www.thintaur.org

Naic stepped into the moonlight and glanced around the forest. Looking around he saw no sign of any living thing except for the sounds of small creatures moving through the leaf covered floor of Mirkwood. The night had been long and eventful and it was clearly only just beginning. It seemed like only seconds ago that a rider had come to him and given him the message he was requested to bring before the Rangers of Thintaur! Being a Terendir of Thintaur meant Naic had many quests that sent him out along the borders of the forest to keep the location of Thintaur secret and safe. It was an honor he regarded with the utmost importance. Which is why the rider came to him. The message still rattled in his head like the sound of war drums booming in the distance. It gave a sense of urgency but not immediate, yet. The message was simple, council to be held in Rivendell in four days! The daughter of Elrond was missing after she traveled to Evendim for reasons unknown. Aragorn had requested the longest standing band of Rangers he had known other than his fellow Dunadain, the Rangers of Thintaur. Naic stepped forward into the best place for merry making in all of Mirkwood, the Drunken Hobbit. He didn't know who would be there but all of the Rangers were required and they had to leave at once. He quickly came inside to the warm light of the tavern...

As Naic made his way to the fireside, he saw a strangely shaped rug lying before the fire. A half-drunk tankard of ale was set at one end of the rug beside some dark looking bread, partly eaten.

Naic, being particularly alert as he entered his favourite drinking ground, realised that this was no ordinary rug. In fact, it was no rug at all. He poked at it with a toe. "Get up!" he called, "orc attack!"

The shape stirred briefly. "No bloody orcs for miles around," he grunted. "We chased them away yesterday. And where the hell have you been? Took yer bloody time, didn't ye?" A hand reached out from the mound and scratched thoughtfully at the tousled reddish-brown hair that now splayed over the floor and gradually blended with a long, plaited beard of similar hue. Twinkling green eyes belied the gruff voice and grumpy words as the shape resolved itself into a shape too tall for a dwarf yet too short for human or elf. The cloak he had wrapped himself in opened to display business-like armour and a particularly sharp looking pair of axes. Dwaelf stretched and grasped his tankard, finishing the rest and pushing himself to his feet with a sigh.

"Right," he said. "You're here, I'm here. Where are the other lazy beggars?"

Naic chuckled to himself watching Dwaelf get up as he watched the smoke rise off his cloak from being next to the fire for far too long.

"Good to see you again, old friend," Naic said with a smile. "As you know I had some things to take care of in Gondor. It took longer than I could have possibly imagined."

He glanced around the tavern at a few forms still keeping silent.

"Let us see if we can't rally a few more beggars, shall we," Naic laughed.

As Naic looked around the room he heard no word from the other souls within the tavern. His heart knew each man and woman had their reasons for not speaking. Troubles in Mirkwood always shadowed many minds in these times. At last when no voices were heard he turned to Dwaelf.

"My friend, it appears we are on our own for now," he sighed. "But, if any wish to catch up with us they will be well met."

He spoke this last thing loudly and clearly for the whole room to hear.

"Ready, my old friend?" Naic said with a nudge to Dwaelf's ribs.

"Ready?" said Dwaelf, "you cheeky young whippersnapper! I've been ready for months. I've been waiting here for you, remember?"
He reached his left hand towards his belt automatically then shook his head. "Damn it," he grunted, "forgot where I was for a minute there." Walking to the corner of the inn's 'snug' and retrieved a monstrous axe. Tucking it nonchalently into his belt, he reached down for a pack that leant against the wall. Strapping a quiver of arrows to the side of this, he hoisted the whole onto his back and reached down once more for a short bow which he poked into a sheath at his left side. Finally, he retrieved the fellow of the axe and spun the handle in his hand.

"Right," he called to Naic, who had watched the proceedings with familiarity. "Now I'm ready................ again. Let's get this show on the road. You point me at it, I'll kill it."

"We need to make haste!" Naic said as he reached for the door. "Elrond and Aragorn have been expecting us but have agreed to wait for three days."

As he stepped back out into the night air he started to clap his hands together in a rhythm. Shortly thereafter a horse galloped to his side and brought it's head low for Naic to pull himself up. Naic jumped up on the saddle with an ease that came as naturally as walking.

"Alright, Baleti, let us see how fast you can get us to Rivendell," he whispered. Naic looked down at Dwaelf. "Do you have a steed? If not Baleti can bear us both for a long while."

Dwaelf harrumphed at the presumption of Naic. Fancy intimating that he had no transportation. Pursing his lips, he whistled piercingly, causing his comrade to wince. Within mere minutes, a shaggy maned, long tailed mount poked its head around the corner of the Drunken Hobbit, whisps of hay dangling from his mouth as he munched contentedly. Pieces of straw decorated his poll with gay abandon, and there were several branched twigs caught in his tail, which he idly flicked over his quarters. The animal's coat was predominantly black, with a long blaze in the shape of a question mark on his face. One coronet on a hind hoof also bore a small white mark, triangular in shape.

"C'm'ere you dozy bugger!" called Dwaelf by way of greeting. Far from being offended by this, the horse (for beneath the straw, it certainly was a horse, albeit rather diminutive) walked briskly up to him and gently attempted to knock him over by rubbing his head against his chest. Dwaelf was obviously used to this sort of greeting. He reached his hand up to grab a substantial portion of mane, poked a foot in the stirrup and even before he had taken his seat was moving forward at a brisk walk, interspersed with the odd bounce as his steed attempted to break into a faster pace.

"Meet Spot," he called back at Naic. "Not as fancy as your nag to look at, but nothing's ever caught him yet. Apart from me, that is." He stopped restraining his mount, which by this time was dancing with frustration, and they surged forward. "Don't worry," added Dwaelf, "we'll keep the pace slow enough for you to keep up, mate," but the pace they set was anything but slow, even though the horse kept to a canter.

Being the youngster of Thintaur, Gáriand was used to doing most of the shitty jobs as keep the stable clean at most times. It had been long since there had been much action, the orcs lurking in Mirkwood were only shadows of what the Rangers had fought before and last weeks slaying had been nothing more than a trivial hunt. No more challenge than hunting boars. Gáriand was skipping his duties in the stable and sat sharpening his sword as Spot, Dwaelfs horse, suddenly charged out of the stable.

What is the old bugger up to now? He doesn't ride if there's nothing up! he thought, and sheathed his sword. Gáriand was always hungry for action, something which isn't really surprise seeing his age of 20 human years, and had a travel-satchel hidden in the stable at any time with herbs, food and other necessities for light travelling. He fetched his satchel and went over to his horse, a brown youngster he called Swiftwind, and mounted him. Let's follow the old man in stealth and see what he's up to! his thought were as he went after Spot.

The ride was swift but cautious due to the low branches that the forest threw at the riders. Naic and Baleti moved and weaved through them as one, as if this were a dance to them after all this time. Naic thought back to what he was doing before he arrived back in Mirkwood. The words seemed to echo in his head...

"My son, at this time you must make a choice, my legacy is not more important to me than your happiness but if you deem to take me up on the offer," the old man coughed as Naic reached down and wiped the sweat from his brow. "If, you take me up on my offer, the post of Knight will be waiting for you."

Naic stared forward dwelling on this memory. He had slowed his steed down to a mere trot.

"Dwaelf, I feel I must tell you what the journey to Minas Tirith brought me," Naic spoke slowly.

Why do these rides always have to go through the thickest part of the forest!? Gáriand thought as he was struggling to keep up the two way more experienced riders in front of him without making too much noise for them to notice him. But Dwaelf never had any real spotting skills, and Naic... How about that, Naic back in camp! And then going off again like that, so quickly. Something had to be wrong! ...Naic who had always been a hard guy to stalk seemed lost in his thoughts.

Suddenly, and without much warning the couple in front of Gáriand stopped. But Swiftwind didn't feel like doing the same thing...

"Dwaelf, I feel I must tell you what the journey to Minas Tirith brought me," Naic spoke slowly as Gáriand came bursting out into the very small clearing and went straight between his fellow rangers and stopped as the clearing ended, turned around and grinned. "What I interrupting?"