meat and the chatter of the supplicants and petitioners to the council enveloped them and drew them further within.

He removed her cloak and returned it to her as they drew near the central bonfire that served as the hub of activity in the lodge. Though surrounded by the rough but merry laughter of the local people, they were both keenly aware that all eyes naturally were attracted to outlanders. The contrast between the tall noble seeming woman in her white and red fur lined coat and the weary and battered man with gore begrimed clothing made them all the more an object of open curiosity. Arahen folded the heavy cloak and set her rucksack and her crossbow on the ground with a breathy sigh of relief. Her broadsword betokened martial purpose to onlookers who took note of the silver pommel and rich arabesques on the scabbard. The man nodded thanks to Arahen. “Your kindness is noted, fair lady. Forgive me, but I have an urgent task.” he said. Turning without waiting for a reply, the grim faced man painfully drew himself to full stature and strode with purpose renewed by the warmth of the lodge up to the seat of the High Elder. Arahen observed the exchange with no less interest than many of those assembled for the day's business. She cast a careful eye over these, taking note of those who seemed most keen to snatch a bit of their conversation. The identification of one of Mordor's spies would be a useful addition to her achievements on this expedition so far.

After a brisk exchange, the gray maned man made his bow and strode toward the lodge exit. It was at this moment that Arahen's keen elven eyes spotted the glint of firelight playing on a tarnished silver star that held together his tattered wool cloak as he wrapped it round him near the tent flap. She grabbed up her things and quickly made her way to his side once more.

She spoke in a low voice, “Seven Stars in Ursa Major...”

At first determined to shrug off any more help from the woman, Urses' eyes widened in surprise. He gave the countersign. “The Dog Days are passed. Tables are turning.” He tilted his head and she followed him back into the dimness of Forochel's autumnal gloaming.

“You come to me beyond hope, friend. How is the Mistress of your Order? Still minding the henhouse?” His weak grin added spice to the jest. It was impossible to take offense in the context.

“She is well indeed. She gives aid to the dwarven folk, reaffirming an old alliance. I am sent hither to report on affairs and deliver gifts to the people here who fight against the Enemy. I am called Arahen.” She handed him a flask from a pocket in her voluminous fur coat. “Keep this. I have another.”

“Know then that I am Urses,” rumbled the man, his strength flooding almost visibly back into his frame as he took a draught of the mirrovor. Urses stood straighter and reflected for a moment, before favoring his new comrade with a wan smile. He plucked the brooch from his cloak and held it out. “Take this, find the one named Lindovor. Tell him that I am being tracked and that I fear I am not returning home.”

“Wither shall I find this Lindovor? And who tracks you? For it is sure that my path having crossed yours, I shall be tracked as well.'

Urses shakes his head firmly and smiles. "They, do not want you dear. Travel to Bree, then to the village of Arrowhaven. Follow the road straight until you come to an Inn. That, is the Warhorse. Tell Lindovor. Now go. I've tarried here overlong as is.” She looked over her shoulder one last time to see him striding into the dark through the dwindling throng at the fishmarket path.