Abandoned Ship (June 3010) [Redbough & Golasgil]

Being back in his old territory was a bittersweet experience for the ent. He was pleased to see that the destruction once wrought here by Sauron's hordes had begun to heal, a testament to nature's ability to recover from even the most brutal of conditions. And yet, despite the healthy pines and ferns he saw around him, he could tell that much had changed as well. Ithilien's woods had once been deep and sprawling, with trees that were centuries old. That ancient, primeval growth was long gone, and it would take centuries more for it to return to the state it used to be, if ever. Additionally, something else, something that had been very important to him, was missing as well. He remembered a time when the villages of Men had dotted these woods, forest and field intermingling. He had been arbiter and ambassador between humanity and nature, finding common ground between their unpredictability, passion, and innovation, and the primordial wilderness. He had taught these Men how to farm and support themselves without damaging the natural resources around them, and had channeled his own life into the forests to help them grow back quicker and greener. Those happy, busy days, when he and Gilderleaf had presided over Ithilien, were gone, and unlike the forest itself, he wasn't sure if it would ever come back.

It was the smoke plume that had drawn him to the river that day. Forest fires were nothing new to him, and indeed, they played an important role in the cycle of life. Fires cleared out old, dead brush and made way for new growth, enriching the soil in the process. Summer, hot and dry but with frequent thunderstorms, was the most common time of the year for them as well. For the moment, his only intent was to observe the path of the flames and ensure that they caused no excessive damage.

Trees were not built to move quietly, and the ent's crashing footsteps, as well as the rustling of his crimson leaves, served to herald his arrival long before he stepped out of the woods and onto the pebbled shores of the Anduin. Upon reaching the river, however, he realized that it was no forest fire, but a burning Man-ship half-beached on the opposite shore. Great lichen-covered brows furrowed in concern at the sight. Though the scorched ship's location posed little threat to the surrounding woods, there could still be survivors in or near it. If that was the case, then he would need to move quickly and find them before it was too late.

Where he was at the moment, river was too deep and turbulent to risk crossing, even for a fifteen-foot-tall ent. He turned to walk downstream a bit, hoping to find a shallower spot to cross. As he did, however, he caught sight of a hunched mass by the water. Age had dulled the ent's vision slightly, but at this distance he could tell that it was a Man, possibly one of the survivors from the wreck.

"Youuuu there," he thrummed, beginning to walk towards the man with the longlegged and swaying pace of his kind, "arrrre you alriiight? Do youuu need helllp?" Most small folk tended to react with fear when meeting him for the first time, and so he often kept his distance and let them decided how close they were willing to get, but if the man was injured, then he might need aid now, as opposed to when he was comfortable in the ent's presence.

Upon catching sight of him, the stunned man tried to rise to his feet, but that would prove a difficult task. No sooner had he managed to get up did he double over again, hands going up to his head. He swayed unsteadily,as if about to fall over again, and the ent rumbled his worry, bending down to loom over the human and try to get a closer look. He had little doubt the action would potentially frighten him more, but he truly meant no harm. The man's clothes were soaked and ragged, and he could see a score of cuts and bruises across his flesh. So frail, the small folk were, in comparison to his kind. And yet, he had seen them recover from truly-grievous injuries. For all their supposed weakness, they were truly remarkable little creatures.

Even so, looks could be deceiving, and from he way he swayed about, Redbough worried he had taken a bad bump to the head. "Easy nowwww," he murmured, his gnarled hands sweeping forward to hover on either side of the man in case he should topple over again. More a collection of curved, flexible branches that vaguely resembled digits, as opposed to a proper five-fingered hand, the ent's handspan was wide enough to pick up the man with one hand, but he was afraid to do so, lest he accidentally injure him more. Ents were not made for finesse, and however gentle he may try to be, it was like a clumsy human trying to handle a bird without breaking its fragile bones. The most he could do for the moment was offer something for the man to lean against if he needed to. "I will not haaarm you." 

His attention went to the burning ship on the far shore again, and he scanned the opposite side for other signs of life. There was nothing that he could see, and he feared the worst, but he didn't want to give up hope just yet. "Arrrre there othersss?" he thrummed, turning his gaze back to the man. He was no healer, but he could at least help them get to the nearest town to receive proper care. He was strong enough to carry several Men at once, and his long stride would make short work of the miles.

The….hands that moved in, to either side of him, did nothing to ally the man’s astonishment or alarm. Despite the soothing rumble of the words, he startled and exclaimed, ”No! No…” only then dropping his hands, to fish about for sword and dagger, at belt and hip, his fingers fumbling futilely. His feet did him no better service, as he stumbled back a step, trying to avoid those twiggy digits as opposed to make use of them for support. His grey eyes were filled with confusion, although he was in the process of trying to force his brain and body to shake off the effects of the head wound and come up with some better plan of evasion or defense. To the question, which in itself added to the turmoil inside Golasgil’s head, he made no real reply, other than to echo, ”Others…?” with marked uncertainty, his memory, in the midst of this current crisis ,as damaged as his skull.

There was enough of it though for him to twist his head about over his shoulder, to stare stupidly at the remains of the ship. His fear of the ent was momentarily displaced by his attempt to remember, to piece together what in the world had happened, was happening, and in his peripheral vision, he caught movement. His eyes lit upon the figures in the near distance, and he muttered almost inaudibly, ”Here are others…” before he swayed, his knees buckling beneath him, and his head destined once again for a nasty impact – this time probably with a rock, or at least the hard ground, instead of an axe blade.

Redbough
Amira

While Nida had doubted that Barac’s exclamation had gone unnoticed, she had perhaps hoped it would anyway. All chances of such luck, though, were lost the moment the tall young man motioned to Nida and her companions.

”Here are others…”

She frowned faintly; the man’s speech was almost slurred. He teetered upon his feet, swaying like the grasses in the breeze before he lost his strength, and she could not help the gasp that slipped from her lips as the large tree-ish creature caught him in one large, wooden hand.

“It’s going to kill him!” Barac cried, clamping his hand down on Nida’s arm with fervor. His brown eyes were wide, though the woman could not decide if he was asking her to run, or perhaps go confront the strange creature. Barac had made no secret that he idolized the woman, perhaps because of the handful of laborers who had managed to escape the farm, she was the one who had seen the outside world. Perhaps he thought moving trees were normal beyond the mountains of Mordor.

Nida, though, was frightened. She had never seen anything like this; if these sorts of creatures frequented Gondor, it was no small wonder they were as militant as they were. This being, though, was not just moving. It could speak.

"Arrrrre you from the wreck aaaas well?"

The tones were slow, and drawn, though easily understandable in Westron nonetheless. Nida glanced to her companions as they took a step back and huddled, though the woman herself stayed her ground and looked back to the creature. “No,” she answered, though her voice did not carry nearly as well as the tree’s. She hesitated, wondering if she could say anything else, though her years accompanying Maalik in court bid her not be rude. Still, she struggled for what to say, for there was not much she could offer other than a form of explanation as to who they truly were. “We are traveling by foot to seek refuge in the city called Minas Tirith.”

Perhaps that was enough of an answer. She did not need mention that they were running slaves, or indeed that they had no supplies because they were stolen by a bargemen during the night. The creature, perhaps, did not even care who they were or what they were doing. Perhaps this was its home, and he was going to bid them leave. She hoped that such a thing was the case, because even had they been armed, Nida knew she would have been unable to do anything against the tall, red-leafed being before her.

It was approaching, the long-limbs of the creature whisking it forward quickly. It paused, though, as Nida took a step backward, and dropped to one knee. He presented the fair-faced man toward them, and the woman could read upon the tree’s face concern. Despite the way her heart pattered in her faint fear, she suddenly felt a wash of curiosity. What was this being? It did not feel so dangerous as the caragor or warg of Mordor, and had an intelligence in its eyes that surpassed the uruk who had kept her under lash and chain.

"He is injurrrred and maaay need more hellllp than I can proviiiide."

“Away, beast!” Barac shrieked, the sound shrill.

The woman ignored the man. Instead, Nida’s held tilted, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “I…I can try to help,” Nida offered. Though, what she could do out here with no healing supplies was going to be limited. Of the many roles she had worn in Haradwaith, a healer had never been one of them, and she doubted a son of Gondor was overly thrilled that one of her blood was the one to see to his tending. Tentatively she took a step forward, then another. When she was satisfied that the creature was not using the man as an outright trap, for he had not made a motion to snatch her in his bark-skinned claws as well, she finished crossing to the limp figure of the man.

She knelt beside him, brow furrowed as she examined him, spying the blood by his temple with little trouble. That would certainly account for his slurred speech. “Can you open your eyes?” She asked, her voice low, and as warm as the sands of her homeland. “It looks like you have taken a blow to the head—can you feel anything else?” She was working with the light, simple dress she had worn since leaving the farm, using her meager strength to rip a strip from the hem.

When she had a good length of cloth, she folded it into a small square and gently pressed it to his temple. “I am sorry, this may hurt,” she murmured.