1.0 - The Marsh Bell

"A good telling, Gilly," Robin says with a smile.

Inar smiles to himself whilst listening to Gilly tell her story, he'd never admit it but he's grown quite fond of the hobbit's tales.

As Lowell hands him the bowl of stew he thanks him. Even though he isn't fond of fish he appreciates a hot meal after having spent so much time over the last few years on the run and hungry. He shifts his position whilst eating, keeping slightly removed from the group so he can keep a watchful eye on all figures present.

There's a slight rumbling in the brush nearby -- the hobbits and Thovetar pick it up quite readily over the din of the evening meal and the crackling of the fire. Moments later, another dwarf sallies forth from the bush and spots you all gathered around the fire. For his part, Fror sees several huts -- and a fire, and several Men, a Dwarf and a couple of children -- or perhaps Hobbits gathered around the fire. They're eating something that doesn't smell half bad -- and the warmth of the fire might still be welcome on this spring night.

Robin's reaction is dulled somewhat by his thoroughly enjoyable smoke. He quirks a brow at the dwarf, but does not immediately speak up, wondering if this is another one of their acquaintances' comrades.

As the dwarf emerges from the brush Inar relaxes slightly, and only slightly, sliding the sword he half drew back into it's sheath but keeping his hand close to the hilt for a moment. Studying the other dwarf he begins to have a niggling feeling he's seen him before...

The newly arrived dwarf wears only travellers clothes - a brown cloak and leggings with bright green trim and thread. Behind his light-brown, long, wavy beard, his faded green shirt is low-cut in the front with loose lacing, barely holding back a thick bush of brown, wiry chest hair.

He carries a large, heavy-looking backpack and clearly bears an array of weapons (currently sheathed or stowed for walking), including a large, dangerous-looking war-mattock. In-hand at the moment, however, is merely a well-loved walking stick, beautifully carved and adorned with silver inlay, depicting an angular, abstract visage of a dwarf with a very long beard. A single dwarven rune is also inlaid in the wood over the dwarf face.
"Frór son of Grór, at your service," he says, and bows deeply - his long beard brushing the toes of his boots, "Would you share the warmth and fellowship of your fire with a fellow traveller?" While scanning the company, his eyes fall on Inar and he adds "The Men of Esgaroth still look on Durin's folk as friends, last I heard."

Inar nods at Frór "Well met traveller, you'll certainly get no objections from me" he says gesturing for Frór to join them. "I am Inar Stoutfoot"

Inar studies the figure closely, the feeling a familiarity growing even more as Frór gave his name. Something from long ago Inar muses to himself When I was just a lad maybe?

Thovétar glances over at the dwarf. "Well met. I am Thovétar of Gondor, at your service."

Gilly stands and bows with a flourish, "Gilly Took, at your service."

Frór greets each member of the company in turn. At Inar his eyes at first grow narrow with a contemplative squint, then open wide and bright as he exclaims, "Why, you're a Stoutfoot, you say! We must be practically cousins! My father, Grór's sister married a Stoutfoot and some of her family was said to have come to Erebor - or thereabouts - it seems to have gotten more and more difficult to keep track of the Stoutfoot side of the family in recent years..." he trails off, as if trying to remember something.

Then, in a hoarse whisper he continues close to Inar's ear, "Have you heard about Balin and Oin? A raven brought me ill news as I was wandering in pursuit of local bandits - and in pursuit of my Oath!" then he finishes more loudly again, "Aye! Ever in pursuit of my Oath..."

The Lakemen welcome Fror easily enough -- one group of adventurers is unusual enough -- but a second (even if it is but a group of one) is practically unheard of. There's a quick jostling as seating is rearranged to make room, and Fror is provided with some of the hearty fish stew.

"What's that about ill news?" one of the men ask -- ready for another story.

Inar nods and thinks to himself Ofcourse, that's why he looks familiar. "Ah yes, I remember it was old old Farnil who married your aunt....that was a good day" he smiles fondly as he remembers a time when life was a little simpler "Our family have had to relocate a few times and go where we are needed" he shrugs after a moments thought "it's been a few years since I've seen another member of my family to be honest...." Inar seems about to say something else but then glances about the others and decides better of it. "Yes we had heard something about that business, best not to speak of such things though" he glances at Frór meaningfully, trying to suggest too many strange ears are here to talk about such matters.

"Ah, um...yes..." Frór begins to answer the Lakemen's question, but he hears Inar's warning in his ear and the accompanying cautious glance, so he just awkwardly ends with, "...just personal, family business. I haven't seen this cousin of mine for a very, very long time, you see." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and fills his mouth with stew to avoid speaking more of the matter.

Though he managed enough effort to raise a hand in greeting to the Dwarf, Robin quickly found that he'd grown immensely tired. Robin's eyes have since closed, and his pipe now sags between his lips. His fingers interlock over his belly as he lies back and snoozes peacefully. There is a soft smile on his face.

"I'm going to sleep for now. Let me know if anything gappens." He then sets off for his bedroll.

The Lakemen relent at the weak retreat from Inar and Fror, but remain jocular all the same. As the night wears on -- they begin to follow in Thovetar's footsteps (figuratively speaking) and seek their own beds. The fire burns down to a safe level and the night wears on.

Grateful for the stew, Frór offers to the Lakemen to take a turn on watch.

Fror is permitted to watch -- although the Lakemen are a little lackadazical about it -- and encourage him to just get some rest. It's been some time since they've had any trouble -- and there are more than enough of them, in their opinion, to fend off the small band or two of ne'er-do-wells who may be about.

Morning comes with the chirping of birds and some hard bread and warmed fish soup -- leftovers from the night before. Breakfast is uneventful and your boats are ported down the Stair of Girion for a modest fee that you easily pay given a few coins from Gloin to make the journey south with good speed.

The sun shines and the Long Marshes reach out before you. Even with the sun -- here at the base of the Stair, the land ahead looks dim and foreboding. Fror offers to join the four of you on your journey -- and given his drive to aid his kin, and his familial relations (if somewhat distant to Inar) you are inclined to bring him along. Another stout mattock seems like a wise addition looking at the marshes ahead...

Gilly looks around, her normal eagerness somewhat tempered by the mood of the land.