Watching the South
Ranger had a different name once. Much as Swiftrunner was not the name of a human, nobody in their right mind would name a child 'Ranger'. You could say several less than kind things about Ranger's parents, but out of their minds was not among them.
He'd chosen the name Ranger and taken the duty upon himself. A noble (relatively) cause, living off the land and extended periods of solitude had all been what he'd needed after his transformation. The fact that most rangers had a reasonably good reputation (in those few corners of the world they still existed) did not hurt.
The point he's trying to make (and isn't he getting rambly and easily distracted these days) is that he's been a ranger before. He once kept long watch upon the south, and Lanaya's clan (he knew their name once, but his memories of his days as a wolf are blurry).
He means to do so again.
He packs lightly, a bedroll and some food. Though he's going much further south than he ever did as a wolf, he's confident in his ability to live off the land. If it comes to it he might even be able to ask the Girlie's clan for help (were they the Sabre? The Sacre? Something along those lines).
He ends up borrowing a horse at the Kid's insistence. He admits, he's not as fast as he used to be and this forest is bigger than he thinks. It takes him two days to travel to the southernmost part of the forest, and he hasn't even reached the edge yet.
He sets up a hide, a camp deep in a wooden thicket with a small stream running through it. A thick canopy of trees shelters it from most of the rain and will mask any smoke his fires make. He'll need such a base of operations, especially if the darkspawn have already begun to creep into the southernmost parts of the forest.
With a groan, the old man heads out to begin sniffing out the situation as it currently stands.
Ranger cursed as he found yet another stream. Just past the edge of the forest the river split into a delta that fed the marshlands. Logically, he should have know that there would be other lesser tributaries all through this part of the forest, but he hadn't thought of it.
All these streams were making it hard to navigate, and worse were absolute breeding grounds for the kind of blood leeching parasites that made life in the marshes unbearable.
Still, despite the unfamiliar terrain, Ranger was no beginner woodsman, easily misled by streams that seemed to repeat every few steps. Was this part of the forest hard to navigate? Absolutely. Was he lost? No.
However, his time was mostly being taken up by navigation and committing his surroundings to memory. He was forced to admit that he couldn't manage as well as he used to. No more crashing through undergrowth in pursuit of prey as he had in his youth (and werewolf form). Now he needed to watch his step lest he injure himself.
All of this meant that he had no idea if the forest had no darkspawn or was absolutely crawling with them. He hadn't run into any yet, but that didn't necessarily mean they weren't there, or even rare. Any hunter worth their salt knew that animals could be surprisingly clever, and would respect prey they had not hunted before.
On this, his first darkspawn hunt, he would not be outdone by a surprisingly clever foe. He's just going to have to find another way to establish the status quo of the area.
Well, less another way and more 'the same, but way slower'. Ranger spends the rest of the day mapping the area. It's not a precise process, nothing like the neat maps that look like they were drawn by an expert calligrapher who can also fly. It's a messy scrawl on a vaguely square bit of the forest.
What's important are his notes and observations. Little things like 'stream with that bush' or 'the one with the really loud stork'. Stuff that helps him place himself back where he first found them. If anyone else could use it to navigate, he'd be very surprised.
Still, it's always worked for him in the past when he needs to navigate. His memory's not what it used to be, but long experience has taught him that most people overestimate theirs anyway. It should be fine
After that he needs to have a think about what the signs of the darkspawn would even look like. Do they march like armies? Well, presumably, but if they were here in those numbers then even a blind man could find them. No, he'll need to worry about small patrols and the like.
So, anything that looks like an armoured soldier might have passed by. At least he's pretty sure, he doesn't think he saw any without armour in the Deep Roads, but that was among the dwarves so who knows. Oh, and animals. He vaguely recalls hearing complaints about darkspawn spooking horses.
So, one eye on the ground, one ear on the birds. Watch for deep tracks and clean cuts. Sounds simple enough. He swears if it turns out they don't leave tracks like the kid or his cousin he's going to scream.
Honestly, trying to prove where someone isn't is the worst part of the job. Ranger doesn't track people that often, or at least he didn't, but he does recall an annoying incident in his youth. He'd insisted that Barry the Strangler could not possibly have passed that way, and sure enough after three fruitless weeks of searching, man gets hung in another Bannorn entirely.
Nobles.
Still, you don't get to where Ranger is in life without learning patience. If he ends up spending a whole week to find nothing, he'll just have to conclude he doesn't have any darkspawn in the area…
"Hello? What's this?" He asks.
There, nearly buried in leaves and mud, something is glinting darkly. He almost reaches out for it without thinking, but fortunately he remembers how careful Merrill was with darkspawn stuff, and ends up lifting it with a stick.
A buckle. Dull iron, spotted with rust and something that might be particularly dark rust, mould or something else entirely.
"Now, who'd be wandering through the forest without carin' about droppin' a buckle?" Ranger asks himself.
He's not one for fashion or anything of that nature, but he's pretty sure that buckles are used to hold things together. If one broke off you'd probably notice. Unless it had a bunch of redundancies, which means riches… or armour.
It's not much on its own, but it is enough to get him to have a second look. Five minutes of searching turns up an unusually clean scrape on a stone. Like a blade, or a pointed metal toe. Twenty minutes later, dried mud has held the shape of a boot, pressed in too clearly to be a hunter.
The trail continues in hints and whispers. Barely noticeable except to the most experienced eyes. It is there though.
It is also going in the wrong direction.
The trail heads south. He's not following it backwards either. He's checked and double checked. It's also old, way too old. It must be at least a month old to be this scanty. Possibly longer, but he'd need to know the area better to be certain.
That makes it very strange when, for a single moment, the trail seems to abruptly turn around.
The mark is subtle, too subtle for Ranger's old eyes, but Witherfang (jr) is not so easily deceived. The half grown pup starts snuffling at something, which turns out to be a slightly crushed plant. Not two steps away from the trail.
Ranger pauses, and tries to envision how the movement would work. A side step, perhaps? To avoid something? Or is it a new trail.
"Witherfang!" He calls. "Seek."
With a yap the dog starts to sniff, and slowly leads him away from the first trail. It doesn't take long for the poor thing to lose it, but Ranger is now certain. This is a new trail.
A trail that leads to a small, carefully hidden, pile of wood shavings and goose feathers. A hunter had passed this way, was Ranger's first thought.
Then he saw Witherfang tearing strips of rotten meat off of a goose corpse. What kind of hunter leaves meat behind? What kind of hunter kills a goose instead of just taking the needed feathers anyway?
On that note, how long had the birds been silent?
For a moment Ranger is torn. This trail is interesting, and fresh, of the two it is more likely to lead to someone or something.
Then he makes up his mind. Given he knows nothing about either trail he should go with the one more likely to lead to what he's worried about. The more recent trail has roughly even odds of being a hunter as anything that needs to be investigated. The one heading south is almost certainly a darkspawn. So it is that trail he will follow.
"Good boy Witherfang." He says gruffly. "Come, we're heading back south now. Do you think you can keep up?"
Witherfang's bark has more enthusiasm than sense, but Ranger suspects he's going to end up carrying the pup by the end of the day. Still, he lets the little guy try, if only because he doesn't want to deal with the squirming.
The two of them struggle to find the trail again at first, it was a rather subtle thing. However, he did not get this far in life by being bad at what he does (mysterious definitely a curse aside). Find it they do, mostly due to Witherfang's keen eyes spotting another scraped rock.
This time it's clearly a metal sole, or possibly a steel toe of the regular shape. There's even a tiny fragment glittering in the rock when Ranger gets down and almost presses his eye to it.
Witherfang gets ear scratches as a reward. Then the two of them begin heading south at a steady pace. Witherfang doesn't even end up needing to be carried which has a double benefit of not tiring Ranger and giving him a pair of sharp eyes and one sharp nose on the ground.
Ranger isn't one of those idiot nobles who blows a horn or yells out something inane like 'the game's afoot' but he does feel a teeth bearing smile on his face as the hunt begins. Witherfang does bark loudly, but that's more due to being excited about running.
Ranger has followed harder trails in his life, not many, but he has done it. Still, this is a challenge. If he didn't have Witherfang with him, he'd probably have lost it in truth. The hound seems to have a knack for finding things that he knows Ranger will understand.
Ranger takes a brief moment to thank the Lady at that thought. She might not be a god, but it never hurts.
Nearly a month, and in the early stages of winter, most signs of anything's passage are long gone. Broken branches are healed and dirt is disturbed or turns to mud. However, whatever passed this way (he knows it's a darkspawn but an old mentor warned him about assumptions and he still didn't listen, so here he is) went through the land like a battering ram.
Branches are slashed or destroyed, in ways that leave lasting marks. Rust and hard used metal litter (relatively speaking) the trail. It might be enough for a darkspawn, but it still feels like it's too much.
"Unless, there's more than one." He muses, looking at another, identical buckle.
Witherfang barks.
"Well, no, can't prove it yet, but it's the best explanation." Ranger replies. "But, if there's more than one passin' this way it makes sense why the trail's still so fresh."
Witherfang barks repeatedly, then scratches his ear.
Ranger strokes his beard. "That's the question isn't it. Why not take the deep roads?"
Yet further south the trail leads. Through the Gap, around the villages and into the Wilds. The trail grows clearer. Arrows, weapons and more litter the ground. One darkspawn fell into a pool and drowned.
Not an hour's journey into the Wilds (and as far as Ranger dares go) they find their answer. A burned ruin of a village, darkspawn corpses surrounding it. Then, a much larger trail leading away, vaguely south west.
"Guess that answers that question." Ranger says grimly.
Witherfang whines.
"Yeah. Nothin' we can do now but turn back." The old man sighs. "Maker rest the folks that lived here."
The Noldor of Thedas
Maeglin had seemed… unstable when last you spoke. In truth he has seemed rather conflicted whenever you have spoken. It seems logical considering that whatever his treason and its origins he still faced Morgoth and death. They would leave even the most even tempered of your kind in something of a conflicted state.
Given his parentage and the events of his life you would not place a wager upon Maeglin being an even tempered elda. Thus, you think it is high time the two of you spoke once again. Perhaps you fret over nothing as your brother so often accused, or perhaps he needs your help. Either way, speaking to him cannot hurt.
"What are you doing here." The receptionist hisses as you enter the Denerim office of the Dark Moth Trading Company.
"Greetings." You pause. "I fear that I have, in my previous haste, neglected to discover your name."
"I'm not telling you my name, you degenerate maniac!" The woman exclaims.
You bite back many unkind responses, and instead say, "I understand why you might think that, however I assure you that I am no danger to you, nor was my behaviour at our first meeting typical. Maeglin and I have long history and I came here expecting to find a deadly foe, not a cautious ally."
The woman continues to glare at you. "And the whispering in a language that I've never heard but CAN'T FORGET!?"
"The 'whispering', as you call it, is a civilised volume for beings whose ears are far keener than humans." Maeglin says from the door of his office.
"The language is Sindarin." You supply helpfully. "It is the language of the Teleri and Sindar, his father's people. We use it because his Gondolin accent is so thick I barely understand his Quenya."
"As though Fëanorian Quenya is not closer to being a distinct language than a dialect." Maeglin rolls his eyes. "Besides, you are hardly in a position to criticise others' accents Maedhroth."
The corner of your mouth tilts up, this is looking to be a surprisingly fun argument. "I have not spoken in the old style in many a century Maeglin. Accusing me of such only reveals your ignorance of history and proper grammar."
"Oh?" Maeglin arches a brow challengingly. "Please, enlighten me on, what did you call it again? 'The tongue of my father's people'?"
"Gladly." You reply with a smug grin. "As you well know Maedhros is a Sindarin word, and the pronunciation of súle[1] in the mode of Beleriand would correctly be 'th'; it also does not appear in my name. Maedhros is spelt with anto[2] and silme[3], and thus would not have been pronounced 'th' even in classic mode, which had little use for it besides."
"Ah, but you speak of writing, and my contention was that of your accent." Maeglin replies with a wicked smile. "Perhaps you may try to pronounce your 's's, yet the habits of a milenia are not so easily overcome. Ever are your silmes soft, as though you had some impediment of the tongue."
"In your haste to score a point, you have overreached and revealed yourself." You reply triumphantly. "For I have gone to great lengths to correct that particular flaw of pronunciation, lest it give offence. If you wished for accuracy you would accuse me of over pronouncing silmes."
"Ah, but which of us would know better?" Maeglin leans towards you, expression intent. "One's own understanding of their voice is flawed by exposure. To your ear, perhaps you over pronounce, but to all else you under pronounce."
Before you can reply, the girl speaks up. "Are you two… friends?"
"Family I fear." Maeglin replies offhandedly.
"His mother was my cousin." You confirm. "Which is what makes his accent all the more tragic."
The girl snorts in disbelief. "Pull the other one. If there's more than five years between you two I'm an old maid."
Her words break the atmosphere you had subconsciously been developing. You are not in Eldarin lands, where you can debate meaningless points of linguistics for days. Among humans your behaviour is unusual, and more pressingly there are other matters you must deal with.
Maeglin seems to come to a similar realisation, because he coughs awkwardly. "Regardless of what you think, Maedhros is far older than I, and my maternal first cousin once removed."
The girl at the desk seems somewhat mollified, as she gives no protest as Maeglin leads you to his office. She does keep her eyes upon you and seems to be glad taht Maeglin chose not to shut his door.
When the two of you are seated he asks, "What business hast thou with me?"
"I would seek council with thee." You reply. "We two are the only beings in Thedas who have faced the Enemy in person, and together have more experience in his schemes than any other. I would have us consult on the matter now, while peace holds, rather than when the fire and fury of war surrounds us."
Maeglin steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair. "That seems wise to me. I am uncertain what I might speak of that thou doest not know. I have little desire to relive my meeting with the Foe, and Gondolin rarely took to the field."
"Thy city was encircled, and I had hoped that you would have some knowledge of siegecraft." You explain. "I have oft been on the offence in latter days, and rarely defended a fixed position."
"Save for Himring." Maeglin notes dryly.
"A fortress that was taken without struggle in the end." You demure. "The songs overemphasise my part in its defence."
It is not necessary that Maeglin have knowledge of siegecraft you lack. In truth you are more interested in speaking to him for his own sake. That said, if he has advice or wisdom to share you wish to hear it. It will also not cause any harm to see him offering advice more freely.
Maeglin's fingers tap nervously upon his desk. "Well, I have some knowledge of building fortifications, though the Gate of Steel did not hold as I had hoped when I forged it."
"No wall can long withstand the might of Balrogs." You state without judgement. "Theirs is strength to dwarf the ents, and no wall of stone or steel can long hold either."
"Himring…" Maeglin begins.
"Walls may be proofed against dragonfire." You interrupt. "For anything mightier, there is the steel of the Noldor[1], and the might and courage of their princes."
Maeglin nods slowly. "All that I can share, I will."
"Thou knowst that the enemy is, in greatest part, stupid." Maeglin begins. "Balrogs aside, naturally."
"I believe thou dost not give sufficient credit to the low cunning of monsters [2]." You correct gently. "But you are, in most cases, not wrong."
"I had noticed, before I grew… distracted. That the enemy, even led by Balrogs was relatively easy to funnel in directions as we desired." Maeglin says carefully. "They are used to their power allowing them to pass through all obstacles and are slow to turn aside without compelling reason."
That, while not exactly new information, it is however not something you thought about very often. Generally speaking you had tended to meet Morgoth in open battle rather than within a city, on account of his tendency to kill literally everything in his path.
"We might use that to our advantage." You muse. "We shall have both the fortress and the swamp, we might be able to choose favourable ground."
Maeglin nods along as you speak. "True, I had not thought of that. Thou hast seen the ground we will be fighting on then?"
"Not exactly." You reply with a wave of the hand. "I have visited the marshes of the Kocari wilds, but not specifically those around the fortress of Ostagar."
"Hast thou tales to share?" Maeglin asks.
"Some, but not many." You reply. "I have fought there though and can share some of the pitfalls they offer."
You share the tale of your initial foray into the Kocari Wilds. Maeglin listens to your descriptions of the swamps and the ambush the darkspawn laid for you. He even seems surprised that you struggled against it.
"Truly, they seem uncommonly cunning even by the standards of the darkness." Maeglin muses to himself. "Hast thou ought else to share of these 'darkspawn'?"
You meet Maeglin's gaze evenly. "How much time dost thou have?"
"As much time as is necessary." Maeglin replies seriously, meeting your eyes unflinchingly. "'Tis my skin at risk, and I am much attached to it. I would not face the enemy again for all the Mithril in Moria."
Time is limited, and you feel a need to focus only on the darkspawn and the coming battle. A voice whispers in the back of your mind of the treason of Maeglin, and Ulfang before him. If you tell him, who knows what might come about.
Then you feel shame run hot through you. Maeglin has given no sign of treachery, and it is not as though he will not be well informed enough to cause trouble even if you say nothing. You offered a chance to redeem himself, and you are not one who can say who can and cannot be redeemed.
"Let us begin with the nature of our foe then." You state. "'Twill be a long tale, for their abilities are many, and of no small concern."
Then you speak of all you have learned of the darkspawn. Of the evils of their creation and their tainted blood. Their various kinds you detail, each in turn.
"Thou speakest of trolls, yet count them among the numbers of the darkspawn." Maeglin notes. "Seems a contradiction in mine eyes."
"Trolls I name them, for trolls they seem." You explain. "Great of stature, grey of skin, and horned. Yet, tainted is their blood and soft their hides. No trolls as we know them, yet trolls all the same. Perhaps they are a corrupted form of some creature I know not, or perhaps the darkspawn can take even the ents themselves."
Maeglin swallows visibly. "Let us pray 'tis not so. I dread to face an Ent roused to wrath even without the malice of the Foe behind him."
Long is the conversation, and deep are the discussions of what it might mean. Theories great and small are bandied between the two of you.
"Strange it is to my ears to hear of how the Taint seems to flee from thy blade." Maeglin muses. "I have not heard its like before."
"My thoughts are that it is the hate of my brother for The Black Foe [1] and all his works. They seek the Taint and destroy it, so it flees as all things in fear." You explain.
Maeglin's fingers tap lightly upon Anguirel's hilt. "Mayhaps that should be put to the test. To ingest taint, even if not in sufficient quantities to harm sounds most unpleasant to mine ears."
"Let thy feet carry thee away even after victory and do not linger in areas of the dead." You suggest. "It should not affect thee overmuch."
"Mayhaps." Maeglin replies cautiously. "Still, I would not risk it. I shall investigate when I have time."
You speak of your discussions with Loghaine and what you think the best tactics for the battle are. Unsurprisingly for a Gondolindrim, Maeglin is a firm believer in a well fortified, and ideally hidden, position from which to strike. Though he is also more aggressive than Turgon, and would not be content with remaining safe behind walls for long.
Then the conversation turns to Merrill's spells.
"Thou sayest that she hath some method to seek the Taint and purge it?" Maeglin asks. "Why the caution then?"
"There is great risk to be had in allowing the Taint to take root." You explain. "'Tis best to apply the treatment swiftly. Besides which, our natures leave us in unique danger to the Black Foe's corruption."
"True." Maeglin grunts. "This other spell, the one that destroys them, what of it?"
"As I understand it, and recall that I understand only a little of the workings of magic, the Taint is somewhat attuned to magic, and if sufficient power is placed within it, it grows uncontrollably, destroying the form that houses it." You explain.
There is a single moment of silence. Then Maeglin leans forward and speaks.
"To wield the arts of the Enemy is folly." Anguirel's hilt rests threateningly on the desk.
You give him a flat look. "Thou hast forgotten the Tale of the Holy Ones[2], all arts are his arts."
"Thou knowest what I meant." Maeglin says.
"It is thou who knowest not what he says." You reply. "Thou hast accused me of bowing to the enemy, of being his unwitting servant. Thou, more than most, shouldst know that is not how it works."
"Mayhaps it is not unknowing." Maeglin snarls. "Mayhaps this is all a ploy, and thou servest the enemy even as we speak."
"Then why dost thou live?" You ask calmly. "Why would I tell you that which would reveal me? Look upon me, do I have the bearing of one who has been corrupted by the Foe?"
Maeglin studies you at length. No doubt he strains his senses to their greatest extent. It is futile, and you suspect he knew that when he began. You are no servant of the enemy and to suggest so was foolhardy.
The son of the Dark Elf sags back in his chair.
"Forgive me." He says quietly. "When thou spokest of the Taint… I feared the worst. The enemy, thou knowest how his spies are everywhere."
"I do, and I hold not no grudge on account of thy suspicion." You state heavily. "We can but combat him with trust and brotherhood, yet I confess I find it harder than I should."
"What pair of merry fools are we." Maeglin says with a bitter smile. "Of all the glittering host of heroes that might have been called forth to this new world, we two are all they have."
"You discount the courage of men at thy own peril." You remind him.
Eyes filled with no great hope meet yours. "Let us pray thou art right, then, for I fear we shall have great need of aid."