Over Hill and Under Tree (Shiva x Traveler)

[Shiva the Cat]

Despite its name, The Gilded Lantern was neither the most luxurious tavern in Dale nor the loveliest, but it was one of the most popular. The owner, Arnmar Ernardsson, was a retired mercenary who'd made his fortune escorting gold-laden wagons from the Lonely Mountain to Laketown and beyond, but now that he was in his golden years the big bald warrior was more accustomed to carrying trays than a sword, though he still opened the door of his establishment to men and dwarves alike.

The inn was a narrow but tall building rising up four stories as it leaned precariously against the northern wall of the town, and while the wealthier merchants of Dale might have preferred the statelier, more richly-decorated houses near the Great Keep, the Lantern was never short on the more itinerant flavor of guests, many of whom refused to stay anywhere else in the city. The regulars liked the trophies on the wall and Arnmar's pretty daughters who could be found skittering back and forth between the two-story common room and the smoldering cave of a kitchen, and the innkeeper's wife knew the secret of preparing a first-class meal for a working man's wages. Indeed, many of the guests were so partial to the inn they even had regular rooms kept ready for them in the upper stories of the building, though these were cramped and rather dreary, furnished with single beds and illuminated only by small windows.

One such regular was currently seated at the bar, working her way through a second tankard of ale as she laughed at an old blacksmith regaling her of the antics of his hopeless apprentice. Her name was Maerwyn, and she had first appeared at the Gilded Lantern more than ten years ago, a dirty little slip of a girl who Arnmar had first mistaken for a beggar, then for a neighbor seeking work as a barmaid. But the young lady had merely shaken her head and passed him a small bag of coin, asking for a supper, a bed for the night, and an ale, of all things. This last item Arnmar had refused; he had girls of his own and he didn't approve of young women drinking like slovenly wenches. But out of pity for the waif, he'd seen to it she gotten extra helpings of supper and the most comfortable room in the house, and the girl had been so satisfied that the innkeep felt emboldened enough to ask what her business was in Dale.

“I'm a mercenary,” she'd replied with an accent that matched nether the city nor nearby Laketown, and to further demonstrate her point she'd pulled out a sword. Well, it seemed like a sword on her short, skinny frame, but Arnmar had guess it was really just an oversized knife, and not a very well made one at that. The edges were dull and rusty, and when he'd asked to see the weapon it felt awkward and unbalanced in his hand. But Maerwyn had looked upon it as though it were made of gold, and was quick to take it back from the landlord.

Arnmar never learned much more about the little guest than her trade, and after two nights in his house she had paid her tab in full and disappeared for nearly a year. But sure enough, just as he was beginning to forget about her she had appeared again with another purse of coins and a second knife-sword on her hip, this one much better made. She was alone again and didn't care to speak much about herself, but she did take some interest in the innkeeper and his family and seemed pleased to learn how they had been doing in her absence.

And so began a semi-regular cycle that had lasted for more than a decade. Maerwyn would appear at the Gilded Lantern a few times a year with a fair amount of money on her and usually a new or nicer weapon. The knives gave way to short swords, and when she was nearly a full-grown woman she had begun carrying a beautifully carved bow as well. Only Arnmar ever seemed to pay much attention to the woman's equipment though: everyone else usually found their attention captured by the woman herself.

She'd grown quite pretty over the years, with full lips, a long, straight nose, and deep brown eyes like those of a doe. Her thick brown hair was usually plaited into a braid that hung over her shoulder to the top of her full, high breast, but many of the strands always seemed to escape their bonds and fly loosely around her oval face. Over the years she had acquired several pieces of good-quality leather armor, along with some metal bracers and one steel pauldron (worn on her left shoulder to allow free movement for her bow), and while her clothing tended to be simple garments of brown or black cloth, or heavy home-sewn furs in the winter, she did wear a deep crimson scarf around her neck, though she never told anyone why.

There was on one aspect in which the young mercenary had not grown or developed much over the years, and that was in her height. Around the third or fourth year of her acquaintance with Arnmar Maerwyn had finally achieved five feet, and over the following years she achieved a couple more inches, but nothing beyond that. To the old mercenary, he was curious about how such a small woman could make a living as a hired sword, but when he saw her in her first tavern fight it was clear.

The girl was fast, and didn't exactly fight with honor. After a drunk guest had refused to acknowledge Maerwyn's rejection of his amorous advances, she'd had no trouble first delivering a sharp punch to his groin, then a series of deep scratches to his eyes. Indeed, the damage was so bad that the girl most likely would have been arrested by the city guard if Arnmar and a few other guests hadn't explained the situation, and even then she was banned from the city for a year. She dutifully abided by this ruling, but on the three hundred and sixty-sixth day of her exile there she was again at the door of the Gilded Lantern, coins in hand and ready for some of Mrs. Ernardsson's fresh white bread.

By now the regulars at the tavern were used to the woman, and except for those who considered themselves her friends most of the people of Dale avoided her. Maerwyn herself returned the favor, preferring to keep company with Arnmar and his family first of all, and few other citizens of her acquaintance as she saw them. The only strangers she ever seemed to take an interest with were the dwarves visiting from Erebor, but the feeling was rarely mutual. The woman asked far too many questions about gold and jewels, and could be downright aggressive in her offers to provide bodyguard services to their wagons, to the point that most dwarves that recognized her would refuse to speak the language of Men around her, instead whispering to one another in their own cryptic tongue.

But this evening a dwarf of a different sort had entered the doors of the Lantern, and Maerwyn's glittering eyes did not miss his appearance. He was a stranger to her, and after conferring with one of Arnmar's daughters it appeared he was a stranger to everyone else as well. She had to admit that as far as dwarves went he was a rather handsome one, without any gray in his dark hair or beard and intense, deep-set eyes. His hat was rather-bizarre looking but his clothing seemed to be good quality, if a bit on the dirty side, and she could tell by the axe and pack on his back that he must have been a traveler of some kind.

Maerwyn watched the dwarf for several minutes as he took a table by himself near the fire, ordered something from one of the barmaids, then pulled out a bit of parchment and began to examine it by the red glow along the wall. A small smile crossed her face as she drained her mug, set it on the bar, then silently drifted over to join him at the table.

“On a journey are you?” She remarked, sitting down across from him. “Don't often see your kind travel alone. Waiting for someone?” Before he could answer, Arnmar's daughter returned with a tray of food, and Maerwyn quickly pantomimed drinking to her, then gestured towards the dwarf before turning her gaze back towards him. The girl seemed to understand the request, and quickly dashed off to the bar to fetch a pair of drinks.

“Might I ask where you're headed?” the woman asked, tilting her head and pushing her braid back over her shoulder while her eyes drifted down to the parchment before him, trying to see what it was.

 

[Traveler]

Since they were but mere children, perhaps 34 or 35 years old, Orin Indrafangin knew that the flaxen-haired grand-daughter of Thráin the 2nd​ was the only Dwarf for him. There was something about the way Dis put him down at every opportunity that could only mean one thing; she, too, knew that they were meant to be. For when she said that his beard was fit for an Elf she was really saying that he was growing into a handsome Dwarf, and she wanted to run her fingers through his scruff. And when she told him that his skills at the forge would shame a farrier, she was telling him that his skills were promising to make him the best in the Mountain, and that was saying quite a lot. She could not say it outright, now could she, and let the other lads know that she was already smitten? Of course, she had to hide her affections behind mock insults and put-downs. It was ‘their’ secret little language of love, and it carried him throughout the decade and a half that followed.

Even now as she snorted her derisive “Eh….no. Not now, not ever, Orin Idiotfangin!” and threw the gold and mithril cuff he’d crafted to demonstrate his love for her, he knew she really meant: “Finally! Of course,you silly dolt!” but had been in the practice of their secret tongue too long to switch. For why else would her eyes light up as they did, and her cheeks flush pink under the soft haze of her lovely beard?

“Well I don’t mean now,” Orin laughed, “we’re too young to be married now, but eventually, Dis. I know,” he said, clomping over to retrieve the bracelet as gracefully as a four foot six inch Dwarf in the heavy boots favored by Blacksmiths could, “we’ll have to wait a few decades, but it would do my heart good to know that at the end of this journey, when we’re both in our second century of life, you’ll be the one at my side.” He stood and held the circlet up, smiling at her though the opening.

“NO. What part of that don’t you understand?” Her hand went to the pickaxe at her side as she frowned at the too-smooth cheeks that made him look like he was still a Dwarfling, barely off his mother’s teat. ‘What in the world had ever come over him to think that I would have accepted his offer? Especially when there were fellows like Gori Ironhills,’ she thought, her eyes softening at the memory of the raven-haired axeman who had caught her eye three winters ago, ‘waiting for me to finally ‘ripen enough’ (his words) to be asked to share a home?’ It took her a moment to realize that Orin was still talking to her. Ugh.

“Enough!” She snapped. “What will it take to make you go away?”

“What? You want me to go on a quest?” He had been interpreting Dis-ese for so long that he’d come to understand her as he knew no one else ever could. “A quest to prove my commitment?”

Oh…this was sweet. Of course! Her eyes brightened at the prospect. She raked her mind for something so unobtainable, so far away, so…so…unreal, that he would spend the next century searching. His eyes were so earnest she almost felt bad for the fool. But not badly enough. “Yes, a quest,” she confirmed, her mind working quickly to put together something so outlandish that it would be believable. “But, ah, Orin, I’m afraid no one would be able to retrieve it.” ‘Especially not you, you idiot dolt of an Elf-offal.’

He grew still, his hand sliding the cuff of commitment into his pocket as he focused on Dis. A quest to win her hand in ever-lasting marriage. All it was going to take was a little journey...“I’ll do it.” His voice was low and steady, but his heart pounded against the thick leather of his vest. This was the one thing she needed to make it happen, then there was no other answer, was there? There was no doubt in his mind that it would be heroic and full of tales of valor to fuel their lives together. “I’ll do it.”

And so, she told him of the what, the why, and the where, and to top it off supplied him with the map, marked just where the items was. She assured him and touched the back of his hand while doing so (another sign of her undying love!) and then sent him on his way with a firm handshake and a “Good luck! Don’t come back without it!”

He traveled outside the Lonely Mountain for the first time on his own, and made the 54-mile journey to the river city of Dale on his own as well. He felt quite accomplished for a Dwarf just turned 50. Certainly quite the adult, and tonight he would sleep on a bed and eat a hot meal, and tomorrow continue, his travel lightened knowing that Dis waited for him at journey’s end. He looked up at the sign hanging over the inn; The Gilded Lantern. It sounded promising. The smells of warm stew and fresh bread smelled promising. The coins in his purse and the axe on his back made him feel like this grand adventure was bound to be nothing but good times, deeds of bravery, and great tales to tell his own grandchildren one day.

‘Oh, yes, this will be a fine spot to stop,’ he thought as he pulled his brown woolen jacket tighter around his chest. He boldly pushed the door open, then found it stuck. A few pushes later he tried to pull the thing ‘Why put in doors that only opened one way?’ and strode in, taking in the myriad of folks within. Most were much too tall, including the somewhat attractive but much too smooth-faced human woman who greeted him and pointed out a table at the corner. Weaving through the forest of elbows and chests, he found his way to the table and sat, enjoying the foreign sounds of men and women and noting that, aside from the dialect, it sounded much like the halls at home. Higher pitched, but the same. The barmaid had followed him to his seat, and he found himself eye to eye with her not-eyes, then craned his face upwards to see her freckled smile looking back at him. That was better. Much better.

A quick run-down of their limited menu and prices, and he ordered the boar stew and a loaf of bread. He hoped they had a Hobbit cook somewhere in the back; his brother had told him that they made the best food and urged him to seek them out on his grand adventure. But the beer, he had warned, was stale and watered down. Best to drink nothing than to imbibe in the brew of the Men.

As he waited for his meal he pulled out the map Dis had so lovingly gifted him with, spreading it out with gentled hands and looking at his route once more, trying to confirm the route that would lead him to his destination. ‘It’s not far, just a few hundred miles, or a thousand…piece of pie.’

A lithe form settled in the seat before him, and for a moment Orin assumed it was an Elf. But the person spoke and then turned towards the innkeeper’s daughter, with the accent of Man, though hers was unfamiliar to his ears. Then again, all things outside the Lonely Mountain was unfamiliar. Like the sky. Especially at night when he thought he might fall upwards into its great vastness.

“I…” he started to answer her first and second questions. Then he hesitated. What if she was a thief?

“Might I ask where you're headed?” the woman asked, tilting her head and pushing her braid back over her shoulder.

She was quite forward, even for a Human. He nervously began to roll up his map to stuff it back in his bag. What if she wanted to get to the treasure first and ruin his chances of marrying Dis? “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours,” he said, trying to sound as fierce as he was not. “I’m not staying long. Just passing through,” he admitted, wondering if she might be some kind of welcoming group making sure that no outsiders caused trouble in the Dale.

Something about her direct gaze and her boldness made him feel very much like that mouse the kitchen cat had cornered and played with for hours until its still, cold form was no longer interesting. And though Orin might have relished this kind of interested look had it come from the fuzzy face of Dia, coming from this woman made him wonder if he should have tried the other inn down the road. She seemed the type to ask second and act first, and he’d be damned if he lost his map and his way on only the third day of his journey.

His stew was cooling. Sensing its presence his stomach gave a loud rumble, just as the serving woman delivered two tall pints of frothing liquid. “I – I didn’t order this,” he protested, making sure to look past her not-eyes and into her face.

The lass smiled sweetly and inclined her head towards the lady opposite him. Free beer? Human beer, but still. What was she up to? No one gave beer freely unless it was to friends, and they’d only just met.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn was utterly unfazed at the dwarf's rather rude reply. Actually when she compared it to some of the others she'd deal with in the past, he was actually being quite polite, and she didn't begrudge him any suspicions he might have had. It was rare for dwarves to deal with men unless they were the ones receiving the gold, and the one advantage the mercenary had was the novelty of her gender. Most were at least willing to have a conversation with her purely out of curiosity before they tired of her infinite questions and insistent demeanor, but perhaps with the aid of Arnmar's rich brown ale she could stave off that moment for at least a few minutes.

"It's my business because escorting people through the Misty Mountains and beyond is my business," she said simply, nodding a thank you to the barmaid as she set the tankards on the table. "And if buying a potential customer a pint can earn me a job, that seems a fair price to me." The young woman sat up as straight and ladylike as she could, considering the armor and trousers, and folded her hands daintily in her lap. "Maerwyn, at your service milord. And I do apologize if I've offended you in any way. It's just that I'm currently between engagements at the moment, and I'm wondering if we might not be able to help one another."

Her posture relaxed somewhat as she helped herself to the nearest mug and raised it to her lips. "I'm assuming you're headed to the Blue Mountains, that right?" Maerwyn asked, dropping her mock aristocratic attitude and taking a deep drink of ale. The Blue Mountains was the final destination of most of the dwarves stopping in Dale from Erebor; those headed towards the Iron Hills or Grey Mountains seldom bothered with the detour into town. "Brave of you to attempt the High Pass alone this time of year. I hear the goblins have been more aggressive than usual as of late. If you'd like a bit of free advice, I would personally recommend taking the Gap of Rohan myself. Might not get you there for a few months, but at least you won't have any nasty wee beasties popping out from the rocks to stab you in the back."

For a moment, the woman narrowed her eyes as she looked the dwarf in the face. Was he headed for the Blue Mountains? If so, why in the world would he go alone? The Dwarves of Erebor were always traveling back and forth across the northern hills, and most had the sense to travel at least in small groups. They might have been doughty fighters, but there was only so much a lone merchant could do against fifty thieving goblins--or if they were really unlucky, a grumpy mountain troll or two. Even Maerwyn herself doubted her ability to fight more than a few enemies at a time, but over the years she'd learned dozens of secret (and yes, precarious) paths through the mountains, and considered herself quite the mistress of stealth when it came to crossing the great white western wall unnoticed.

"If you are in a hurry though," she continued, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs at the knees. "I know some faster ways where you won't get caught. And not just through the mountains; I guarantee I can get you unscathed through the woods in less than a week." It was a bold boast, but Maerwyn had done it before (once, to be specific), though she'd had far too many close calls with the elves and the nasties of Dol Goldur, and that didn't even include the damned spiders. Still, she preferred to bypass the forest entirely whenever possible, traveling north instead where the only things she needed to worry about were wolves and bad weather.

As she finished her drink, Maerwyn pushed the tankard aside and leaned forward across the table, tenting her fingers beneath her small, pointed chin. "As for payment...I'm more than happy to negotiate. Typically I would ask for one gold piece a day, with taverns covered separately should we encounter one, but I'm not above working in exchange for gems or other items of equal value. I can provide you with food if you don't mind eating what we can hunt, but you're responsible for your own gear." She paused then to glance over his shoulder at the axe on his back. It seemed a good enough weapon, and would be helpful if they were hard up for firewood in the forest (she rarely carried an axe herself, not possessing the strength to wield more than a small one). But whether or not the dwarf knew how to fight was a different question. Of course, many of the mountain folk began combat training at a young age, but it was so difficult to tell their ages that she couldn't guess for sure if the gentleman in front of her was battle-hardened or merely a graduate of the training grounds.

Deciding it didn't matter at the moment, Maerwyn shrugged slightly and continue with her terms. "I do require some sort of collateral prior to setting out, either a portion of the fee paid in advance or some other item to be returned later, and the rest I'll take at the journey's end." In some parts of the world, such a fee would be extravagant, but in the wealth of Dale the woman's rates were fairly competitive with other mercenaries. Indeed, since she worked alone and didn't require any partners or subordinates to be paid as well, she could even afford to be cheaper than some of the larger, more famous outfits. Everyone knew though about the wealth of dwarves, especially those from the Kingdom Under The Mountain, and she saw no reason why this one wouldn't be able to afford a journey that should only take a few months.

Her hands dropped to the table, displaying the scars on the back of her fingers and the short, jagged nails. "So what say you, Master Dwarf? Are you interested in hiring a companion for your journey?" The business-like expression on her face melted away for a moment to reveal a warm and gentle smile, the kind that had often led men to underestimate her. But it passed like a glimpse of sun on a cloudy day, and her eyes drilled into him in expectation of an answer.

 

[Traveler]

Oh, she was a guide? Wasn’t that what they called people who escorted others? Unless, of course, they were referring to guards escorting unruly dwarves off to the holding cells to sleep off too much ale. Those weren’t exactly guides. She pawned off her drink-splurge as an investment in her business, and he had to admit to himself that it was a fair exchange; one beer, albeit human-brewed, for the chance to win herself a business deal.

At her introduction of herself he reached across the table and offered her the hand of friendship. “Orin Indrafangin,” he began, “trying to ignore the tingling at the back of his head that was telling him that this entire idea was a bad one. He hadn’t noticed her use of a first name only; Maerwyn would be Maer Wyn, for all he knew. Humans were odd beings. She could be Maer, of the house of Why, just like he was Orin Indrafangin of the House of Durin. Who knew how others named their children?

He didn’t know exactly which direction he was headed; content to only look at the next step, and then the next one, and never really taking note of what was around it on the maps. They were curious things anyway; squiggles meant to represent mountains and valleys and streams. Why, the path from home to here was scarcely wider than his thumb on the map, but it had taken nearly three days!

As she talked about the Iron Hills and the Grey Mountains he took a tentative sniff at the human brew. It smelled suspiciously like real beer. He frowned, then took a hesitant sip. It tasted a lot like the beer fed to children, weak but still bitter and malty, with a nice sting as it rolled down his throat. He supposed it was passable. Since he didn’t have a sturdy mule or goat to carry a couple of barrels along with him, Orin had accepted that his journey would be a dry one. ‘But this,’ he thought, taking another drink, ‘this was passable.’

“…but at least you won't have any nasty wee beasties popping out from the rocks to stab you in the back."

“What?” He nearly spit his beer out. Nearly. Dwarves do not waste beer, even human-brewed, unless its really important.

She continued, explaining about faster ways where he would not get caught. Guaranteed? How could anyone guarantee safe passage? He narrowed his eyes at her as she boasted about the speed she could get them through the pass, hopefully one that he wanted to go through, and then she finished her drink with enough gusto to put her hand-in-hand with the best Dwarven woman and their tankards. And then came the clincher, the payment. She did not ask for it up front, but she did ask, and a gold piece a day was more than he made as a blacksmith. It sounded like robbery to him. Highway robbery.

Collateral. Up front. In advance. What the…? His eyes followed her hands and saw the scars there. Scars…not from working the forge or mining the caves, but in doing this. In guiding people. Then he saw her bow and the weapons she carried. They weren’t there for show.

“I don’t know you,” he cautiously began to answer her question, “and you could be a thief, but…” he pursed his lips slightly and studied her. Was it worth a few gold to possibly have someone help him find the way to Moria? He wouldn’t tell her the true destination of course. That would be foolish. Nor would he pay her too much in advance, but…if she’d been across the mountain passes even once she already had more experience out ‘here’ than he did.

He rubbed the short beard on his chin and gazed past her shoulder to the vision of what he would gain once he returned triumphant, Narsil’s dagger companion in his possession. “Can you get me to the Giadden River,” he asked, referring to a river near “and if we make it to there, I may hire you for the next leg of the journey?” His eyes returned to her face and he studied her. “Aren’t you young for a human?” He asked. “No offense, I know that experience and age are not always the same thing, but… what makes you think that the two of us can do it with guaranteed safety through the woods? Or anywhere else for that matter?”

He glanced down at his bowl and realized he had somehow eaten the entire portion while listening to her and considering her offer. What else had he missed?

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn couldn't hide the surprise on her face when the dwarf mentioned the Gladden River. Why in the world would he ever want to detour so far south? "If you're thinking of taking the Redhorn Pass across the mountains," the woman began slowly, not wanting to betray the little experience she had in the southern ranges of the mountains. "I'd advise against it. The High Pass might have its share of goblins, but they really aren't so bad if you don't let them get the drop on you, and I know how to avoid them. If you take the Redhorn Gate, you'll risk crossing paths with full grown orcs from down in M--"

Her words died on her lips as a suspicious shadow passed over her face. Moria? Was that where he was headed? The dwarf must have been absolutely mad, especially if he was traveling alone. Anyone who knew the Anduin as well as she did knew to never venture nearer the mountains at those those latitudes than the Golden Wood, which was another danger unto itself entirely. If the elves didn't witch you away into their suspiciously beautiful forests, there were darker, more vicious things that crept out of the gates of the old dwarven kingdom. All of this Maewyn knew firsthand; in the days of her rusty knives and patchy armor she had once dared approach the mouth of the Silverlode from the north for no reason other than youthful arrogance. While she did achieve one long look at the black hole high in the mountainside, she was also nearly caught by an orc scouting party, and it was only by some miracle of the powers that she escaped relatively unscathed.

At this recollection, the woman was tempted to bid Master Orin a farewell and a good journey. Even she had little patience for mad people, and if the dwarf wanted to meet his fathers on the wrong end of an orc blade that was his business alone. But then again, the dwarves of Erebor had more gold than they knew what to do with, and he had only asked that she accompany him to the Gladden Fields. That was a simple enough journey once they cleared the woods, or she could even lengthen the trip (and therefore her wages) by circling north completely. The only downside was that if they parted at the river, the odds she would find a job that might take her back northward were small indeed.

I suppose I could always call upon Father... Maerwyn mused, but she was jolted out of her reverie by Orin's rather rude inquiry about her age.

Straightening in her chair, the woman's dark eyes looked down her long nose at the dwarf, and she couldn't keep the haughty, slightly offended tone out of her voice when she answered. "I am five-and-twenty, Master Orin--which, if you are unaware, makes me a woman grown in the eyes of my people." Granted her short stature and youthful face often caused her to be mistaken for one much younger, and Orin was hardly the first person to doubt her abilities based on her appearance. "What's more is I have wandered the wilds nearly my entire life, and have received payment for my services for more than ten years. You may be able to engage a guide with more experience than I can provide, but I assure you they will not be as generous with their wages as I am."

Relaxing her posture somewhat, she gestured to a passing barmaid that she would like another drink, although the single finger and the annoyed gleam in her eye made it very clear she would only be ordering a single mug. In the few minutes Maerwyn and the dwarf had been acquainted, he had used up her surplus hospitality and left her with only the most basic politeness. "If it will reassure you, you may wish to ask around the city and ask for those that have traveled with me in the past. I've guided both men and dwarves alike, and no doubt you may find a countryman who can testify to my services. I know your kind can be very particular when it comes to avoiding the Woodland King."

Truth be told the woman didn't like dealing with Thranduil herself either, or any elves at all. On all the previous occasions when he'd caught her trespassing (and there had been an embarassingly large number of them, especially when she was first starting out) he'd been content to let her go out of consideration of her age, though not before locking her in his cells and putting her through some very uncomfortable interrogations. Luckily it had been several years since the last time Maerwyn had found herself caught by one of his scouts, but in their last encounter the Woodland King had warned that his patience with her was entirely spent, and if they should ever cross paths again it would be the last time the mercenary walked in Mirkwood on her own two feet. The look in his eyes had been so fierce that even now she couldn't deny some fear of the ancient elf.

Again, Maerwyn found herself wondering if guiding the dwarf across the table would even be worth the trouble. The naive expression on his face was making her wonder about his own age, and it seemed absolutely feasible that he might blunder into one of the Silvan elves' traps, if not directly into the mouth of one of the giant spiders. She could attempt to take him through the Narrows of course, but that would mean risking Balchoth raids as they skirted the woods on the east side, then drawing frighteningly near the haunted fortress when they finally did cut through to the Gladden. Even the dungeons of Thranduil didn't scare her as much as that place did.

"If you don't wish to go through the woods," the guide said finally, taking the drink from the barmaid with grateful nod. "I can lead you north around them, then take you down the Great River from there. It's the safest path, in my opinion, though it is the longest. I'm afraid I would need to charge you more for my services, considering the extra time it's going take." Maerwyn took a thoughtful sip of the ale, beginning just now to feel the effects of the beverage on her nerves. Her posture had relaxed further, though her expression was still cautious. "Going that route, I would say we could reach the Gladden River by...oh let's say a week or two past midsummer. Six weeks at least, but not more than ten, barring any incident. Though if you can provide mounts for us I may be able to cut that down to a month. I don't suppose you're much of a horseman?"

She tried not to show too much hope on her face. The mercenary often longed for a horse of her own, but the costs of maintaining one simply wasn't feasible for her even now, and unless it was particularly sure-footed a mount wouldn't be much help on the narrow mountain passes anyway. But one day, when she was too old for journeys and needed to settle down in some quiet, out-of-the-way place, Maerwyn fully intended to purchase as many horses as she could afford and breed them for the next generation of adventurers. In the meantime, she simply borrowed those provided by her employers, often growing more fond of the beasts than their two-legged masters.

"In either case, I have no trouble taking you to the Gladden River, Master Orin. But that does beg the question of what collateral you can provide for me until we part ways, and when you would care to depart." The woman couldn't help but glance at the door in anticipation, ready to take any job that would end the weeks of indolence she had spent at the inn and get her into the fresh air of the wilderlands again.

 

[Traveler]

What were all these passes and routes she was talking about? Orin couldn’t remember any Redhorn Pss, or High Pass, or Redhorn Gate. He itched to take out his map and look at it as she was talking, but worried that he’d give away the location of the treasure that would see his eventual children draw breath. And then she sprinkled her discussion with talks of goblins and orcs wandering about, as if they had free rein—or did they? He frowned at his table companion when she went silent.

Carefully he watched the flicker across her eyes…she was up to something. Weren’t humans always, though? Crafty little schemers, that’s what his brother had called them, and perhaps he was right. Maybe she was scheming to take his money and his treasure too, and keep him from having Dis as his wife sometime in the next two or three decades.

He sat back sharply when she announced her age. Well, five-and-twenty was only half his age! But then she claimed a decade in her business, and he had only three days, and as she continued her defense of her abilities, and the claim that others would charge him more, he inclined his head slightly and considered it. She claimed to be able to avoid the Woodland King, which drew further his attention, until he was sitting across from her, wondering what he could do to have her guide him all the way there. And then all the way back. For retrieving the item was only half the challenge, wasn’t it? Bringing it to Dis’s sweet hands was the true challenge.

He swallowed, wishing he had another of those human beers. He drew a hand across his brow, taming an errant strand behind one ear and licking his lips. What did it matter if he spent his entire fortune on the trip if he gained his goal? When the barmaid returned with Maerwyn’s drink he raised two fingers. He’d need them, if this discussion had merit. Her talk of orcs and goblins, the Woodland King and paths unknown, had not been the same talk he’d had with Dis and then later, his brother, as he plotted the course of this grand adventure. He’d imagined a nice little hike, some interesting people, perhaps even meeting a bard who would follow him about and craft mighty songs of his courage. But to actually earn those songs was another thing.

“The woods,” he repeated, as she began to drink her second ale. And then she said she needed to charge more and he almost protested, but when she weighed it against the time it would take he relaxed. He understood paying more for something that took more time.

"Going that route, I would say we could reach the Gladden River by...oh let's say a week or two past midsummer. Six weeks at least, but not more than ten, barring any incident. Though if you can provide mounts for us I may be able to cut that down to a month. I don't suppose you're much of a horseman?"

“Six weeks! Maybe ten!” He stared at her for a long moment, disbelieving the time it would have taken to go the entire route. He hadn’t thought of that. No, not that far ahead and certainly not ten weeks ahead! He blew the air past his cheeks and narrowed his eyes as he peered into the distance, about two feet in front of his face. Dis seemed more distant now. Ten weeks to the Gladden river, another to the mountain, perhaps, then finding the dagger, maybe another more, then the trip back…three more months on top of that, and it would put them in the beginnings of winter, which meant more time. He might be gone for almost a year before he saw her again. A year.

“I…I don’t have time to tarry,” he said, digging into his pouch. No, not that one, his hand slipped into the other side of his vest as he investigated where he’d placed this item. Inside were all the trinkets, jewelry, and items he had made for Dis over the years; things she had thrown back at him and he had kept. She wanted collateral, and money for horses, promising it would save them up to a month.

The waitress brought his beers and he quaffed half of one before finding what he had been searching for. Ah…yes. The first ring she had rejected.

He held it between his fingers and held it towards Maerwyn. Twin rubies had been refined into two halves of a heart, entwined by diamonds. The gold work resembled knots at the side, then followed the sultry curve of the band around the back, where twin bands of diamonds curved for half the circumference of the ring. It had taken him several years to find rubies of the same exact hue and clarity; even longer to get each intricate setting for the identical diamonds to fit just right, with just enough silver added to the gold to make it strong. Dis had taken one look and threw it in the gutter, declaring it juvenile and rubbish. Even if it was so, the human could always have it melted down and sell the gems individually. It had not value to Orin once the intended bearer refused it. Still, on the inside of the ring, near the mounted gems, bore his signil; an obique with a line bisecting it, and parallel lines from the bisector to the right.

“Collateral,” he stated. His palm swallowed up the ring before she could snatch it away. “Eh, eh, eh. First, your word. We leave tomorrow, I’d prefer a mountain goat, but I’ll take a pony if they have one, and a horse for you. One gold a day, standard weight, and room and board. Half the bounty if we come across any, except for the one thing I seek, which I will tell you when we get there. If we get there. I might fire you at the river.” He tilted his head. “Agreed?”

Once she agreed, he opened his hand and let her pluck it from his palm.

“Now the map,” he pulled out the one he had been given. “Show me all those places you mentioned; the Redhorn Pass, the High Pass…I don’t see them anywhere.”

His Map

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn tried to hide the growing curiosity on her face, but the three large mugs of ale weren't doing much for her skills of subterfuge. Although her face remained overly placid and disinterested, she couldn't help but lean forward when Orin mentioned time would be of the essence. "Now why would a dwarf be in a hurry to get to the Gladden River?" she mused, resting her chin on her hand as she gave him a sideways glance. "You know there's nothing there, right? Bit o' marsh and plenty of fish where it meets the Anduin, though you'll get more out of Long Lake if that's your fancy. Perhaps..." The woman's eyes began to glitter with a curious light. "You know of a treasure in that region? Something from the days of the Old Kings in the South?"

Her voice was teasing, but inside she wondered if that might not be the case. People said a great king had died in the Gladden Fields centuries ago, slaughtered by orcs that certainly hadn't grown any more friendly over the years. But if there was a treasure near the river, surely it would have been found by now. The banks of the Great River were sparsely inhabited but well traveled by men and orcs alike. No, the Gladden Fields couldn't have any lingering mysteries in this day and age, which mean Orin was seeking something that lay past the river, either beneath the mountains or beyond them.

"But, never mind me," Maerwyn sighed, dropping her hand back to the table. "Your business is your own as mine is mine, and as long as I get my pay I'll take you to the ends of the earth, if that's your wish. If speed is important to you though, there's no going around it: we'll need to pass through the woods. Shouldn't take us more than a week as long as you mind me on the road, and then it's only a day or two more to the river. This time of year it shouldn't be too hard to procure a boat--I may ask you to facilitate the costs on that, if there are any. I know some folks, you see--but traveling downstream will be quick. So long as we don't have any trouble, I think we should reach the Gladden River within a month of departing. Will that suit?"

Clearly it must have, judging by the ring the dwarf produced as his downpayment. A low whistle escaped Maerwyn's lips as she reached for it, but Orin was surprisingly quick (that or she really had drank too much). Rolling her eyes as he asked for her word, she held her right hand up to him. "You have my word, Orin Indr..Indra...Master Orin. Barring any circumstances that are beyond my control, I, Maerwyn, will deliver you to the banks of the Gladden River in no longer than four weeks. Will that suffice?" Her ears did perk up a bit at the mention of bounty, but she tried not to show her interest. So he's a treasure hunter she realized with a small amount of satisfaction on her face. Of course, it all made sense: why he was traveling alone, why he would go to the middle of nowhere, why he was hesitant to speak of his ultimate goal. He shouldn't have even mentioned bounty the mercenary thought with a shrug, but who was she to argue? A fee plus a share seemed more than fair enough to her, and if he could hold her to words spoken in the Gilded Lantern, she could do the same.

"We can leave whenever you like," she continued, stretching slightly. "Though going through the woods, I recommend we forsake mounts. They'll hinder more than they'll help on the paths I have in mind, though if boats aren't your fancy we might hire a few ponies once we get past the forest and follow the river that way. If you don't have rations already, I recommend procuring some, though you may want to wait until we reach Laketown. Many of the merchants in Dale will overcharge you if they know you come from the Mountain. Legendary dwarf gold and all that."

This warning delivered, she turned her attention to Orin's map, a rather crudely-drawn but recognizable enough image in her mind. "Well now, as I said it's not my business where you're headed as long as I get my pay, but I'll do my best to advise you without knowing your destination all the same. Now, if you're looking to eventually cross the mountains, the safest route is here." Her finger traced down the line of the Anduin until it came to the Emyn Muil, then jolted sharply left. "Follow the river to the borders of Rohan, then cut across through the Gap of Rohan. It's long way, but there are villages once you go west of the river, and in my experience the people aren't unfriendly to travelers, though you might have a bit of a language barrier. I do know a little of the tongue though, should you choose to keep me." Maerwyn couldn't hide the arrogant grin the crossed her face at this last point.

"If that's too far out of the way, my next choice would be the High Pass. The path is easy enough until you get the mountains." To illustrate, she began at Long Lake, then followed the river to the Old Forest Road. "It does get a little cagey in here," Maerwyn admitted as she followed the line of the road through the woods. "More spiders than elves, and you'll have a bear of a time finding the trail the farther east you are, but the conditions aren't bad near the western edge. Once you clear the woods, the road continues on to ford the river, then goes right up into the mountains to the High Pass. The main path up there is usually watched by goblins, but there are bypasses if you know where to look. Assuming, of course, you aren't afraid of heights and you've got a warm cloak." She shivered a little at the memory, despite the fact that most of summer was still well ahead of them.

"If the High Pass is too cold for you though, you'll not want to attempt the Redhorn Gate." Maerwyn noticed it wasn't listed on the map, and the nearest representation she could guess at was the illustration of a mountain directly above--yes, the Moria Gate. "Elves are the only ones stupid enough to use the pass these days. They call it Caradhras, and even they don't always survive the crossing, between the blizzards and the orcs coming up from the black pits under the mountains. I'll be honest with you, Master Orin," she pulled her gaze away from the map to look at him rather sheepishly. "I've never attempted this crossing myself, but I know of those who have. The only ones that survived were those that turned back and found another way. I'd recommend you do the same, and aim for either the Gap of Rohan or the High Pass."

She pushed the map across the table back towards him, then took the ring from his hand and held it up to closer examine it in the light. It was a beautifully made thing, and no doubt could have been traded at the markets of Dale for a not-unreasonable sum of gold. But there was little for Maerwyn to spend her money on once she was out in the wilds, so for now it seemed prudent to hold onto the ring until the journey was complete. She attempted to slide it over her fingers, but the hands of a human woman are more delicate than those of any dwarf, and it wouldn't fit on any of them. Instead, she removed her red scarf, revealing a long white neck and pulling out a small silver chain hanging around it. This she unfastened and slid on the ring until it came to a rest next to another one, albeit this one was just a simple band that seemed to be made of polished wood. Once she was sure both ring were secure on the chain, the woman tucked it back into her collar, retied her scarf, then rose to her feet.

"Well then milord, if we're to head out in the morning, I recommend getting a good night's rest. By your leave I think I'll retire for the evening. At what time would you like me to fetch you?" The false tone of a faithful servant had yet again crept into Maerwyn's voice, although the look on her face wasn't unkind as she spoke.

 

[Traveler]

“Indrafangin,” he offered, but she went straight to Master Orin which sounded a lot like she was talking to his father. “Yes, that promise will suffice quite well, thank you.”

As she started sketching out different routes they might take Orin had a difficult time following that little finger around the map. It could have been the beers, but it was probably because her fingers were so tiny and slim that he kept wondering if it belonged to an exquisitely crafted doll. A doll with scars across the backs of her hands. Some of the routes took them way out of the way of the mountain, others were more roundabout but would get them there eventually. The interesting thing was that the map indicated mountains and valleys but did not tell you if it would take you a day to hike thirty miles or a week; you had to know the area. And unless Maewyn was an incredibly good liar, she knew a lot of the areas he needed to trek.

He nodded at her assertion they could leave whenever he liked. “I think we should go through the woods, then, and down to Old Forest Road.” He figured if she did not work out, from there he could simply follow the route himself. If it did work out…then he would be less likely to miss the gate, so that was good. He had a shallow clue of even what to look for; only the faith that love would find a way, and he had enough love to make that happen despite his inexperience with life outside the Mountain. “We can take the River south.” Over the mention of ponies versus boats, he chewed the thoughts over as he finished off his second beer, then reached for the third.

“I’ve…never been on a boat, actually,” he admitted to her suggestion regarding the river, “but if it’s the faster route I’ll try it.” Time was of the essence after all. “And I don’t mind trying the Redhorn Gate. Cold doesn’t scare me.” He wondered at the Elves being called foolish. He had never considered them that. Aloof, yes. Haughty, unreasonable, and superior (in their own minds) definitely. But never foolish. He did not like dealing with them in the smithy; they wanted things that he didn’t want to make, but that their own craftsmen thought too beneath their abilities. Still, they paid well and on time, and for a man who was saving to afford a wife that was a good business endeavor. He had a few things he’d made for them, too; things they said were imperfect and he had to craft again. Those items would help fund this little sojourn.

“But, if you’re too scared to try the Cradhras, then we can take one of the other passes you suggest; the High Pass or the Gap of Rohan.” He shrugged. “If the time is quicker on one of those, that’s the one I want.”

He watched her try on the ring, which even Dis had not done, and found it too large. Her fingers were considerably smaller than the hands he was used to. Wouldn’t such delicate things break? Then he remembered the way elves hands were tapered. Unworldly things that looked too perfect to be real. Hers were more like those fingers than dwarven ones. He wanted desperately to ask her about the scars but decided against it, since it might have been an embarrassing tale. A beating when she was young, or a fall in a cluster of thorn brushes that she had to clamber out of. But her face was decidedly unscarred, which led him to believe it was more than likely a beating. He had a few of those back in his youth. Probably about the time she had been born.

He watched her fiddling with the chain and then set the ring next to another one; a simple wooden circle that looked like it had seen a lot of love and been worn smooth by the constant touching of slim fingers. It was important to her certainly. No one carried around something like that unless it was. Perhaps the ring of a long-lost love? A husband? A brother?

‘So sad…they live such short lives.’ He brushed the dampness from his eyes and downed the remainder of his drink to hide the emotion. ‘By the time I’m married she will be an old woman, her life already spent, and I just beginning.’

Her question brought him back to the quest at hand. After a moment to consider, he replied, “An hour after daybreak would do nicely, thank you.” He glanced at the inn’s daughter and wondered if they had an open room. Originally, he had planned on eating and then continuing, stopping somewhere along the way to sleep on the side of the road if necessary. But the thought of a bed and blankets felt good now that he knew the extent of his journey. It might be the last time in a long time that he had the luxury of something over him while he slumbered.

Pushing back from the table he went to secure himself a room. After a brief ‘negotiating’ session it seemed they had arrived at a fair price, though he was aghast that bedding had been extra. Who rented a room with no bedding?

Night passed mostly uneventfully. If one were to consider a snoring bear on one side of the small box they called the ‘deluxe suite’, and the amorous couple (or couples) on the other side uneventful. When the air shifted in the open window, signaling the sun’s approach, Orin stirred. It wasn’t just the sun’s appearance reddening the horizon that had woken him, but five decades of listening to the horns of the hour in the mountains count off the time of day and night, forever embedded in his mind, that would forever act as an internal clock. Dwarves had a knack for knowing the time wherever they were. Some said it was a gift of the the Vala Aulë, but Orin knew that it probably had more to do with their self-imposed clockwork.

No matter the reason, it was time to rise, wash his face, and offer prayers of thanks to Eru Ilúvatar and the Ainur who served Him. This was a big day for him. He was going to make it to the mountain, he knew it, and find the secret dagger, and then return…this was the beginning of life with Dis, whose parting words, ‘Don’t come back until you find it’, were her promise to him that this journey would give him his heart’s desire. The person he was destined to spend his life with, and love until the passing of the Ardra Marred.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Very well then. I'll bid you a good night, and see in the morning. Pleasant dreams to you, Master Dwarf." Maerwyn inclined her head towards him, then pausing only drop another coin in the barmaid's hand (and ask what room her employer would be given) she disappeared up the stairs to her own lodging. Her room was smaller than the others, and on the very top floor of the inn, but with small high windows on all four walls that let in plenty of hair and light, and while the bed was only large enough for one person it was quite comfortable, with some of Mrs. Ernardsson's best bedding to make things comfortable. Thanks to the late hour and the beer, the woman had no trouble falling asleep as soon as she'd stripped out of her armor and down to a loose linen shift, although her dreams were restless.

It was always that way before a journey; a combination of excitement and nervousness--though she'd never admit to the latter--that often caused her to wake and groggily wonder what was a dream and what was real. The job must have been real, of course; she could feel the warmth of Orin's ring heavy between her breasts. But the things chasing her through the woods, had that been real? And the snow, falling so quickly and heavily around her feet that no matter how she tried to move it still buried her up to her nose? They certainly felt solid enough to her, but when she rolled over she still felt the featherbed beneath her instead of hard ground, and while there was a cool breeze blowing through the open windows overhead, it definitely lacked the biting chill of snow.

She awoke just as the sun was beginning to rise, and while she felt a bit of heaviness in her head her body seemed rested enough. Maerwyn dressed and armed herself, then began to gather her few possessions that had been scattered around the room. The pack she carried had to be small enough to allow room for her bow and quiver, but it still had enough room for some rations (once she obtained some), a waterskin, and a heavy bearskin cloak that doubled as her bedroll. She wore a lighter weight wrap made out of a deep scarlet material over her regular clothes, and judging by the scent of the air when she climbed on her bed to look out the window, it seemed like she would need to wear the red hood as well. It was going to be a rainy day.

A full hour hadn't quite passed by the time she finished packing her things, but once she was ready Maerwyn descended the stairs and walked down the short hallway where Angmar's daughter had told her Orin would be quartered. After checking the number on the door, she rapped clearly on the wood three times. "Good morning, Master Orin. Ready for a journey, I hope?" she asked with as much cheerfulness as she could manage. For a moment, she almost suggested they remain at the inn for breakfast, but when she looked out the window of the dwarf's room she could see the rainclouds were approaching more quickly. Quite the auspicious start the woman thought, frowning at the scene. Should make walking a joy.

But did they have to walk? At the thought of breakfast, it had occurred to the wanderer that this time of year the vegetables should have been fresh and extra tasty. And with abundant harvests coming in, that meant increased traffic on the road and river alike. From Dale to Esgaroth was a two day walk at her pace, but unless they had mounts dwarves always seemed to move more slowly than the human was used to. If they happened to find a willing merchant with cart though, they could be there by evening, or if a boat was available, midafternoon. Either way, it would be better than spending their first night out in the open under the rain.

"I was thinking we might seek some breakfast at the riverside," Maerwyn said slowly, recalling that Orin had said he'd never ridden on a boat before. Not unusual, in her experience; dwarves weren't exactly known as mariners. But she had to try and persuade him all the same. After all, the River Running was a pleasant little streamlet when compared to the Anduin, and if the dwarf couldn't get used to a boat now he would going to have some real trouble once they cleared the forest. "Arnmar is usually up by now if you have a bill to settle yet, but we'd better be on our way. Looks like the weather won't be with us."

There was a heavy mist in the dim alleys of Dale as Maerwyn led him south towards the riverside piers. In the market square, which still featured a few die-hard merchants ready to sell their wares despite the rain, she paused to fill her own waterskin at the public well, then purchased a few staples just in case they should be delayed on their way to Esgaroth. By the time they reached the long row of small barges and keelboats, a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Despite the weather though, Maerwyn's face lit up at the sight of a grouchy looking old man with a single eye, leaning on a heavy cane and overseeing a pair of brawny lads as they loaded barrels of gravel into his vessel.

"Why good morning Master Ivor! Sending more...paving stones to Master Heorg?" A warm smile had spread across her face, that seemed to sap any lingering hint of joy out of Ivor's. "I don't suppose you'd have room for a couple of passengers on their way to Esgaroth? Or is your boat much too full?"

"I'll not be taking the likes of you anywhere, lassie," Ivor sniffed, looking distastefully at the woman and distrustfully at the dwarf. "Who's that then?"

"This?" Maerwyn stepped aside and gestured grandly towards Orin. "Why, Master Orin of Erebor, my current client. He's hired me to escort him to visit some kin in the Blue Mountains, and you know I am a woman of utmost efficiency. Which is why I would greatly appreciate it if you could somehow find room for us on your vessel, dear Ivor. Of course we would pay you for your trouble. Though not as dearly as Master Heorg pays you for his paving stones."

"Hmph," Ivor looked back and forth from one traveler to the other. "A gold piece. Each."

Well now, that was an insult. Maerwyn might have charged just as much for her services, but the old smuggler couldn't fight his way out of a paper sack, and most certainly would not be providing supper on the journey. "I was thinking perhaps a silver, maybe two if you could manage to be a bit more charming to my client," the woman sighed. "But instead, I suppose my counteroffer would be this: Take us to Esgaroth, or I'll inform the Tradesmaster you've been smuggling again. And I don't think you can afford to lose another eye."

The old man let out a growl and took a step towards her, lifting his cane as though it were a club. "You'll do no such thing..."

Her hands instantly dropped to her left swordhilt, but the woman took a step back nonetheless. "One more step and I'll scream. The guards are only a few blocks away, and they don't like you any more than they like me. I see a few more barrels there," she inclined her head towards the edge of the pier. "Can you get them all on your boat and shove off in time?"

He scowled at her a few moments longer, then turned his back. "Find a spot and stay there. Cause any trouble and I'll have the lads throw you overboard." The arrangement settled, Ivor turned back to his men and encouraged them to pick up the pace, not wanting to delay in case the woman was right about proximity of the guard.

Maerwyn herself seemed quite pleased at the arrangement, and looked back towards Orin with a more cheerful expression than she'd worn all morning. "Fancy a boat ride then?"

 

[Traveler]

Orin felt happy. He felt truly happy for the first time in decades. The feeling had been so long absent that he had forgotten what it felt like, and that morning when he woke and the colors seemed more brilliant than he could remember he wondered if he’d caught some human illness. But after his washing and prayers it seemed like the bright colors were here to stay. When Maerwyn called through the door he had just hoisted his hefty pack on his stout back, slid his trusty axe in its holder, and checked to ensure that all his trinkets and belongings were where they should have been. Then he swept back his hair with one wide hand and secured the top back with a strip of leather cleverly woven thrice around his thick hair, calling out “Good morning! One moment…” and then, folding the Gilded Lantern’s scant blanket over an arm to return (so he would get his deposit back) he stepped out and greeted his guide. It was going to be a lovely day. To top it off the air smelled deliciously like a new cave, dank and moist, with all the promise of discovery laying before him.

He grinned at his new traveling buddy. “I’m ready for this journey, that’s a certainty!” He noticed her less than enthusiastic eyes, where her smile did not quite reach. “Did you not sleep well?” he asked as they walked down one staircase and then another. And another yet again. It seemed that humans, who were not fortunate enough to live in mountains, found it comforting to build their own. “I find that a clean conscience usually precedes a good night’s sleep,” he helpfully added.

After finalizing his tab with the innkeeper and confirming that he was fine with dining in the next city, he joined Maerwyn outside and looked up at the grey, foreboding sky. It looked comfortably like the smoke-covered ceiling of the caves, and made him feel much better about the day’s journey. He pulled out a wide-brimmed felt hat and snugged it onto his head before catching up with her longer legs. “How far is Riverside?” he asked as they replenished their immediate needs at the grossly overpriced merchant stalls. He should have just given Maerwyn his purse and let her haggle the deals; it was obvious to him that they were charging him much more simply because he was a Dwarf. ‘There ought to be a law,’ he grumbled to himself, but he paid the final negotiated prices and told himself that it was all worth it for his end goal.

There next stop was even more interesting. Orin watched through the rivulets of water running of his brim as Maewyn talked to the boat’s owner. As she did so, he eyed the cargo and calculated the displacement of water and the size of the boat. Those must have been heavy paving stones indeed!

The captain had sniffed at the guide and declared that he would not be taking her anywhere, which drew Orin’s attention. “She’s not that bad,” he defended, drawing the captain’s attention as if the dwarf had been invisible to him a moment ago. And then his ears perked at her lie about their destination. ‘Clever girl,’ he raised an eyebrow and nodded at the man as if every word she spoke was as true as the next sunrise. There again with the paving stones. Were they made of lead? He would have to ask her once they were safely delivered downriver…

The man growled and made as if to attack the girl. Orin stepped forward, one hand on his dagger and another raising up to block the blow that never came, when Maewyn threatened to scream at the man. It seemed to still him. Her scream must have been formidable in the past to have stopped him so quickly. A moment more and the deal was struck. And from what he remembered of the conversation; no coin would change hands. Clever indeed.

He stood at the edge of the pier for a few moments and looked at the rocking coffin on the river. It moved more unsteadily than any animal he had ridden. Worse than the movement was the depths below, designed to drag dwarves to a watery death if any chance to fall in. For everyone knew that dwarves did not swim, and thus stayed as far away from water over chest height as possible. He swallowed the lump at his throat and a hand went to where his amulet rested beneath his vest, taking comfort in the talisman beneath the layers of cloth and leather.

No, he did not fancy a boat ride. He did not fancy anything aside from a sturdy, dwarven built bridge to cross the water, but he did fancy Dis. He looked at Maewyn’s smiling face waiting in the little death trap, then reasoned that his journey must surely be blessed, so there was no way that a simple little boat would stop him. He slowly clambered onto the vessel and found the most central seat available. He knew that his face had grown pale from the effort. It was good that he had only had a bit of bread and cheese that morning, else it would have already covered the deck.

It did not take Master Ivor long to load up the final barrels, and soon they were moving at a brisk pace down the river. Orin breathed out through his mouth, trying to remember that ‘people’ did this every day. Just because a dwarf happened to be in the boat would not guarantee that there would be any problems. This was just a boat, going down an average river, with an average payload. An average payload of pavers, that weighed as much as lead…in barrels. Slowly the gears clicked into gnomish place, and Orin’s brow began to furrow. He glanced at Maerwyn. Surely she knew, with all her talk of the guards, and the ship’s payload. She knew, but she accepted it as a normal day in the valley.

Should he do something? Or…would that push back his goal. Remembering his mission, he remained silent and watched the shore, praying for smooth waters and a leak-proof vessel, and hoping that this would be the last boat ride he would have to take in his life.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

It was somewhat amusing to see the look of hesitance on Orin's face at the prospect of the boat. In Maerwyn's experience dwarves rarely admitted to fears of any kind, and tended to bluster and boast their way through any situations they couldn't argue their way out of. It occurred to her yet again that her employer must have been very different from other men of his kind, and the idea intrigued her. Clapping one hand on his shoulder, she tilted her head towards the gangplank and pushed him gently towards it. "Come on then, best get aboard before we're both soaked through."

The hold of the vessel wasn't exactly waterproof, and in some places the planks of the roof gaped so much that the rain was liberally pouring in. But the rear starboard corner seemed dry enough, and the barrels lined up there at least had lids and would serve decently as seats. Maerwyn had no trouble hopping onto one and settling with her back against the rickety wall of the hold, and with her legs dangling easily over the edge she took out a small knife and a hunk of wood and set about whittling to pass the time. She would have been content enough to pass the time in silence, however whenever she glanced over at her companion the anxious look on his face distracted her more and more.

Finally she sighed and dropped the carving into her lap. "You should relax. Ivor's a bastard, but he and his lads are good rivermen. Not one crash between them, except for that time they ran up against the Tradesmaster's barge in Esgaroth. And that was more funny than dangerous," she chuckled in remembrance, having been blessed enough to witness the incident firsthand. "And even if the worst does happen, the river's only twenty or so feet deep in the middle, and even shallower near the banks. I've seen children swim across it with no trouble."

But then again, the children hadn't been fully armed or carrying half as much gear as Orin was. It was actually quite impressive, how much a fellow of his stature could carry on his person, and Maerwyn wondered if she might be able to talk him into taking on a heavier portion of supplies once they got to Esgaroth. That of course was assuming he didn't panic and insist on being put ashore sooner.

Perhaps the best thing was just to keep him distracted with conversation. It would at least help pass the time more quickly than carving and waiting for him to vomit would. "Were you born Under The Mountain?" Maerwyn asked curiously, crossing her legs and leaning forward on the barrel. "Judging by the fact you needed a guide, I'm assuming you haven't traveled far beyond Erebor. Ever been to the Lake-Town before?" Besides her experiences with citizens from the Kingdom Under The Mountain, the only other dwarves she had encountered were craftsmen from the Blue Mountains, and the rather intimidating fighters from the Iron Hills. She would have bet the entire payment he owed her that Orin definitely wasn't from the latter, but he seemed much too noble to be just a simple smith or tradesman from the former. The mercenary pressed a single scarred finger to her lower lip, deep in thought as she observed him.

"You're...young too, aren't you?" Not that he looked it, exactly. He had a beard after all, and while she'd seen dwarves with wider shoulders and more powerfully-built frames, Orin's body could never be mistaken for that of a child even at his diminutive height (compared to a human, of course). It was Orin's eyes that betrayed his youth, the clear expressions and raw emotions felt by someone who hadn't lived enough to learn about putting up walls. Maerwyn wasn't sure how longs dwarves lived, she just knew they aged much more slowly than humans. Her employer must have seen more years than she had, but all the same the woman didn't doubt she was farther down the road of life than he was. Or if not, he really had just led a sheltered existence Under the Mountain.

Either way, the woman was beginning to feel more firmly that this job was not going to be as straightforward as she had expected. It was rare for her to accompany someone on their first journey unless she was traveling in a group. But looking at the dwarf, Maerwyn couldn't say she minded the prospect too much. He was refreshing, in his way, and she didn't doubt that if nothing else the trip would at least be interesting.

As the day passed, Orin's fears proved unfounded as the boat clipped briskly down the river, but Maerwyn was annoyed to see the rain was only growing heavier. She was even more annoyed when Ivor came down to the hold near sunset to inform them they'd be put ashore at the Gateway of Long Lake. Although the mercenary argued that the agreement was passage to Esgaroth itself, the captain countered that he could have both woman and dwarf thrown overboard right then if that would suit them better. Either way the smuggler had no intention of explaining to the dock guards what Maerwyn and a mysterious dwarf were doing on his vessel, so it was with many a grumble on all sides that the boat pulled up on the stony shoals of the Gate and the passengers roughly jostled overboard.

"I hope the dock collapses under the weight of all your horseshit!" Maerwyn shouted after the boat as it drifted out onto the rough surface of the lake. She continued to curse as she raised her scarlet hood over her now-sopping plait of hair. "Well then, feel like walking another fifteen, twenty miles to town? Or shall we try to make camp for the night? Don't think we'll be able to manage a fire in this weather though..."

 

[Traveler]

The rain reminded him of the great falls under the mountain, ones that no non-dwarven eyes had ever seen to his knowledge. The sound soothed him enough to slightly loosen his death-prevention grip on the only steady wall of the smallish vessel, and he quickly found that standing felt more secure than sitting. For some reason, ten toes in sturdy boots seemed to grip the boat’s motions better than his bottom could.

He found himself looking from the shore to Maerwyn’s little wooden toy that she was whittling. How could she feel comfortable on that rickety seat with her legs dangling for any river monster to grab? He could not not tell what it was supposed to be; perhaps a stick, or maybe a little figure of some kind, but before she could get it to something that he could recognize she sighed and stopped. He appreciated her attempt to calm him with her story, truly he did, but the fact that the captain had crashed at least once, and probably in this same ship made him heart race a little faster.

“You do know that dwarves do not swim, do you not?” he gripped the center post with a white-knuckled hand, “and ‘around’ twenty feet is nearly four times my height, so there’s little chance I’d be able to walk out of the river bottom before I ran out of air.” He frowned and looked behind them at the wake of the boat as it moved towards their destination. Without air, there would be no gallant retrieval and eventual ‘I do’s with Dis. He licked his lips and tried to keep his teeth together as best as he could. This was worse than that time he ran into the goblin party on his own, without his trusty ax. At least you could bash a goblin. You could not bash drowning.

She distracted him from his thoughts with her next question, and as she elaborated, he tried to discern if she was, indeed, a crafty human setting him up to be robbed, or genuinely curious. Well, what would The One want him to do? Judge her guilty without evidence, or give her the chance to prove her intent through her actions? He chewed over this a bit before deciding that none of his answers were things that she could not guess on her own. She was clever enough.

“Yes,” he began, looking at her, “you’re right. I am somewhat young among dwarves, but I am an adult,” he defended. It was a sore spot. By forty most dwarves had adapted to the hefty, hale bodies they would carry throughout their lives, but he was still being ribbed continually for looking like he was on the cusp of adulthood. “I was born Under the Mountain fifty years ago month. Aside from a couple of trips to Dale with my father and others I’ve never gone further than I’ve been today. I’ve never had a reason to.” He smirked, mostly to himself. Who would leave the mountain if they did not have to? Everything one could want was there, and what was not could be bartered for easily with the men of the river.

“What…” he reached towards her hand. “What happened to your hands?” AS soon as he asked the question, he felt he should have kept his lips together a little tighter or asked about the bit of wood that she was worrying in her lap. Or maybe even have asked her about her own origins. Her words did not always sound like the other humans he had heard speak. There was something about her accent hat seemed to hint at other homelands far away.

When they stopped unexpectedly at the Gateway of Long Lake Orin was the only one glad for the news. They had not had to pay for passage, and they had gone many more miles than they could have made on their own in such a short period of time. Plus, now he had the bragging rights of being on a boat and surviving at trip! He could barely wait to tell his brother Holt. He slapped the man’s hand off his arm as he clambered over the low rails and nearly fell onto the rocks. Thankfully, dwarves are good with rocks. They were also good at throwing them as well, but as he considered the fist sized missiles at his feet, he decided that hurling one at the oath-breaking captain was a childish thing to do. He imagined it, though, and that was almost as satisfying.

“So, what were they carrying on that boat?” he asked Maerwyn as he dusted himself up and made sure his ax was still nicely in its slot. He watched the boat move away from them with some satisfaction. Perhaps he would have to do the unthinkable during this trip, though. Perhaps he needed to learn to swim.

“Oh…I don’t mind walking.” He began to follow her once she was done insulting Master Ivor’s back. “Besides, I’m not really that tired,” he added, stifling a yawn behind a fist. “I could go all night if need be.” The rains were not letting up, but his hat did nicely to keep the water out of his eyes, and he would rather be sopping wet from the rain than from the river. The one thing he was, was hungry. Before too long had passed he might have to rummage around in his pack for some of the food he had bought at the market. Hopefully his packing job had done well enough keeping his things as dry from the rain as possible, but if not…eh. He’d lived through worse for far less reward.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"My, aren't you the hardy fellow?" Maerwyn had to laugh at the obvious pleasure on the dwarf's face as the boat sailed away. Despite the rain and chill in the air, he seemed just as eager to continue on as he had when they left the inn that morning. "That'll help with our pace at least. But we should stop at Esgaroth regardless, though I don't expect we'll reach it for a few hours. I think we could both do with one last night at a proper tavern, and we can go over our supplies in the morning if there's anything we're missing." As she began to walk along the shore, her face kept turning to the north, an uncertain look in her eyes. For the most part it was too late in the spring for wolves; they preferred the chill of the mountains most times. Nights like this though it wasn't unusual to hear howls in the far off hills between the Lonely Mountain and the forest, ready to snatch a stray sheep or cow from under a careless farmer's nose.

And of course, there was always the possibility of bandits, human and otherwise.

Not wanting to alarm her employer, the woman did not mention either of these possibilities aloud, but she kept her voice low all the same as she spoke. It was probably hard for Orin to hear her over the sound of waves snapping on the lakeshore and the cold, heavy rain, but she did her best to chat as cheerfully as she had in the boat. "My guess is Old Ivor is sneaking dwarf gold into the city again. Maybe gems. Merchants are supposed to pay a percentage of their goods' value to the Trademasters of both Dale and Esgaroth, so it's not unheard of for them to try to sneak things in with other loads." Pausing, she looked back at him and grinned over her shoulder. "It wouldn't surprise me in the least if we were riding with a king's fortune back there."

Maerwyn was tempted to ask about the reason Orin had finally chosen to leave his gilded halls behind and venture out into the bitter wilds, but considering she hadn't answered his question about the scars on her hand, it didn't seem appropriate. Not that there was anything to hide, really. Most mercenaries had scars of some sort, and the ones on the woman's hands were some of the smallest and least ugly. It was primarily her pride that held her tongue; it wouldn't do for the dwarf to know that she'd lost almost as many fights as she had won. And for another thing...she didn't like the way he'd looked at her when he spoke of them. Thilion had looked at her like that, and the memory of him always stoked an angry fire in her that would distract her from the task at hand.

So she said little beyond instructing Orin to stay close to the shore and be careful of the loose stones beneath their feet. There were some sandier beaches on the far southern shore of the lake, but from the north gate of the Running all the way to the gates of Esgaroth the ground was rocky, and more than a little slippery in the rain. They might have had better footing if they ventured farther away from the water's edge, but Maerwyn cautioned the dwarf against leaving tracks in the mud, though she had to backpedal a bit on the subject of any potential pursuers. "Just in case there's any unchivalrous types about. Esgaroth's a bit rougher than Dale," she explained weakly.

Indeed, when they finally did reach the gates of the lakeside settlement, the woman and dwarf found the guards were a far cry from Dale's tall soldiers in their shining armor and pale blue tabards. The guards of Esgaroth were shorter and uglier, with leather helmets and holey chainmail that didn't seem to fit them properly, and where the northern sentinels carried bright silver swords, the two men before them now were armed with rusty polearms. The only good thing about them was that both of their faces were utterly unfamiliar to Maerwyn, which meant they probably wouldn't recognize her either.

"State yer business then," the nearest one asked, holding a dim, foul-smelling lantern first in Maerwyn's face, then in Orin's. A first surprised, then lascivious look crossed his face. "A woman...and a dwarf? Wot, you two elopin' then?"

"We are travelers from Dale," the mercenary cut in quickly before he could make any other comments. "I've come to visit friends, and this gentleman is my bodyguard. We were delayed due to the weather, and would very much like to enter and find our way to an inn as soon as possible. Will you allow us to enter?"

The two looked at one another for a moment, then back at the travelers. Finally they parted ways, and the one who had spoken knocked three times on the closed wooden gate behind him in signal to open. "Go on in, I suppose. But most places are shut up for the night. I 'spect you'll need to pay dearly for lodging if you need to wake anyone up at this hour."

"Noted," Maerwyn remarked, glancing sharply at Orin. She hoped he would recall one of the terms of their agreement was that he would cover the cost of taverns, which may or may not have had something to do with why she was so insistent on finding lodging for the night. "There's a decent place not far from here," she explained to him as they passed through the gates to the dark, puddle-strewn streets of Esgaroth. It was a larger town than Dale, but much less grand, with most buildings made of wood and leaning upon one another like drunkards. The nicest ones were actually built just over the surface of the lake on long, wide piers, but the woman wasn't greedy enough to lead the dwarf in such an expensive direction. Instead, they walked through the silent streets into the heart of the town, where there were still a handful of windows with lights in them.

Unfortunately, the first inn the mercenary had in mind was indeed locked up tight, and even her incessant pounding could not rouse the inhabitants. A few others she attempted were either equally closed, or when the landlord did bother to come to the door, they snapped at her that there were no rooms to spare. So it was with a sinking feeling in her heart that Maerwyn realized there would be only one establishment left to try. "The Dead Cod it is then," she muttered, turning down a narrow alley that smelled strongly of fish and walking up to the only building they'd seen that was still ablaze with light and even a little music (though it was off key and rather unpleasant on the ears).

No sooner had they walked through the door when a bright feminine voice rang out, "Why, Maerwyn Splintfinger, what in the world brings you here?" The speaker was a tall blonde girl with enormous breasts and a face that would have been beautiful if it weren't for a large wart near her left eye. Her expression wasn't unfriendly as she jiggled her way to the door with a mug in each hand, but the faces in the common room behind her all looked upon the new arrivals with varying degrees of hostility.

Biting back the desire to snap at Hilda for her loud voice and the use of her least favorite nickname, Maerwyn lowered her hood and began to wring the water out of her braid. "Same thing that brings everyone here, love. A roof overhead and some food in our bellies. Don't suppose you can help with that?"

"Oh no! Dinner was over hours ago. If I'd known you were coming I would have saved you some. Daddy made the most delightful chicken stew, with some herbed potatoes and some of Mummy's fish pies on the side. Oh, and buttermilk pie too! It was delicious," Hilda sighed dreamily at the memory, but when Maerwyn cleared her throat she seemed to come back to herself. "There um, may be some bread left though. And plenty of ale. And some cheese, maybe?"

Delightful. Maerwyn had a better supper ready in her pack. Rubbing between her temples, she felt the urge to slap the mugs out of the barmaid's plump pink hands. "What about rooms, Hilda?" she sighed.

"Well now, let's see..." Setting the mugs down on a counter opposite the door, she began to count the keys still hanging on the wall behind her. It took a rather ridiculous amount of time, considering only one remained. "Looks like we've still got Number Four if that'll suit. It's not the biggest bed, but should do fine for you and your sweetheart there." Her thick, nearly white eyebrows wiggled suggestively as she looked from the woman to the dwarf, but a moment later she let out a yelp as Maerwyn snatched the key from her hand.

"It's a job," Maerwyn snapped, closing her fingers around the key. "The one room will suit us fine for one night, all we need is the roof." And judging by the looks she was getting from the men in the common room, it occurred to her that the door lock would probably prove quite useful as well. "I'll forego supper for the night, I'm not hungry anyway. Are you coming?" She looked back towards Orin as she began to climb the stairs of the tavern, not meaning to turn the edge of her voice on him as well, but all the same her words came out much sharper than she had intended.

 

[Traveler]

Orin did not know what Holt was going on about, when it came to the humans. Aside from having his wallet raped at the market, and dealing with some very rude rivermen, his experience thus far had been ideal. Story-bookish, to tell the truth. He was enjoying the new sights and the sense of adventure that had tagged along at the cost of a gold piece a day plus room and board and a share of the bounty. Who needed to hoard all the spoils, anyway? Gold could buy you a fine meal and a place to stay, but it could not add a day to your life if the Ever-Present decided to call you away.

He did not even mind Maerwyn’s mothering of him by the rocks as they walked. She acted like she thought he would trip and break his nose or get swept away by the river; both of which were highly unlikely. Possible, but not probable. Truth be told, it was actually a little nice; he missed his mother dearly and would have liked to have talked to her about Dis, but when his mother and her cousins left for an expedition near his fortieth birthday they never returned. He pressed his lips together and kept marching. He supposed she had a right to a little adventure herself, after bearing two hardy lads to add to their numbers. From the stories his parents told, he was born the size of a kobolt and just stopped growing after that. Height, yes…but his width was not what he wished it had been.

It was perhaps because he was thinking of family that he had sighed heavily at the guards standing watch at the gate. They let them in (with no fees paid!) and he again wondered at Holt’s stories of the great Outside World. Perhaps there was less truth in them than Orin had believed.

The oil in the lanterns must have been rancid fish fat from the aroma. He was not sure how the guards could stand it, let alone wave them in their faces. He was in the process of pulling a kerchief over his nose when the guards accused Maerwyn and himself of eloping. -!?- ‘No no no no,’ he wanted to say, ‘you’ve got it wrong. She’s too smooth-skinned and fragile for the likes of me. And anyway, I’ve got someone waiting at home!’

But he buttoned his lips and glared, as that seemed the logical response to such a ludicrous suggestion. Then Maerwyn announced him as her bodyguard. Double -!?- Again he bit his tongue, remembering how angry Holt got when he did not go along with one of his brother’s lies and got them both beat for Holt’s intended infraction. That was not going to happen again. If anything transpired and they were arrested he would merely claim he did not understand the human tongue and as such was not guilty by association. How was that for lying? Two could play at this game.

He hoped that she did not take offense. because obviously they were giving off the wrong impression to these people. Or they were lascivious. Or both. But he would never presume to marry outside his clan, let alone a human (was she?) who he had just met! ‘The men did not know that,’ he reasoned, ‘so perhaps it was natural to think that just because they were traveling together, they were also traveling together.’

Then at the first full inn and the second Orin let out another sigh. Not because of the situation but because of his familial thoughts…but both of the people who answered the door looked at him as if he had just thrown a torch into their stockrooms. It looked like they were sleeping in the streets tonight. Not bad actually – they were a lot like sleeping in the caves, only without the solid ceiling to keep you from floating int the never regions of the sky. He didn’t mind, actually. It would save him the cost of a night’s room and board for two.

Then she mentioned The Dead Cod and he thought she meant ‘dead cot’, as in sleeping in the graveyard. Thankfully, she did not. She meant sleeping in a building that had rotting fish in its walls, which was preferable over zombies and ghouls any night. Once they entered the establishment (and that was giving it more due than it deserved) the patrons in the Cod made him rethink the zombies and ghouls. He was so busy studying the eyes studying them that he thought the inkeeper’s busty assistant was offering them chicken stew, herbed potatoes, and fish pies. And buttermilk pie! “Yes, please, and ales…” he had started to order, but then he realized that they were gone.

Gone.

Why in the world would she tell them about something that they could not have? That was downright cruel! His stomach growled in agreement. Then it was down to bread and cheese, which they had plenty of. And without the food the ale would be circumspect, so none of that either. He sighed again. He had lost count of how many times he had sighed deeply that evening, but it was becoming his favorite response to everything lately.

“…but should do fine for you and your sweetheart there."

“No, she’s not—” he protested.
“It’s a job,” Maerwyn snapped, closing her fingers around the key.

‘Great, now she was a prostitute and I her employer. That is great…’ Orin rolled his eyes, then raised an eyebrow at her insistence that one room would do fine for the night.

She had not asked him if it was fine. He muttered a “Yeah,” at her question if he would be coming and tromped up the stairs behind her, wondering how it came to be that he was now her bodyguard and yet he would also foot the bill. Her sharp tone didn’t faze him a bit; her tone was still kinder than Dis’s had ever been, and he knew that Dis loved him, so unless she punched him square in the jaw or stuck a dagger in his belly he was fine with her snarkiness.

The room was tiny. The bed even more so. He glanced around and noticed she seemed quick to check the bolt, and then set his enormous bag in the corner. “You take the bed,” he offered, walking over to inspect the small window. Outside was a small ledge that was not enough to carry a dwarf but might support a fleet-footed thief if any of them chanced to try to rob them. The air was filled with the not-so-delightful aroma of decaying fish, so they were damned if they opened the window and damned if they did not.

“I apologize if I gave off the appearance of being your ‘sweetheart’ or fiancée,” he said, turning back to face his guide. “I don’t mean to embarrass you or tarnish your reputation.” He smiled and shrugged. “I’m practically an engaged man myself. As soon as I ret--- ah… soon. I’ll be engaged soon,” he corrected, smiling embarrassingly. His eyes flickered from her to the bed.

“Ah. Would you like me to wait outside while you get ready for bed?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

The rooms at The Dead Cod were decrepit hovels compared with the neat comfort of the Gilded Lantern, but at the very least they were warm and dry, which was the best Maerwyn could ask for at the moment. Still, with one look at the bed and its covers (which probably hadn't been washed in a few months at least), she was content to unroll her bearskin near the dimly glowing coal brazier. "Ah, that's all right, you take it," she remarked, trying not to look too skeptical at the once piece of furniture in the room. "You're paying for it after all, might as well take advantage." Sitting down on the skin, she left her tall brown boots on but did remove her pauldron and bracers, then draped her red cloak over the foot of the bed to dry somewhat.

She was in the process of unpacking a supper of bread, dried fish, cheese, and apples when Orin's apology made her jerk her head straight up. Maerwyn stared at him a moment, then burst into uncontrollable, boistrous, tear-streaming laughter. For several minutes she attempted to speak, but every time she would begin she collapsed back against the wall in giggles again, and it was only after she'd taken a long draw from a small metal flask on her belt that she managed to collect herself. "By the stars...my reputation!" she gasped helplessly, wiping the tears from her face. "Oh Master Dwarf...don't you know that of all those men downstairs, I've stolen from at least three, killed the mates of two, and fucked five or six? I never did recall how I ended up naked in a fish barrel with Stigric." She paused a moment as if trying to remember, then shrugged and took another drink from her flask. "I assure you, Orin Inderfungi, there is nothing you can do to ruin my reputation. If anything it's yours you should be worried about."

Still chuckling to herself, she began to unbuckle her belts and removed first them then her leather jerkin, leaving her dressed in just her deerskin trousers and a close-fitting woven tunic. While other women might have been slightly embarrassed, Maerwyn was completely unabashed that her curves were clearly on display beneath the relatively thin clothing, without a corset or kirtle to conceal them. She merely cut herself a small hunk of cheese, popped it on a hunk of bread, then took a bite as she began to unbind her hair and let it fall in loose, damp waves over her shoulders and chest.

After she swallowed, she looked more thoughtfully at the dwarf. "Got yourself a lady, have you? Is that why you're headed west? To meet her?" If so, there went the Moria theory. Unless his lover was a ghost and Orin was madder than she thought, he had to have been headed across the mountains. Considering how bad he was at maps, she supposed it made sense he would want to detour to the Gladden River. He probably had no idea how far out of the way it was.

"Your women," she continued, helping herself to a bit more of the food and gesturing for Orin to join her. "They don't leave the mountain much, do they? I've only ever seen one in all the times I've been in Dale. The beard was unexpected." Blinking, she subconsciously touched her own smooth, suntanned cheek. "But her gown was beautiful, and she looked like some kind of princess, she was wearing so many jewels. Do all dwarf women dress like that?" Try as she might, Maerwyn couldn't keep a note of envy out of her voice. In her mind it was jealousy for the riches of the Kingdom Under The Mountain. Never in a thousand years would she admit that a diminutive woman with a beard had appeared, in her own mind, more beautiful than the mercenary could ever hope to be.

Bah, what was beauty if you had two good swords, an eye for hunting, and enough reflexes to dodge a punch? She didn't need anyone to think she was pretty, as long as they thought she was strong. Thus were the thoughts that crept through Maerwyn's mind until she stilled them with a third drag from the flask before tucking it in the coil of her belts. Untying the scarf from around her neck, she began to fold it into a pillow, at the same time loosening the throat of her tunic. The light of the room was dim, but if Orin looked closely it was easy to see another line of scar tissue running diagonally across her collarbone. A moment later though, the woman laid down on her side, resting her head on her scarf and letting her hair fall over her shoulder to cover her chest.

"The door's locked, yeah?" she asked, glancing in its direction. It seemed so, but just to be safe she went to the corner to pick up Orin's pack. "May I?" Maerwyn asked, but she didn't wait for an answer and carried (well, dragged, considering the thing's immense weight) the bag over until it was in front of the door. "Just to be safe." The woman laid back down again, but her knife was under her pillow and both short swords lay on either side of her, easily within reach even if she rolled over. "I don't think we'll need a watch tonight, but feel free to stay up if you like and wake me in a few hours. I'm dead tired," she yawned. It was mostly due to the strong liquor in her flask; fifteen miles of walking and eight hours in a boat should have been far from draining on her, even in the rain.

Maerwyn was asleep within minutes of wrapping herself in the thick black cloak, her long lashes resting lightly on her cheek as her chest slowly moved in and out. If she had dreams she didn't remember them later, and laying so close to the brazier she felt a delicious warmth that was almost as good as falling asleep in her bed at the Gilded Lantern. Her hair didn't take long to dry, and once it did it twisted and tangled into unflattering knots over her face.

Indeed, she was sleeping so deeply she didn't even notice when a few hours later someone began to rap clearly at the door, followed by a guttural masculine voice growling, "Maerwyn...I know you're in there you thieving bitch. Come out before I break down the door..."

 

[Traveler]

Maerwyn’s rejection of the bed reestablished their employer/employee relationship. He considered that she might have been lying to the guards to gain them access into the city, increasing a bit of his understanding of when a little falsehood might come in handy when dealing with the outside world. Indeed, the skill seemed to be a necessity, even more than in the Mountain. It was no wonder then that his brother, who frequently went on expeditions and traveled out to trade with the nearby settlements, had to practice on him so growing up.

As he began to shake the water off of his coat and hat and place them on the bed to dry her laughter startled him. He stared at her, not knowing how to react, as she collapsed. ‘My God! Was this her way of weeping? Did she have some insane condition that turned her sorrow into laughter to cope?’ He thought she might be having a fit, perhaps a human version of the contortions that Durin would have when an unexpected loud sound caused him to drop to the ground and lose all control of his body, once nearly biting his tongue off in the process. And then she took a swig from her flask and seemed to collect a bit of control, confirming that her reputation was, indeed, the question at hand.

He unsnapped his axe from its sheath and began to open the large pack, pulling off the oiled inner lid and shaking it off by the door, then found a small towel to begin lovingly wiping the water off his weapon. He couldn’t expect it to take care of him if he didn’t take care of it, could he? The double headed beauty was a joy to him; a recent gift from his father. The curved blade on one side had been folded at least a hundred times before being formed, and the heavy pick opposite it had broken through the hardest rock, it’s tip never dulling or bending. On the opposite end of it’s sturdy handle was a smart little three-bladed knob that had been useful in bashing hobgoblins through the grates the last time he’d ventured out. It was useful to have many ways of communicating when force was necessary.

‘…of all the men downstairs…’ she began, drawing his attention away from his second love, ‘I've stolen from at least three, killed the mates of two, and fucked five or six? I never did recall how I ended up naked in a fish barrel with Stigric.’ His axe fell from numb fingers. Yes, she had warned him that she had traveled for the last ten years and could take care of herself, but…a thief, a murderer (or self-defenderer), and a…she didn’t look like a prostitute. The two he had seen at the Dale fifteen years ago had been scantily clad, with too much color on their faces and the reek of sweat and men. He would have never thought that this woman, dressed for travel and much too practical for the trade of plying feminine wares, was a prostitute. So what was it then? She warned him that his reputation was the one at stake, but his mind was too busy trying to make sense of her reason for laying with ‘five or six’ of the men in the tavern. And this was just her count for the Dead Cod, not all the others she might have visited.

He shut his jaw with a snap and felt that his face had grown uncomfortably warm as he watched her begin to undress herself as if he wasn’t in the room. After a few dry-mouthed attempts to speak he was able to muster enough moisture to form words. “You must really want children,” he began, “which makes sense, considering how little time humans have.” The thought of a chubby-faced toddler on stout little legs, laughing and grinning, brought a smile to his bearded face. He drew his eyes back from the sight and looked at her, then quickly glanced away as far too many curves and valleys drew his eyes as she began to unbind her hair. Dwarven women were always layered under multiple shifts and corsets, dresses and over dresses, leaving their wondrous bodies a lovely mystery to the world. The last time he’d been this close to the exposed curve of a breast was when he was still nursing at his mother’s teat, and he certainly didn’t remember what that looked like!

Orin busied himself with the heavy metal buttons of his leather jerkin, his fingers suddenly clumsy and numb. Definitely not enough blood going to those digits. And for some reason, his mouth was dry again. Once it was wiped down and laid across the bed, he wrung out his olive-green woolen scarf and placed that next to it, flat to dry well on the rumpled and well-used bed. Once all his gear was laid out there definitely wasn’t going to be room for a dwarf to lay on it, but he had intended to sleep near the fire anyway, and the floor looked much cleaner than the bedding.

As he finished pulling off his boots to set near the door she began to talk about his favorite subject, and his eyes softened at the thought of Dis. “Yes…Dwarven women are quite a sight, aren’t they?” Now dressed in his beige linen jerkin and trousers, and the thick socks made of the same material as his scarf, he decided it was time to eat. Flat bread, sharp cheese, and a strange little jerky thing that was meat and berries pressed into convenient little sticks and over-salted would serve, as well as water from his flask. He found a spot that was nearer the fire but not so close that Maerwyn’s near nakedness would distract him and settled to the floor.

“No, Lady Dis lives in the mountain with me. With us,” he corrected. “I’ve loved her for twenty years, and when I return, we’re getting engaged.” His lips curved upwards as he thought of her, with her soft, downy beard and the spark in her eyes. If dwarven women were considered rare, Dis was the rarest of them all. She was strong and skilled at rock work. Her carvings were works of art, and everyone said that she had the touch of The One in her ability to create sculptures that looked almost like someone could had taken the real thing and turned it to stone. He took a bite of the jerked stick and the cheese, blending it as he chewed and enjoying the sharp contrast of flavors.

“Dwarven women are the jewels of the mountain, truly. Their beards are soft, not rough like ours,” he touched his own as he stared through the warm brazier. It would make sense that this slim human envied them; their thick wrists were lovely to behold, and when an ankle would peek out from beneath the layers of skirts and dresses it was enough to make a young dwarven lad swoon, and would revisit his dreams for months, if not years. “My lady is the most beautiful of them all. We have four in our mountain that I know of. It’s not just the way the light glints off her flaxen braids, or the spark in her eyes, but…she has a special way of talking to me unlike the way she talks to the others that tells me she feels the same.” He smiled at Maerwyn.

“You’re pretty too, in a hairless human sort of way. I’m surprised that none of the men you’ve chosen have married you and given you a home full of children. I thought humans had whole litters of them, do you not?” Another bite, this one accompanied by a pull of water. She really was an interesting creature, with her slim neck, albeit handsomely scarred, and the soft curves of…he pulled his eyes away.

She was almost halfway trough her life, he reckoned. If she didn’t start soon, she might be too old by human standards to breed. Maybe humans were mostly sterile. That would explain her sampling of so many; she needed to find one virile enough to give her what she wanted and couldn’t waste a marriage on a man with dead seed.

“Aye, locked,” he answered as he finished the last piece of bread and cheese. He watched her dragging his bag over to the door. She wasn’t as strong as Dis, but she was strong for a human woman. And determined; he had to give her that. Not only was she dragging a bag that probably weighed as much as she did, but she was willing to suffer through multiple couplings to find ‘the one’.

She finally settled herself after talking about watches and waking her later. He would, he supposed, as he stretched and pulled out his autumn cloak. It was a rusty hue; beautifully speckled with little flecks of grey wool and long enough to reach to his calves. Since she had taken the spot nearest the brazier he settled himself at the end of the bed, his sodden belongings spread out above to dry. His last view as he drifted off to sleep was of her narrow back and the gentle swelling of her body as she fell asleep before him.

Rocks were falling. No, not rocks—Orin’s eyes snapped open and he turned to the door. Maerwyn was still sleeping, her hair a tumble of curls that cascaded over her bare cheeks and across the curve of a shoulder. She was exhausted, poor thing. They were weak little creatures weren’t they, these humans?

"Maerwyn...I know you're in there you thieving bitch. Come out before I break down the door..."

He rolled to his feet and stood, rubbing a fist across his eyes to clear them. It was still dark outside and his inner clock told him it was half past the midnight hour. Who would be so rude as to visit at this time? He went to the door, understanding better her reason for putting his bag in front of it. “It’s late. Speak to her in the morning,” he called, giving the other man a chance to be reasonable.

“I know that bitch is in there!” More pounding, this time harder. “Open the fucking door!”

Wish granted. A quick heave of the bag while simultaneously unlatching the door, and the close-standing man got a view of a very grumpy dwarf. Orin’s eyes trailed up the chest to find the drunk face of a man who had spent too much time at the tankard, as testified by his reddened nose and the oily ratskin on his head that passed for hair. The dwarf quickly stepped across the threshold and pulled the door behind him to let Maerwyn sleep. “I said, call on her tomorrow.”

A blade quickly found its way to the man’s hand and he reached to grab Orin’s shirt as he growled “Maybe I’ll take my losses out of you then.”

Orin’s strong paw of a hand clamped over his reaching one, stopping it from contacting with this shirt and twisting it outwards as he pulled the man down to dwarf-height and slammed his thick skull against the man’s eggshell one. A startled “Ugh!” from the man’s lips escaped before he slumbered to the floor, the dagger dropping harmlessly to the ground.

“Hmm..” Orin looked at the man and the dagger, then down the hallway. No one else had seemed disturbed by the commotion, which was either an indicator that they’d all been deep in their cups or this was a common occurrence. He slid the pilfered dagger into his waistband and then grabbed the man by a wrist and pulled him to the stairwell. He briefly considered pushing him down the stairs, which was another of those ‘it’s just as satisfying to imagine it as to do it, but without the repercussions’ thoughts he often had, and propped him sitting against the wall instead. A brief pat down turned up a few coins and a key, all which Orin pocketed, but nothing else of value.

Returning to his room he bolted and blocked the door again, then put the things he’d gleaned off the sleep-stealer on the bed. He considered that part of their bounty to be split. Then rolled into his cloak to finish off what little bit of the night was left.

Maerwyn sure had a lot of ‘friends’.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Considering the direction their conversation had gone before bed, it was a wonder Maerwyn didn't dream of children as she lay sleeping in the warmth of her bearskin. "I never think of bairns much," she had told the dwarf, and these days it was mostly the truth. But when she had been younger, before she'd resigned herself to a life of lonely wandering, she'd often wished for a "litter," as Orin so tactfully put it, of little ones; with a loving husband to go with them of course. And he was right, she probably could have had them if her path had led her up or down the riverbanks, where other people of her kind lived. Even if she had turned her back on fighting, surely there would have been a man happy enough to take a girl with adequate skills in cooking, weaving, tending to flocks and treating the little wounds that always seemed to pop up in the wilds. Maerwyn hadn't gone north or south though. She'd turned her back on the river entirely and gone straight into the woods, and there was no turning back towards the life now.

Luckily giving up a family life didn't mean giving up on all of life's little pleasures. A naughty gleam had sparkled in her eye when she looked back towards the rather bewildered dwarf. "You do know, Master Orin, there are ways a man and woman may lay together so that they do not make a child?" As further provocation, Maerwyn had made a pretense of yawning and raising her arms over her head, allowing him a glimpse of her hard, flat stomach as her tunic raised up slightly. But the novel idea of trying to seduce the dwarf quickly evaporated as it occurred to her liquor-dulled mind that, with only four females in the mountain, the odds were very good that her employer had probably never had a woman of any size. And unless the price was right, the mercenary had little interest in letting a virgin fumble around at her body.

"As for choosing men, I was really more interested in their coin than their cocks," Maerwyn had explained, dropping her arms and adjusting her posture so as to destroy any aspect of seduction she might have been wearing previously. "In my line of work, you learn to use what you have to your advantage. If a client chooses me over a man because he fancies sharing my bed, so be it. But I consider that an extra service to be charged separately, not something that's included with the typical arrangement." She let her stare linger on Orin a moment, hoping it would be clear that he too would need to pay extra for anything not in their original agreement. But it was probably unnecessary. The way he spoke about his woman back Under The Mountain made it clear he had no interest in any other.

Well, that suited her just fine. Sleeping with clients always seemed to lead to them thinking they had some sort of claim on her, beyond what they had paid her for. Perhaps if she'd been wise enough to leave more coin in mens' pockets, she wouldn't have gotten so many ugly looks downstairs. Still, if Maerwyn's curiosity did ever lead her to take a dwarf to bed, she decided she could do much worse than Orin, youth and all. She liked those deep-set eyes of his and his rugged beard, and if he was strong enough to carry an axe and a bag of boulders (or so it had felt when she tried to move his pack), he was probably strong enough to handle a woman who was tall enough to stand head and shoulders above him. Thus were her thoughts as she drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke the room was nearly pitch black, the brazier having grown cool and dim as the coals died out. She could hear something moving in the shadows, and fast as a snake her hand shot out and gripped the hilt of her nearest sword. Her torso catapulted upright as her eyes struggled to adjust in the darkness, but when she finally made out the stunted form near the bed she relaxed somewhat. "Orin? Did you want me to take watch?" she yawned, assuming Orin had woken her intentionally. Maerwyn seemed to remember him speaking in the darkness, though she couldn't make out the words in her sleep. Oddly enough she could have sworn someone else had spoken back, but as she added a few more coals to the brazier and fanned them into a bright red glow, it was clear they were alone and the door was still locked. However, she could have sworn the heavy pack barricading then entrance to the room had been much more centered before.

In addition, there was something on the bed shining dimly in the brazier light. Frowning, Maerwyn approached the grimy coverlet and let her fingers drift over a strange key and a small pile of coins (palming a couple of the latter, of course). "Where'd these come from?" she asked, looking down at the shrouded figure on the floor. "Was...someone here?" Moving so lightly that her footsteps barely made a sound, the woman checked the door again. Still locked, and though she was tempted to open it, wisdom dictated she ought to leave it shut until morning at least. The crowd at The Dead Cod were heavy drinkers as a rule, and she doubted any of the other inmates would rouse early, but just to be safe an early start seemed wisest.

Maerwyn still felt tired, but it seemed she had achieved enough hours of rest to get through the day ahead of them. She would let Orin sleep until sunrise, perhaps, then hurry him out of this filthy place as quickly as possible. In the meantime, she fished into the pocket of her red cloak and pulled out the little lump of wood, which was just beginning to take on the rough shape of some four-legged creature. The woman sat whittling until morning, occasionally humming subconsciously under her breath until a sickly gray light began to creep in through the window. Rain again she thought grimly as she turned and looked out at the misty dawn. Setting aside her carving, she crawled across the floor and gently began to shake the dwarf by the shoulder.

"Oye...wake up," she whispered in his ear, not wanting to startle him. She could see a small knife-hilt sticking out of the waistband of his trousers, and getting stabbed was not her favorite way to start the day. Once she was convinced she'd roused him, Maerwyn sat back and began to fingercomb her hair, twisting it into a fresh braid before beginning to dress and gather her things. "I don't think we should linger here too long. Hilda's the only one ever sober enough to cook breakfast and she burns the eggs. The market will be open soon, we can get something hot there if you want it."

The woman began to roll up her bearskin and pack it away into her bag. "That was probably the last night we'll sleep with a roof over our heads for a while. It looks like you have bedding enough. Are there any other tools or things you need before we leave?" For her part, Maerwyn intended to call on a fletcher she knew near the southern gate, and traveling rations could be obtained in the market proper. But the sooner they left town, the fewer chances to encounter unfriendly faces.

"We'll follow the lake today, then the river again until it enters the forest. That's where the old road used to end, but once we find it, it's just a matter of our not being found by something else." Maerwyn slid both swords into their scabbards for emphasis. Her red cloak was still a little damp from the previous day's rain, but at least it felt less heavy and waterlogged when she tied it over her shoulders. Once she was fully armed and armored, she pushed Orin's pack away from the door, silently unlocking and opening it, then shutting it again quickly.

"What in the world is Ogmar doing out there?" she hissed, glaring accusingly at the dwarf. "Did you fucking kill him?"

 

[Traveler]

Sleep was one of those things; you had it, or you didn’t. And between the man at the door and Maerwyn’s questions, it seemed like he’d be only getting it in little morsels this night. “No watch,” he mumbled into his arm, rolling over to face the door, “nobody…door…” and then pulled his cloak over his head and ignored her for the rest of the night.

The sounds of her moving about were peaceful. The little -whit, whit- of her blade against the wood a sign that everything was alright, and he dreamed of Dis and her jewel-woven soft beard, and the way she would look at him once he returned triumphant.

Later that morning he felt someone shaking him, feeling a lot like his brother. He waved at the hand as it shook him before he remembered where he was and cracked an eye in her direction. “Aye, I’m up,” he grumbled, stifling a yawn and untangling himself from his cloak. He sat there for a moment and looked at the window. ‘Ah, another glorious cloud-covered ceiling!’ It was going to be a lovely day.

As he climbed to his feet and nodded at her suggestion that they eat elsewhere, he noticed the dagger still in his waistband. It was a miracle he didn’t stab himself the night before. He tossed it on the bed next to the remaining coins and key – it looked like Maerwyn had taken her cut. And then packed his bag, taking a swig of water from his flask, and swishing it around before swallowing. It was the closest they’d get to a proper scrubbing, it seemed.

“Tools?” he thought about the things in his bag. Rope, flint and steel, a whetstone, some salt, warmer clothing, soap, comb, journal and stick, a few little things to make the journey comfortable, like needle and thread, but what could he need aside from his axe and daggers? Which were much fineer than the one taken off their midnight visitor) could he need? He could see in the near dark… but the cavern might be darker than his home. “Torches?” he asked. “And definitely more food.” He began to dress, noting that his gear wasn’t dry enough for his tastes but were better than before. “Maybe some leather oil, or soft beeswax…”

She moved his bag away from the door, then opened and shut it so quickly he thought their visitor was back. He whirled to see what the matter was, his hands still working at the heavy button on his leather vest.

"What in the world is Ogmar doing out there?" she hissed, glaring accusingly at the dwarf. "Did you fucking kill him?"

“N-no!” he protested as he strapped his heavy belt around his waist. “If you’re referring to the man by the stairwell, he came looking for you last night.” He shrugged and donned his cloak. “We talked. He called you a thief.” He left out the other descriptive. Despite her confessions last night he still found it distasteful to refer to any woman with the word used by their visitor. “I think he was still breathing when I left him there.” Humans weren’t that fragile were they? Orin remembered the mental image of the man tumbling down the stairs and smiled to himself. Imagined vengeance was sometimes much sweeter than reality; you could change them to suit your mood.

“Anyway,” he said as he placed his hat back on his head, “I told him to talk to you today after you rested.” He hefted his bag back on his back, then buckled and tightened the strap across his chest before sliding his axe back in place. “He contributed to our journey,” he motioned to the dagger, key, and coins on the bed. The key and dagger were minor things with no value to him, but he pocketed the coins. “If you want any of it feel free. It’s part of our bounty and I acquired them fair and square.”

“Now, shall we find some breakfast?” He walked over to her by the door and slid his thumbs under the backpack straps. “I think it’s going to be another beautiful day.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

After listening to Orin's explanation, Maerwyn carefully opened the door again. With one hand on her sword hilt, the other moved just in front of poor Ogmar's mouth and nose, feeling for any breath. It was faint, but there, though the enormous purple lump on his forehead did not bode well for his condition. Maybe now he'll learn to let bygones be bygones the woman thought as she straightened, then ducked back into the room. "All right, well, I suppose he's not dead. What did you hit him with anyway? He's got quite the bump there, I'll be shocked if he remembers who he is when he wakes up. Let alone who you or I might be." Pausing, she looked directly at the dwarf as a new idea occurred to her. "Did...did you hit him because he called me a thief?"

It was a preposterous notion, but from what she knew of Orin's character so far it did seem to line up. The dwarf seemed to have some very strong morals about him, and a sense of honor that seemed right out of the stories of knights and princes she'd heard as a child. It was sweet, in a way, though in this part of town it would most likely be more of a liability than anything else. "I suppose you should know that I have been accused of stealing in the past," she admitted, helping herself to the rest of the keys on the bed when he gestured to them. The key looked too similar to their own room key, so assuming it unlocked nothing more than Ogmar's chambers Maerwyn let it be. The old fool never kept much money on him anyway. "But like you, I only take what is mine, fair and square." Her thumb flicked one of the coins glittering into the air before she snatched it back away, the silver seeming to disappear in her palm entirely. "I will not stand to be cheated, and if that means collecting more than the fee agreed upon at the beginning of a business arrangement, so be it. Please keep that in mind, Master Dwarf."

There was a note of warning in her voice as she laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, and for a moment the carefree look in her eyes hardened into a glare as sharp as daggers. But it passed in a mere second, and Maerwyn even offered him a smile as they slipped past the still-unconscious form of Ogmar. "I'd also recommend not knocking out everyone who calls me a thief," she whispered mischievously. "It'll cause far too many delays, and I doubt you'll want to keep your Dís waiting that long." They encountered no one on the stairs, and in the entrance of the inn Maerwyn pointed out the box that served as both a key return and collection box for fees, but she wasn't much concerned as to whether the dwarf actually paid or not. She was thinking again of the purpose of Orin's journey, trying to puzzle out where he was headed after all if his lady love was behind him.

When they were safely out in the alley and headed back towards the wider streets, she allowed herself to speak again in her normal tones. "Your betrothed...or, your soon-to-be betrothed," Maerwyn began slowly as they wandered towards the market district. "You said she is only one of four women in your entire kingdom? She must be quite impressed with you then, to choose you above all others. Won't she miss you terribly while you're on your journey?" The woman stopped in front of a small but cheery-looking wood-shingled building that smelled of fresh bread and fragrant tea. The owner was a short, round old woman who seemed please to see them both at such an early hour, and had no trouble providing them with small table at which they could eat their breakfast.

"I thought this would suit us a bit better than the fare at the Cod," Maerwyn remarked as tea, eggs, bacon, and scones were brought out. "I recommend you eat your fill, but do it quickly. We won't be stopping again until we've passed the lake, and it's more than forty miles to the far end." She herself was content with a few small bites of everything and a cup of hot, strong-smelling tea that seemed to fully revive her after the rather fitful night. "Once we're out of town I don't expect too much trouble, but you can never be too careful. Are you much of a fighter, Master Dwarf?" Her gaze rested on his axe curiously. It looked like a powerful weapon, and beautifully made, but with his rather naive and innocent demeanor the idea of Orin in battle seemed almost laughable. Then again, he had dispatched of Ogmar with hardly a sound, so who could say for sure?

After they finished their meal, Maerwyn actually stepped aside to speak to the old woman in hushed whispers, and in what must have been a surprising turn she actually paid for the meal herself. Not only that, but after she pressed an extra coin into the owner's wrinkled hand, she accepted a small pouch that smelled suspiciously like her tea, which the mercenary tucked safely in her pack. "Right then, supplies," she remarked as they continued on their way. "I don't recommend wasting your coin on torches. Until we reach the woods the sky will either be clear enough to light our way, or too wet to do anything but make them smoke. I know a place where you can get leather oil for a fair price. Beeswax..." the woman paused and tilted her head. "What in the world do you want beeswax for?"

Unlike the people of Dale, the citizens of Esgaroth were hardly deterred by rain, and by the time the woman and dwarf reach the heart of the market hardly any stands were still closed. As Maerwyn had predicted most prices were cheaper than what could be found upriver, though there was some question of quality, especially when they strolled past a row of smithies displaying everything from fireplace pokers to enormous halberds. The mercenary did look the wares over as they passed, but nothing seemed worth stopping for, and the only additional purchase she made was at a dry goods store where she bought a week's worth of rations for the pair of them.

That settled, she began to lead Orin down the main road of the city towards the southern gate. "There's only one more place I'd like to stop, then we'll be on our way," Maerwyn remarked as they approached a fletcher's stand. Several beautifully carved bows of various sizes were hanging on the wall, and bunches of arrows fletched with colorful arrows were neatly stacked in racks. A handsome man, about ten years or so older than Maerwyn, with piercing blue eyes and dirty blond hair was seated at a stool, lashing a metal arrowhead to a shaft when he noticed their arrival.

"Let me know if I can get you anything," he greeted in a low, pleasant voice, which raised somewhat in surprise when his gaze fell upon the woman. "Maerwyn! When did you get to town?" Setting aside the arrow, he rose to his full, not-insignificant height and approached, then warmly embraced the mercenary. "You are well, I hope?" he asked after a moment, holding her at arm's length and looking closely at her face.

Maerwyn couldn't hide the blush that crossed her face, but she cleared her throat as though that might help, and quickly stepped out of the man's reach. "Well enough, Aevar. How's Dagna? And the little ones?" Turning away from him slightly, she she brushed her fingers over the stiff feathers on the nearest bunch of arrows.

"The baby's sick," Aevar sighed as he watched his customer. "Dagna took him and the others to stay with her mother out on the lake. Will you be staying long? I'm sure they'd love to see you."

"The children, perhaps," Maerwyn laughed softly, though there seemed to be little joy in it. "Dagna? I doubt it. But I'm not staying. I just came for these." Her hand closed around a bundle of twenty or so arrows with feathers that identically matched the color of her scarlet cloak. "I'm headed west on a job," the woman continued, inclining her head towards Orin.

The fletcher bowed respectfully to the dwarf, then smiled a little as he observed the arrows in the woman's hand. "I thought you'd come by for them sooner or later. It's the normal price," he explained, then dropped his voice to a level he thought the dwarf wouldn't hear. "But if you stayed, maybe I could..."

"I can't," Maerwyn insisted, dropping a few coins in his hand before stowing the arrows in her now-full quiver. "Give your family my best, won't you Aevar? Master Orin, unless you need arrows as well, I think we can be on our way." She cast one more glance over her shoulder towards the fletcher, and a black shadow seemed to pass her face. But she smiled through it and even gave him a little wave, then set off down the street without another word, almost running towards the gate of the town.

 

[Traveler]

Maerwyn was obviously concerned about the man’s welfare, enough to confirm that he was still alive. And when Orin saw the welt on his forehead he understood why. A love tap like that wouldn’t have taken out a dwarf, but it might have done some serious damage to the weaker race. He scrunched his lips together and shook his head at her question, then nodded. “Not for ‘thief’, but yes. Because of what he called you and the fact that he was about to stab me with that dagger. I think it was a defensible reaction, really. Not the kind of thing to get us in trouble with the guards.”

But her comment about cheating and fees left him a little confused. Perhaps it was her accent. Since he had no plans to cheat anyone, though, he assumed he was safe from her implied threat and smiled, just happy that they were on their way to his destination. And then she put her hand on his shoulder and as he looked up at her he thought that being on the wrong side of Maerwyn was not where anyone should want to be. Especially not anyone who was counting on her to get to his destination.

It seemed that everyone in the inn liked their sleep too much to be up. Even the innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, and when Maerwyn pointed at the box he dropped in the key and the coin, hoping that they could figure out which room it was paying for.

The air smelled less rank in the morning; another good omen for the day. And as they set out on the muddy street, he had to wonder at a people who would live like this. A strong wind would likely blow over some of the more tenuously stacked buildings, and it seemed like their wastewater flowed wherever it wanted. There was no rhyme or reason for the layout of the streets, save convenience.

Ah, Dis again. He loved talking about her, thinking of her, obsessing…well, not obsessing. More like ‘constantly admiring’ her. Constantly. “Oh, well, she, uhm, she certainly has singled me out,” he answered, his smile widening. “And she’ll probably miss me a great deal. I never let a day pass without visiting with her. Sometimes while she’s working on another of her beautiful sculptures, or sometimes I catch her in the great hall, and I know she’s glad to see me by the way she lights up.” He sighed, contently this time, the way another dwarf might sigh with happiness after counting their gold and gems and knowing that every ounce was accounted for. “But this is an important journey for us, and I promised I wouldn’t return without completing the task.” He walked a few more steps, his eyes going to the front of the surprisingly clean storefront. Heavenly smells were wafting out at them, beckoning them in like a lover’s touch.

“Truth be told,” he said as they began to make their way directly to the source of the enticing fragrance, "she told me not to come back until I have it. So the sooner the better.”

Their meal was delicious. Almost as good as halfling fare, and almost as plentiful. Maerwyn didn’t have to encourage him to eat his fill. As soon as he saw the platters his stomach grumbled its approval, and soon he was eating as quickly as his belly could take it. He didn’t even pause to answer her question about fighting but instead nodded, too busy eating to be talking. All they might have for the next week would be what they could carry or hunt, and this kind of food, especially the thick, salty pieces of bacon, would be but a fond memory.

But really, what kind of a question was that? Was he much of a fighter – puh-lease. Darves were born with a hammer in one hand and an axe in the other. If there was anything that was born into their race it was fighting. And, though Orin preferred compromise and conversation, there were some creatures who only understood the language of violence. Like Ogmar.

He watched her pay for their food and buy a pouch from the lady, and soon they were leaving the heavenly little diner. “How much do I owe you for breakfast?” He asked. He was calculating her fee in his head; two gold, one for yesterday and one for today, plus their breakfast. He really should offer to buy her supplies, since she was using her gear for his purpose, but she didn’t ask so he didn’t offer.

“Well, what if we have to take shelter in a dark cave,” he reasoned concerning the torches, “and it gets too dark in there?” He really did not want to tell her his destination. Not yet. But if she did not want to deal with torches now, he supposed there would be other opportunities. Besides, with a little oil he could makeshift a lamp. Maybe.

“Beeswax is good for all kinds of things,” he frowned at her and shrugged. Like candles when lamps weren’t available, or “Keeping my hat dry’s one good reason.” His eyes raked over the goods at the smithies’ shops and found every piece lacking. It was embarrassing what passed for sellable wares in this town. A dwarf could make a killing once the townspeople learned what true craftsmanship looked like. All the other smiths would be regulated to making chamber pots and horseshoes.

After he filled his pack further with food, oil, beeswax and another scribe stick, and emptied his pockets of Ogmar’s last coin, Maerwyn quickly found her way to a fletcher’s stand. Pretty little sticks with bird feathers abounded, and Orin, who didn’t have any good experiences with elves, found himself critical of the dainty things. He watched his companion approach the stand and noticed a slightly different stride to her step. Then the man recognized her, and instead of accusing her of thievery he gave her a hug and actually looked happy to see her.

Well, okay. She had a friend. A very tall friend. A very tall friend who made her blush? This was getting interesting. Orin pretended to be interested in the little arrows and listened intently, this new side of his guide intriguing him more than it should. Ah…they knew each other, and he had a family. How sweet. She was in pursuit of her own family as well. Maybe his wife—Dagna, was it?—could give her tips on how to conceive. Even though Maerwyn had hinted that there were reasons men and women might want to…without conceiving the little bundle of joy.

Ah, dang it. Maerwyn gave up that she knew Orin, and the time for eavesdropping was over. He nodded at the man and glanced away, completely bored now that the ruse was up. More business talk, more—what was that? He glanced over in time to hear Maerwyn say she couldn’t and then paid for her arrows. Had he just propositioned her? Or was it something more innocent, like “maybe I could make you a sandwich,” or “maybe I could make more arrows for your quiver that’s already full,” or…Orin frowned. Maybe he had misheard them.

She was done, apparently, and then she hurried away like her heels were burning. Orin trotted to catch up, his hands holding onto his bag straps to keep it from bouncing as his short legs worked to keep up with her much longer ones. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask her about the man with the arrows but he was dying to know who he was and why they looked at each other the way he looked at Dis. Maybe they’d met after he had already married, who knows? But he was certainly virile with at least three children of his own to speak of.

“You have a lot of friends,” he said, as they approached the gate. “Don’t you ever miss them, being out on the road so much?” He finally got a good pace to keep up with hers and chanced a glance. What was that look on her face? He had never seen an expression like that cross Dis’s. He wanted to ask her more but was slightly distracted by a small group of men who had noticed them and were approaching from the right. Or more correctly, had noticed Maerwyn. From the looks on their faces they were not likely to be as friendly as the fletcher was.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Friends?" The word seemed foreign on Maerwyn's tongue. "I suppose Aevar is a friend, yes. He used to be a mercenary, and we were part of the same company for a while. He's one of the best archers I know, but he didn't want to live on the road forever. Most don't," she confided, smiling a little as she recalled those early years when they'd been lovers. If Maerwyn had wanted, she could have been Aevar's wife instead of Dagna. Heavens knew he'd asked her enough times. But giving up her swords, being nothing more than a wife and mother looking after his house and his children...that wasn't her. And as good a man as Aevar was, she didn't love him, not the way he deserved to be loved. So she'd told him no thank you, and he'd married a young lady of Esgaroth instead, and now she only ever saw him when she needed more arrows.

"Ernardsson too," the mercenary continued. "I suppose I would call him a friend, him and his family up at the Lantern. They've always been kind to me, no matter what trouble I got in. He always said he considered me his fourth daughter, dear old fellow. But beyond them? Can't say there's anyone else who gives a damn whether or not I live or die." There was no bitterness in Maerwyn's voice as she spoke these words, only a cool matter-of-fact statement of reality. Besides, what was the point of worrying about what few ties she still had left in the world? She was more intrigued by the things Orin had said while they were seeing to their errands, although she'd been careful not to make any more than a few noncommittal grunts and nods in reply.

There was a task he needed to complete, that much was clear now, and she was more sure than ever he was headed for Moria. Why else would he ask about torches for a dark cave? Unless he was planning to detour into Thranduil's dungeons, there were no caves between Long Lake and the Misty Mountains. She supposed he might be set on descending underneath the northern ranges to hunt goblins, but surely if that were the case he would at least know where to find them. No, it had to be the black pit. A shiver ran down Maerwyn's back. Not even she dared to enter that place, and it was a relief to know he hadn't asked her to. Just clear the forest the mercenary told herself. Once they were past the woods the Anduin was nothing to her, and at the Gladden Fields she would collect her payment, part ways, then notify the first dwarf she met that Orin Interfagin had foolishly wandered into the deep and was most likely scattered in pieces at the bottom of a hole somewhere.

Pity, he seems nice enough Maerwyn thought sadly, but she didn't have too much time to linger on Orin's distant-but-unavoidable demise. As they approached the gate she noticed three or four men had been following them, and when one placed himself between the travelers and the gate, then lowered his hood, she frowned in displeased recognition at the sight of his face.

"Going somewhere, Maerwyn Gravelback?" the man smirked, his hand on the sword hanging at his hip.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Trying to find someplace that doesn't smell quite so foul, Torwald Herringskin," the woman replied sweetly, glancing from him to his fellows. Three had swords and the fourth was gripping two handaxes that he could probably throw in a pinch. "On your guard, Master Orin," Maerwyn murmured to her companion, letting her hands slip down to her hips.

"Good luck with that," Torwald remarked. "But I'm afraid we have some unfinished business, you and I. You recall that pretty necklace we filched back in Bree? The one we was supposed to fence and split four ways?"

"We could hardly split it in fourths, Torwald. You cut Balder's throat and threw Steinar down a ravine," the woman pointed out.

"Aye, and you stole the fucking thing."

Maerwyn sighed. "That was years ago. You can't expect me to still have it."

"No, but I think you must be carrying at least a quarter of its weight in gold," the thief shot back. "And seein' as I'm a generous fellow, that's all I'm gonna as for: my quarter. As for the rest...boys, it's all yours."

With a shout the other three converged on the woman and the dwarf. In one fluid movement Maerwyn drew both of her swords, and crossing them in front of her she easily pushed back the nearest attacker, parrying his thrusts with the speed and grace of an accomplished dancer. "Quite ballsy of you to do this in front of the city guard," she commented, bringing her foot up suddenly and planting it in the nearest man's chest. He fell back in a huff, and the mercenary pushed towards Torwald, guarding her body with one blade while slashing towards his with the other.

"They're at tea," the thief remarked, drawing his longsword and swinging heavily towards her.

 

[Traveler]

But did she want to live on the road forever? That was the question, wasn’t it? Orin had little time to contemplate her answer, though as she continued and spoke about the family who owned the inn where they met. It seemed lonely to have only a handful of people care about your life. But Maerwyn didn’t seem to mind. It seemed like she was a solitary sort; happy to be a lone wolf (he wouldn’t use that other term) who roamed the lands and earned her gold, taking lost dwarves where they needed to go.

The group that was eying them was now talking to them, and the man definitely knew Maerwyn.

“I thought your name was Splintfingers,” Orin muttered, taking account of her other last name. How many did humans have? At her ‘on your guard’ he unbuckled his chest strap. Just in case.

The conversation turned a bit on the edgy side as hand axes and swords were brought forth. The dwarf dropped his pack and drew his own two-handed axe, ready for whatever her not-friends had in mind. A brief discussion explained it; Maerwyn had said she was a thief, and this man confirmed it. Then Orin’s guide double-confirmed it, and he let a breath puff out his cheeks. He was going to have to talk to her about earning her fortune in a less-than-dubious manner.

Four men against a dwarf and a mercenary? That hardly seemed like even odds. ‘The men should call their friends,’ thought Orin as their attackers moved towards them. ‘They’re gonna need it to make this a fair fight!’

He fell back-to-back with Maerwyn as their adversaries surrounded them, then heard her draw her sword and kick at one, as graceful as an elf dancing in the mist. He saw another flanking them with his axes. The fool spun them around his wrists in impressive showmanship, but a quick thrust with the less-lethal end of Orin’s battle axe dropped the axe-wielder to his knees, grasping at his ruined manhood and bladder with a scream.

She never told him to leave them alive, after all. Torwald cut Balder’s throat and threw Steiner down a ravine (whoever they were). Orin figured it was best to meet force with force; violence with violence.

And anyway, his axe needed some playtime. It had been in its sheath too long. Three attackers remained; Torwald, looking for an easy ‘in’ to Maerwyn, and the others; both men wielding swords that looked more nicks then edge. Easy-peasy. Orin was just getting started. He stepped under the first man’s thrust, knocking up wards with this axe and then twisting, bringing the pick end of his axe over the man’s blade and snapping it in two. The man should have bought a stronger sword, one preferably made by a dwarf. Then the traveling Mountain dwarf slammed his opposer's chin abruptly with the head of the axe and saw the end of the man’s tongue fall to the ground.

Ouch.

“You got the mouthy one?” Orin asked over his back at Maerwyn. The third swordsman was running forward, swinging his blade like a lad scattering flies. He had to be half-mad to think that technique was going to save him…

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn never would have admitted it, but it was rather refreshing to glance over her shoulder and see someone else fighting at her back. Most of the people who hired her were merchants and mostly useless in a fight, but Orin was more than holding his own. Indeed, she almost might have admitted that as far as bodyguarding went the dwarf could probably handle himself. If she weren't convinced he had little to no sense of direction, and left alone he was likely to end up in Harad or worse, the mercenary might have found herself out of a job.

These thoughts were as distant and insignificant as the birds flying overhead though, and her eyes never flinched from watching Torwald as he fought desperately for an opening. Truth be told he should have had an advantage against her, having sparred with the woman previously and knowing that the control in her left hand was slightly stronger than her right. But time, drink, and laziness had slowed the older man's reflexes, while Maerwyn's skills had only continued to grow over the years. If he were younger Torwald might have recognized the slight shift back in her footing as a feint, but now he only saw it as the crucial moment he needed.

The thief had several inches on the short woman, so when his blade came swinging downward he was sure it would have easily taken off Maerwyn's pretty little head. Instead she ducked forward, both blades scissoring across his stomach and cutting cleanly through the thick leather jerkin. It wasn't a killing blow, at least not a quick one, but it was painful enough that his sword clattered to the ground and Torwald instantly collapsed to his knees, struggling to keep his intestines in his body.

Before doing anything else, Maerwyn kicked the sword backward then stamped her other foot on the flat of the blade, just in case one of the others wanted to try grabbing it. Then she turned her attention back to her wounded opponent and leveled one sword at his neck.

"Kill me then, you backstabbing, orc-fucking bitch," he coughed, eyes flashing with rage and blood dribbling down his chin.

Maerwyn paused. "You know, I was going to let you try to walk this one off, but 'orc-fucking'? That was uncalled for, Torwald." Her boot jammed directly into his wound and kicked him onto his back, then her sword ran straight through his throat. Sighing in what sounded like disappointment, the woman shook the excess blood off her foot then glanced back to see how Orin was doing. He'd already dispatched two of Torwald's three compatriots, though one wasn't quite dead yet, and the third was swinging so wildly it almost seemed a pity to take him out. Her greater concern for the moment was the one grabbing at his crotch and shrieking in a most disconcerting manner.

"He's going to draw the guard," the woman warned, approaching the wounded man and swiftly cutting his throat to silence his screams. Her head inclined towards the last man. "Better finish that one quickly and get out of here, unless you want to spend a few nights in the Master's lockup." She held her swords at the ready, her muscles tempted to come in from the side if for some reason the dwarf was unable to bisect the idiot with that monster axe of his, but she couldn't help but hope just a little that the thief would sense his error in time and retreat. He was a younger man, and had probably fallen under Torwald's blustering sway much the way she had when she was younger. It would be a shame to kill him for that alone.

But when the wolf is at your throat, as a wise man had once told her, sympathy makes a terrible shield. Best to take it out completely when there's no other way. Whatever the lad's ultimate fate was, Maerwyn was not about to intervene on his behalf.

 

[Traveler]

The sound of a blade cutting through leather was Orin’s answer. And when the guttural sound of a man in shock filled his ears the dwarf knew the answer was ‘yes’. She had it under control. But the mouthy one kept talking, though his voice was moist as if blood had filled his mouth, and Orin wished he could have looked over his shoulder as one quick quip after another bantered back and forth like a ball in a bucket.

Ah…the man should not have called her a bitch.

"You know, I was going to let you try to walk this one off, but 'orc-fucking'? That was uncalled for, Torwald."

Orin raised an eyebrow at what she took offense at, the ‘orc-fucking’ part, having thought that it was highly probable that Maerwyn had sampled an orc or two. Apparently not. Then he sounds of a death gurgled reached him and he felt her move towards the first man he’d wounded. -Squelch-, then no more screaming. The relative silence was blissful, but it made Orin aware that all the traffic on the street had paused to watch the slaughter.

It was time for a moral check; the wildly swinging swordsman saw his leader dead behind the two, and hesitated. He heard Maerwyn’s suggestion to finish them, as if it was as easy as sweet bread and coffee and decided that another day alive was better than a chance at a quarter of the fortune the mercenary was rumored to still have. He screamed like a madman about to charge, then turned on his heel and sprinted away as quickly as his thin-worn boots could take him.

“Ah,” Orin glanced about to see if any others wanted to engage them, but the townspeople were more interested in exchanging coin over won and lost wagers on the fight then the outcome itself. “We’d better go,” he decided, hefting his bag over one shoulder, his other hand still affixed to his axe. “I think I see their guards coming.”

Three blocks down a whistle was blown, and Orin recognized the universal sound for ‘the guards are coming a minute too late’. With a glance at Maerwyn for confirmation he began to run as quickly as his shorter legs could take him, the bag bouncing on his shoulder like a trussed-up hostage.

Thankfully, it seemed the guards lost interest once the pair passed a hundred yards beyond the gates. Either they were too lazy to pursue them or they thought the two had done the town a service, but after a half a mile Orin was able to slow enough to slip his pack on completely, trading axe-holding duties with one hand and the other, and then finally they settled to a brisk walk. He still carried his axe in his left hand, but only because he wanted to clean it before placing it in its holster and fouling up the leatherwork with human bandit blood.

“Your acquaintances always this friendly, Maerwyn?” He glanced over his shoulder to confirm there were still no pursuers and puffed his cheeks with his breath. “I have to give you credit, though. You’re going to give me a lot of stories to tell when I return!” He grinned at her, the adrenaline from their little fight beginning to wear off. The overcast sky that had been threatening to drizzle decided it was time for action and began to pour. Far to the south the thunder began to roll in, promising that this rainstorm would not let up for hours. Orin pulled his rolled hat out of one of his ample pockets and set it on this head, then held his axe so that the rain would begin to wash off the areas where blood had clotted. He would have to dry it later, but for now it was good simply to have it clean. Perhaps they could find a cozy cave before nightfall, or a stand of dense trees. The beeswax and oils were going to come in handy.

After a long bought of walking in silence he glanced at Maerwyn. She claimed Ernardsson the innkeeper and Aevar the fletcher as friends, but no others. She never mentioned family, though. “Can I ask you a question?” he asked, realizing as he did so that he had just done so. “Why do you do this? I mean, what are you working for? You can’t possibly want to live on the road forever, do you?” Everyone had to have a goal. His was Dis, and it seemed like Aevar’s was to settle down and raise a family. Maerwyn had talked about people who didn’t want to live on the road forever with a tinge of something close to disdain. But being on her own like this and running people all over the land had its share of risks, and from his experience, risk without reward was fool hearty. Eventually she would slip up and be the one bleeding out on a dingy village road, instead of the one running from the guards.

And though he did not know her well or long, he felt a pinch of sadness that she might die and no one would give a damn that she was gone.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn couldn't hide the slight look of relief that passed her face when the boy decided to run. "Good lad," she murmured, wiping the blood from her blades on her cloak (was that why she favored a red one?) before sheathing them. She glanced towards Orin, looking him over for any sign of a wound that might demand a discount on her part, but he seemed perfectly fine. Beyond fine; actually. If she didn't know any better, she might have even sworn the dwarf enjoyed the fight. Well, from what she knew about dwarves it wasn't too out of character, but it was a surprising considering her current client's youth and what she had assumed was naïevete. Perhaps there was more to him than what met her eye.

The sound of approaching men in clinking chainmail though encouraged her to continue her observations elsewhere, and she was halfway down the block by the time the guard rounded the corner. It was easy for her to outpace the dwarf, with the lighter load on her back and her longer legs, but considering how rarely dead clients tended to pay their bills Maerwyn slowed her pace, ready to come between Orin and their pursuers if necessary. But who was she kidding? It was the morning guard of Esgaroth, not the Fountain Guard of Gondor. They were glad just to see the woman and dwarf leave, and they'd probably forget all about the incident once they were in their cups tonight. Torwald certainly wouldn't be missed; she wasn't sure where he came from exactly but he wasn't a native of the town. The other two she couldn't say for sure, but death within the town's walls wasn't unheard of, especially among the criminal element. It was only when the wealthy waterfront people found themselves on the wrong end of a sword that Esgaroth got up in arms.

Once they were well outside the town she allowed her pace to slow, though she did check behind them frequently, and encouraged they stay back a bit from the lake shore just to be safe. Maerwyn had to chuckle though at Orin's comment about stories. "Consider that a bonus of hiring me as your guide, Master Orin. Stories are complimentary...as long as they're complimentary, if you get what I mean," she added with a wink. The rain was quick to quash her mirth though, and she would have been content to continue on in silence until the dwarf's line of questioning resumed.

The woman didn't answer him at first, and appeared to be deep in thought. Then she shrugged. "I like having food in my belly," Maerwyn said finally. "And a roof over my head, if there's one to be paid for. If my sword is damaged, or if I need a new one, I like to be able to pay a smith for his services. I suppose I could steal what I need of course, but I think by now you've seen the consequences of that, so I try to stick to honest work whenever possible. It's less complicated overall, and besides, I really don't mind traveling. Cities and towns are great for finding work, but I could never live there. Too many people, too much noise, not enough green or fresh air." A thoughtful, faraway look began to drift into her eyes.

"I suppose someday, when I can't fight anymore or walk very far, I might find some quiet, out-of-the-way place to settle down. But while I have my youth and my strength, this--" her hands swept out to the long open country before them. "--Is all I'm suited for. I have no interest in staying in one place, tending to a man's house and children while my life slips by before my eyes. That's assuming a man were to even ask me to be his bride in the first place. There's not many interested in a woman who knows more about cutting throats and climbing mountains than she does about sewing or cooking." Maerwyn paused as she glanced out at the lake. "By the way, I hope you like roast fish. That'll be dinner, if we're lucky enough to catch a couple."

She looked back down at the dwarf beside her. "I suppose that all sounds foolish to a dwarf of course. I don't expect people who spend most of their lives underground to feel the same joy I get looking at the open sky above me, or the rivers and woods of the world at my feet. But those are the real gold and gems of my life, Master Orin, and I shall not give them up until they are pried from my hands. And once they are, I don't imagine I shall be much longer for this world anyway."

They continued on a while in silence, Maerwyn's thoughts still rebelliously circling around the idea of marriage. She really wasn't as against the idea as she might have made it sound to Orin. Indeed, if a man wanted to marry her and walk beside her the rest of his life, she would probably be happy to at least consider the offer, if not accept it outright. Loneliness was duller when there were clients around, or when she was in times of such danger that having another person would be more of a liability than anything else. But in between jobs, when she was laying under the stars alone...yes, she had to admit it would be nice to have someone beside her. Perhaps one of these days she would be brave enough to travel all the way to the east, beyond the Sea of Rhûn were the nomadic Easterlings lived, and take a husband from one of the savage tribes. It would only make her slightly less popular in the civilized world, she was sure.

"Why Dís?" she asked suddenly, thoughts shifting from her own marriage to Orin's. "I mean, if there are four other women in your Kingdom, why choose her, and not one of the others? Was it her looks alone? Or does she have a dowry that you just couldn't resist?" Maerwyn wasn't even sure of dwarves paid dowries to one another, but for a people that valued gold so much it seemed impossible that they wouldn't. And with so few women, did that mean that the men shared wives between them, or did most of them just die as bachelors? These last questions didn't exactly seem polite to ask, but she couldn't help but wonder about them regardless. Instead she settled for a different one. "What does your family think of the match?"

That was another thing that was odd about Orin. Every other dwarf she met was "Someone, Son of So-and-So," or even worse, "Dwarf, Son of Different-Dwarf, Son of Yet-A-Third-Dwarf." Even when traveling in groups, they always had to spell it out to her how they were related, which line was which, or other such details that always seemed silly to her. But Orin was simply Orin Indr...bah, she would figure out his last name one of these days. Maybe. But if he had a family name, he must have had a family. Perhaps they weren't on the best terms though, otherwise how could they have let him undertake this journey alone? If there was a rift, she could certainly sympathize, but it was puzzling that the dwarf, who genuinely seemed to be a nice person, had no one else to support him in his trip besides a hired sword with questionable morals.

Still, it didn't seem right to press too much farther into the matter, at least not yet.