Nathion,
I hope fortune keeps favouring you these days, as it did in the past.
I recently acquired a shipment of interesting trinkets, which I believe would fetch a good price in the southern markets.
Sail to the ruins of Lond Daer, and I shall meet you there.
Regards,
Crow
Nathion read the scrap of parchment again, the handwriting familiar though much time had passed since he had seen it last. The message had come on a dark wing but it brought good news. He shifted on his chair, his back still ached from the healing weals left from the whip. An old Navy punishment, he had been assured before he was released. Captain Gelluinir made sure that Nathion did not leave the dungeon without a reminder of his displeasure.
A small smirk tugged at Nathion’s lips, recalling the outrage in the officer’s face when the coin was exchanged and the order given. What did he expect? Honor? Justice? It was silver and gold that greased wheels in Minas Tirith and Nathion had spent his small fortune hoarded over the years to save his own life. Coin well spent in his view but now he was poor again. Fortune waxed and waned, just as the moon with the tide.
And now another chance. His old associate, reaching out from the mists of time and miles to find him. Reaching for the mug of ale, he sipped it and considered his options. His old ship and his crew was gone, impressed by the Gondor navy to fight the Corsairs. A fight he could have done well in, he knew the Corsairs as much as any Navy captain but one he would rather avoid. He liked living and on deck against the pirates was a quick way to end it. Besides, there was no profit it in it.
Sailing up to the ruins of Lond Daer was a task, it would mean hugging the coast and running the chance of being caught by both Gondorian and Corsair ships. He would need something small and fast, something like a small cog capable of going in shallow waters yet stable enough for the open sea. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and took another drink. It would take some work to get the funds for a ship, especially now while every seaworthy boat was being taken into service. He mentally cursed the war and glanced up, looking at the bar wench bent over wiping down a table. His thoughts strayed for a moment as the rhythmic jiggling caught his attention but an idea began to form.
It was better he leave, the timing was right and he still had a few contacts left that would be interested in trinkets from the North. While he had always provided silks and spices of Harad, elvish wine and other luxuries, the goods from the North were still rather unknown. Nathion knew little of the place, other than there was vast wilderness between Gondor and Rohan and whatever lay up there.
Nathion stood and paid the wench for his ale and walked out the door, pulling his hood up. He was not supposed to be in Dol Amroth, it had been a long time since his boots touched the fair soil but necessity drove him. He ducked his head as a guard passed, paranoia starting to dig at him but he kept his head and the guard paid him no mind. He made his way up the hill, the white walls of the buildings growing taller and grander, swan wings appearing on gates.
Dusk settled on the seaside town, the soft flush of pink and lavender washing over the marble as Nathion crept along in the shadows, making his way towards an particularly well appointed manor. He stood outside the wall, the heady scent of jasmine filled his senses as the plant had spread itself along the barrier. He remembered when he brought her the plant, packed in soil and rags, given precious fresh water all the way from the southern coast of Harad. It had cost him dearly but she had desired the night blooming vine. He sighed, memories rushing back and he felt a creeping dread. His hope lay in her love but he had long ago put it aside in favor of gold. And life.
