Of Winding Ways and Cunning Devices

12th of May 867 A.D.

As the folk of Westernese judged years Surion was yet young, barely into his third decade, though some among his countrymen would call him overly hopeful to think that he would live the long years through, for though his father had been one of the Dunedain his mother had not been. The sailor's dusky skin and black eyes marked him as one who had the blood of far distant Harad born on the banks of the Green River which the Numanorians called Calenathrad though he had never seen the City of a Thousand Whispers, never sailed within a thousand leagues of its walls for he knew sure as sunrise that to get in sight of them would be death and he was no foam-ear. Surion did not know what the name of his father had been, nor the sign of his House all he knew that to even allow a half-blood to be born, a 'bastard who stole the blood of Numenor' had been against the law of the Viceroy of the South, much less to send him safely away to Numenor itself.

There were not many like him in the Great Island, officially of course there were none, but there were plenty of slaves from every realm of Arda and masters who would take from them whatever pleasures they desired. It made him sick sometimes to think that was the only reason why he was still alive, the only way he would have been hidden until he grew to manhood and went to see with whatever captain would take him, away from the eye of 'foster parents' who had always resented their duty to care for a bastard. Music offered a slender refuge, a world of tales from elder days, a world where his mind could fly like the wind for which he had been named.

Now it was all gone, the realm of Numenor and its high white walls, the City of Gold under the shadow of the holy mountain, all that remained a ragtag band of sailors under the command of a man they called sorcerer yet who was friend of elves, a sellsail and a cutthroat who nonetheless dealt with the people of this strange land with more honor worthy of one of the Faithful. Oh how the One loved to jest...

Specialist revealed: Surion the Twice Exiled, Aspiring Singer


Zimrathon could feel the wind shifting in his bones, or if he was being honest more in his knees, they weren't what they had once been, he'd been sure that storm would be the end of him, but it had washed over them all like the snow on the mountains crashing over stones, polishing not breaking, that had been more than chance, it had to have been... it had to mean something. The piece of chew leaf in his hand crackled almost breaking. Careful, careful old boy that's the last of it, maybe the last of it in the whole wide world if the gull-gabber was accurate, it seemed as though Eru had a purpose for them in some new world... so of course He had set them on this new world together with forty of the kind of folk who thought listening to Morgoth's house boy was a good idea and if the rumor was further accurate Cap'ain Eriol even had the ear of high court functionaries with their hats like flower pots and their and their souls a salted field

Maker have mercy on all our souls.

Even as his throughs swirled like the dark waters that pass under the ship Zimrathon's hands moved with familiar skill, they knew the hilt of the parring knife and the grain of the wood. They had fine trees in thee forests if nothing else. Neither the old man nor any of the sailors rushing to and fro about him with the familiar rhythms of shipboard life thought to make much of the work of his hands, certainly it was the fruit of a life time's experience, but it was a lifetime spent in service of a humble trade, none would have thought to call him a master, save for the girl spending most of her time keeping out from underfoot and trying to learn the tongue of her mysterious traveling companions even as she taught them theirs. She would have called them thought them kin to the Svartalfar, but for the fact they were tall and seemed to love the sun

Specialist Reveled: Old Zimrathon, Master Carpenter


Why and how the pack of small round-bodied seals had decided to follow the Daring Wanderer on her riverine wanderings none aboard could say, but most of the men took it in good cheer, some even called it a fair omen. It was all Gimlân could do not to punch them, the people that is not the seals. The poor beasts hadn't done anything wrong to become the newest 'sign' in a ship's company desperate for such things. After the storm everyone seemed to have some notion of how to 'appease the Valar' or pass unseen from their sight, as if the Dunedain had suddenly become ignorant savages who offered up men as blood sacrifice to the thrashing waters. Some even spoke of darker rites, though those had been swiftly silenced by more experienced hands. "Captain doesn't like to hear that from the likes of you, he'll do what needs to be done in his own time and none of yours."

Wark Wark, Wark

The nearest seal called out eyes dark and mysterious meeting the sailor's own.


Alright maybe it was their fault a little. "Shut yer damn mouth or I'll be feeding yer blubber into the oil burner." The ship did not have an oil burner of course, precious few ships did outside the Great Armament, but if anyone was going to be feeding annoying sea-beasts into an engine of any sort it would be Gimlân. He was... had been an engineer in the Royal Corps until one stupid drunken bet and the brawl that followed had ended it all. And now here he was a common seaman on a merchant ship in unfamiliar waters.

The seals for their part did not seem the least deterred

Specialist Revealed: Gimlân Deep Cup, Former Engineering Student

He did not have long to shout at the beasts though, land had been sighted and with it the 'city' where the girl had said it was. Soon enough they would be presenting themselves to whichever barbarian ruled these lands.

How do you present yourselves to Rurick of Alode-joki and what gifts do you bring?

[] Write in

OOC: I rolled up your specialists and decided to make this an interlude from their PoV to give you more of a feel for the crew. Hope you guys enjoy.