A short while before dawn, Tazamul, his servant, the cat, and most of their valuables made landfall on an empty strand of beach at the edge of Rhovanion. Their boat, so small that it hardly deserved that title, ground its keel into the sand a short way from shore, where the water was so shallow that a man might disembark from the boat and make his way to dry land without wetting any more than his boots.
The chests, four in all, and each so large as to need two arms to lift, were carried to a grassy knoll along the edge of the beach. Ulchoth, the servant, set to work making an inventory of what they had with them and what had been lost on the voyage through the rough Sea of Rhun. Tazamul, meanwhile, set off for a taller hill some distance away, from which he might discern the lay of the land.
The sun began to break over the horizon as he reached the top of the rise, casting the grassy expanse around him in a faint yellow light. Though a few trees, mainly pine, dotted the landscape, all around seemed to be an endless expanse of grass, hills, and sea. But he set his gaze Northward, eyes searching between the hills and shallow valleys, until at last he sighted a faint glimmer some ways distant from the sparkling sea to the East. The River Running, shining in the morning sun, whose path they might follow to find clean water, civilization, and eventually the towns of Esgaroth where they might rest and plot a new course.
He remained upon the hill for a time, until the sun at last freed itself from the horizon and rose fully into the air. Taking a last sweeping look around, he ran down the hill and made his way back to Ulchoth and their various things.
“You return at last!” remarked the servant upon his arrival. “You took your time, I should say. But there is good news! Most of the gold and silver we carried has made it, although it seems the lid of this chest got itself open in the night and spilled a bit of coin to the fish below. Only a small amount though, you may see that it still appears to be full. And our bag is undamaged, and mostly dry, with our provisions still unspoiled.”
“That is good!” replied Tazamul. “And there is more! I seem to have steered us rightly, for I saw the River Running a small ways North. If you will carry these back to the boat you might row us to its mouth before noon.”
The strategic placement of the “You”s and “I”s in that statement was not lost on Ulchoth, but he obliged and loaded the chests back aboard the boat. They put back out to sea, and with the morning sun now staining the hills and dancing across the water before them, they had a far easier time steering toward their goal. It was indeed still before noon when the boat once again ground into the shallows a short distance from the mouth of the great river. Tazamul set off once again to gather some firewood from a small stand of trees, while Ulchoth set about constructing a hand-pushed cart, whose various parts had been lashed to the bottom of the boat for assembly upon landfall.
By late afternoon the cart had been assembled, a fire pit had been constructed, and the prospects for the future of the two men looked bright.
On the following morning they were well rested, having not even encountered any of the wolves that usually roamed the region. The cart was prepared and they set off along the track beside the river, more of a slightly less grassy path than even a small trail, with Ulchoth of course laboring behind the cart while Tazamul walked merrily ahead, axe over his shoulder, singing a favorite Rhunish tune. The river bent and twisted for miles ahead of them without any sign of a structure, but Tazamul knew from his childhood studies within his family’s hall that small settlements sparsely dotted the river’s course, some of the men and elves of Dorwinion, some Easterling, even some dwarven trading posts. Presumably they might reach one within one or two days’ march. And for now they could walk as fast or as slow as they wished and take in the scenery surrounding the river. Tazamul continued to hum his favorite songs and Ulchoth only grumbled a little as they made their way inland.
Three days later they passed through a palisade and entered a larger village, composed of some of the more stagnant remnants of the Wainriders who had passed that way many lifetimes ago. It was a bustling town, by the standards of the near-abandoned Northern country of Dorwinion, and it seemed that these last remnants of the Wainriders, with their signature wagons, conducted a healthy trade with some nearby settlements and the various boats that passed through on their way down the River to find the city of Dorwinion further south upon the sea’s shores.
The village itself was a collection of small wooden houses, at least 30 in all, huddled together in a small depression among the hills flanking the river. The village folk barely spared a glance at the proud Easterling as he strode into the village, followed by another hunched over a hand-wagon that appeared to be nothing more than a small shipment of goods. Any who might have still been of the mind to take an unsolicited look inside the chests were easily put off by the great axe slung over Tazamul’s shoulder.
Tazamul located a tavern, the only building in the village with multiple stories. The Broken Wheel, as they learned its name to be upon entry, was rather quiet compared to the watering holes of the villages of Rhun, but the wine was good, and the ale passable, and they soon found themselves resting upon (mostly) clean beds without having spoken to any of the locals as a precaution against discovery. Not that Tazamul expected the agents of his house to come searching for him. He was, after all, a minor son of a minor noble, not convicted of a crime that any truly took seriously, and the only money that he took with him was his by right. So it was that Tazamul and his servant Ulchoth (somewhat disgruntled but kept loyal by the promise of a share of his master's riches) found themselves sleeping for the first time among folk outside the dominion of the East.
