The Delnarion Scroll
By B. J. O'Connor
PROLOGUE
Wine glasses shattered as a drunken man sailed across the table, crashing noisily onto the floor. Nearby, an all-out brawl was forming, with many of the 'Prancing Pony's' patrons arming themselves with shattered glass shards, knives, and a other such items.
Ralthiel stood from his table and moved towards the melee, roughly knocking an oncoming assailant to the floor with a swift elbow to the man's chest. He kneeled at the drunken man and dragged him to his feet. He stared the drunk in the eye, and was greeted with a hazy, drooping eyeball, making an attempt to identify him. However, the stare was not to vacillate Ralthiel, and the drunk was soon ejected from the tavern, landing softly in the mud outside.
The ranger turned, and pulled his long, gray cloak back from his waist. His hand nestled comfortably on the carved hilt of a sword. The image of a roaring dragon, greeting those who would stand in it's way.
Ralthiel was a tall individual, standing at a little over six feet high. His broad shoulders proportionately sat with his lean, slender body, and his legs - toned strongly yet still evenly distributed by his weight. His face was framed with a lightly trimmed beard and moustache, yet his face showed years of wisdom and knowledge, far beyond that which he was willing to reveal.
"Let all who wish to challenge me, do so. And let all who don't to leave!" He called. A handful of men took notice, and moved closer to him. But they soon turned and made their way quickly out of the door, once spotting the crafted sword. The rest of the brawl was dwindling, with many people either being knocked unconscious or returning to their seats. The rotund man behind the counter cowering beneath the bar chuckled nervously to himself at the sound of the ranger's voice. And soon, (after a few punches, kicks and the likes) the Prancing Pony had returned to it's quiet weekday evening. Ralthiel returned to his table, and ran his fingers through his soft, shoulder-length hair. He landed in his seat heavily, which wasn't much, for the thin individual. He called for one of the few barmaids running about to fetch him another drink, before taking a deep breath.
"It must be hard to keep order all over Eriador," a voice said behind him. Ralthiel turned to see the weathered face of an old man leaning over him. The man was dressed in a pale blue cloak and large black boots. His beard was dusty and gray, and in his hand, the limb of an oak tree, used as a walking stick.
Ralthiel chuckled in reply. "I try," he said. He stood to offer the man his chair but the offer was declined with a polite wave of the hand. The old man turned and dragged a low stool to the Ranger's table, and sat down opposite him.
"Ralthiel of the Dunedain," he began. Speaking softly for the words where for Ralthiel's ears only. "My name is Pallando, I am one of the Istari sent to Arda for the purpose of defeating the Necromancer." Ralthiel remained silent, an inquiring look covering his face. "I am afraid I have failed. My efforts where to unite the forces of Men and Elves of the East to combat his forces was uneventful. But I come here in the hope that you may yet bring some hope to the free-people's of the west."
Ralthiel shook his head. "I don't understand," he began. "I have heard of you before, Pallando. Yet it was my belief that you perished in the East when your quest failed. Now you come to me, in these, some of Arda's worst times, to tell me that there is still hope?" The barmaid Ralthiel had requested earlier returned, with a large pint of ale. He took a moment to have a mouthful why she questioned Pallando on his drink-of-choice. Pallando waved the barmaid away, before taking a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, there is always hope. My time here is done, I am leaving Arda. Yet I can't leave without giving you one thing that could turn the fate of all into something more." He removed a parched scroll from his cloak and slid it across the table. Ralthiel slipping the scroll into his cloak, not even looking at it's contents.
"This is the scroll of Delnarion," Pallando continued. "When bathed in water from the sea of Rhun, and exposed to both sunlight and moonlight, you will be able to read it. Contained in it's writings is some powerful elven magic, some of which will prove useful in your war against the Necromancer." Pallando sat back, relaxing a little, and allowing Ralthiel to absorb the full context of what he said.
Ralthiel sat for a moment, and then, without a word, he stood and headed towards the door. Almost making it out before turning to the wizard with a few remaining words.
"Meet me by the gate tomorrow at Sundown, we can talk more then." He said, and moved out into the night.
PROLOGUE
Wine glasses shattered as a drunken man sailed across the table, crashing noisily onto the floor. Nearby, an all-out brawl was forming, with many of the 'Prancing Pony's' patrons arming themselves with shattered glass shards, knives, and a other such items.
Ralthiel stood from his table and moved towards the melee, roughly knocking an oncoming assailant to the floor with a swift elbow to the man's chest. He kneeled at the drunken man and dragged him to his feet. He stared the drunk in the eye, and was greeted with a hazy, drooping eyeball, making an attempt to identify him. However, the stare was not to vacillate Ralthiel, and the drunk was soon ejected from the tavern, landing softly in the mud outside.
The ranger turned, and pulled his long, gray cloak back from his waist. His hand nestled comfortably on the carved hilt of a sword. The image of a roaring dragon, greeting those who would stand in it's way.
Ralthiel was a tall individual, standing at a little over six feet high. His broad shoulders proportionately sat with his lean, slender body, and his legs - toned strongly yet still evenly distributed by his weight. His face was framed with a lightly trimmed beard and moustache, yet his face showed years of wisdom and knowledge, far beyond that which he was willing to reveal.
"Let all who wish to challenge me, do so. And let all who don't to leave!" He called. A handful of men took notice, and moved closer to him. But they soon turned and made their way quickly out of the door, once spotting the crafted sword. The rest of the brawl was dwindling, with many people either being knocked unconscious or returning to their seats. The rotund man behind the counter cowering beneath the bar chuckled nervously to himself at the sound of the ranger's voice. And soon, (after a few punches, kicks and the likes) the Prancing Pony had returned to it's quiet weekday evening. Ralthiel returned to his table, and ran his fingers through his soft, shoulder-length hair. He landed in his seat heavily, which wasn't much, for the thin individual. He called for one of the few barmaids running about to fetch him another drink, before taking a deep breath.
"It must be hard to keep order all over Eriador," a voice said behind him. Ralthiel turned to see the weathered face of an old man leaning over him. The man was dressed in a pale blue cloak and large black boots. His beard was dusty and gray, and in his hand, the limb of an oak tree, used as a walking stick.
Ralthiel chuckled in reply. "I try," he said. He stood to offer the man his chair but the offer was declined with a polite wave of the hand. The old man turned and dragged a low stool to the Ranger's table, and sat down opposite him.
"Ralthiel of the Dunedain," he began. Speaking softly for the words where for Ralthiel's ears only. "My name is Pallando, I am one of the Istari sent to Arda for the purpose of defeating the Necromancer." Ralthiel remained silent, an inquiring look covering his face. "I am afraid I have failed. My efforts where to unite the forces of Men and Elves of the East to combat his forces was uneventful. But I come here in the hope that you may yet bring some hope to the free-people's of the west."
Ralthiel shook his head. "I don't understand," he began. "I have heard of you before, Pallando. Yet it was my belief that you perished in the East when your quest failed. Now you come to me, in these, some of Arda's worst times, to tell me that there is still hope?" The barmaid Ralthiel had requested earlier returned, with a large pint of ale. He took a moment to have a mouthful why she questioned Pallando on his drink-of-choice. Pallando waved the barmaid away, before taking a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, there is always hope. My time here is done, I am leaving Arda. Yet I can't leave without giving you one thing that could turn the fate of all into something more." He removed a parched scroll from his cloak and slid it across the table. Ralthiel slipping the scroll into his cloak, not even looking at it's contents.
"This is the scroll of Delnarion," Pallando continued. "When bathed in water from the sea of Rhun, and exposed to both sunlight and moonlight, you will be able to read it. Contained in it's writings is some powerful elven magic, some of which will prove useful in your war against the Necromancer." Pallando sat back, relaxing a little, and allowing Ralthiel to absorb the full context of what he said.
Ralthiel sat for a moment, and then, without a word, he stood and headed towards the door. Almost making it out before turning to the wizard with a few remaining words.
"Meet me by the gate tomorrow at Sundown, we can talk more then." He said, and moved out into the night.