If ever yeh be out to cover vast swathes of tundra, I wholeheartedly endorse travel by dog sledge. Where a pony-rider gots ter pick along very careful-like on the ice, this husky pack of ice-puppies flies like Tweens with unfinished chores at their backs.
Mister Lothrandir says in peak form, they’ll do anythin’ from 60 to upwards o’ 90 miles in a day.
*WHEEEEEEEEEEEE--HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!*
‘Course, to exert yourself thusly, you gots ter sustain it somehow: Most of our evenin’ activities revolved around him procurin’ food, an’ me groomin’ coats or rubbin’ tired paws.
These pups be a hoot. I thought I were clever in makin’ Maddie a bilingual bird, with a name she could switch betwixt for skinny Elf or normal Hobbit settings. But this cheeky Dúney boy had me beat with his dogs: Every one of em’s got a Lossoth name, what he claims be a “nickname” fer somethin’ in Sindar’:
Arvo, the charcoal lead, be “short” for ‘Arvoreg’ (droll, I says, callin’ your unapologetic alpha “high lord”). Lasse, the brown runner, be short for ‘Tambelassë,’ the copper-leaf – Onni, the black wheel-dog, be short for ‘Duonnen’ the night-born – the list goes on.
I’ll freely admit a partiality fer what in Lossoth he calls ‘Elea,’ an’ in Elf-speech he calls ‘Elanor.’ Thar be the pale girl. Best be warned: If yeh drop yer guard an’ let this beast near, she’ll spring on ye with the force of a fifty-pound thunderbolt o’ raw muscle behind a fang’ed maw that could tear a limb from a torso … At which point, you will be in inescapable danger o’ bein’ licked to death, to the sound ‘o tremulous overtures pleadin’ for tummy rubs, throwin’ sticks, an’ biscuits.
Anyway, with this lot at our head, we flew west, then north.
Puttin’ a finger on why Angmar’s Iron Crownies be suddenly in cahoots with the Wolf Folk outta nowhere weren’t exactly gonna be solved by askin’ nice.
So the next best solution were to track ‘em to their Point of Machination (whatever that might be), an’ ... well ... de-machinify it.
Our long hours on the sledge did afford us ample time to talk: I supplied Mister Lothrandir with all the recent doings of his Kin, regardin’ the Wildwood an’ the Gobbo-de-Gook an’ such. He in turn tol’ me more about these Wolf Folk creatures.
Gauredain be a culture comparable to a wolfpack, and hierarchy be violent. The more tusks, fangs, and fur ornamentin’ a Gauradan, the higher up the chain you can bet he is. Says I if they e’nt Men, or Giants, what exactly do that leave?
Mister Lothrandir admitted the matter weren’t entirely concrete.
Some think ‘em descendants of fallen Maiar who became werewolves. Others say they be descendants of Eldar, lost durin’ the exile over the Helcaraxë, who jus’ devolved to a feral people. Still others propose early tribes o’ Lossoth who encountered the skin-changers (like the Beornings), an’ sought to become skin-changers themselves, through some kinda imitation.
Granted, I suppose none’s ever exactly agreed to be interviewed on the subject.
Still. Won’t lie: I be glad o’ the company up here, given all thar were to hear.
From Pynti-Peldot village to Jänis-leiri hunting camp we canvased, afore turnin’ north fer the mining outpost o’ Beardie Dorfs.
At Zigilgund we gots a proper sleep indoors. I GOTS TO PET NESSIE AGAIN!! Eeeee! (aye, the Woolly Oliphant’s name is “Nessi.” Mister Ofráth say she be named after his mother-in-law).
More importantly, though, Mister Lothrandir were able to ascertain some new data:
Wolf-Folk be a common sight (an’ a RIGHT thorn in the side) around Zigilgund. But the Beardie Dorfs minin’ in the frozen hills recently had their eyes caught by some other characters movin’ about the area, dressed in dull red garb – Came to notice, as little grows in Forochel what produces any form o’ dye in the ‘reddish’ spectrum. Hence, why the Lossoth mostly dress in blue.
Any rate, these figures were seen about the bluffs near the great icy Bay. That put Mister Lothrandir very out of sorts. Gauredain dwell north-west of Zigilgund, in the canyons. North-northeast, thar be open tundra – nothin’ but migratory reindeer herdsmen ... Apart from only two things.
One be a sort of Lossoth holy site: A cavern in the steep walls of a cavernous cliff on the western side o’ the Bay. The Lossoth calls it Näky-kolo. The ‘sight-hole.’ Cause mystics sometimes dwell there. Some say ghosts live in the mountain. Some say yeh can hear the earth speak. Me, I wonders how much hard tater-drink be involved in that ...
An’ then, thar be another site of deep import.
Not to the Lossoth, though: to the Dúney Folks.
I seen a bit in me various forays into skinny Elf balladry, regardin’ “Arvedui Last-King.”
It be a most operatic Saga of pride an’ fear an’ wrath an’ death as ever yer likely to dredge up.
Fact o’ the matter is, the bleetin’ ship what carried that doomed expedition o’ the last King o’ the Dúney Folks still be about after all these years (oi!). Thar be so little in the Bay what’d naturally decompose it all, the freezin’ waters almost acts as a preservative.
“The relic remains of that ship were just about the first place I traveled, when I was posted to Forochel.”
Mister Lothrandir an’ I were partakin’ o’ some kinda Dwarfish baked dish consistin’ of rutabagas, peas, an’ what I were told were the meat of ice lizards (flavor en’t vile. But pretty stringy, to be honest).
“Whether or not they see his Ghost, any Ranger who can will make the journey to pay homage to the Last King at some point in his life. ... I’ve been back two or three times.”
“Hold the coney pies,” I says, “Ghost?”
Mister Lothrandir looked at me. “If you believe ghosts to be the stuff of stories, Perianeth, I’d suggest seeking Master Ofráth’s hospitality and remaining here while I investigate.”
“Like Bullroarer’s Begonias I will.” I seen enough o’ the weirdness o’ the world to vouch fer just about anythin’ bein’ possible. An’ no Bard worthy of name’d doubt the actuality of Ghosts for an instant – (they’d hardly turn up in so much balladry if they weren’t) – I just never clapped eyes on one. They en’t exactly what ye’d call “commonplace” round the Shire.
“Arvedui’s Ghost is said to wander the snows,” he said, gravely. “I can claim to have neither seen nor spoken to him but other Rangers before me have, and I don’t doubt their word. Perhaps so long as that ship remains, he lingers.”
“Maybe thar be why yer Iron Crownies buddied up to the Ga-ru-re-dyin’?” I ventures, hesitantly. “Maybe they needed snow guides?”
“Possibly.” The burly gent had a final pull of his ale. “The Dúnedain are my blood, and the Lossoth are my second people in their own right. Whatever the interest of the Iron Crown is in the revered places of either—"
“Aye, I gets it,” I says. The man were restless with not knowin’. Time to start pinnin’ down a few answers. – So after huntin’ down an’ extractin’ Elea from a store-room where she were playin’ with the garrison captain’s left boot, we rigged up, tossed Maddie aflight, an’ set out.
* * *
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