Musings of one born to serve

[palemantle]

Another day, another place

Veron sits quietly in a clearing just outside the southern borders of Mirkwood. Storm clouds are gathering in the distant north. It is, however, deathly still where Veron sits. There is no a trace of a wind, nor the sound of a beast. His usually alert eyes are focussed on a place far, far away. His thoughts race back to a time in another clearing such as this one, nay, not quite like this one. It was a day that Veron would never forget. That day, his life had changed - suddenly, irrevocably. "How did it come to this?" he thinks to himself.

Veron had grown up in a comfortable little house in Umbar. Father Duron had made a name for himself as a seasoned scout and guide, a name that was recognized as far as the desolate jungles of Far Harad. And so they all came to him, the pleasure seekers, the adventurers, the fugitives.

Veron started helping out with his father's preparations while still a wee lad. The lad was a tireless worker and was well liked by the customers - they that walked in with swords, bows, tents and torches. Veron soon fell in love with their weapons and their ways. Mother Liriel soon passed away - seemingly, to husband and son, of a broken heart - and so it came to pass that Veron stood in front of Duron one day and confessed his desire to wield a bow with skill and to roam the wilderness in a carefree manner. Duron, then, reluctantly agreed to take Veron along on one of his trips.

Many a mile did father and son walk, and many a wondrous sight did they come across - mumakils, giant trees, endless deserts, and dense forests that the sun dared not penetrate. Veron was living his dream. He began to suspect that he could understand the language of beasts without quite knowing where that skill came from. He could make - with a few comforting sounds, a gesture or two, and a kindly pat on its back - a charging bull cow down, and to instill a feeling of such loyalty in a wolf as to make it defend him against a raging bear at the cost of its own life. Many a season passed thus.

[palemantle]

One day, Duron, now older and with a pronounced stoop called his son over and asked him to sit with him awhile. They were returning home after a long journey and were in a quiet forest clearing. The sun was still about and insects were buzzing in the underbrush. Duron began to speak in a quiet, tired voice, "I am old, son, much older than any human has a right to be. There are things that you must know, things passed on by ear about an age past, and a line that has thinned and almost ended." Duron then began to speak of that place from another age - wondrous Andor, of the line of kings from Tar-Minyatur to Tar-Calion, of the King's men and the hated Elendili, and of the treachery of the Valar. Duron sighed softly and buried his face in his hands as he continued, "I have been weak son. I have spent a lifetime serving blasted Elves and the traitorous Gondorians among others, all that for nought but coin. I ... hope the same weakness does not run in your blood." Tears were streaming freely down Duron's face as he remarked in a quivering voice, "I hope you know who you are, son, and what you must do. May you live, serve, fight and die with strength of purpose ... unlike your ... father."

Veron set out then with nary a nod to his father, nor a glance back at the man who had raised him. As he walked away - his bow in hand, a sword in his pack, and a grim look on his face - he knew he would never see the old man again.

He rouses himself from his reverie to see the pale moon's rays filtering through the foliage. "The night is here, Veron. It is time," he mutters to himself. "Ahead lies Dol Guldur, the certainty of thralldom and the possibility of an ignominious death. But my path leads there, a path that I hope will lead to bigger ... better things ..."

[palemantle]

Veron walks along one of Dol Guldur's many tunnels, his gait steady, purposeful. There is a noxious smell arising from one of the seemingly bottomless pits, there is the usual clamour of thralls at work, the hideous scream of someone in a lot of pain, but Veron seems to pay no attention at all to any of it. His clothes are grimy, his face and arms dust-streaked, and he seems much thinner. He seems oblivious to his appearance as he approaches Arfansor, the thrall master, and half-bows.

"Ah, Veron is it not?" says Arfansor as he looks up with a half smile. The strange glow in his eyes seem to deepen to a bright scarlet as he says with a nod in the direction of the upper chambers, "I hear you have been doing well for yourself, lad."

Veron nods a couple of times before replying, "I am now in service of the ... Black Easterling. I hope I have served the mage and the captain to their satisfaction as well. None of that might've happened if you had not been fair to me, Arfansor, as fair as one can be in this place."

"Very good, Veron. But surely this is not a social call, or are thralls allowed those, these days?" queries Arfansor with a mock look of surprise on his face.

Veron says with a nod, "I come to speak to you about two females - one a woman perhaps from the far East and the other a mere child." Anyone standing within earshot might've heard Veron describing the appearance of the two in some detail. "Perhaps you have noticed them?" Veron queries.

Arfansor nods and smiles slightly as he replies, "The ... herd is my responsibility. It is my duty to observe every one of them, or do you take me for an old fool?"

Veron passes a piece of torn parchment to Arfansor, "I doubt not your powers of observation. The names of the two females are marked on the parchment. There's much anger in the woman, anger that could serve the Lord's cause well if properly used." He seems to pause in thought for a while before continuing, "The child seems to have a strange power, the power to heal. She fears much, as most children her age would - gore, death, and other things. She might be useful as well, Arfansor, if only she could be made to face her fears. I only ask that you give them a chance the way you did with me."

Arfansor chuckles softly as he replies, "I will remember your words, Veron but I will make my own judgements. To the deserving such as you, I will surely grant a chance. For others, eternal drudgery, and a lifetime as a thrall await."

"I can ask for no more, Arfansor. I have work to do," says Veron as he gets up slowly. "I have been commanded to purge these woods of those blasted ... tree huggers," he remarks, his eyes smouldering, as heads towards the cavern exit.


//Please delete the post if Arfansor is too important an NPC for me to be messing with

[palemantle]

He walks silently through the night, bow in hand, neither seen nor heard. Only the thin trail of blood that he leaves might have warned another of his presence. He had walked these Mirkwood trails many a time in the last few months, almost always alone. The feeling of being alone in the wild had always been a pleasureable one for him. Where, then, was that feeling this night - that curious mixture of peacefulness and ... excitement? He had accomplished much this night as well.

"I wish to smell the fur burning," the Black Easterling had roared. The fur had, indeed, burned that night. Veron had found the blasted tree huggers in a cave in the mountains, plotting with those of the line of that fiend, Beorn. He had moved through the cave, both swiftly and silently, killing all that dwelled there. They had all fallen, one by one, to the unseen menace, their lives ending quickly and almost painlessly - all, that is, except the leader of the ... Elves. His death of course had been slow and ... most unpleasant.

Some time passes. Veron makes his way to Khamul's presence, deferential as always. "A job well done. I release you from thralldom this day in return for your service," declares the Black Easterling as his eyes leave Veron. Veron bows deeply and accepts the seal that would be a sign that he was a free man.

Veron thanks Arfansor, the thrall master, graciously as he walks towards the cavern entrance. Freedom, how strange that that word should evoke ... nothing in him. The Black Easterling had remarked that perhaps the Eye that never sleeps might direct it's gaze on him some day. Veron hoped, nay he knew that that would happen one day.

Where would he go now? Isengard perhaps? There was talk that the one they called Saruman now worked with, nay served the Dark Lord. The Mountains perhaps? "How much more pleasureable it would be to serve the Dark Lord with others that feel as I do," thinks Veron to himself as he heads out into the gloom of Mirkwood, alone as always. Perhaps there were others who served the cause. "If so, I will find them," he promises himself.

Veron hears the sound of distant footsteps and turns around, sword in hand. It is the wolf that had been following him for some time now. Veron smiles quietly to himself and murmurs to the wolf with a soothing gesture or two, "Come lad, we have work to do."