The Ranger Baradír pulled out a stack of maps from a dusty shelf and smoothed them out on the table before him. “This is one of our best, drawn only a decade ago. It completely renders all the lands and roads of Rhovanion, in proper scale, and includes both major and minor settlements, all clearly labeled." Parnard gave it a cursory glance, munching on a cheese wheel stuck on the end of his eating-knife.
“I do not think so – what about that one?” he said, his mouth full, pointing at another parchment thick with elaborate drawings. The penurious cartographer, Waldus Fribble, created this map with unusual (some might say obsessive) care, and had obviously labored on it for many years. Every minute detail was included, and what the maker lacked in charting expertise, he made up for in gross approximation and ostentatiousness.
“Look at all the trees! – and the tiny birds in them! - and all the richly colored inks – why, the mapmaker must have spent a fortune on pigments! What a marvel of fine craftsmanship!” exclaimed Parnard in delight. “This is the map I want.”
“That one?” the Ranger cried, eyebrows raised. “It is very old, and outdated –“
“Perhaps to your eyes it is inaccurate, but these old maps hold knowledge of places that one can only estimate in dreams!“
“Indeed, that is true enough, for some of these places do not exist, and some of the geography is wrong. This chain of mountains, for instance,” said the Ranger, pointing out a series of jagged marks, “was found not to be nearly as long as it was rendered, and there is no inland sea there, but a desert wasteland –“
“Thank you, it will do very nicely,” Parnard said, and smiling fatuously at the Ranger, rolled the map up and stuffed it in his sack.
What a strange Elf! thought the Ranger. He wondered if Parnard was an idiot, or mentally unbalanced. Well, whatever he was, this underfed oddity would be gone soon enough from their camp. Good thing, too, before he ate up all of their provisions! Guilt pricked at his heart for thinking this unkind thought. Baradír chided himself.
“Will you be – quite alright? Careful, I mean, when the roads are so bad,” he added, lamely.
“I know there is danger,” said Parnard with a beaming smile, for the unexpected meal of beer and cheese had made him kindly disposed to the Ranger. “You are good to remind me of it, but I am afraid that being careful is not a surety for keeping safe. I have heard a great many stories about folk who had their heads torn off by lions, and they were just as careful as they could have been, not to stick their heads into their jaws: yet they were torn off anyway. I might as well stick my head into the lion's maw, even if a head is not a thing so easily parted with.” He burst into a peal of laughter. “But,” he said, winking at the Ranger, “if I am especially careful about it, I need not fear any injury. I will give the mean old lion no reason to bite.”
Baradír was surprised by his light-heartedness. A few days before, this elf had arrived to Harndirion, seeking his people, and kept his head down, not speaking a word to any of the Rangers. “Why are your people going south? Are you heading to Gondor?”
Parnard took a huge bite of cheese and shrugged, only having the vaguest idea where Gondor lay. He heard it was a fortified city of Men with seven thick white walls. That was the extent of his knowledge of this noble city, the largest in Middle-Earth, and he could not be troubled to learn more about it, or its rulers and people, not when the Hall of Fire was merry with lively talk and wine - this article, in particular, made it very difficult for Parnard to study details of lore, and language, and foreign parts which were so far away and remote, so unfamiliar, and so very unelvish. Who would want to live in a place made of stone? Dwarves, that’s who, and Dwarves were strange folk! Gondor sounded like a gigantic prison to him, with its many walls - they should stay far away from that place, if they had any sense. He would mention it to Lord Veryacano.
“I bid you, do not take the route through the Gap of Rohan, for the news coming from that region is dire, and the lands are not secure. It is madness to go there,” Baradír warned.
We must be mad then, all of us, thought the wood-elf. But he could tarry no longer, for his kindred were moving as swift as they could through the southlands, and Lord Veryacano said he would not wait for him. So he bid his farewells, and told the Rangers, "O people, keep your wits sharp, take care of your wants, and prepare yourselves for the storm.” Then he thanked them for their hospitality, and sped down the hill, back to the old broken road. Debris and large cracks in the pavers did not slow his progress, and he leapt over these with light bounds, his long black hair flowing freely in the wind.
