Enedwaith coastline
Bare and exposed beaches ... lowlands half sea-marshes and sand dunes ... here and there a fishing village, thatched huts huddled together. A desolate coast, this is, and one that pirates would love, for there are myriad little coves in which ships can lie hidden from view.

A stern light shimmers down from the hearty skies above, reflecting in bold measure off the fine and rollicking seas. The crush of wave on shore is forever musical here, and sings the fisherfolk to sleep each night no less than the baying of hunting hounds.

Contents:
Bakkus
Lominakh
The Aganallo(#9902LQVXaetM)
The Arvada
The Nalozil
Obvious exits:
 NorthWest leads to Belegaer (The Open Sea).
 South leads to Mouth of the Isen.
 East leads to Enedwaith: Countryside.
 North leads to Mouth of the Gwathlo.

They are, it seems, a scouting party. A smallish group of men and women, trudging up the beach a short way south of a similarly smallish village. The first rays of morning sunlight glimmer off the hilts of scimitars at their belts, and for the most part -- for the /most/ part -- they look like sailing men, well-defended.

For the /most/ part.

Trailing at their rear, panting to keep up, is a black-robed, large-girthed fellow. With a shaved crown and sandaled feet, he bears as much resemblence to these fellows as a sunflower to a pine tree.

From the north, another figure slowly slips his way down the coastline, his step distinctly heavy, as though weighed down by fatigue. His green, brown, and grey garb is filthy, even by the formidable standards of filthiness they have previously endured, and swamp muck and grime is visible from his battered boots up to his knees, lending him a certain pungence.

Talbinor's strides veer slightly as he passes some rocks, heading out onto the beech and into the water, going nearly knee-deep into the river as though to wash away the swamp. As he steps, his grey eyes pass up to the small party, still some distance off, and when he sees the distinctive man at the back he frowns, thoughtfully rather than maliciously, his brow creasing slightly in contemplation.

One amongst the group, a leader of sorts it would seem from his dress and manner, whispers some orders in a tongue rarely if ever heard in these lands and the group begins to break up as the others take cover behind rocks, scrub, and the rare tree.

The leader then turns to look back towards the large man bringing up the rear. He shows no sign of annoyance at the other's slowness, but smiles instead. "If you keep insisting on joining these ventures, Brother, you will soon be a much smaller man," he says with a chuckle.

"I..." pants the big fellow as a series of small strides -- waddles? -- carry him closer to this leader, "Shall have...to...make up for...it, no...doubt."

He pauses there to catch his breath, hands resting on his well-rounded midsection, and passes a wan smile toward the leader. "I'm nearly out of yellow-flower, too; I'd hoped to sight some before..."

Before what he does not say; a glance toward the village speaks for itself.

For an instant, the tall man apart from the group stands in the river, still, like an Eagle examining the ground beneath him, his expression serious, some absurdity rendered by the waves lapping about his knees. He sees lips move, and whispers of sound echo across the otherwise still air. But his expression does not abate.

Briefly, he looks around at the clear ground of the shoreline, bereft of cover and any chance at a stealthy approach. As a result, he shrugs to himself and slogs out of the river, heading directly for the party, his hands held outwards in a sign of peace, though both sword and bow are prominently visible on his person.

Brow furrowing slightly in thought, the leader, pushes a hand through his hair. "Perhaps, this Barseg, can reccomend something to use as an alternative?" he asks. "The herbs he gave Ajnabi and Annadur seem to have helped them." A smile. "Not to mention he seems fond of you."

His eyes then turn back towards the village. "I doubt it has much worth taking," he says as his eyes scan the buildings. "If nothing else we are in need of . . ."

His words stop instantly as his scanning eyes fall upon the approaching strange. An order is given in his native tongue to those attempting to hide. Then he turns to face the stranger, placing his hands upon his hips so that his own weapon is made visible as well. No greeting is given, as he silently waits the other's approach.

"Perhaps -- I shall have to speak with him. I did promise him a cake, but I've had no chance to bake..."

The rotund fellow frowns as well, a troubling frown that bends his lips down in the direction of his chins, but it is his nose he raises.

"What's that /smell/?" he asks -- and only after asking does he notice the leader's still silence -- and the approaching figure.

"Oh."

"Hello," the approaching man says in his smooth Westron, coming to a stop on the sand a discrete distance away from the party. His eyes do not focus on their leader but rather leap about from side to side at regular intervals, towards what spots of cover are available, lids narrowed slightly in vague concern.

"And what brings a placid fishing village out in such quantity," Talbinor asks, after a moment's lame pause, looking at the small scouting party. "I am recently arrived from afar and do not know of current events." His voice is staid, business-like, his expression firm, neutral, and nearly unblinking.

Lominakh's eyes widen slightly as the stranger draws nearer, but whether the surprise is caused by the man's filthy state or his exceptional height is not known. Though the surprise flees quickly as he takes in the stranger's eyes, and a brief flash of hatred appears in his own eyes.

Lifting his chin and drawing himself up to his full height, Lominakh does not answer the question, but asks one of his own. "What business brings strangers to /our/ village?" he asks, his own Westron betraying more than a hint of accent.

Our village? That draws a moment's startled look from Bakkus -- but it lasts only a moment, and a smile spreads across his features swiftly enough. Not a hostile smile, or a questioning smile, like Lominakh's.

No.

A welcoming smile, as he dips a hand into his robes and--

--and frowns as he brings up only crumbs. Alas. So much for welcoming cakes.

Talbinor takes his time replying, looking at the leader quite levelly, before his wandering gaze picks up a hand going into a robe. Talbinor's own left hand begins to lower until he sees the hand, crumbs and all, of the portly gentleman come back out, at which time he returns to a more peaceable position.

"I have come from..." he gestures with his thumb behind him, to the north, "far away," he answers their leader without answering the question in the least. "My friends and I have at times made journeys to the villages here, and I merely carry on that tradition. From which village do you hail?"

Lominakh's eyes watch the stranger's hand as it begins to lower, his own ready to sieze his scimitar if it becomes necessary. When the stranger's hand returns to its non-threatening position, he waves in an easterly direction. "Our village lies that way," he replies.

"Where are these friends now?" he asks the stranger. "And what makes you and them journey to lands so far from your own? Our villages have nothing of value."

"Very poor villages," Bakkus agrees almost mournfully, with a solemn nod as he crosses his hands over his protruding belly. The conflict nearly brought on by his search for cakes seems to pass beneath his notice -- or above it -- and the mournfulness may equally stem from a lack of refreshment.

"They are about," Talbinor answers with a rather solemn nod, before the first hint of a little smile creeps across his lips. "They do not have to keep me informed of all their doings, and they travel often." The smile vanishes as quickly as it came, blown away on the seabreeze to be replaced once again by his perfectly neutral expression.

"And I do not come to rob or to trade." He holds his arms out as he says this, revealing a distinct lack of baubles. "Mostly, we come to talk to old friends, to fish for a time and refill our stomachs, and then we move on."

With a smirk, Lominakh nods. "My 'friends' are about as well," he replies. "To talk, fish, and fill your stomachs," he repeats the stranger's words. "Perhaps bathing should be added to that list as well," he adds. He rubs at his chin and looks closely at the other. "And what name do you go by, friend of fisherman?" he asks.

"Ah, to fish and refill stomachs. Very good, very good!"

The rotund priest's Westron is accented, it's true, but differently from Lominakh's -- smoother, yes, but also sharper in a way. But his smile -- and he does smile again -- is bright and broad and seeming honest.

Honest enough when discussing food, anyway.

The tall stranger nods his head slightly at the leader's jab about his cleanliness. "I am afraid that long journeys through the swamps upriver have done little to aid my already poor sanitary condition," he says, very seriously, pointing north once again as though explaining where the swamps were. "When on the road, such luxuries must be sometimes eschewed."

Looking over to the suddenly verbal fat man at the end of the line, the tall stranger narrows his gaze very slightly, looking down to his waistline then back up to his face. "A full stomach, however, is one luxury I prefer to retain," he adds.

With a slightly raised brow Lominakh looks briefly towards the river the stranger crossed to reach them. "A strange road you must travel if it does not lie near rivers, streams, or lakes," he says. "Do you enjoy the filth or merely use it to conceal something, friend of fisherman?" he asks.

His question is forgotten though when the tall man addresses Bakkus. "Brother," he growls harshly, his accent becoming even more pronounced. "You will refer to him as Brother, when you address him."

Talbinor's commentary on the state of his stomach leads Bakkus to pat it contentedly and chuckle softly. "A preference we share then," he agrees cheerfully enough, accepting no censure for the size of his waistline.

And his cheer doesn't falter at Lominakh's growling as he pats the man's shoulder lightly. "Come, come. He is a stranger to us. The Lord will forgive him."

The Ranger looks over towards their leader rather suddenly at the rebuke. His mask of neutrality cracks for an instant and he frowns, but he soon manages to pull it away and he nods his head, very slightly. "I beg your pardon," he says, simply. "I'm not familiar with your village's tradition. Brother." He nods his head towards the portly one as well.

"And my filth conceals nothing but shabby clothing and more filth," the Ranger answers equally, as at ease in his dirtiness as the Brother in his appetite. "But save in the most extreme of circumstances or before some event, I find it more useful to travel and endure the grime of the road."

Lominakh seems only slightly calmed by the words of Bakkus, but when the stranger refers to him as Brother he gives a slight nod of approval. "Is it also useful to with hold your name?" he asks.

"I think you hide something, friend of fishermen. I can think of none, save for those on the run, who find filth convenient. What do you run from?"

"Ah!"

It is neither Lominakh's words nor the stranger's that draw this outburst from the priest, but his own eyes' roaming. They seem to have roamed toward a small patch of flowers some fifty yards distant, and his features brighten to see them.

"Beg pardon, beg pardon," he says brightly to both stranger and leader, "But I've found -- I think I've found yellow-flower."

And with that he toddles off in that direction.

With ease, the Ranger smiles at the leader, though he watches the chubby one run off for flowers until he's satisfied he isn't about to get an arrow in the back. "I hide some things, of course," he answers, quite non-chalantly. "As do you, and as do all men who walk in the wilds of Eriador. He who opens all his heart to strangers is a fool who shall have little life to reflect on their folly."

"As for my name, that was merely driven out of my mind by other talk." Talbinor bows his head slightly. "I am Restless, both by name and by reputation. I run from nothing save monotony."

This does not seem to satisfy Lominakh for he snorts softly. "You hide your face beneath filth and go by a name that is no name, and claim to be friend of those of this land?" He shakes his head slightly. "Friends have no need to hide from each other. Only those who harbor ill intent need hide."

Then as if to prove his words, the Lord of Seawerd again draws up to his full height. "I am Lominakh," he says, giving the name its proper Adunaic pronuciation. A pronunciation which rolls off his tongue with seeming ease. Watching the others eyes carefully after speaking it.

"If you say that it is no name, then you do not know my people," Talbinor answers at once, "and though I cannot fault you for that, I can express dismay at so rapid a dismissal." Dismay he may express, but the Ranger's expression changes not a whit, with not even his cheeks twitching, and his voice retains its same cautious demeanour.

The excellently-articulated introduction, however, does draw some surprise from Talbinor, and he lifts a bushy eyebrow very slightly, not even trying to hide it. "Your name, as well, is of a sort I am not used to. Shall we call it even in that regard, then?"

With a smirk Lominakh shrugs slightly. "So be it," he replies. "Though you should be about your business, I have grown tired of your smell and lies." He turns so that his scimitar can be seen even more clearly. "If you remain much longer, I will make it a point to find out the truths you hide."

Talbinor's eyebrow remains lifted, but after a passing glance at the scouting party with Lominakh, the lone Ranger nods slowly. "So be it," he says, simply, nodding and turning about, retracing his steps behind him and leaving the "fishermen" without another word or glance in their direction, his step easy, confident, and casual even as he gives up the field