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6 Fourth Age: The Hour of the Wolf; [Berien]
Topic Started: 5 Oct 2008, 09:59 PM (442 Views)
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As a warden of Minas Tirith, Dagoras the only surviving son of Daeglir, enjoyed the relative freedom of his position, there was scarcely an area that had been barred from him now. And yet, he chose to occupy a place that was scarcely more than a hole in the wall in the grand and glorious city of Minas Tirith. The hole in the wall was small inside, yet it offered a breathtaking view of the north where one could see the still formidable mountains rising up from the earth like a severed spine.

Seated on a small, wooden chair he leaned back on it`s two spindly legs so that he balanced precariously while he looked out at the scenery, his arm resting on the ledge of the “window.” The stem of a pipe made from the ivory of an oliphaunt tusk peaked out from between his lips and every once in a while, he removed it to blow out a steady stream of grey smoke out into that horizon that he looked upon. The pipe was finally engraved, probably some sort of heirloom of the captain of a Gondorian ship that the Brithlamorn had plundered once upon a time.

And he waited. Waited for another servant of the Hand to arrive. He had never met this one, and only knew that it was an Elf. He had been both disappointed and dismayed to know that the Hand of Sauron employed Elves into his service, though a deeper, smarter part of him knew very well that it was a clever tactic to deploy against their mutual enemy. Who would ever have suspected such a thing? Certainly not King Elessar, a man who had lived most of his days among the Elves and had even taken one of them as his wife and queen. That an Elf had been allowed to rule over a nation of men was a dispicable and disgraceful thing. These people, these Gondorians were in desperate need of an usurper such as his powerful ancestor King Castamir to clear their minds and rid them of such a misguided king.

He turned his well-defined face towards the window again and blew a ring of smoke into the open sky, that was on this day a sharp and cloudless blue. And amidst his thoughts he couldn`t help but think that while these Halflings were a ridiculous sort of creature, Shire Sweet Leaf was the best thing that he had ever put into his stolen pipe.
 
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The streets of Minas Tirith were bustling with inhabitants moving this way and that, all concerned with their own businesses. Among those was Berien, who was making her way to the designated place where she was to receive her next orders. Her dark cloak was still wrapped about her, but the hood was tossed down, so as not to draw unwanted attention as an ominous guest. Her eyesight traveled the ground as she weaved in and out, creating her own path by slipping through the gaps in the crowd.

As she ascended up the stone steps, the account of Milo Brandybuck traveled through her mind. The Hobbit had said some rather peculiar things the other night and, although it was not as in-depth as she had hoped it would be, the information he had given her was something she presumed could be of use to the Hand of Sauron.

At last she came upon the meeting spot. She made cursory glances in all directions before slipping through the entry and into the room, her feet stopping at the threshold. Her footsteps were light, enabling her to make as little noise as possible.

Although the view of the mountains was indeed majestic, her eyes immediately fell upon the man in the room, who was reclining back in his wooden seat as smoke from his pipe wafted around him before being whisked away through the window. Was he the one she had come to meet? Berien took a moment to judge the man’s disposition before edging closer to him, making her appearance known at last.
 
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Dagoras had chosen to deliver his message to this other servant of the
Hand of Sauron by wing. Using a bird had seemed the least risky way of getting touch with the Elf, and on top of that precaution he had used a poem written in a hand that did not resemble his own to give directions as to where they would meet.

Where the eye meets the sky
And the sky meets the mountains
Beneath the tree that is white
Behind the market fountain
Out of sight, out of mind


It was needless to say that he did not trust his addle-brained servant to deliver such an important and secretive message. He could easily have let it slip into the wrong hands, dropped it somewhere for anyone to find, or delivered it to another person. No, it was much safer this way. Even though he sincerely doubted that Perohil had the brains to discover that his master was a numbered among Gondor's enemies, Dagoras was adamant against using "middle-men."

A figure framed the hollow that stood as a doorway. Silhouetted against the light from the city outside, Dagoras could not determine any features, save to note that the shape of the shadowy figure suggested femininity. Since he had never met this other servant of the Hand, he had no way of knowing if this was indeed the person that he was supposed to be having a lovely chat with, and the figure spoke nothing, nor did she give him any sign or signal that he should know her by.

Dagoras knew that some of the Orcs, during the time of Sauron had had their own hand signs, crude as they were, for declaring their allegiance. He certainly did not expect her, especially if she really was an Elf to do something so vulgar as to make a V with her fingers and spit through them. But there were other ways to communicate besides rude hand gestures. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he then raised his left hand, palm out as if in greeting, "I have held many things in my hands..." He said casually, and then waited for the person who stood in the doorway to finish the phrase with the appropriate response.
 
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”I have held many things in my hands…”

The Elf’s eyes glowed with revived interest. So this man was one of the Hand’s servants. Only those who were under the command of him knew of such a riddle; one that manifested loyalties with such apparent choice of words. “... All constrained under watchful eyes.” Her words were soft, yet they were smooth as they rolled off her tongue. Now that she knew of his identity, she came even closer now, positioning herself by the open window.

After his greeting it was no doubt that he was the one who had sent her the rather… peculiar verses to lead her here. It had been a rather clever strategy, both sensible and practical. Indeed she had not been expecting her messenger when it had arrived but, nonetheless, she had received this man’s message and had arrived. Her only puzzlement was that he didn't seem like the one who possessed such crude writing, but such details were trivial now.

“Berien.” She enunciated her name briskly, doubting that he would care to remember what it was afterwards. Generally she decided against giving her name so freely, but she presumed that the proper respects were due to this man in front of her. The very idea that he had summoned her – he who she had never seen before in her life until now – gave her the immediate indication that he was on rather frequent terms with the Hand of Sauron compared to… others. She averted her eyes toward the window, taking time to take in the bright blue of the sky that contrasted against the faint, dull peaks of the mountains.

“Instructions,” she prompted, straight-forward as she spoke. Her mind was set on her task at hand, thinking against lingering in the city much longer. Although she had talked rather freely with the Hobbit, Milo, she quickly slithered back into her traditional way of speech, using only a few words to communicate her meaning. “What does he wish?”
 
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"Berien."

“Instructions."

"What does he wish?"


The Elven woman spoke to him in quick, clipped tones. There were no niceties with her, no 'how do you dos and no nice to meet yous with this one; it was just straight down to business. Dagoras coughed into his hand a few times as the smoke that he was inhaling wrapped its tendrils around his lungs, but other than that brief expletive, he said nothing, and instead chose to study the being before him. She meant something to the Hand, he was certain, and he wanted to know why. She had long, raven hair and fine features, she was beautiful and ethereal and possessed that same other-worldly quality that seemed common to all Elves. To Dagoras, who read all this upon their forms, it said to him: I do not belong here.

"Come. Sit." He said to her, as he pushed out another spindly-legged chair with his foot. He would withold the information that she had come for, until he had wheedled the information that he desired from her. The Hand of Sauron was by deliberate attempts a figure shrouded in mystery, and it could be an infuriating experience that he should know so much about Dagoras's short life, when Dagoras knew little to nothing about his long-lived one. And besides, knowledge was power. The more he knew about the Hand, the safer that he would be from him. While his life was short compared to the Hand's and Berien's, Dagoras had learned much, and he knew that sooner or later the axe might fall upon his own neck if he ever failed to remain necessary. He needed information in order to predict just such a time. He was, after all, a realist more than anything else.

"I am Dagoras, son of Daeglir, a servant, like yourself, of the Hand of Sauron." He had a mind to be civil and kind, and to hope to woo Berien into conversing freely with him, though he felt certain that it would not prove as simple a task as it had been with Gwenneth. "The day is young and beautiful and the sky is so blue that it looks like the sea. Would you not sit with me and enjoy it before we set our minds to the business at hand?" He asked innocently, flashing a charming smile at her, though he supposed it was wasted on the ice-cold heart of an Elf.
 
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