The Blade of the Sea
Prologue: Adûnaic
When Mr Felaion Baker, of no place in particular, let slip to his newly-found companion Bethlan Thorne of Bree-Land that his heritage was unknown to him beyond knowing that his father was not of Gondor herself, she seemed to take it upon herself to ensure that he discovered his true heritage. For which reason exactly, Felaion was most unsure. Yet for all her flaws, the brown-locked jeweler of Bree-Town had provided the troubled labourer with no small manner of support and kind words. It did not seem that Bethlan had any real suspicions that a Man's blood-line mattered. Felaion didn't feel special, for indeed, in the depths of his heart, he knew that he was not. Different, perhaps - but only in the manner that a Man's eyes can be blue, or they can be green. Pure bloodlines belong only to the nobility of Gondor, or in some cases, the strange and troubling Rangers of Eriador.
Thus, it came to pass that Mr Baker, a name he'd taken for his own upon falling into the bosom of the strange, mistrusted band of mercenaries known as the Company of the Black Thorn, was guided onto a path that would lead to the salvation - or damning of his true name: Felaion, son of Curubor. It would begin with two, yet by no means would it end as it began, for no two things may happen the same way, nor end exactly as they have begun. Mr Felaion Baker, and Miss Bethlan Thorne comitted themselves to discovering the path that had brought Mr Baker and Miss Thorne together, for Felaion would not wed Bethlan until he were certain who exactly she would be marrying. Little did either know now, that the intent for which they began their travels would differ so greatly for the intent by which they conclude it. Though I begin to recall this tale beginning with the aforementioned pair, many paths and many purposes would cross before I am permitted to conclude this curious tale.
As any good investigator would know, one must begin with the clues allready laid out before them. For this mystery, the clues were three.
Firstly, Felaion Baker would often speak a foreign tounge, of an identity he did not know. It had been taught to him in his youth, by his father - though little did he know that the tounge was corrupted and long-since broken by years and years of mistranslation down their family line. As the blood in his veins had diluted, so had the tounge, to such an extent that those Arnorian or Gondorian scholars who did still keep the written language alive would despair at his poor conjugation and pronunciation. In fortune's favoured star, however, one word had remained pure: 'Zirbeth'.
Secondly, Felaion had kept in his posession the sword of his father, an heirloom of the male line, which to all intents and the untraded eye, was perfectly ordinary. It stood out not, for the blade was simple, and the hilt servicable. Yet, for all this, the trader's eye would note that the metals were unusual misplaced, old, and oft' alloys with no name, long since fallen out of common use for easier, more effective methods now replaced the old. Whilst the blade could have been very old - the hilt was much more youthfull, and cannot have belonged to the blade when it was forged, and not by a particually skilled hand - blade or hilt. Roughly-hewn into the bizzare blade, runes of Arnorian-Tengwar spoke a single word: 'Zaganzra'.
Lastly, but by no manner least - Bethlan wore about her throat, a lovingly-donated gift from Felaion, who reported it to be from his mother, Nimriel. In this, he had spoken truth, the silver-chained token had belonged to his mother, and was of a curious design unbelonging to Gondor, or Bree-Land. One Master of metalworking in Minas Tirith had once said it reeked of southern design, the boundless lands to the south and the east, in which Gondor's ancient foes dwell still. Of the metal, it was silver, pure and untarnished, yet of little value amongst the upper classes of society. However, there was another, of identical design, that Felaion had not spoken of to Bethlan, as not to sully the gift he'd made. This had been given to another, one who's relationship with him mirrored it's origin within the past Felaion had chosen to forget.
To Newbold Leafcutter, a kindly old scholar who had once tutored Bethlan on her literary skills, they took these tokens, and spoke at great length with him. Being of Bree-Town, and not of Gondor, he knew little of the old language Felaion poorly spoke, nor could he explain the Arnorian-Tengwar lettering on the sword, and they had both forgotten to question the token Bethlan wore. Yet by chance, or at least so it seemed, the word Zirbeth was one that he had heard in passing. One single clue could he convey to the investigators, that being that the language Felaion had learned from his father could only be Adûnaic, the mother-language of Westron (The Common Tounge). It was rough and crude, and he knew no more of it's origins, save that the Rangers of Eriador might know more, and they should direct their search North, if they truly had desire to seek out the truth.
Mr Baker was ready to give in at this point, for he had no love of the Rangers, having given in to the Bree-Lander's dissaproval of their kind during his stay in Eriador. Not for the first, nor would it be the last time, Bethlan gently nudged him forwards, convincing him that discovering the truth would be the best manner in which to overcome himself. Either through seeing the truth in her words, or through love for the pleasant-hearted Bree-Lander, he resolved to continue his journey, and seek out the truth behind Adûnaic.
