Disclaimer: I Mr Balaclava, hereby reject any claim that I, the above named and aforementioned, own, or have created any of the characters of whom these assembled parties have heard prior mention.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, this chapters pretty clean, R rated so it could all get a bit bloody, depending on my mood.

Set in Gondor towards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Chapter 2

As Fullmore dismounted, all eyes were firmly fixed upon him, boring holes through him, searching for the purpose of his existence. Fullmore could feel the collective searching gaze, and he did his very best to nonchalantly shrug it off, the gravity of his mission dictating it should be carried out with dignity and valour. His attempts towards this were admirable, though not helped by his left foot, which had resolutely fastened itself to his stirrup, and was refusing to free itself. This leaving him in the rather embarrassing position of hopping on one foot, in public, while attached to a horse.

Why he had been given such a large horse he had no idea, as standing just a little over five foot, eight, he had a great deal of difficulty pulling himself into the saddle and dreaded ever having to leave it. Raynin however, had become more than just a soulless mount to him, he was a friend and companion. But under his breath he cursed the black stallion, "Blasted horse, couldn't you just crouch a little, some thing at least?" At this, Raynin looked round at the struggling outrider with what to all intents and purposes, Fullmore was sure was a smirk.

"you would laugh wouldn't you!" he muttered angrily.

After several failed attempts to extricate himself from his predicament, and when he had all but given up, when a firm hand gripped his ankle in a vice like grip, and pulled it from the stirrup, with little or no regard for Fullmores comfort, and or dignity. The force of this rescue left Fullmore sprawling on the ground unceremoniously. Then, after, several moments of contemplation, and when Fullmore had decided that it would be an opportune moment, he stood up and dusted himself down. As he did so a gruff, unannounced voice at his left ear said, "look lively now boy, you are in high company!" Fallmore, about to point out indignantly that he just looked young for his age, that being twenty one, finished digesting the forceful words and snapped rigidly to attention, bowing his head in reverence for the assembled entourage of high command.

There followed, what seemed like an age of nothingness, a silence which bore sown on Fullmore like a heavy suit of armour, its weight forcing his eyes to the ground, his shoulders slumped pathetically. He dare not look up for fear of the dignitaries whom he would be forced to lay his unworthy gaze upon. Then, just as he thought he would be left to study the stitching on his boots for all eternity, the laughter began.

It came in a great deluge, like the great storms of the north beating against the fragile canvas of a campaign tent. Fullmore's face reddened as all around him he was very publicly mocked. One rose high above the others, as the loud bellows became an even louder voice, the most pompous and luxuriant voice the lowborn Fullmore had ever heard.

"My dear boy,"…this time Fullmore remained silent, "what have you brought for me?"

The question was asked as of a child, but, despite this patronising tone, Fullmore couldn't help but offer an answer,

"Errm…., a m..message, for command" he stuttered hesitantly.

"Yes, but what does it contain laddie?" the voice now sounding more aggravated by Fullmore's timidity, but remaining ever jolly, as if a cheerful attitude could, alone bring a stop to the hoards bearing down on them from the gates of Mordor. Fallmore was painfully shoved towards the voice by a helpful hand, his ribs showing the signs of his earlier falls from Raynin, during which he had acquires a number of cracked ribs. After fumbling in his haversack, he looked up for the first time, proffering the envelope with which he had been entrusted.

Before him was a long table, of the portable variety, heavily laden with food of every kind and as many varieties of wine, all served in fine crystals. The table was topped with a pristine white cloth and bedecked with brightly burning candles. The voice could only have emanated from one of the five diners. The central man, large to the extent that he had long since abandoned armour of any kind, and it would appear, would also soon be forced to abandon his tunic, its buttons looking heavily strained as it was and he contrasted greatly with the relatively athletic build of his fellow diners, all military men. The napkin on his left shoulder was streaked with the greasy residue of the many fine meats on the table, all of which caused Fullmore to salivate heavily, its fine lacework clogged and hidden. In his right hand, he wielded a large leg of pheasant, and with this he conducted the small army of servants and aides that scurried around him.

As Fullmore watched, mouth agape, one of the aides snatched the small wax-sealed envelope which he was holding out loosely and unconsciously as he observed this farcical scene of excess in front of him. The aide handed the note, now opened, to the tables demagogue, who, taking it in one ham fist, glanced at it once and handed it straight back to the aide,

"Read this for me Duar," and then, conspiratorially towards Fullmore, "once you rise this high boy, life becomes considerably more comfortable!" and as the aide began to read, Fullmore had no intention of doubting this statement.

"To whom it may reach," the aide began….

Thankyou for your continued interest

I thought a bit of corruption and excess seems right up the proverbial Gondorian alley.