Cole stood motionless as those elvish eyes passed over him, completely at a loss for words. This day became more bizarre by the minute and it showed no sign of halting. As soon as he got used to one situation, convincing himself that strange quests and mystical voices were not that out of the ordinary, it seemed that life found something to astound him with yet again. Well, now at least it was clear that there were no sorcerous creatures lurking behind Eorl’s throne, surely the strange, melodic voice had come from the Elf himself.

Not surprisingly, Cole had never seen one of the Elder People, as folk called them around Bree-land, nor had he expected to meet one in his lifetime. Of course, he had heard the stories of an unearthly city of theirs hidden somewhere in the mountains, far to the west of Bree, but even he had considered that to be nothing more than a tale or a memory from a time long gone. And yet…there he stood, tall and slender, with eyes that seemed to pierce into Cole’s inner thoughts. Calm eyes and deep, but also incredibly sad, as if bearing an unseen, crushing weight. There was a lightness in the Elf's step and his motions were so incredibly graceful, flowing from one another perfectly. Compared to him, everyone else in the room seemed like a pale imitation of a master’s work, even the proud king with his lordly sword.

The Bree-lander drew his eyes away and glanced toward the newcomers, another of Eorl’s folk and a dwarf of all things. That at least was not that peculiar to Cole, as dwarves travelled on occasion to Bree, sometimes for trade and sometimes to rest their feet from the dusty road. Cole had pestered them for stories every time he got the chance, though he’d found them to be tight-lipped when it came to their homes. Let them talk about their family history or the virtues of dwarven craft and culture, however, and they could go on for the entire night. Cole himself was witness to the sturdiness of their handiwork – Jon Brakenbrook, a friend of his from the Bree Watch, had an axe of dwarvish make inherited from his father. In all the years since they’d known each other, Cole had never seen Jon resharpen the edge even once, though he used it to chop wood almost daily. Folk who could fashion such things more than deserved their reputation, as far as Cole was concerned.

A question was posed for all who could hear, though Cole suspected it was mostly directed toward Eorl’s guests. That means you as well, Cole...

Hopefully, one of the others could provide an answer, for Cole certainly had none. The only anvils he had seen were used to hammer horseshoes, rakes and the like. The Dwarf seemed upset and strode up to Eorl’s mysterious companion, asking about the “Maker’s Anvil”. So this Maker and…Au-le? were one and the same? Was he a God or an ancestor of the dwarves? Even the name sounded strange to his ears - it rolled off the Elf’s tongue smoothly, but Cole struggled to make sense of the syllables.

Once again he was reminded of his vast ignorance, so he kept his mouth shut and continued observing in silence.

The pommel strike caused the Serpent to stumble somewhat even through his protection, and the blade held to his neck menaced in the gap between helm and breast. Even so, Saptheth was most glad for the mask covering most of his face under the helm, for though his eyes remained opaque to emotion, he would not otherwise have been able to conceal his smirk and a slight sniff at the royal's loss of temperament and subsequent attempts at threat, even if he'd like the fool to see his reaction. Self-supposed "king" indeed - few others than a Westron royal of unchecked power would have the arrogance to assume, after leading a slaughter and being gifted a parcel of land, only to bring into their halls a member of the very race they had ended after returning "an aspect of dignity" that was never theirs to return in the first place, that they would acquire anything less than disgust from their captive, especially when the captive had no reason to pay fealty to the man in question. By his own race's measure, the king would be the Golden Serpent's equal, at best. And wouldn't it be ever so simple to put a scimitar through his drunken head from this sort of distance...

He was distracted from his darker thoughts by the appearance of what he'd assumed was a dark creature of some sort, but turned out to be merely a Marid, as many languages of the East named them, though better known to the Westrons as "Elf". Or was it Elve? He always found himself mixed up when it came to separating the plural and singular for that term. In any case, the humanoid warned Eorl to remove his weapon from Saptheth, which was done promptly- perhaps a priest or teacher, then? Or simply of higher status for his race, or both as appropriate- before entering a short monologue about, amongst other things, the benefits of not offending one's host. Hah. That, and a mention of something called the Anvil of Aule, which the Ifrit- again a term in many Eastron languages, this referring to what the West called a "Dwarf"- seemed to take a measure of offense to.

Saptheth himself kept quiet until all others seemed done talking, eyes on the Marid for that time rather than the king standing mere feet from him, then spoke once again in his native tongue: 'His opinion of himself is high. As is his temper.' Another moment of silence, then he continued in Westron non-chalantly, saying 'I know not of this anvil, and would appr- ...enjoy the knowledge.' He suspected he'd be force-fed it even if he didn't desire the information, but his interest was up after the Ifrit's outburst.

@Jbcool@DrunkasaurusRex@Vor@POOHEAD189@Sigurd

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Master Dwarf," spake the Elf, ignoring the blustering demands of the diminutive figure for the moment, "you may all call be Gweluon, for I find that having a name is easier for other races."

An oddly extensive smile spread across his symmetrical features, the tips of his mouth going from cheek-to-cheek like a Cheshire cat, and his eyes once more took in the group - holding on both the Dwarf before him and the man of the East who seemed intent on getting himself slain by whatever means necessary.

'His opinion of himself is high. As is his temper.'

The Elves' expression did not change as he switched to the particular dialect of the Balchoth people once more - a people that were largely damaged by their ferocious battle with the combined Western forces, yet not entirely gone from Arda.

"You have done nought but goad him since arriving in his hall, the hall of an enemy who defeated your people in a strength of arms - and an enemy who is a King, whether he is your King or not. I have seen many rulers of the Eastern lands, and I tell you now that there is little to separate they...and him."

He doubted his words would have any affect on this member of Easterling aristocracy, a class of people he had spent some time in the company of, finding them to be exactly as Saptheth was now. A more arrogant version of the Western nobility, high-handed in victory but ever eager to rile up the foe in defeat.

"The Anvil of Aule, a Valar and the creator of the Dwarves, is an item of two pieces that many thought to be no more than myth or legend. It is neither, for it is real, and should the enemy be able to claim it for their own then they might forge an entire army from no more than dirt." Eorl had by this time returned to his throne and slumped down once again, watching the proceedings with a wary eye, Gweluon almost gliding from place to place in an Elvish form of what humans would count as 'pacing', "you may believe that there is no enemy, that everything is peaceful, but this is no more than an illusion. He has retreated into the East, where many of the people are now held in thrall to the Dark Lord -" his eyes went again to Saptheth and the smile disappeared from his face, "some by fear, some by sorcery, but all those that do not cower before him are forced into servitude." His eyes bore into that masked head, causing him to pause in his pacing for but a moment, "you are to go East, taking first a northern route, and both our Eastern and our Dwarvish friends here will be of much use in the trials and tribulations to come."

As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, the Elf faced them all and spread his arms before him, "if there are any among you who wish to seal the fate of this world and retire in the face of this journey, then step forward now; if you are stout of heart and body, find yourself a mount and what you require, then join with me at the lower gate within the day."

Without another word, he turned and strode back into the shadows and out of sight, a harbinger of great adventure...or great doom for all those present.

@BCTheEntity@DrunkasaurusRex@Vor@POOHEAD189@Sigurd

Éolan stood and watched the dramatic disappearance of the elf before anyone had the chance to make a remark or inquire any further details. Perhaps it is his majesty who will be answering questions now, she thought trying not to think about that inevitable topic she would have to face one the meeting was over, unless he follows his guest.... She had not understood all the details of the speech delivered to them, but the gist was clear enough, and she could feel it in her breast better than any language, mannish, dwarfish or elfish, could describe -- something dark and menacing was going on in the world, terrifying in its subtlety, clutching its shadowy fingers around her heart, and presumably around the hearts of many more in the east, even more strongly, and in their case literally. For a moment, the flames in the room seemed to cast shadow instead of light, and the draft of the wind around her feet, drifting through the castle, whispered sinister chants to which the thunder outside gave the rhythm. It was of course her imagination at work. There was no way any accursed sorcery -- a phenomenon ever so detestable and horrifying to her -- could, no matter how weak and merely suggesting, manifest itself there in that hall. Or is there?

She looked at the dwarf again, both because she wanted to yell at him for being a part of the greedy race whose maker's tools now threatened peace, as if he were to blame, and because she could not shake off the feeling of security he gave her. The former reason was the product of the moment, of her nervousness and apprehension. It had no reason or logic behind it, and was not in her nature, so she dismissed it as a fruit of horror that overcame her, letting a touch of sadness take its place. Feeling guilty of even having such thoughts, and nostalgic, she thought about all the preparation she had to do: ask someone to deliver a message to her family -- a long, sappy one, in case I never see them again; talk to the more friendly of her possible future companions and gather some more information about the whole situation that she must have missed; find a place to lodge for the night and eat; somehow get a decent horse and provisions, for which she had no money whatsoever; and first of all, follow the dwarf, ask for more information and properly thank him once she's gutsy enough to talk to the subterranean creature in private.

One thing at a time, she thought, overwhelmed by everything. Unease and unwilling to stay there any longer, she turned around and left, soon finding herself in the yard in front of the King's halls. There were no guards there now, fortunately, and no sign of the weather getting any better. Sleeping outside will not happen tonight, my dear. Suddenly a glitter caught her eye, and she walked towards the shiny thing in the mud, so fortunately placed there to reflect the faintest of light coming through the cloud. It was a coin, old and dirty, and not very valuable. She tossed it and caught it in her fist. Enough for a piece of dinner, at least.

The refreshing effect of cold, fresh air faded soon, and the worry returned. It felt as if its strength reached the full potential there after the initial shock and confusion. The long term peril of the possible quest was far greater than she had though, if she had thought about it at all, focusing on more immediate problems when she was inside. Images of dark forests, bottomless chasms, graves, iced rivers and hungry beasts of bloodied jaws reddening the snow all flashed in front of her eyes. She shuddered. He would have drawn his sword and pledged it to the king immediately, my brother would. Be the first to charge, be the enemy man or beast. Maybe he is there somewhere? Tortured and broken, more dead than living, in some waste land under foreign sun and false foreign gods' statues laughing at him. Would he recognise me? Of course he would. And I him. She felt courage kindling in her gut. Yes, she would prepare and ride out, do anything it takes, yes, fight and march and ride and swim and starve and fight again, all the time, until it's over and all the things end, and then she will laugh at the edge of Arda and celebrate and yes even hug them all, and be an apothecary until her final days.

@BCTheEntity@DrunkasaurusRex@Vor@POOHEAD189@Jbcool

The pelting rain showed no sign of stopping soon and would likely last through the entire night. It meant that the roads would be muddy in the morning, hardly a good start to their journey. For indeed, Cole had decided that he would embark on this quest, though he knew not where or even why they were going. Gweluon, the Elf, had given a brief explanation, uttering strange words and names as if they were common knowledge. Maybe they were, but certainly not to the likes of Cole.

His…friends, the two silent guards, escorted him to the stables, which took up most of the courtyard. One of them spoke with the harsh accent of his people and told Cole in no uncertain terms that he was free to go as long as he stayed clear of Eorl’s Hall. Then they departed, as silent as ever, and were soon lost from sight. Cole stood there, still in disbelief at the strange events that had occurred today, almost forgetting the raindrops running down his tired face. He shook himself from the stupor after a moment and looked around for his horse.

To his left, he noticed a curly-haired youth, no older than fourteen winters, brushing the chestnut mare’s haunches. As Cole drew nearer, he saw that the lad was whispering into the horse’s ear, speaking softly as if consoling an injured friend. The bond between Eorl’s folk and horses was evident, he’d heard some of them claim that they could talk to the animals as if talking with a Man or Dwarf - could there be any truth to that? Regardless, the horse looked much better than it had the day before, Cole had to admit. Its russet mane caught the last rays of the sunlight, giving it the colour of molten bronze, a far cry from the mangy creature he had stolen in Dunland.

The stablehand’s understanding of Westron was on par with Cole’s understanding of Rohirric, so their brief conversation consisted of a few nods and smiles, after which the young Bree-lander was on his way. As he passed through the gates of the keep, he paused for a moment and turned back, capturing the sight of Eorl’s Hall standing proud on the hilltop, the light radiating from within a stark contrast to the encroaching night. It was a sight he would remember for the rest of his days, he knew.

He walked down the road into Aldburg, holding the reins of his mare in hand. It wasn’t long before he had to halt again, this time wondering what his destination should be. Just how did one prepare for such a quest? Cole had never been on one to know and the songs he’d heard were not of much help. He neither had a loved one to say goodbye to, nor vows of vengeance to make before a companion’s resting place.

Well, he reasoned, a quest was in essence a very long journey. A very long journey that you might not see the end of. A grim thought, but he had to get used to it. He’d already prepared for one such journey, when he departed from Bree, so why should this be any different? In that case, he would need rations for the road and a place to rest his legs, both of which could be found in an inn. Cole checked his coin pouch – he had scarcely used what he’d brought from home, so he hoped it would be enough, though it now occurred to him that he wasn’t familiar with what currency the people of Aldburg used.

The streets had grown sleek with mud and the rain poured down even harder, few folk were out in this weather and the ones that were didn’t seem in the mood to answer his questions. Thus, Cole wandered aimlessly through the quiet town, trying to sift through the knowledge he had gleaned today.

Gweluon had spoken of an enemy…and of the Valar. He felt as if he should know of these things, but try as he might, he couldn’t recall anything. Had he read about it in old Appleby’s scrolls? When it came down to it, Cole’s interest in those writings had mainly been in reading stories of faraway lands and places, he had not paid much attention to history or legends, much to the old scholar’s chagrin. Yet, something tugged at his memory. He remembered reading of a battle, a last alliance of Men and Elves that had fought a great evil many ages ago. What stood out to him was the word “enemy”, the way the chroniclers had used it hinted they were speaking of someone in particular. This was much the same way in which Gweluon had used the word. All of this begged the question – just who was this “enemy”?

Cole’s musings were interrupted by the sounds of a blacksmith’s hammer, which reminded him that his sword needed sharpening. The blade had a few notches and its edge had dulled after Cole had tried to test his skills with it on some trees. He was still ashamed to admit that he thought the sword would cut through the branches as easily as an axe, but that had not been the case, of course. And so, he followed the hammering to its source, a smithy whose slanted roof leaned on a simple house on the side of the road.

A big, grey-haired man was examining something on his anvil, his back turned toward the entrance. Cole walked in and coughed slightly to announce his arrival.

“Well met,” he began as the man turned toward him, “Master…?”

The man drew closer, walking with a visible limp, his eyes squinting at Cole. Taller and much stronger than the Bree-lander, his arms were thick with muscle from swinging the heavy hammer and his leathery skin indicated a lifetime spent before the forge fires. A moment later, Cole realised that the man’s left leg was missing, replaced by a simple wooden peg. The smith’s face was fierce, crisscrossed by scars and heavily lined, his grey hair was tied in a loose ponytail that hung below his shoulders.

He said something in the tongue of the horse-lords and, of course, Cole understood nothing. It was frustrating, but not unexpected. After all, Eorl’s warriors met many travellers passing through the gates, so they knew some Westron words. However, what need did a craftsman, like this blacksmith, have of another language?

Cole reached for the sword at his hip slowly so as to not provoke, unsheathing the blade and turning it toward the blacksmith, hilt-first. He pointed at the notches, hoping that was enough to show his need. Apparently, it was, for the man took the sword in his big hands and walked over to the forge where he began examining it by the fire. After a while, the smith nodded to himself and approached his grindstone, then began working on the blade.

Meanwhile, Cole stood by the entrance, feeling uncomfortable at not being able to say or do anything. His eyes examined the smithy, noticing a lot of everyday tools and items – rakes, shovels, pickaxes and hoes. Strange, he had expected to see swords, spears, suits of mail and while there were a few of those here and there, it looked very much like any blacksmith’s forge in Bree. Eventually, he noticed a broom propped next to a nearby wall. For reasons unknown, Cole felt compelled to go over, take the broom and begin sweeping the smithy’s floor. The owner glanced at him, but said nothing, before turning back to the grindstone.

Cole had helped out at his uncle’s workshop in Bree and while he lacked the patience and deftness to be a craftsman, he had been a dutiful assistant at least. He moved between the anvil and workbenches methodically, sweeping the floor and cleaning their surface with a cloth rag he found. After that was done, he began returning the blacksmith’s tools to their place. His uncle was a cooper, not a smith, but one workshop was much like the other and it was easy to guess what went where.

As the two worked in silence, Cole felt a kinship with the older man. It was easy to close his eyes and imagine himself at home – the sounds, the smells and even the tools in his hands felt familiar. For the first time, the Bree-lander began thinking of Eorl’s folk not as fables, but as people. Aye, they stood tall and proud, with their gleaming helms and mail, they had a King and a large hall, but in the end, they lived and died as any Man in Bree. Was this forge any different than the ones at home? Or did they also not farm the land for nourishment? Did the Men of Aldburg not drink and laugh, cry and mourn as a Bree-lander did? For every grim-eyed warrior there was a farmer, a carpenter, a thatcher, whose lives differed little from those of their peers in Bree.

Despite some marked differences, Eorl’s folk and his people had far more in common than he had initially believed. For some reason, that realisation warmed his heart.

“Done.” A deep voice said behind him, the word was formed with difficulty and sounded more like a growl, but Cole understood it.

He turned and came face to face with the smith, who presented him with his newly-honed sword. Even to Cole’s untrained eye the difference was staggering, the notches were no longer there and the blade’s edge gleamed. The smith looked around his tidied forge and nodded in approval, though it was hard to say if he was scowling or smiling. Without saying anything, he walked over to a barrel and began rummaging through its contents.

A moment later he returned with a whetstone, a vial of oil and piece of cloth. He offered them to Cole and nodded firmly when he saw the Bree-lander’s confused expression. The smith pointed at the sword, then to the whetstone and looked at Cole expectantly. He spoke again in the tongue of Rohan, but Cole already knew what he had to do.

Cole had sharpened scythes and axes before, so this couldn’t be that different, could it? He applied a little oil on the whetstone and began sliding it across the blade. He winced in pain as the blacksmith slapped him hard across the hands. The greying man took the sword and whetstone and demonstrated the motions one should use – back and forth, not circular, turning the blade frequently so that both sides could be equally sharpened. He then offered them back to Cole.

After a few failures and a couple of more slaps, Cole got the hang of it. Finally, the blacksmith seemed reasonably satisfied and nodded, extending his meaty hand. Cole shook it firmly, then bowed his head in respect. He reached for his purse, but the man stopped him, shaking his head. Considering how painful his slaps had been, Cole had no intention of arguing with the man, so he bowed once more and walked out in the street.

Sometime later, Cole found himself before a tavern with an eight-legged foal as its sign. The warmth from inside beckoned to him and the smell of roast meat wet his mouth. It seemed as good a place to stay as any, so he made his way inside. The first leg of his journey was over, but another had just begun.

Deleted

Well, Branack had demanded an answer and he indeed had been answered. But it left room for so many questions. The Enemy? Who would the enemy rightly be? It could not be the fallen maiar Sauron, sure as not. Sixty thousand Dwarves, as well as armies of men and elves even larger saw to it that the enemy was defeated in that last great battle. For some reason, the Dwarven army was hardly ever mentioned in tales this far south, or to the west. Perhaps it was because of his own people's secretiveness, or perhaps it was the failing of Men and Elves arrogance. More than likely it was a product of both.

Either way, it would take Sauron (if indeed it was him) to take physical form to even use the thing. No mortal could wield it, and Branack was still doubtful a lesser Maiar like Sauron at full strength had the power to do so. But even if he couldn't, it was Aule's anvil and a sacred artifact as far as Branack was concerned. He ignored the Elf's lack of manners for now, for they had a common enemy. That didn't keep him from showing Gweluon a look of contempt however, before he turned and departed.

He told them he'd meet them by the gate in the morning, and then marched out of the King's Hall, needing to find a place to sit quietly and mull over this distressing news that had been bestowed upon him. He needed a good pipe and some smoking tobacco, as well as a fine pint. The comforts of a bed was welcome, but not needed. He was forged by Aule himself, as hard as the mountain stone. It took more than a long march to make him yearn for the finer comforts.

He passed by the lass rummaging around in the mud, watching her do her thing until he cleared his throat. He signalled for her to follow him, and he trudged toward the Inn with his Military Pick hanging over his shoulder.
@Sigurd

The Marid's attempt at a scathing assessment of Saptheth's attitude was noted, but ultimately dismissed with narrowed eyes and a light exhalation through his nose, rather short of a snort but with similar intent. Besting an attacking and likely superior army in combat was one thing, and on its own at least somewhat admirable; deliberately hounding them back to their homeland, to slay their civilians, destroy their cities, and ultimately shatter their race, spreading the remnants through the world like so much sand, was quite another. At least the Elf, Gweluon as he dubbed himself, had not had the audacity to suggest the Balchothi's offensive against the West, and indeed Saptheth's own annoyance with his race's destruction, was in any way hypocritical in nature: clearly, based on his description of the Anvil and the one who sought it, he understood the threat posed to any and every race by the enemy, who he named the Dark Lord. Were he of lower class, the Golden Serpent might not have been informed of the existence of this being, though his people oft referred to a devilish entity called Iblis in their mythology; those of the upper two classes, who did understand that he was real and very powerful, simply called him Magician in their tongue, though Saptheth was sure more appropriate words existed in the Westron languages. When he commanded, be it through messenger or a rare magically-imbued instruction, they obeyed, and whether the lessers of the Balchothi knew their true master mattered not.

Even so, it seemed he was to be led back to his homeland- or at least to the continent containing what was left of it- a mere two years after he had left it to be ransacked. Hardly an appealing thought all things considered, one that even seemed to echo (though likely for different reasons) in the Westron knight's discomforted actions, but considering that the alternative was certain execution, he couldn't exactly protest it. Still, every other individual within the room left quietly, up to and including the Elf vanishing into the shadows once more; Saptheth, rather than simply leaving quietly, proclaimed 'Let it be known that I would be most pleased to join this quest, and shall meet whoever is present at the right time and place,' making it clear in his tone that "most pleased" meant "least displeased", but that he was nonetheless invested into helping save the world if it meant a somewhat lower chance of death, before the cadre of guards surrounding him led him out of the hall once again. Of course they could not leave him be, though if they were coward enough to train all arms on him before he had insulted their so-called king, then they'd certainly be obliged to continue doing so after the fact.

Needless to say, they weren't particularly talkative as they led him through the castle, and then into the pouring rain toward the stables, though the Serpent made a token attempt or two to rile them into giving him an excuse to defend himself. Wiser than their leader, then, whose cool facade had broken all but immediately. In any case, whilst some of the others in that hall had found themselves at the stables too, Saptheth found himself more interested in the horses than any human or dwarf present at the time. Though certainly sturdy mounts, none seemed to immediately suit Saptheth's tastes - this one too bulky, this one too light, that one far too short along the body for a good gait... alas, he was quite certain armouring them in the manner of a kataphrakt was beyond these fools, for the chances that they had not left the armour of his prior mount to fade and crumble with the faithful creature's body were about as high as those of his being selected for a second chance at survival (but since they'd preserved his armour and clothing anyway, it wasn't as though it was an impossibility... bronze of enough quality to use in battle was a reasonably valuable material, surely). Even so, he was used to a certain animal, and if he found one which matched its proportions, he'd be blessedly lucky.

It was not so. It seemed he was to be forced to pick the next closest match, then. He looked around for a while longer, before he laid eyes on a handsome black-coated stallion of proportions quite similar to those of many Balchothi horses. Not an exact match, alas, but close enough to suit the Easterling's needs, if only it had been trained correctly; and in fairness, though he approached it in full and likely unfamiliar armour, even withdrawing his axe and clashing it against his chestpiece to cause a ruckus - the guards and horses both were upset by the movement, the stables filling up with whinnies whilst the guards only just relented on an attempt to slay him for having the weapon - the stallion barely reacted, simply flicking its ears at the discordant noise. An appropriate attitude toward the song of battle, perhaps. He hoped it would be so polite when he was on its back; if not, he would simply have to break it in as he travelled. Or, if all else failed, to simply break it until it did what he wanted.

Whilst he was at least familiar with the procedures involved in maintaining a horse in travel, in-depth care before and after was often left to those who were familiar with the horses, both here and in Rhûn. Saptheth therefore waited until the stableboy in the area was finished with whatever work he was involved in, before waving him over and, gesturing to the stallion, stating 'Prepare this horse for travel tomorrow,' in Westron. He had no idea whether the boy recognised the language, but it seemed he at least understood the intent given the context, as he duly began to prepare the horse in whatever manner was required of him; that said and done, Saptheth espied the Ifrit and one of the humans from before wandering off in some direction or another, and decided that perhaps they would make good guides for the town, guards trailing after him be damned. He hadn't yet had the luxury of exploring this town himself, and though he lacked the funds to so much as stay a night in whatever local taverns this place of wood and grass held, he might at least get to know the place, and maybe even figure out whether his would-be companions were at all worth interacting with beyond commanding them in the inevitable battles they'd face. He was, after all, a leader of soldiers; it was only natural that he, or at the very least another of the group who was actually capable, might take charge of them in at least those situations.

@Jbcool@DrunkasaurusRex@Vor@POOHEAD189@Sigurd

And then the ever-so-sudden-to-appear dwarf intruded upon her daydream, and did nothing less than casually bid her follow with a wink and a nod. Oh my! He saw me! That rude, spying creature! Shocked, she watched him leave, relaxed, trudging down the hill as if going to a mine for a nice session of digging. As he walked, she imagined a long line of dwarfs behind him, all alike and singing 'something something gold gold' about fires and hearts of the mountain made of queer gems and metals beyond her ken, their beards tucked in their ornate belts and fastened with silver buckles, enormous picks hanging from their shoulders and scraping the rune carved walls as they walk, sending showers of sparks into the darkness of the echoing caverns.

No girl back home would follow a strange lad, let alone a dwarf with that nasty-looking weapon grinning at her. But she was past that now, for sure, with all the questing and battling with ghoulish foes that was to come and that she would face with newly discovered determination and courage. Besides, he helped and is your comrade now; you have to be friendly, or you'll be a laggard all the time. And you said you'd follow him, anyway; at least he's down with it, you won't have to hide and lurk. Hopefully I said nothing aloud again. Have I? I haven't. Move it! He's far away already.

She walked down slowly and then hurried to catch up, but cautious enough not to slip on the wet, mushy ground. There was scarcely anyone outside, she noticed, growing grim around her mouth. The whole town seemed a bit poor, the houses somehow walked all over, though it could have been the general attitude people harboured everywhere that made her think so. "It could always be better..." ; "We manage..." Those were the usual replies people gave when asked how they fared. I must have picked up this habit of seeing poverty and trouble. I did hear it one too many times.

"I don't talk to myself normally, nor move around imagining things. Certainly not! That'd mean I'm mad. I'm perfectly sane and proud to say so, so don't you have any worries regarding it. I get excited from time to time and that is all," she said once she'd come near enough. They were already at the inn she'd stayed in before going to the meeting and the womby coziness within was rather inviting once again. A languor crept upon her limbs and wet eyelids. Gelid dark was slowly growing in the east as if to usher them indoors and lull them to sleep with her long invisible arms with the rain for a lullaby. But they had preparations to do and no time to waste. @POOHEAD189

(Collab between me and @Drunkasaurusrex)

Cole looked on as the inkeep returned, bearing food and drink for the Knight. The man of Gondor stood as proud and regal as ever, he had removed his polished armour, settling instead for plain clothes and a traveller's cloak, yet there was no mistaking him for a simple wanderer. A gruesome scar marred his otherwise pleasant face, something he had earned in the war with those dark-skinned people from the East, perhaps? Suddenly, Cole realised his silence might be taken as offensive, so he quickly spoke:

"Greetings, Master Baranor. Coleman Cutleaf, at your service." He said, extending a hand.

The Bree-lander had briefly considered using another name, but what use would that be? Eorl and Gweluon knew of his deception, there was little sense in trying to hide who he was from the rest of the group. And besides, he didn't think he could lie to this man and then go on eating as if nothing had happened.

The Swan Knight turned and shook Cole's hand with a slight smile.

"Well met, Master Cutleaf ... would you care to join me?"

In truth, the man's offer took Cole somewhat by surprise. It seemed strange that a man who was reckoned a lord in his own country would offer to break bread with someone he had only just met. Cole wondered if all Knights were as courteous, he'd certainly never had the chance to talk to someone with such a rank. Baranor's grip was firm, however, and his hands were calloused - the signs of an honest man, any Bree-lander knew that.

"Y-yes, thank you." Cole managed to mumble, taking a sip from his drink while pondering what topic he could even discuss with such a man. "Was, er...was your journey here a long one?" That was probably the worst question that came to mind, but it just so happened to be the only one that he could think of off the top of his head.

Cole couldn't help but notice another scar along the back of the Gondorian's hand as the man took a long pull from the horn cup that they apparently served ale in around these parts. Just how many marks from old injuries like that did the man have? And how many like him had not been able to survive a battle with just scars? Surely a man as good-natured and with as much gray in his hair as this Baranor must have made many friends in his life ... some of which must have fallen in battle.

That last thought was a sobering one and Cole looked up to see that Baranor had seen his gaze and was looking at him as though he'd guessed the Bree-lander's thoughts. He hurriedly looked away and tried not to flush as he started to stutter his way through an apology before the Swan Knight waved his hand.

"Pay it no mind, Master Cutleaf. Such a mark does tend to attract the eye, does it not?"

Cole nodded, still embarrassed, but the Gondorian looked more amused than anything else.

"As to how I got that one, the telling is not particularly exciting. Suffice to say that a young squire of Dol Amroth thought he could afford to not pay attention one day and a certain armsmaster showed him the error of his ways." The Knight grinned and suddenly looked many years younger.

"In answer to your question, though. My journey here was well, thank you ... and how was your's Master Cutleaf?"

"It...it was uneventful." He paused, trying to recall something interesting he could tell the Gondorian, but apart from stealing a horse from a group of wild-looking men nothing else came to mind. That was certainly not something he was eager to share mere moments after they had met. "It's the first time I have journeyed so far from home, so I suppose I should count myself lucky I even got here."

He didn't know why he felt it necessary to share that information with the man, who had no reason of caring in the first place. However, what surprised Cole even more was the sadness in his own voice, did he really miss Bree that much?

That thought was quickly cast aside in favour of another - this time it was Cole's inquisitiveness that got the better of him. When he spoke again, it was in a more vibrant, excited voice. His hesitance and embarrassment seemed to have disappeared without a trace.

"I'm sorry, but I have never heard of Dol Amroth - is it one of Gondor's great cities? And what is a..." he tried to recall the word, "a squire? Is it like an apprentice? Oh and why does your helmet have wings?"

A concentrated effort of will from Cole was required to shut his mouth and stop the flow of questions, because he was likely to drown Baranor in them before the older man even had a chance to speak.

Yet, it seemed the Knight did not mind his questions. In fact, he looked as though he rather enjoyed a chance to converse.

"Well, you may wish to have yourself another drink, I will try to keep my answers short, but in order to satisfy your curiosity, I will have to indulge in some history ... should you be so inclined to listen to man prattle on about his youth."

Cole took a long pull and nodded his assent. This brew of the horselords was hardly comparable to the ale in the Prancing Pony or even that in Archet, but it was certainly drinkable and he had a feeling it was just the thing for long stories on a cold and rainy evening.

So, Cole leaned back in his seat in his seat and listened as the man told him of Dol Amroth and how it was one of many great cities in the realm of Gondor and that the winged helm he bore was something a Swan Knight earned upon completing his training, a reminder of the days when bright and terrible lords had sailed from the west to claim all they saw. Cole knew something of those events, bits and pieces gleaned from Appleby's scrolls, but he had never imagined that someone knew the tale in its entirety.

From there the talk turned to Baranor's youth and Cole learned that a squire was indeed something like an apprentice. Perhaps it was Cole's imagination, but it seemed as though there was a sadness in the Gondorian"s countenance when he spoke of his home. It passed too quickly for him to be certain, but Cole wondered what could happen that would make a man feel that way about the place he'd come from and that made him miss Bree even more.

What the Knight had told him seemed like something from a fireside legend and while Cole would have enjoyed such a tale in the past, he would have hardly lent it any credence. And yet, here was a man straight from the old tales, who would have been an elder by the standards of the Bree-lander's reckoning, even though he looked to be a hale man of early middle age. What he'd said of the wider world made Cole wonder if it wasn't too late to try and head home, where he belonged. He was no great lord like the man next to him, born and trained for great deeds, and evil times, what was he doing among such folk?

Perhaps that was why he hesitated when the man asked how he'd come to Aldburg. The Knight had been polite enough not to inquire about what happened earlier, with Cole being brought to the King under guard. The Bree-lander was sure that the Amrothian knew most of the story, but a part of him wanted to tell him everything, if only because he had someone to talk to in this strange land. After a moment, Cole told his new companion the tale in its entirety and the Gondorian sat and listened carefully, his face impassive.

"Well, I suppose you could have been more forthcoming with the guards, but that does not mean you should be ashamed. Your deed was well-meant, not many folk would have taken up such a challenge the way you have. I do feel that your role in this tale is not yet over, Master Cutleaf."

Cole was not sure how to respond to that, his mind seemed to be filled with equal parts dread and excitement at the Swan Knight's words and the certainty in the man's voice. So he settled for a polite nod and taking another long pull on his drink. Thankfully, the Gondorian seemed to understand what was going on and turned back to his meal, leaving Cole to ponder over what had happened in a comfortable sort of silence.

"Do you talk this much because you're nervous of me or this city?" Branack asked, stomping through the mud. His boots were so low and his body so stout that his feet were stuck to the mud near the top of his boots, so he waded through it like he would heavy snow or a shallow marsh. It slowed him not at all, however.

He glanced back at the girl of the mannish race as she followed. She seemed fidgety enough, but she'd keep following him regardless. If she wasn't going to follow, she'd have left by now. He wasn't an expert of men, though he often dealt trade with them. But he'd known a few stray dogs that had escaped LakeTown to know when one would or would not follow.

The Inn up ahead had an 8 legged Foal as the image on its sign. "Odd." he muttered, and pushed the door open. He held it open for the girl, making no real expression with his face until she had made it inside. It was warmer in here, and the ale should be good. Men weren't bad Ale makers from what he had seen. He glanced to the right, and saw two of the men that had been in the King's court sitting and speaking to each other.

"C'mon." he told her, then marched his way over to the men, and gave them a bow. "Branack of the Lonely Mountain. At yer service." he told them, simply being polite. He pulled up a chair and sat down with them, letting the 4th empty chair be the for young lass. "So, how is the Ale here?" he asked, and didn't even wait for a response before he ordered 2 mugs and some breaded cake. @Vor@Sigurd@DrunkasaurusRex

"I have it on good authority," rumbled a voice almost as deep as that of the Dwarf, "that the ale here is at least agreeable to the Dwarven pallet. As for the food, well..."

Eōrwīga gave the Dwarf and the young lady a knowing wink and a wide smile, his face lighting up as he dragged a seat over and perched himself in the group of recently assembled adventurers, his expression changing to one of mild concern as he spoke again, "I hope you do not resent my presence here?" He asked of those about the table, clicking his fingers as he flung out his hand to each of them, "Eōrwīga, foremost smith of the King - I hereby formerly welcome you to Rohan, and what little stay you are going to have here." After clasping three or four forearms he gestured to a rather buxom lady, as blonde haired and blue eyed as many of the patrons found in the tavern, and ordered an extra flagon for all his newfound companions, regardless of whether they wanted one or not.

"So," he half-belched after a long draught of his rather fine ale, Aldburg brewing the best to be found within the borders of the only recently founded kingdom, "are we all prepared for what is to come? Brave warriors all!" His eyes fell mischievously on Cutleaf and Eolan in particular, lingering on each, before he nuzzled once more into his flagon.

@BCTheEntity@Vor@Sigurd@POOHEAD189@DrunkasaurusRex

”Well, master smith,” Éolan spoke in Rohirric while making herself comfortable in the chair, ”ale does make one readier, so I'll save my answer after I've had some.” She had never tasted ale before. Or rather she had, as a child, dipping a finger or two into her father's mug to draw attention and then licking them. It tasted nasty and she would giggle and grimace as her father and his friends laughed, and that was all she remembered of it. Many years had passed since then, so she could have easily called the drink she had in front of her her first. And she did, although in her thoughts only. She had also decided to leave the dwarf's question unanswered: Do I really do it? Talk much when I am nervous?.

”Éolan, at your service.” She looked each of them in the eyes and nodded.

She held her breath and took a long sip of what felt like fire on her tongue. Immediately, she knew she had foolishly overestimated herself. All her strength had to be mustered for her to keep a straight face, but her stomach and throat were burning for water. Her cheeks were burning too, but that could have been the warmth of the inn caressing them. ”I'm a bit sickly, it's all,” she said quickly trying to prevent herself from coughing. Covering her mouth with her hand, she sniffled.

”I hope you have all travelled well and found Rohan a pleasant realm,” she said. A feeling of obligation seized her and she felt as if she had to make them feel comfortable in her land, to make them understand it and to represent her folk in a good light. Fortunately, the kind smith had already started taking care of that. I might invite them all over after all this is over. She hiccuped. That would be an unexpected party.

Cole introduced himself to the newcomers or, rather, his new companions – that is how he should start thinking of them, he reminded himself. His eyes went to the dwarf first, who seemed to be just as solid and straightforward as those few of his kin that Cole had met in Bree. Next was the burly man who had been present in Eorl’s hall. The King’s own smith, his words made it known, before he generously ordered another round for the group. The Bree-lander nodded in gratitude as he took another sip from the hearty brew. While he had been somewhat sceptical of the local ale at first, he had to admit that it was beginning to grow on him. In fact, the first tankard was already running rather low, making Eōrwīga’s gesture all the more welcome.

And finally, there was the Rohirric woman, who Cole now realised had also been there for Eorl’s meeting. With her armour and blonde hair, which was common among the people of Rohan, he had taken her for yet another of the keep’s fighters, albeit a slimmer one. Of course, up close there was no denying her features marked her as a woman, one which might have forced the normally timid Cole to blush if he still wasn’t caught up in the events of the past few hours.

Her words of greeting were kind, though admittedly Cole had seen little that he could call pleasant in Rohan. Aye, the land was beautiful, as were its people, but the stern-faced warriors with their harsh words and cold cells hadn’t left the best of impressions. Still, the fact that he was now here, among these folk and not in a dungeon was testament to their mercy. The old blacksmith that had honed his sword had also been hospitable, no doubt about it. All in all, Eorl’s folk had strange ways, but he could see that they were kind to those they considered friends and they were certainly more adventurous than the people of Bree!

Not wishing to concern the others with his musings, he merely nodded and turned toward the blacksmith, sensing the jest in his words.

“Master Eōrwīga, I have never embarked on a quest to reclaim a long-lost item straight out of legend before, so it is hard for me to gauge how prepared I am.” Cole replied with a smile, the tension from his shoulders disappearing as the warmth of the tavern – and the ale – coursed through him.

“Will you be coming with us on this journey?” He inquired. “As a master smith, surely you know more about anvils than the rest of us combined, save perhaps for Master Branack.” Cole quickly added the last part of the sentence, remembering how touchy a dwarf could get should someone even suggest that their knowledge of metalworking was lacking.

Branack didn't seem wholly unwelcoming, but he did seem to be less than impressed at the array of men who sat at the table. He seemed far more interested in the ale and cake that he recieved from the fleshy lass that served it. "My thanks." he told her in both greeting and farewell, and he began to help himself to his tasty snack as the men and girl about the table began to discuss their hellos and the journey at hand.

"So, a smith are you?" Branack asked, giving off a light (for him) burp and wiping his mouth with a bit of cloth. It was a rhetorical question, and he saw fit to let them say their pieces as he ate and supped at his leisure. Judging from their words, they seemed to view this quest with trepidation, and well they should! Men were young and impulsive, and this was a quest of the gravest circumstances. For this was no ordinary anvil they sought. He could still scarcely believe they were after the maker's anvil.

To Cole's acknowledgement, he spake "My thanks." with a bow of his head. "But my experience with the forge was only a short time. I know the workings of caves, minerals, and mining far more. Though I dare say I could forge a fine blade or pot if need be. Unfortunately, it seems that this journey requires far more." he declared to the table.

"Not least of which is a strong arm and a fearless heart, for we could very well face the foulest of beasts and peoples. Mark my words however. Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens, and if you lot are intent upon this quest, let it be said so now, for there might be no turning back later. And if indeed the anvil of Aule is in danger, I shall allow no one to hinder in its reclamation."

Branack’s words were grave and cast a shadow on the Bree-lander’s heart, sending images of fearsome beasts and misshapen monsters racing before his eyes. Once again, he was faced with the realisation that what he was about to embark on was not merely a long journey, but a mission, a quest of the greatest importance. There might not be any coming back and, even if he did, would it still be the same man that returned?

Already, he could feel the small bits of knowledge gathered on his journey changing his perception of the world. The vastness of Rohan’s plains, Baranor’s stories of castles and knights and wars, the dignified splendour of Eorl’s Hall and, of course, Gweluon the Elf and his dire warnings all hinted at things that he had never considered. It was as if he had been stumbling in the dark for too long, his eyes had grown used to the gloom, but now a light had been cast, purging the shadows of ignorance.

What had been small and familiar suddenly turned out to be vast and unknown, causing Cole to question his own place in the world. Even if he decided to abandon this quest and slink away in the night like a thief and a coward, what then? Could he truly go back to Bree, pretending that all of this had never happened? Could he go back to being a simple watchman, who spent his days patrolling the road to Archet and the nights by the fire in the Prancing Pony? Aye, the radiance of knowledge seemed blinding to him, the threat of the unknown preyed on his fears, like an unseen predator at the edge of the light. He could almost hear his mother’s voice at the back of his mind: “Coleman! Cole! Daft boy, are you daydreaming again? You’re farmer’s son, not a southron hero!”, it seemed to say.

He looked among his companions, his eyes passing each of them in turn as he silently sipped on his ale, burdened by his thoughts. Baranor was a grown man, full of strength and wisdom and handy with a blade, judging from his tales. The Dwarf was likewise a formidable presence, there was something in the way he talked and how he held himself that reminded Cole of Eorl’s dignity. It was not the haughtiness of royalty or the confidence of a warlord, however, but a…hardness of sorts. No wonder the legends held that the Dwarves were fashioned from stones in the deep, ancient places of the world. Cole could almost see the granite peeking out from underneath Branack’s steady, focused eyes.

Then came the master smith, one of Eorl’s own, which meant his skill was renowned throughout the kingdom. He was not a mere craftsman, but an artisan and the swords he forged were wielded by captains, champions and lords. Lastly, there was fair-haired Éolan, who was probably a brave warrior herself. Why else would a woman be mad enough to dress in arms and leave her home and hearth for such a quest? Any decent lass in Bree would scoff at the notion!

That left Coleman Cutleaf, the stray who had neither skill at arms nor any useful knowledge to impart. He knew how to shear a sheep, how to clean a barn and how to help drunken Will stumble back to his home when the weather turned foul. How could Eorl and Gweluon rely on him, let alone expect him to be of any use?

The ominous rumbling of thunder in the distance suited his mood, which had now lost the vigour and excitement present in it a short while ago. He looked at his ale, noticing that the second tankard was running low as well. Another man might think it a good idea to drown such fears in the haze of ale and wine, but Cole found that the only thing he desired was a warm, soft bed and a good night’s sleep.

Deleted

Evidently, the Ifrit had it in mind to get himself drunk, as they were wont to do. Or at least fed, as most beings required. Much as Saptheth lacked the means to achieve either goal, he followed the stout humanoid into the inn anyway, observing the sign hanging over the entrance and the generally positive attitude of most others inside at that moment. As far as architecture went, Rohan was sorely lacking compared to the often grand and glorious buildings of Balchoth that he was accustomed to, though in fairness, he'd admit that their lands were rather greener than those of his somewhat arid homeland. Then again, a surprising amount of his home continent was far from habitable by any but the sturdiest of men, desert-laden as it was; Balchoth itself had thrived for a high density of oasises to build towns and cities around, giving it an advantage over many of its neighbouring lands in both prosperity and, if he said so himself, appearance.

That said, it seemed everyone else in this small party was finding themselves seating around the same table, near a man who, upon some listening in, claimed to be the king's foremost smith. If that was so... but they were leaving on the morrow. No smith could forge suitable armour for a horse in a night, and he of course lacked the funds to ensure he could buy some for his new mount. He'd have to trust that it'd be properly armoured for a fight by the stable boy, or whoever handled that aspect of horse preparation. He'd heard surprisingly good things about Westron iron... would that iron were more common in his homeland. In any case, he didn't care to take a seat- he wondered if the guards would even let him- and so he simply folded his arms and stood, listening to the group from a distance as they engaged in their banal conversation, until such time as the knight- the only one, he was sure, who might pose any sort of notable threat to his life were he to engage them all- rose from the table and left, apparently aiming to get an early night's sleep, and seemingly failing to notice Saptheth outright. And with him gone... well, he was sure conversation would be a tad more interesting if it didn't devolve into two men crossing blades. Or at least attempting to before one of them was riddled with bolts. If nothing else, he could remind the rest who would really be in charge of proceedings.

Saptheth approached the table the rest of the group were seated round, flanked by the guards meant to stop him acting up, though for the care he gave them, he felt he could handily have passed them off as his own. Once it was reached, he again chose not to sit, instead leaning down to rest his elbows upon the surface. 'Since we speak of what needs to be said,' he interjected, once again in Westron, 'it ought to be... explained... that, no matter what your opinions of me and mine, I believe the anvil bears acqu- ...finding. So long as I am not acc- attacked without need, I will be glad of your... help, in this manner. Clearly, the threat in... volved in it falling into the wrong hands is quite great. If the Ifrit's reaction is anything to go by,' he concluded, nodding in Branack's direction at his mention.

@Jbcool@Vor@Sigurd@POOHEAD189@DrunkasaurusRex

A heavy warmness of ale trembled on Éolan's cheek, and the lantern flame on the wall warmed her ear and neck, making her feel a feverish burn within. Listening to the conversation, she raised her flagon to her wet balmy lips. Empty. Drowned it already. Not even a bit left. That last bit that remains on the bottom... What do they call it? Oh, yes, 'the old man'. Too fast. On an empty stomach. Where are you going? She squinted looking at the leaving Swan Knight, the one named Baranor, making his way through the inn, soon to rest in his bed. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, and a new man was among them: the Easterner. He leaned on the table, threatening and foreign, but vowing to help.

"Well, then, frēond," she said, accent out of place (and time too), woozy with the new lulling sensation, "take a seat, join we for a béor." A grudge against the Gondorian? That's why he waited for him to leave. Or afraid, maybe. Both. Acknowledging hew newfound openness and amiability, she straightened her back in the chair. Strange, how a chug or two lowers the guard of someone inexperienced in the drinking craft.

She felt embarrassed and fooled by her own self, and she envied Baranor who knew when to leave and was now snug. She did not want to leave the wrong first impression, the most important impression. Sure, she was friendly, as she should have; but the manner in which she did it might not have been germane, and being friendly too soon often makes people think you a fool they can use. Of course, as it usually is with people who find themselves in such situations for the first time, she was overthinking. Usually no one notices anything or cares, let alone remembers; and if they do, they jest with you tomorrow once or twice and the world never knows about it again. She tried to get up, first quickly and then more slowly, letting her quivering thighs adjust.

"I am tired, however," she said. "I think I will slēpan as well. Excuse me, everyone."

She left, leaving her bag behind, and after some few dozen steps and a few dozen stairs, she pushed open the first door she saw, dropped herself onto a comfortably embracing bed empty-headed and closed her eyes.

Lost in his thoughts, Cole failed to notice the newcomer until he was right next to their table, flanked by a pair of glum guards that looked about as talkative as the ones that had accompanied Cole earlier. On second thought, had the man arrived just now or had he been somewhere in the inn all along? The rain was still going strong outside, but the dark-skinned man was relatively dry, which either meant that he had been inside for a while or that his clothing remained dry thanks to some wizard’s trick. Despite the strange things he had seen today, Cole decided that the simpler explanation was the most likely one.

The strange man had picked an interesting time to announce himself, right after Baranor had left the table. A coincidence? Not likely, Cole thought. There had been an obvious enmity between Eorl’s folk and their prisoner back in the King’s hall, so it was to be expected that such feelings would extended to their Gondorian allies as well. After all, they had fought side by side in their war against these Men of the East, he could see why they would not want to share a table with one of them.

As if to confirm his thoughts, Éolan rose from her place after muttering a few slurred words and headed upstairs toward the sleeping rooms, though it occurred to him that she had neither paid nor spoken with the innkeeper. Whatever her intention, it seemed to Cole that she too did not wish to break bread with the swarthy man, having left so soon after he joined them. Across the table, Cole could feel the moods shifting, as both Branack and Eōrwīga turned to regard the stranger. The easy smile which the smith wore was noticeably absent from his face.

For his part, Cole did not share in these feelings. He was mistrustful, as he was of all these strange southern Men, but apart from that general sense of wariness, he did not have anything against this man in particular. On the contrary, Cole was intrigued by his strange appearance; the dark skin and strange-looking arms and armor spoke of a people that were much different than the ones the Bree-lander had so far encountered. What distant wonders had those dark eyes seen? he wondered.

Thus, when he spoke there was no fear or resentment in his voice, merely a jovial curiosity.

“Well met, friend. I am glad that another fierce warrior joins us. Gweluon was vague, but it seems that your strength with be sorely needed on this journey.“ Cole extended his hand after a moment, unaware if that was a proper greeting in eastern lands. “Coleman Cutleaf, at your service. Would share your name so that we may know who we travel with?”

@BCTheEntity@POOHEAD189@Jbcool