[27.3.2009]
Notice attached to a mast in Tármunn Súrsa:
"Brave adventurers!
A fellowship is forming for a violent excursion
to distract the plans of the enemy.
We shall attack Barad Dúrgul, where the Enemy
holds Instruments of Destruction.
Contact Captain Lindeman in this camp to join
and gather by the bridge right before
the stars align themselves."
The nomad healer read the notice and chuckled. "Instruments of destruction?"
Lindeman replied with a serious tone. "What we are looking for is a ring of power,
but such a minuscule goal would hardly motivate anyone who has understanding of
what matters in these wars and what not. Therefore, I have used a broader expression
that covers any of the more impressive weapons we may find in Barad Dúrgul."
He went on to lecture: "How one words his invitations and speeches makes a difference.
A good captain can inspire other people to greater deeds.
As an example, I have in recent times been in contact with a group that goes by the name of The Glade Council.
I do not mean to boast, but I think that my presence and visit to their kin hall
has added to the cohesion and power of the group.
No doubt my words have inspired people such as Eovind or Humphert to
be more enthusiastic members of the Council, and therefore earn more glory for their kin.
Lindeman raised a finger to emphasise his point.
"Therefore, my friend, if you follow my actions carefully, you may learn something."
[...]
The clamour of the battle dies out as suddenly as the last of the mighty Gorthorog crash to ground. A silent roar is on its grim face as it falls; an expression unmatched by the thunder of its body as it crashes to the ground crushing one of its slayers beneath it.
In a last effort of determination those of Tármunn Súrsa's defenders still standing after the onslaught of the three Gorthorogs manage to find the strenght to push the heavy gate close -in spite of those fallen now littering the ground- and to put the unwieldy bar back in place.
Out of the dust kicked up by the battle a sole figure totters toward the camp of the Hillmen, finding his way through the fallen in his path, one of them horribly mangled by the sheer brute strenght of a Gorthorog's pummeling.
Wearily he leans against a mast for a while before letting himself slump down along it. He sits there for a while and it's difficult to know whether he is looking at the carnage at the gate or whether he is simply staring beyond it - empty eyes into the void.
After a while he lifts his hand and anxiously touch the back of his head, trying to judge the severity of the still bleeding gash there - a furrow left by the plowing of an Gorthorogs axe through their ranks. Even if now shattered on the ground it was not his helmet that saved him, but the auspicious timing of the Gorthorogs swipe loosing moment as another of the defenders struck home on it's exposed heel.
Either by newfound courage or the onset of numbness from the whole ordeal, he nudges the wound more forcefully to test it and then a bit of blood gush from a swelling under the scalp. He jolts from the pain making him bash his bruised head against the mast behind him and a cry of pain escape him.
Slowly he leans back to rest against the mast again. This is the time he realises the mast has a strange texture to it... This is no wooden surface! Something sticks to his bloodsoaked hair. Once more he reaches for the back of the head and soon he finds himself with a stained notice in his hand...
[...]
Finished reading the note, Belgrandir smiled - Lindemans style was unimitiable. Filling his well-used pipe he frowned in thoughts to himself - his orders, as usuall were to provide assistance to the Lindeman and Jeric if posible, but his primary task was to seek out the information about the way messages were sent from Carn Dum fortress to Fornost... but he had not mde much of a headaway so far so might as well see if anything new is to be gained in Barad Durgyl. having made up his mind he smiled, puffing on his pipe, remembering fondly many adventures he had shared with the adventurous captain and his companions...
[...]
Eovind stood on a small rock, wrapped up in his cloak, quietly embracing the soft wind that roamed the night. He gazed towards the slowly rising sun and whispered to himself: - "Ar'air ber langoþ, Ridenna-mearc..."
He closed his eyes. A sensation of returning memories swept over him; a distant shape of endless seas of grass, horses with thundering hooves riding by, spears and shields shining in the sun, green banners with a golden horse dancing in the wind.
He opened his eyes. A dark, dusty landscape with cliffs sharp as knives struck him like a hammer. He wasnt in Rohan. He was in Angmar. The last place in Middle-earth where he would want to be. Eovind closed his eyes again.
- "...I dont belong here. This is not my place."
[29.3.2009]
A storm was gathering in the East, the clawing wind swept through the camp bringing an air of ill tidings. She gathered the heavy traveling cloak about her shoulders and peered out of the tent. Several tall figures moved tirelessly in the gathering light.
She turned the parchment over in her hand and wondered what had led the ranger to make such a long journey south. The writing was hurried and in an unfamiliar script. One thing was unmistakable though, it bore the mark, the seal of an Order in which she was only too familiar...
With a feeling of trepidation she picked up a worn leather bag and carefully wrapping a lute in several layers of cloth, tucked it into the bag. The last of the oat biscuits she tucked inside her pocket. They would set off at dawn.
[30.3.2009]
A month later in Rivendell, Lindeman lay in his bed and thought of the adventure that had just been brought to conclusion. It was the hobbit burglar's death-defying feat of throwing himself at the feet of the final enemy that had saved the day. How could one prepare or plan for that? The hobbits were useful, but unpredictable.
