LOCATION:

Faint track(#7611Ven)

Secluded Cove.

To the north, the city of Umbar can be seen in the distance. Walls and buildings are shrunken to mere dots; at night occasional pinprick flashes of light to the northwest mark the lighthouse at Land's End, though its beam does not reach in this direction. To the south the chain of broken hills continues, diminishing in height. And to the west lies the vast emptiness of the Great Ocean, its ceaseless motion drawing the eye thither. The cliff curves away to north and south, reaching out long arms to enclose a sheltered bay, where a ship could lie at anchor, perhaps. The weathered grey cliff-face provides a path for the agile, down to a narrow strip of pebbled beach.

Contents:

* Marazon

[Barzag:] Darkness. Not merely the absence of the Sun's warming rays, but the inky blackness of a moonless night; heavy cloud obscures the stars and brings with it an intermittent drizzle. It is cold, too, reminding you that November is already more than half-done - a chill wind blows in from the sea, searching with icy fingers for gaps in outer garments, any means by which to steal warmth from the living. One thing alone breaks the darkness; away to the north a burst of light flares every so often, and then is gone - the Lands End lighthouse. From the cliff-top its raw bursts of flame draws the eye, yet in the cove below, a bay sheltered to both north and south by curving arms, its light cannot reach.

A small group of men stand at the foot of the cliff-face, others at the top, huddled in silence. The lantern that guided them here has long since been doused, and darkness envelops them. Yet those waiting stare out to sea, as if hoping to hear something over the moan of the wind and the slow susurrus of the sea.

[Marazon:] A small swell is rising under the cold kiss of the wind, yet light as to remember men who rules on the sea. And the tides comes, dying endlessly on the strand, the men at the foot of the cliff can see something approaching from the sea, a small longboat, like some ship carry to help i case of wreckage. The sails are dull and grey, nearly dark and it is propelled silently by many oars. "Pull" the voice of a sailor is heard and like the wings of some bird of an older world the rows are stilled out of water and the boats comes with the tide on the sand.

[Barzag:] From the men gathered on the beach there is a nervous muttering, and a voice hisses, "Wait." One man, presumably the leader, steps forward, and there is the sound of striking flint as he lights a small lantern, thrusting it towards the longboat. In its flickering light, boatmen and landsmen alike are revealed.

Of the half-dozen or so on shore, none is particularly prepossessing. Most have a rough, hard-edged look; a couple have the swarthy skin-tone marking them as Rhevain. Barzag stands at the edge of the group, arms wrapped tightly around him to keep out the chill, staring sullenly at the boat drawn up on the strand.

"State your business," the man with the lantern calls to the boatmen in a clipped tone, stance oddly tense.

[Marazon:] A dunedain, surely by his height and voice jumps off the boat, the one who barked the order before. It's Marazon, in many aspects save the voice and perhaps less wrinkles on his face and less salt at his temple... A younger one. Half mockingly he stnads there, the tide lashing his high boots and the wind billowing in his cloak.. Like a lesson well learnt he says "The fisherman threw his net and ... " he says awaiting thr second half of the sentence.

[Barzag:] "...and caught the Moon in his arms," the lantern-bearer replies with a curl of his lip; still in that clipped tone, but he shifts position so that his hand falls away from the hilt of his sword. "You're late." He glances out to sea for a moment, the slanting drops of light rain already plastering his hair to his head in a dark mass, then back to the Dunadan, obviously expecting an answer to that statement. "Hoy, fellows, get to work!" This last is directed to the men behind him. With a crunch of gravel, the waiting men step towards the long, narrow boat.

Barzag alone hesitates, and that for only an instant. As he takes his place in the line, he turns his head to stare at the one who seems oddly familiar.

[Marazon:] The voice of the dunadan, crisp as Forochel bay's ice cuts the lantern bearer's. "And if you are discontent it's the same price." he says, one of his hand still hidden under his cloak. Behind him sailors gets off the ship, all dunedains, many wondering about what they're doing there but none says a word and let the other men unload.

[Barzag:] The leader of those on shore looks sharply at the sailor. "The price has already been agreed," he states firmly, frowning as he notes the other man's guarded stance. "Payment on delivery. So let us see what has been delivered." As the workers begin to form a human chain to bring the cargo to the cliff-base and the ropes there, he keeps a careful inventory of barrels and boxes with a stick of charcoal.

[Marazon:] Marazon's double stands silent, moving further on the strand to not wet his boots more. "I know it is." He states and watch the disemboarding. "Is all here.." he says, his gaze coming between the man and the many barrels.

[Barzag:] The leader of the shore-men, Malunzil, nods in silence, his attention now on the unloading. Some of the smaller packages can be carried by one man, but it takes two to lift the heavy wooden barrels, and that with effort. Barzag and another man balance one cask between them as they lift it out of the boat and towards the next pair of men. The sea-drenched gravel is slippy, and perhaps it is this, or perhaps the fact that he glances sideways at the strangely familiar Dunadan, that causes the Hillman's foot to slip. He stumbles for an instant, the cask dipping dangerously low before he recovers.

"Be careful, you fools," Malunzil hisses. "That barrel's contents are more precious than gold - if our friend has been true to his word, that is." He steps forward to inspect the barrel's markings closely, then nods, apparently satisfied. "If you spill it, you will regret it!" he adds, before giving a final warning, "But no slow-down!" Turning back to the Dunadan, he asks, "when can you make the next run?"

[Marazon:] "Tomorrow night.. The moon will hold so for a week, then there will be too much light" the sailor replies and motions for the other to board again, half getting in, half pushing the long boat in the sea again.

[Barzag:] Malunzil nods. "Tomorrow? Very well. Let us hope the weather holds. I'm not sure I can have loaders here every night this week - or pack-horses." He glances back towards the cliff, where already the barrels are being hauled up by many pairs of hands. "But I'll speak to the Master, if it comes to that." No names mentioned, nor does he ask for one from the Dunadan. He does, however, reach into the pocket of his cloak to draw forth a small bag, from which the chink of coins can be heard. This he tosses into the boat.

[Marazon:] The tall sailor linger on the strand and his hwakish eyes watches the arch of the bag of gold and the sound it makes when it lands half reassure him. "I hope the sum is right.. Othewise nothing tomorrow.." he says and then runs on the wet sand to hop aboard the leaving boat.

[Barzag:] "I am sure you will find the sum .. satisfactory," Malunzil calls, muttering under his breath, "Such arrogance!", before turning back to his own team.

With the last barrel hauled up to the cliff-top, the unloaders can rest for now, though some of the smaller boxes will be carried from here by hand - horses are always hard to come by. Barzag shivers involuntarily as the chill of the night, temporarily dispelled by the effort of labour, is felt once more. "It is not a good night for weather," he whispers to his companion, gesturing out to the gently tossing sea where the small boat will soon be wending its way. "Wind, rain ..." The other shakes his head, droplets flying from his grey-streaked hair. "They always schedule drops in weather like this - keeps the Governor's men away." He manages a wolfish grin, then adds, with another glance at the Hillman, "But you're a good enough worker - you should come back. They pay well. And the work's not so hard."

Participants:

BARZAG

At first glance this man appears a normal specimen of the Hill-Folk. He is tall for his kind, perhaps about six feet in height, and his shoulders are slightly hunched in the manner of one who spends much of the time looking downward. His skin is swarthy, weather-beaten from long days spent outdoors, his build rugged. From the man's slightly stooped posture, you deduce that he is used to carrying heavy loads. His feet are encased in crude leather moccasins, worn and scuffed. He wears trousers of some coarse greyish material, although it is hard to tell whether this is the cloth's original colour or the result of fading. Several tears in the material have been painstakingly if inexpertly mended. A mass of unruly dark hair hangs to just above his shoulders, loose strands brushing the top of his tunic; the soft brown cloth must have been of good quality when new, although now there are various marks on it and it is becoming threadbare in places.

Your gaze wanders upwards, towards this man's face - and halts, for therein lies the reason for the distrust and fear he inspires in many. His chin is hidden by a short, dark beard, carefully trimmed. But his upper lip, upon which only a few sparse bristles grow, is cloven in the manner of a beast, and twisted slightly so that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this, his nose is long and straight; amber eyes generally regard the observer coolly from beneath lowering black brows. Were it not for the wrongness of his mouth, he might even be considered handsome, but his disfigurement prevents this.

MARAZON'S DOUBLE

Not desced at this time, but remarkably similar to a certain well-known figure ;)