Post by Arvellas Maebenion on Feb 6, 2013 2:00:11 GMT -5
The strength of the river Langwell, which came down from the northernmost stretch of the Misty Mountains and eventually met the great river Anduin, was reigned by the thick winter ice which congested all but a narrow flow. Arvellas had considered the river for a time, content to watch the play of the morning sun across the water before continuing on his journey. Across the river Langwell lay the ruins of Framsburg, the one time capital of the Éothéod before they departed for what became the land of Rohan. Mention of the old bones of the settlement of Men had came during Arvellas' stay with the Elves of the Greenwood, although none there could give personal accounts of the place. A chance to spy what others did not had piqued his interest, and he had departed a few days thereafter. Though not without entreaties to avoid the shadow of Mount Gundabad, for despite the victory of the Dwarves there, orcs had been seen returning to their ancient capital.
Arvellas shook himself to action; he could not afford to dally and risk being caught on the other side of the river past sunset. There was what remained of a stone bridge further down the river, and although it had mostly collapsed, it was possible to use the broken masonry to work one's way across when the flow was slow enough. He retrieved his pack, ensuring that all the straps held. His cloak, which was of a dark burnt sienna in color, was tightly rolled and secured to the top, for the sky was clear and the biting cold of the air did not trouble him. Arvellas was content in his white sleeved tunic and the dark golden jerkin which he wore over it. His trousers were of a rich brown, as was the leather of his tall boots.
The elf took off at a swift jog towards the bridge, anticipating what sights he would soon be recording in the large, loosely bound book that was safely stowed in his pack. The bridge was there; its arches had fallen, but enough remained that Arvellas was easily able to pick his way across the river. The city was to the north, in the direction of the mountain. So far on his journey there had been no need to draw his blade, although it remained as a comforting weight at his side. He was armed with it and the throwing knives secured in each boot as well as in sheathes sewn into each of his leather wrist guards. Arvellas preferred to journey alone, for one can move more quickly and pass more quietly, and it was this solitary stealth that he credited for the lack of confrontations thus far.
What remained of the town of Framsburg quickly came into view. Arvellas quietly cursed the small minds of Men, which could not imagine greater structures to leave in their wake. The stone shells of a few small, squat buildings were most of what remained. It was clearly once a fortified town, as Arvellas spied an encircling wall that remained at shoulder height in some places and was completely collapsed in others. There was no sign of visitation by orcs, that he made sure to discern before all else.
Arvellas surveyed the area once more before shrugging off his pack and digging out the book. Even as he sat and sketched the area, or walked about the structures in search of any other traces of civilization, the mountain was an uneasy shadow at the back of his mind. It would be best to finish his errand and be away back to the Greenwood.
Arvellas shook himself to action; he could not afford to dally and risk being caught on the other side of the river past sunset. There was what remained of a stone bridge further down the river, and although it had mostly collapsed, it was possible to use the broken masonry to work one's way across when the flow was slow enough. He retrieved his pack, ensuring that all the straps held. His cloak, which was of a dark burnt sienna in color, was tightly rolled and secured to the top, for the sky was clear and the biting cold of the air did not trouble him. Arvellas was content in his white sleeved tunic and the dark golden jerkin which he wore over it. His trousers were of a rich brown, as was the leather of his tall boots.
The elf took off at a swift jog towards the bridge, anticipating what sights he would soon be recording in the large, loosely bound book that was safely stowed in his pack. The bridge was there; its arches had fallen, but enough remained that Arvellas was easily able to pick his way across the river. The city was to the north, in the direction of the mountain. So far on his journey there had been no need to draw his blade, although it remained as a comforting weight at his side. He was armed with it and the throwing knives secured in each boot as well as in sheathes sewn into each of his leather wrist guards. Arvellas preferred to journey alone, for one can move more quickly and pass more quietly, and it was this solitary stealth that he credited for the lack of confrontations thus far.
What remained of the town of Framsburg quickly came into view. Arvellas quietly cursed the small minds of Men, which could not imagine greater structures to leave in their wake. The stone shells of a few small, squat buildings were most of what remained. It was clearly once a fortified town, as Arvellas spied an encircling wall that remained at shoulder height in some places and was completely collapsed in others. There was no sign of visitation by orcs, that he made sure to discern before all else.
Arvellas surveyed the area once more before shrugging off his pack and digging out the book. Even as he sat and sketched the area, or walked about the structures in search of any other traces of civilization, the mountain was an uneasy shadow at the back of his mind. It would be best to finish his errand and be away back to the Greenwood.
