Originally Posted by
Aedon
The Sad Tale of Aroun
Now, there are champions and then again there are champions in the ranks of the Tarks. But among these I never thought I would one day see one that seemed akin to a warg.
It was a lazy, sultry day at Gramsfoot, and most of the pack was laying flat out on any rock they could find, trying to cool their selves before time for the evening hunt. I was on my favorite rock just past the campfire and at the edge of the camp when I thought I saw something moving towards the slug pits.
At first glance, it seemed a bit like one of the slugs had managed to make their way out of the pit, and was, for some unknown reason tracing a line between trees. Now it may have been the heat, or perhaps the case of Orc Ale I drank the night before that caused me to see him this way at first, but as I watched the movement it became clear that it was no slug I watched, but a man moving with purpose back and forth between our shrubberies.
I thought to rise, and perhaps go have a look, and perhaps a snack, but the coolness of the rock, and a sudden shift in the winds made me want to lie there for just a bit longer. After all, the hunt was only a few hours away, and one lone tark would never feed the entire warband. This, young ones was my first mistake of the night.
Pounce looked down into the faces of the pups gathered about the rock. Their panting and longing for a place on the cool perch of their elder did not diminish their interest in the tale being told. The old veteran watched them for a moment, and then continued to speak.
This was the first time I, or any other of our kind laid eyes on Aroun. He seemed at first like any other of his ilk. A bit doughy, hair a mess on his head, and cursed, as they all are with a dry, warm nose. Champions, as they are called are a whirling mass of blades and pain that most warbands dispatch as quickly as possible. Left to their own devises, these things can decimate the front lines of any hunting party caught off guard.
Now at the time, I did not know what he was called by his kind, and most of us give all tarks the same name, we call them food. A name for a tark always seemed such a waste of time. After all, one does not name that which is destined for the waste pit.
I became curious about this one though, and drawing the shadows around me, I left my perch, and started to follow him. By the time I reached the trees, he had mounted his horse, and ridden off towards Lugz hill. I kept pace with him, as he crossed the bridge to TA and rode on towards Tirith Rhaw.
In the shadows of the great tower many men made camp. Their fires burned brightly and hanging above them were long eared rats. I suppose this is what a tark eats. I was a bit reviled, but moved as close as I could and listened as the one I followed reported in.
He told them of our camp, and tried to give some account of our numbers. I could not help but chuckle thinking how wrong his guess was. He could not see beyond the fires to the great gates of Gramsfoot. Nor beyond to the many members of the warbands camped within.
As I listened, one of those seated called to him saying, Aroun, come sit and eat. This name shocked me, and at the same time filled me with some questions. Could it be that this champion was not a simply a Tark, but a hybrid of some sort? Coursing within his miserable body might be the true heroic blood of some great Warg leader. I would have to find some way to ask him.
I lay at a distance and watched for many hours. The time of the hunt came and went, and still I watched and waited for Aroun to leave the company of the others who gnawed on their rats, and drank from great flagons of ale. In time he arose, and bidding them all safe passage, he munted his horse, and stated back towards Tol Ascarnan.
As he crossed over ETAB, I attacked from the shadows knocking him from his horse, and sending it running wildly back towards TR. Struggling to his feet, he drew his great blades and made ready to do battle. I stood looking at him, waiting and watching. And then, seeing that he as not going to speak up, I spoke the first greeting to him
ArooOOoOOOoOOo
This did not quite elicit the conversation I thought it would. For instead of replying with the proper greeting, he gave a shout, and charged me. Stepping lightly aside, I raised my paw and brought it down on his head sending him once more to the ground.
AroOOOoOOoOoOOO rooo roo AroOOoooOOoO I said loudly. I was sure that this time Aroun would reply correctly. No, instead he jumped up, gave a yell and made for me again. I truly thought he was looking to cut my head off this time, so I wrapped the shadows around me again, and stepped out of his way. He stood still for just a moment, and then started to slice wildly the air around him.
What manner of warrior can he be that would seek to kill the wind? This was no ordinary champion for sure. If in fact Aroun could kill the air about him, would there be any left to breathe? And if he was as I assumed a descendant of wargs, why did he not speak back to me? AH well, three times pay for all they say, so moving a safe distance I again revealed myself to him and shouted loudly;
AH AH AH ROOoOOooOooOoOOoOOoOooOoOOooOO o
This at least caused him to halt his wind slicing and look at me. I sat down and growled a quick introduction of myself to him. He looked at me as though I were some sort of nut. I scratched the ground beneath my feet, the normal way a warg speaks of home and hearth to other packs met in the wild. He just sat there looking at me, his chest heaving as he breathed loudly and irritatingly at me. I was just beginning to think that he had been too long away from the pack when I heard coming close the blare of a Tark war horn. Standing quickly, I wrapped the shadows around me just as he made a leap forwards, slicing the air around the place I had sat.
Making my way back to Gramsfoot, I informed the Tyrant of what had transpired. I cannot say the leader believed my tale of a warg in freeps clothing, but many nights since the first time I have looked out towards the hills and seen Aroun sitting there, his eyes fixed of the campfires. And I cannot help but feel some measure of sorrow for the warg who cannot return home.