Those present:
Tirloth
Candamon
Arainafin (joins later)
Winter, mid to late afternoon.
Eastern Shore of the Bruinen
You are standing on the shore of a mighty river, the Bruinen. The river runs almost north-south here. A few large trees line its shores, but for the most part nothing blocks the sunlight which glitters off the wavelets. The water is shallow here, and runs very fast. You can see the water churning around the rocks that line the river bottom. The sloping riverbanks are muddy and slick, but not too steep, and can be traversed with care.
The road continues to the east and to the west across the river. The grassland to the north is also passable.
The Bruinen is icy in the winter, warmed not even by the stern stare of the afternoon sun.
There are footprints on the muddy shore: light, fresh, watery, they give no indication of their creators. One set leads to a lonely figure on the bank, squelching its way about.
Through the brown winter grasses and down to the river's bank Candamon moves almost as if gliding, walking with little extra movement. His eyes sweep the crumbled road rising to the east, flick down along the few trees lining the bank, and then come to rest on the prints. He pauses, then begins to follow another set that parallels the bank.
The first one studiously ponders a stone in the river, staring blankly. Then she turns away, murmuring, "Need to cover our prints better."
Candamon's eyes flick up to her and his grin flashes, sharp. "Easy, here...." He murmurs as well and gestures with his left hand to the wet grass where he stands. "There--" his hand comes up, indicates the muddy bank, drops "--not so much." His head cocks toward his left shoulder, and after a moment he steps out toward the shore.
*Squinch.*
He pauses, then rotates his foot to spread the track before taking another step, studying the tops of his boots as he moves.
"Put down the second foot ere you lift the first," offers Tirloth, smearing away her own marks as she steps back onto drier ground. "Of course, it is wiser to avoid the mud completely."
"Surely so." Candamon's left boot sinks in the mud about an inch. He turns it, then lifts his right. The tracks left are no longer very footprint-like, but they're hardly less visible. "Sometimes, though, it can't be avoided...." His murmur fades away as he looks up. A large cottonwood overhangs the bank here, but the nearest branch, likely as thick around as the thickest part of an edhel's leg, is about 12 feet up.
"What do you do now?" asks Tirloth, stepping over. Mud clings greedily to the soles of her boots. "You might return to smear it after you have taken the next step. What else?"
Candamon purses his lips, leaving his eyes to toss the grin the Tirloth. "Well..." he almost drawls "... the faster the step the lighter the mark, though running along the river's edge might carry its own risks. But, what makes a step--" he bends his knees, swinging his weight downward "--a step?"
That weight, swung, releases and he springs up to catch the branch overhead.
Tirloth stoops next to the vacated print, already soggy with river-water. "A step. Your foot touches the ground; the earth reacts to it. Were Elves to fly, we might not need to undergo this exercise."
"What would you do with no trees above you?"
Hand crosses over hand swiftly as Candamon moves along the branch. "Pattern, Hirvaethor, makes a track...." There is a quiet snap followed by a wet *squick* as he drops back down to the mud, now holding a twigged branch in his hand. "The tree make it easier, but still I would use what I could to break that pattern..." He takes a long stride to a tussock of grass to the right, nearer the bank's edge, and then reaches back with the branch to smear the footprints. He looks at Tirloth and quietly says, "Marring the tracks, yes? What else may I do?" His look is open - he clearly asks for advice.
Tirloth ponders, chin tilted absently towards the river as she stares at the ground. "Have you ever read of the Lossoth? In the case of deep snow, they, being mortal Men, may tie frames to their feet to stop sinking. If time is willing, you could camouflage your feet."
Candamon's head cocks toward his shoulder again as he draws the branch back and considers it. Mud, sticky, grayish brown, drops in small clumps from the twigs at its end to plop to the wet earth. "Hmmm. I had not made the connection.... but, snow compacts. Mud--" He lays the branch flat on the wet ground, then moves to stand on it... it half-sinks. "Squishes." He grins and steps back onto the tussock, looking like he is enjoying the challenge.
"You might stand there and wait for the mud to dry, ere you step on it," offers Tirloth dryly. "What might you suggest?"
Arainafin approaches, all eyes, walking carefully. Notes two elves, standing in the mud. She glances over her shoulder up at the high moors then back to the mudwalkers. Lost or crazy Quendi, decisions, decisions.
Several sets to tracks move at least part-way through the muddy river bank - some discontinuous, many spread out so that it is not clear that they were made by booted feet. Candamon, standing on a small tussock of grass in the middle of one of the worst spots, has obviously made some, though, for his boots are muddy to the ankles.
"That sounds a poor solution, Hirvaethor," he says. Then, he shakes his head. "There are not many choices. Best would be to avoid the way, or to move through it quickly to dry ground where movement without track or trace is easier...." He tilts his head up, squinting across the slanting afternoon sun, falling silent as he watches Arainafin approach and then lifting is hand to call, "Mae govannen," to the approaching figure.
Arainafin gives a wave and smiles cheerfully. It takes her but a moment to understand what is going on. Without approaching any closer, she promptly sits on the ground, props chin on palms, and watches avidly.
"Indeed," replies Tirloth, pulling free of the thick mud-puddles. "Or, perhaps, we might grow wings and fly over it all. It is an unpleasant thing to travel in rain."
The hirvaethor glances over at Arainafin, but gives neither comment nor greeting.
Candamon looks at Tirloth. One eyebrow cocks. "Forgive me, Hirvaethor," he says quietly. "I had thought the exercise was to find ways to foil being tracked, not ways to avoid the wet. That, surely, cannot be done. Or have I found the wrong way around it again?"
Arainafin points a finger at a track. "Ever notice that men walk on their heels and women on their toes, just a bit?"
"If we were traveling in a storm, the rain would likely wash all traces of our passing away," says Tirloth with a shrug. She nods to Arainafin. "Aye, they do that. Which leaves the lesser track, do you think? Or is it better to walk with a foot held flat?"
Arainafin cocks her head curiously, raptly paying attention. Eyes wide and bright, they go back and forth between tracks and instructor.
Candamon studies the ground to the southeast. His right hand lifts slightly, forefinger extended, and moves as if tracing from one point, to another, to a third.... then he drops his hand and steps quickly off the tussock in a wide stride.
His right foot finds purchase on a rock. Hands out to this side for balance, he brings his left forward in another reaching step. His left heel finds secure purchase on another tussock, then his right foot swings forward again, balanced in movement. He finds purchase just short of the drier ground, his right heel digging in to the mud as he steps forward onto the dry ground. The heelmark quickly fills with water.
"Good. You find rocks as stepping stones, but when you cannot find any, avoid the heel." Tirloth points to the last mark. "It is heaviest."
Arainafin is not about to ask why one would walk in the mud in the first place. Given a good enough reason, such as an interesting plant or animal, she wouldn't hesitate to flop on her belly in the stuff.
Candamon, nodding to Tirloth, turns and crouches down. He reaches and drops the branch to cover the heel mark. "Aye, Hirvaethor," he murmurs, then turns his head to look at Arainafin. "So," he calls over, smiling, just loud enough to be heard, "should I have gone to my toe rather than my heel so as to hide whether it be benn or binn who passed this way?"
Tirloth turns and inspects her own prints, noting the depth of the heel in comparison to the toe.
Arainafin shakes her head and shrugs. She is in learning mode, which seems to preclude her having much to contribute.
Candamon looks at this boots and frowns. "Benn or binn, a half-sleeping olog could follow tracks these would leave...." That's almost a grumble, one that fades as he bends down and, picking up a wet stick that lies in the grass beside him, begins to quickly but carefully clean the mud from his boots.
"Nay," says Tirloth with a smile, passing him by, "he would be dreaming too deeply about sheep to consider the ground. I do not think we have seen any since the one turned to stone?"
Candamon gives his head a single, hard shake. "None." That word drops flat - he is, notably, not smiling. "And the bridge is gone, so those filthy beasts should no longer have any easy way to approach." He skims the mud from stick with a flick of his right hand and tosses it out nearly to the water's edge, then resumes cleaning.
Arainafin frowns as a thought occurs to her. "Don't the yrch use trackers that go by sense of smell?"
"We use guarded paths, and travel through rain and water," says Tirloth slowly, as if unsure. "Yet if they do find us, we must be facing them already."
Arainafin moves and does something very strange. She walks forwards for about 20 steps in the soft ground near the mud, then gets on all fours and moves for another ten feet or so before pacing as she was. Another few feet then she steps to the side and walks back to where she started. She walks alongside her tracks and points. "Like that. I've seen tracks like that. Doesn't that seem like they were a sniffing?"
"Yrch." Candamon clamps down on the final affricative so hard that it almost hisses. He scrapes at his boot, then says, "I think they might use nose for sight...." He lifts his head and watches Arainafin. At her question, he turns and tosses the stick - it lands and is snatched away by the river current as he walks over to consider these new tracks.
"We cannot hide our scent," comments Tirloth, climbing up to drier ground. "I will gather the others at the outpost. We will head home soon."
And without more explanation, she slips between the trees.
Arainafin examines the tracks she made then frowns as she gives thought. After a moment she points at the high pass and eastwards. "Just about everywhere they go. Always seem to have some going on all fours. A lot like a pack of wild dogs."
"Dogs are as should be. Yrch...." Candamon lets that fade. The rest of the patrol is moving as well in the dusk, heading back north across the moors. "Let them be far away. Shall we return?" he says as he starts to follow the others.
With a bouncing step, Arainafin nods and sets herself in motion. She mentions thoughtfully, "All animals have their strengths and weaknesses. The yrch would be no different. Intelligent or not, they would have habits and tendencies to do things certain ways. Their tracks, studied long enough, would belie these traits, I would think."
Candamon is trying not to frown as he says, "Well, we have had ages to study them, and from what I know you are right. Though--" his frown deepens "--changes do come. Not many yeni ago, we would not have thought to see them about in daylight." His stride lengthens as he follows the patrol northward across the moors, their cloaks fading into the dusk.
Arainafin nods. "It seems the more intelligent the creature, the greater it's ability to adapt. Thus the intelligence of the yrch may be analyzed. One should not prejudice ones thinking by the dislike of the animal. They adapt, then there must be a reason. We already know why creatures such as them shunned the sunlight as they were born in the darkness of Morgoth. It seems a darkness not simply worldly, but of the hroa as well."
Winter grass whispers around their legs as they walk. Candamon's eyes flick to Arainafin, then back to the trail. "Name that one not," he breathes, and then after another step, "Dark of spirit and body both... and that dark now creeps out under the light of Anar." He shakes his head as he walks.
Arainafin raises an eyebrow at the words. She raises her eyes from the trail to scan about her then sighs. "The eternal failing of the quendi. As any species, I suppose. We wish to see and hear only what we want. That leaves one ill prepared for eventualities. While malice is not a natural trait among most animals, it exists in those we have dealings with. By simply ignoring it, wishing it would go away, not speaking of it, denial, causes one to be blinded. The fact remains, Melkor too was an author of the great song and living in this world requires we understand what he wove within the fabric of this Middle Earth."
She shoots Candamon a sidelong glance and little smile.
Candamon... hisses. There is no better word for the sound that escapes through his teeth as he stops dead in his tracks. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth as he breathes in, visibly willing himself calm.
His eyes open then, and he looks at Arainafin and says, "Forgive me, mellon, I know you do not mean ill. But please understand that just because others... restrain their speech does not mean that they ignore trouble or fail to consider what may come. Only that they hold on to the *tradition* and *manner*--" those words get a little push, though his gray eyes stay level and calm "--by which life is ordered. Is not a regular progression toward a resolved cadence part of our singing as well?" he asks, smiling at her at last, as he sets foot to the path again.
Arainafin walks along, considering the words. Far too long has she spent in the forests and conversation isn't her strong point. She displays a very scientific methodology in her thinking it seems and is this somewhat confused as her furrowing brow betrays. She softly speaks, "Tradition...", apparently rolling the word about in her mind. She tries again, a little louder, "Tradition. That which is retained in memory and causes a thinking creature to act or respond to the past in a certain manner. Take note, yrch walking about in broad daylight fails to follow tradition. It also gives them certain advantages. Thus, the quendi could learn from them perhaps?"
She tries another smile on Candamon as she delves for information in her own rather dispassionate manner for information.
"We have nothing to learn *from* them." Candamon seems ice-cold sure of that, though his step does to falter. "We do--" he glances over, and his smile warms his tone "--have always to learn *of* them, as we seek to learn of all enemies." His smile strikes a little higher as walks, skirting around a clump of brush. The moors roll under cloud-dampened starlight, the last quarter of the moon not yet arisen.
"Defending ourselves and our land is also tradition, is it not? For as long as we remain."
Arainafin frowns, shaking her head. She stoops to pick up something she spotted on the ground and examines it as she walks. Her pace slows as she is now doing several things at once. At last she thoughtfully asks, "Have you ever heard of the words, or the general thought, of 'know your enemy'?"
Candamon watches the ground as he walks. "I have," he says, offering nothing else.
Arainafin goes on, "If one knew the heart and mind of the enemy, one would also know it's fears and weaknesses. It is a fault to prejudice oneself because of personal preference." She points to a distant deer making it's way through the thick brush, skirting the two legged animals warily. "Pursue it and you will waste your time for this is it's world it knows intimately. Know it, know that is goes down to the river for a drink this eve, know that it lies in it's bed of bracken during the day. Know it uses it's hearing but not it's sight as it hides, and you could come upon it, with due care, and observe it much closer than it would like."
Candamon stops again and just stares at Arainafin for a moment. Then he asks, quietly, "That is exactly what I meant when I said that we know *of* our enemies. What did you think I meant otherwise? And--" his smile does not reach his eyes this time, and his brow between them is drawn tight "--forgive my direct speech, mellon, but to call my disgust at the foul, *blasphemous* corruption of the yrch a 'personal preference' is...." He lets that fade, then just shakes his head as, still smiling, he resumes the path northward.
Arainafin seems to be getting really confused. "Corruption is but a part of life. The fruit falls from the tree... " She stumbles a moment, dodges around a bush, "..and it rots. It is fouled and corrupted. The rot destroys it, and causes new life to come about. Corruption isn't bad unto itself, but only when it overwhelms a part of the life cycles as a whole. But then, the natural balances comes forth and the regenerated life is all the stronger, yes?"
"How can you compare--" Candamon whirls about with those words, and though he does not shout his face and voice both reveal anger sharp and strong. He stops, though, staring at Arainafin with his mouth open for the space of a long breath.
Then he closes his mouth, straightens, and bows, formally. "Need you a guide across the moors back to Imladris, Istiell?" he asks.
Arainafin comes to a halt, now completely puzzled and confused. She slowly shakes her head. Apparently something has confronted her of which she knows almost nothing. The irrational behavior of the 'thinking' creature. She looks about her at the world she knows so well, the world so predictable to her, for a respite. Her solution is simplicity itself: she sits down on the ground. Nothing that is natural and normal needs be hurried. Simply watching and waiting, all things will pass and change. "Thank you, but no. I'll find my way eventually."
"Then I must rejoin my patrol." Candamon bows again and then - "Namarie" - turns his back to Arainafin and sets off at a jog, heading northward, his figure quickly disappearing over the rolling land and into the night.
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