It was a nice night in Bree; thousands of bright stars dominated the clear sky, and the Men and Hobbits of Bree-town were enjoying the warm, still night air, one of the last to come before Winter would blow through with its icy bite. The streets were quiet, the only sounds breaking the silence being the yawning of a bored Watch-man and the steady "clip-clop" of a horse's hooves on the stone walkway.
The animal, a nondescript palomino nag, came through the South Gate carrying an equally ordinary-looking Man, hunched over a bit and wearing the plain, slightly decorative robes and boots of a pilgrim. A brown hooded cloak shadowed his face from the light of the street lamps, hiding his facial features from the few Bree-landers still wandering the streets during the night. Upon closer inspection, one might notice the faint light reflecting off of the sword buckled on the traveler's hip.
The Watchman on duty was leaning on his spear, almost asleep, and didn't acknowledge the rider's approach. Only when the horse snorted loudly in his face did he wake up suddenly, exclaiming and falling on his rear with a "thunk!" Rubbing his eyes, the startled Man looked up at the hunched figure.
A surprisingly clear, strong voice came from the cloaked rider. "Guard. Where might I find a hotel or inn in this town?" He said briskly, his hooded head not seeming to move.
The Bree-lander muttered grumpily as he hoisted himself back up. "Um, we got the Prancin' Pony inn, but that's 'bout it. Jus' follow the road 'ere and you'll see it's sign soon enough." He gestured vaguely to the interior of the gate.
Without saying a word, the pilgrim urged on the nag and passed into the town of Bree, leaving the disgruntled Watchman yawning and blinking tiredly.
The few men and hobbits still roaming the streets of Bree paid little attention to the nondescript rider as he progressed north through the village. A few minutes later, Hob the stable-hand was tying up the nag as the Pilgrim walked up the steps to the wooden door of the Prancing Pony.
As he entered the warm, comfortable tavern, a few more features could be discerned by the warm glow of the nearby fire, although the hood still covered his head.
He was quite tall for a man, almost seven feet, a trait not noticeable when he was hunched over the horse. The bland, brown, humble robes didn't seem to fit the wearer, who stood straight and proud, although his physique was rather thin and gangly. Now in the light, a trained eye could tell that the sword at the traveller's side was a very fine piece; stainless steel, with what a scholar would recognize as a Westernese design. The man's eyes were not visible under the shadow of his hood, but the lines on his slightly stubbled face and shoulder-length silver-gray hair on the sides of his face told of a man of increased age.
The man moved out of the doorway and walked slowly over to the counter, shaking his head silently at Barliman's offer of a drink. Standing next to a brown-haired Bree-lander sitting at a stool and engrossed in his meal, he turned away from the counter, looking around the tavern at the patrons, most enjoying a drink and conversation among themselves; every now and then a burst of loud laughter would erupt from some of the less sober tables.
After a few minutes, still observing those entering and leaving the crowded tavern, the hooded pilgrim spoke to the Bree-lander eating his dinner on a stool next to him. "You, there," he said briskly, in the same strong voice as before.
The man looked up, a bit startled. "Oh, hullo...did ya need somethin'?"
"Indeed. I am...looking for someone, an old friend, shall we say, whom I heard moved into this region a long time ago."
The Bree-lander nodded slightly, taking another sip from his tankard as he waited for the stranger to elaborate.
"He should be rather tall. Gondorian, like me, if you could tell the difference, and fair haired," continued the pilgrim.
The local furrowed his brows, thinking. After a few moments, he shook his head reluctantly. "Sorry. 'Fraid I can't think o' anyone off the top of my head matching that description. But Bree's a big town; that don't mean who you're lookin' for ain't here somewhere," he added apologetically, then returned his attention to the beef stew.
The man's thin-lipped mouth deepened into a scowl as he turned back to face the door. A few more minutes passed. A few more people entered the tavern, the most noticeable being a dark-skinned Man wearing rather flamboyant and colorful robes. After noticing the counter was full of other customers for the time being, the newcomer sighed and took off the hood of his robes, causing jet-black, waist-length hair tied in a neat braid to spill out, and stood waiting.
A thought seemed to strike the Gondorian pilgrim. "Tell me, good sir," he said, turning his head back to the Bree-lander. "I wouldn't suppose that hired hands...mercenaries, I should say, frequent this village?"
The dark-skinned man turned in the direction of the traveler, his eyebrow raised at the mention of mercenaries.
Engrossed in his meal, it took the Bree-lander a bit to realize someone was speaking to him. "Huh? What's that? Oh. Well, a lotta mercenaries an' sellswords operate outta Bree. It's pretty normal these days."
The man smiled thinly. "Good to know." He seemed to realize he was being watched, and quickly turned his head towards the strange man, staring back at him from under his hood.
Seemingly not daunted, the strangely-dressed individual began looking him up and down, a thoughtful look on his face. When his gaze reached the finely-crafted sword, he stopped, furrowing his brows.
Soon after, however, an expression of amusement seemed to cross his face. He looked back up at the pilgrim's face, giving the hooded figure a knowing smile.
At about the same time, a spot opened up on the far end of the counter, and the dark-skinned man strode casually over; apparently he was a regular, for Barliman already had laid out a small goblet of red wine; the man paid the Innkeeper and took off his gloves before delicately picking up the drinking vessel, revealing a small silver signet ring on his right hand, which had a small engraving of a black flower; an orchid.
The pilgrim, who had been silently watching the movements of the strangely-clothed man under his hood, seemed to tense slightly at this, but quickly relaxed.
Only a minute or so later, the Gondorian moved over behind the man.
"Well!" he said casually, as if the two were common acquaintances. "I had no idea business had spread this far north!"
The brightly-garbed man turned from the counter swiftly, goblet in hand, with a small smirk on his face. "I have my reached in unexpected places," he said calmly in a rich, deep voice.
The pilgrim nodded, seeming to understand. "Of course, of course. Your line of work is increasingly in demand these days. In fact," he said, giving a small smirk of his own. "I believe I may have a bit of work for you."
The dark-skinned man tilted his head, smiling slightly. "Oh? You certainly have my attention, friend."
The hooded figure gestured to the front door leading out of the inn into Bree-town. "Shall we?"
"Indeed, we shall," the other man chuckled. He walked towards the door and stepped outside, not really waiting for the Gondorian, who followed directly after.
Once outside in the warm night air, the pilgrim took the lead, walking down the west road, where a few small pipeweed fields could be seen. The dark-skinned foreigner followed behind, occasionally taking a sip of wine from the goblet he had taken from the Pony.
Soon, the two were facing each other in the middle of a moonlit field, a ratty scarecrow a few feet away.
The hooded Gondorian spoke in a brisk, business-like manner. "My apologies," he stayed with a brief gesture to their surroundings. "I find it is much harder to eavesdrop on private conversations in an open field as opposed to a cramped inn."
The other man nodded. "That is perfectly logical." He took another sip of the wine. "Now, what did you need of me?"
The jingling of a coin-purse could briefly be heard, and a glint of gold could be seen in the Gondorian's gloved hand. "What do you know of this region, and it's inhabitants? I am attempting to locate someone."
The foreigner chuckled, an expression he seemed fond of. "I know quite a bit, actually. I've lived here for a good number of years, and I have a fairly large network of contacts built up by now."
The taller man nodded slightly. "Of course; I've always trusted in the efficiency of the Orchids. In fact, you would probably recognize his name, or at least receive information from your Gondorian chapter."
The flamboyantly-dresses man tilted his head quizzically, a small smirk still on his face.
"He went by the name of Bruidhor. An ex-captain of Gondor. One who frequently interfered in the business of your organization, I might add."
The smirk had disappeared. "Aye, the name certainly rings a bell."
The Gondorian licked his lips eagerly. "What do you know of him?"
The foreigner took another sip of his wine. "He was killed quite a few years ago. Ambushed by the brigands that infest this place nowadays. Mindless outlaws."
The pilgrim had his mouth pressed into a thoughtful line as he placed the gold coin in the foreigner's outstretched palm. "Dead?" He said to himself absentmindedly. "Well...that's a shame. I would have preferred to kill the son first..."
The other man didn't seem the least bit surprised about the Gondorian's words. "Ah, so you know about the son?" He asked as he slipped the coin into his robes. "If my memory serves me correctly, he goes by the name of Athrodmir. I guess he's about thirty or so now. Tall lad, like his father, but dark-haired. Actually became a captain of the guard in this town, and goes about flaunting in that ridiculous Gondorian armor. Has a propensity for sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, as well."
"Hmph. Sounds like his father," the other man grumbled venomously. He turned his head back to the foreigner.
"Thank you for the information. You are based here, correct?"
The other man chuckled, his humor seeming to return at the gain of the money. "I am indeed. I am Lord Umaraah, by the way, although I am more well-known in this town as Goldgel, or simply Gold."
"Good. Then we can stay in touch in the event that I have further need of the Black Orchids' services," the hooded figure responded briefly. He smiled thinly. "I will, of course, welcome any information you can gather about the son's - this Athrodmir's - whereabouts and any other important data. I believe you have recognized me somehow, so as I'm sure you know, coin is no object."
Goldgel chuckled yet again. "I will help in any way I can. And I did indeed recognize you, or more accurately, your sword; it's a pleasure to see you're still in business, Lord Huruthuil."
The Haradrim lord sauntered back to the Pony, sipping his wine and humming contentedly.
Huruthuil stayed where he was, standing quietly as he gathered his thoughts. A soft fluttering sound turned his attention the nearby scarecrow.
On its shoulder perched a small carrion-bird, black as midnight. Too big for a crow, but to small for a raven, it stared at the cloaked man with beady, intelligent eyes.
The Gondorian stared at the bird for a minute or so. He felt a strange sense of foreboding, and shivered slightly. The movement caused the bird to take flight, cawing as it soared over the hedge walls and into the night.
Huruthuil watched it until it disappeared, then began the short walk back towards the Prancing Pony.
