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6 Fourth Age: Passing the Time; [ open / closed - Milo Brandybuck ]
Topic Started: 2 Oct 2008, 02:05 AM (512 Views)
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Berien cast her head up to the sky, the wavy strands of her hair hanging down her back. Although they hung down over her ears, the pointy ends made themselves barely visible under her mane. The sky of Minas Tirith was clear, evening was beginning to gradually set itself in. The air about her was stuffy, making her feel rather uncomfortable. Humid weather always got the Elf a tad irritated. If rain ever came, she would embrace it gladly.

Her dark cloak billowed back behind her as she made her way to a nearby tavern to squander her time until nightfall came. The hood upon her face concealed most of her identity underneath as she sat at a quite isolated corner of the room. She drew her hair back behind her ears within the folds of her mantel, granting her a bigger advantage of catching rumors or city gossip. Around her, people stirred. Words were constantly being exchanged back and forth; old songs and tunes being sung amongst the intoxicated. There was always a good chance that something would grab her interest.

The Elf took in her surroundings with her eyes, her parched throat satisfied with a simple glass of water. The black of her cloak blended in with the dim lanterns of the tavern. From afar, she seemed pleasant in nature, though the darkness of her clothes could bear otherwise.

There, she watched and waited for any… useful information to reach her ears.
 
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The tavern caught Milo’s attention at once. It had been a long, hard journey to Gondor. He’d not seen the comfortable inside of a tavern nor tasted a healthy ale in too long. Abandoning his trek back to his rooms for dinner, the Hobbit wandered into the small establishment and made his way up to the bar.

Apparently, Gondor did not serve half-pints of ale. Milo was perfectly content to purchase a full pint. Grinning with his effortless victory, and holding the enormous mug steady with both hands, he peered around the tavern for an empty seat not too large for a Hobbit.

He nearly dropped his mug when he saw a cloaked figure sitting opposite him. Milo was so strongly reminded of the night he’d met Haeleana, he nearly glanced around in fear of seeing his cousin Broderick in the tavern. Trotting over to the cloaked person, he made a greeting to announce himself.

“Good evening. Milo, son of Mungo at your service. Might I find a seat here?”

Straining his eyes to see within the folds of the cloak, Milo detected that this was not Haeleana. This person’s hair was not a fiery red nor was the clothing like that of the Northern Rangers. He was content to make a new acquaintance if he could not find his old one yet.
 
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“Good evening. Milo, son of Mungo at your service. Might I find a seat here?”

Berien looked up her eyes connecting with his. Surprise flickered in her eyes for just a moment before vanishing in the blink of an eye. A hobbit, she thought. How… curious. The Elf had been hoping to let her presence remain unnoticed, but now it seemed that it would not be possible with this Halfling in front of her.

Slowly she moved her drink closer to her, giving the intimation of granted permission. “Go ahead,” she said awkwardly, a bit embarrassed that she could not introduce herself the way he had. The Elf had no recollection of her father’s name, just his laugh. Either way, she would not be giving her name - or her appearance - away so easily.

Still, she had never seen a hobbit up close before. Curious as she was, opportunity struck her. Perhaps he carried rumors from his land that could be of use.

"I do not see many hobbits in these parts," she said leisurely. “What brings you to Minas Tirith?”
 
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Milo took the seat, though because the table was too large for him, sat back a distance. He did not like the way his legs dangled so far off the floor. He missed Bree, where men and Hobbits could all find comfort.

“I thank you,” he said in response, then lifted the enormous pint of ale to his lips. It did not taste as good as the Prancing Pony’s brew, but it was worth every coin he’d spent.

Milo nodded along as the stranger declared that Hobbits in Gondor was a curiosity. He opened his mouth to speak, nearly prepared to tell his whole story, before he realized his companion had given no introduction. Why anyone should be wary of giving their name he did not know.

“I’m sorry, I was so enjoying my drink that I did not catch your name.”

Imprudent though he often was, Milo knew better than to trust a nameless stranger in a foreign land.
 
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Berien was somewhat amused at the hobbit's endeavor. What a bold Halfling she had in her midst… or was he just a lover of alcoholic delights? Why the hobbit wanted such a large helping was none of her concern, nor did she care. Whatever the reason, it was certainly an odd combination of sorts that made for witty imagery.

“I’m sorry, I was so enjoying my drink that I did not catch your name.”

“Tsk.” The sound was small enough to not rise above the loud banters of the tavern, but it mirrored her frustration well enough. The hobbit is not so foolish, she thought with minor disdain. Should she give away her identity, or construct another? There was always a price to pay for information. She pursed her lips in concentration for a moment before answering.

As she constructed her response, she made sure to keep the pleasant tone in her voice, despite the minor setback she had. “Apologies… I am always wary of giving my name.” She raised her eyes so that they connected with Milo’s. The light from the lanterns cast an orange glow on her pale face. “They call me Nenwen.” The lie came easy to her. Already she predicted that they would not meet again.

“If I may be so bold,” she continued, trying to steer the conversation back to where she wanted, “where do you hail from? You must have journeyed long and hard to reach the White City.”
 
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“I don’t mind telling you my story, Nenwen,” Milo said, giving a little half-bow while he still sat. “I am a Shire Hobbit from Bucklebury in Buckland. My father’s fourth cousin governs from Brandy Hall, so I’m not the first Brandybuck to come south.”

There was evident pride in his voice. The more he spoke about his family, the more he seemed to remember his standing as a gentlehobbit and corrected his posture and manner of speech.

“I’m a cartographer, and I had mapped all of the Shire more than times than I can count. I set out for Bree one day with the intention of going as far east as Weathertop. Eventually, I’d planned to map all of Eriador.”

Here Milo paused to gulp down some more of the ale. He’d consumed a great deal more than he’d had in his whole life. It left him feeling a little dizzy. He set down the mug before going on with his story.

“How I ended up in Gondor is a longer story, and I don’t know all of it myself. I was knocked unconscious after I saw the magi—”

The Hobbit stopped talking abruptly. His eyes flitted nervously around the room, as if he suspected someone dangerous were about to creep up on him. This was not a topic he should be discussing in a public place he realized belatedly.
 
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As Milo spoke her spurious name, she smiled pleasantly, glad that he had bought it with no ounce of suspicion in him… or so it seemed.

“I am a Shire Hobbit from Bucklebury in Buckland. My father’s fourth cousin governs from Brandy Hall, so I’m not the first Brandybuck to come south.”

Brandybuck? The name caught Berien’s interest instantly. So he was related to Meriadoc Brandybuck, as his surname suggested. Interesting… Milo Brandybuck. She reiterated his full name in her mind twice for remembrance, knowing that it could be of value later.

“I’m a cartographer, and I had mapped all of the Shire more than times than I can count. I set out for Bree one day with the intention of going as far east as Weathertop. Eventually, I’d planned to map all of Eriador.”

“A bold notion for a hobbit,” she commented. “I wish you well in your endeavor.” The mention of Weathertop stirred something inside of her, although she did not know what. The Elf was unaware of the unfortunate events that befell Frodo at that particular spot, but a twinge swept through her. Had she been there before? She tried to gather a recollection of some sort, but the feeling was as gone as soon as it came.

As the Hobbit halted in his story to drink more from his mug, Berien’s index finger tapped softly under the table, a bit impatient. Not only that, but she didn’t want Milo to become fully smashed until after his story was finished. It was only when he continued that the small taps stopped.

“I was knocked unconscious after I saw the magi –”

The Elf’s eyes glistened with curiosity, although inside she was deep in irritation at his sudden cutoff. She kept this to herself, however, as she watched and took note of his increased paranoia. Her mind turned to where he left off. What was he trying to say? Was it “magic”? Or was it something to do with magic? “Magician”, even? Berien didn’t want to leap to conclusions… she needed to know more.

“Are you ill?” she inquired with sweet concern dripping from her voice. “You look as though you have seen a ghoul… or worse.” She frowned in mock sympathy. “I am well versed in the ancient lore of this world… Perhaps I could help you and put your uneasiness to rest.”
 
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Milo nodded in thanks to Nenwen’s wish of good luck. He seriously doubted now that he’d ever be able to map Eriador. He had landed himself in Gondor with no foreseeable way back home. A three month journey alone was not Milo’s idea of a good time. Walking from the Shire to Bree had not prepared him for life in the wilderness.

The Hobbit cursed his loose tongue. Nenwen wanted more of the story. What could he do but tell it or run away? It was not in Milo’s nature to turn and flee when he found himself in a desperate situation. He was, however, a storyteller.

“I am fine, thank you, Nenwen. As I was saying, I was knocked unconscious after I saw the Wizard. Of course, I’ve seen them before, what with Gandalf and Sharkey coming to the Shire, the first being welcome and the latter not.”

It was a half-lie. The magician he had seen was certainly no old, bearded Wizard with a knack for fireworks. But Wizards were a kind of magician.

“My travelling companion, a Dunedain Healer, was on her way to Gondor. I came along to see the southern lands,” Milo finished lamely.

His promised “longer story” had been summed up in four sentences. He took another drink from the overlarge mug and watched Nenwen from over the rim, hoping that she would allow the story to end there.
 
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Wizard? The Elf nearly released a skeptical eyebrow at Milo’s claim. Not only did it sound completely different from the cutoff word that he said last, but the possibility seemed unlikely… Perhaps the use of “Wizard” was some kind of mask? She laid her options out mentally once more… Magician… Could that have been what he meant?

“It must have been terrifying,” Berien said at last, her words soft in the lively atmosphere around them. “He must have been powerful, but it is a curiosity why he beset you with his magic.”

“My travelling companion, a Dunedain Healer, was on her way to Gondor. I came along to see the southern lands.”

She nodded in response, drinking in his words. “And what of your friend?” she inquired. “Surely she would not leave you on your own –“ The Elf spared a small smile. “- but it seems you have been able to manage well enough on your own.”

Experienced in the gathering of information, Berien had her doubts of whether or not his account was entirely true. For one who had spoken so openly before, his tale seemed to be riddled with faults and full of holes. However, she knew that he was wary of her questioning and information from him would no longer come easily. She had not gotten as much as she hoped she would, but it was enough for now.

She glanced out the tavern windows, the sky now a murky dark. Lanterns cast eerie glows within the city walls as the streets slowly empty. A great deal of time had passed between her and the Hobbit’s meeting.

At last Berien stood, her eyes still resting on the Halfling before her. “Until we meet again Master Brandybuck,” she said. “No in elenath hîlar nan hâd gîn. May all stars shine upon your path.”

She turned away from the Hobbit as she made her way out of the tavern, leaving the songs and lights behind. The smile that was once on her face morphed back into its normal stoic appearance, her lips set in a thin line.

Already the gears in her head were turning. The Hobbit had passed on to her information that could be of great use to the Hand of Sauron, and she immediately began to sift through a variety of different options. She weighed the pros and cons of each, finally deciding to forward her findings to the man she was to meet to receive her next assignment.


"No in elenath hîlar nan hâd gîn." = May all stars shine upon your path.
 
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