§ Author's note: As Amlarad's player and I already said to each other afterwards, it has been some time since last there was a good cloak-and-dagger exchange. But last night certainly saw a very interesting one. Thank you, Amla, for being an awesome player, and dare I even say 'friend'. I feel this story doesn't begin to do our exchange the credit it deserves, but I fear it will have to do. ;-) And at Lori's request; This one is a little shorter, hun, I did try!! §
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The instructions had been simple and very clear; deliver the letter, ensure he knows what he needs to know. Nothing more, nothing less. And in fact, that was how Beodrid preferred it. After all, the more complicated the instructions, the more variables were left to mess up. It was one of the reasons he enjoyed working with his employer. Though most would dismiss her because she was a woman, he knew from experience that she did not leave much to chance, if anything. Moreover, he found himself concerned about her well-being under the current circumstances. She had not given him any details, but he had noticed the urgency in her voice as she gave him the necessary instructions, and all whilst at the market, under guise. Almost as though she was ensuring no one could trace the exchange. And he knew, if it seemed a certain way with her, it usually was not coincidence.
Still, he was in no position to object. Were he to aid her, he had to do what was required of him. And thus, he had found himself in the gritty surroundings of what he believed to be the seediest establishment in Middle Earth; the Prancing Pony in Bree.
The moldy straw on the ground; damp with spilled ale, the curtains of smoke left by patrons sitting or standing in small gatherings; drinking and smoking their pipes. And the walls covered with the grime left by the various generations of patrons over the years. Laughing, bickering, company for the night alone or closing suspicious deals. The Pony had it all. If you liked that manner of thing.
Although he would normally try and avoid the place as much as he could, his contact would be there. A man he had heard about in stories, but never met. It made him somewhat nervous as he recalled some of the stories he had been told in his childhood. But he could not afford to fail.
Patrons came and went; he could oversee them all from his vantage point at the top of the staircase, overlooking the common room. And to ensure his anonymity, he not merely wore his cowl, but he had pulled it as far forward as it would go, without impairing his vision of course, leaving his face hidden in shadows and away from prying eyes.
A man caught his attention as his gaze scrupulously took note of the individual patrons. Shrouded in his tattered cloak, the stranger ordered a beverage from one of the maids at the counter. When he paid for his drink, he held on to the silver coin he initially offered the girl, and Beodrid could hear the word ‘information’ from the girl’s lips. A peculiar word from a peculiar exchange. Could this be his target?
As he strode closer, he was better able to follow the exchange and eye the stranger as his employer had made a particular point of describing the man’s nose, indicating that that was perhaps one of the features to best recognise him with. He planted his back against a large ale barrel and casually listened in.
“… I am looking for a woman with all the virtues; she would be garbed in a man’s garments however, giving preference to those over the splendor of a dress. Also, she would be carrying weaponry, in particular… a vicious-looking axe.” The stranger explained to the maid, who deemed the exchange to be rather amusing, deeming it a joke, rather than a serious inquiry.
So the girl turned to an acquaintance that stood close by, the two made fun about the acquaintance’s lack of hygiene and other diatribe.
But Beodrid had heard enough. This was the man he sought, there was not a doubt left in his mind. In a few strides, he had made his way over, seemingly to order a beverage. But rather than giving the maid his attention, he leaned in to his right, towards the stranger, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you the one they call Randir?”
The stranger nodded once, and received a similar nod from Beodrid, who promptly turned on his heel to walk away – expecting the stranger to follow. His expectation did not let him down.
A table in the back, in a corner of the common room became the setting for the exchange, allowing an overview should anyone decide to make an attempt at eavesdropping. Beodrid blew out the candle that stood upon the table. The less risk there was at prying eyes catching a glimpse of his features, the more certainty he had of keeping his employer safe.
“My employer sent me in their stead; they would have come themselves, had they not been otherwise… detained.” He had always been a man of few words, and thus he picked them carefully, conveying the situation with the utmost of care but also precision.
The other nodded once, but was still on his guard. After all, anyone could lay claim to knowing the woman they spoke of.
There was no use in further verbal exchange, or so Beodrid deemed. What he carried more than anything was enough to prove his point. Slowly, as though showing respect and ensuring none thought a weapon would be presented, he produced a sealed letter and handed it across the table to Randir, who took it from him.
Each motion thereafter told a tale, wordless and yet, they both understood.
Randir proceeded to read the content of the letter, obscuring his thoughts by not altering his facial expression at all, simply stoically taking the entire account in until the end. Even then, he did not utter a word. Rather, he mulled over the information as he in turn reached for a pouch underneath the tattered cloak, and produced a pipe. Without any rush, and still digesting what he had read, he stuffed it with pipeweed before lighting the pipe’s content with a pocket sized flint and tinder. One puff was taken, before he offered it to Beodrid.
On instinct alone, Beodrid understood the purpose; Randir requested to see his face. Trust was the main purpose, and if his employer trusted this man with her life, then who was Beodrid to argue? He received the pipe and took one puff, enough to cast a brief, faint light across his face and show a small smile which indicating he understood the purpose of the pipe to his companion. However, prying eyes are almost always present in the Pony, and he was all too aware of it. One puff would have to do, and he handed the pipe back to the ranger. Still, not a word was spoken.
Randir pulled the candle towards himself and lit the wick anew with the aid of his pipe, and respectfully kept the candle close, letting it cast its light upon the creases of his weathered face.
Once more, they sat in silence, looking at one another, even though one was shrouded in shadow. Randir picked up the letter then, and held the corner up into the flame, allowing it to catch fire and subsequently burn in its own time. No evidence. No witnesses. Beodrid approved of the man’s actions.
The letter was consumed whole by the fire and left naught but ashes upon the straw-filled floor. Beodrid nodded once and in his posture showed a hint of relief. All that remained was to answer any questions the other might have.
Randir smoked his pipe in silence, dismissing questions and allowing others to formulate in his mind. None of them worth asking in his opinion, no doubt. Finally then, he leaned in and asked in his gruff, lowered voice. “Is she safe?”
“For the time being.” Beodrid answered dutifully.
The other nodded and downed his ale before rising to his feet. With a slight of the hand, he dropped a few silver coins on the table, and then bowed his head to Beodrid before wrapping himself in his tattered cloak and making his way to the exit.
In turn, Beodrid waited, allowing time and distance between him and the ranger – the less people saw, the more freely he could move and the safer his employer would be. And that, for the time being, was the prime purpose he served.
