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Adelard Took was quite the excited Hobbit. In fact, he was so excited, he kept bobbing up and down with his saddle, even moreso than one usually would when sat upon a pony, going at a steady canter. A bright grin adorned his ruddy face, and it was so large that his pipe kept threatening to fall out at every slight movement he or his pony made; and what with the bouncing, it was quite likely to happen.
"Look at that, my friends! Is that not the most glorious sight you've ever seen?" Adelard called out merrily to his guards, keeping his pipe still by grasping it with one hand. Of course, the Hobbit was not talking of his pipe (Nor the smoke ring he had just puffed out, although it was quite a splendid one at that), but of the city that lay before them. Minas Tirith - the greatest city of men still standing to this day, and shining brightly underneath the protection of it's mountain. The Pelennor Fields stretched out before the four Hobbits and their Ponies, and in the distance, the re-built city of Osgiliath could be seen on the great river. Beyond that, however, were less glorious sights. While awesome to look upon nonetheless, the Ephel Duath, or Mountains of Shadow in the common tongue, stood tall and ominous against the silhouette of the once-capital of Gondor. Adelard's excited bouncing paused for a moment as he looked upon them, and a deep shudder went down his spine. The red hue was long gone from the skies above those mountains, but simply being where he was, and looking upon these sights, brought him right back to his Grandfather's shoes. (Or feet, he supposed, as Hobbits rarely wore shoes.) When Peregrin Took had been brought here more than a century ago, Osgiliath was a battered ruin; the Tower of Guard ruled by a mad Steward, the Pelennor Fields ready to soak up the blood spilled in the battle of Minas Tirith, and the dark, crimson skies of Mordor ever present in the distance. The Orcs that dwelt there could not stand the pure light of the sun, and so their dark master made sure to shield them from it.
"Adelard?"
The sudden voice in his ear made the Hobbit jump, and he looked to his guard in surprise. It seemed he had become lost in his own thoughts; or rather, the thoughts that had gone through past Hobbit's minds when they had stood where he had, on the brink of battle. In fact, Adelard had become so preoccupied with the view before him, and the memories attached to it, that their party had come to a standstill.
"There seems to be a congregation on the fields. Can't tell who they are from here, but they're bearing banners - perhaps they're others coming for the meeting?" The guard suggested, scratching underneath his helmet irritably. He was a fine fellow, but Adelard couldn't understand why he insisted on wearing a helmet when it was both too big and too itchy for him. In fact, all of the Bracegirdle guards seemed to be the same... something to prove, perhaps? In Adelard's opinion, if one were to try and seem more impressive than a family member, uncomfortable headgear wasn't the best way to do it; working on your aim with a bow or skill with a sword would be better. As for that, the Hobbit Emissary knew he was in good hands. One of his other guards, Cassinia Fairbairn, was a wonderful shot, even by Hobbit standards. And while many liked to underestimate Halflings when it came to matters of war or frays, it should always be kept in mind that all Hobbits - no matter how fat, short, or old they were - had impeccable aim when it came to throwing things. Indeed, back in the old, old days that not even Adelard's grandfather's grandfather could remember, the Hobbits had sent a group of archers to aid King Arvedui of Fornost, against the invasion of the wicked Witch-King and his forces from Angmar. The stories of men tended to forget the aid of Hobbits during that battle, but if there was one thing that Hobbits knew, it was their own history. To a certain extent, anyway - after a while it got a tad too boring and bothersome to dredge up the far past, especially when so little documents remained of such times.
Again, Adelard realised he was getting lost in his own mind again, and the bemused Bracegirdle guard waited for his command.
"Ah yes - excellent spot! I dare say there's a few Dwarves down there, if their stature is anything to go by." He said eagerly as he looked at the varied heights of the figures in the distance; jolly grin returning to his face, and pipe once again threatening to fall from his mouth. "And if there's Dwarves, I'd bet there'd be a couple of Elves and Men down there too! Isn't that fantastic? Have you ever met the fair folk before?" Already anticipating the somewhat agape expression of his guard, Adelard dug his bare heels into his steed, getting the group moving once again. "I have! Well. I saw a group of them leaving for the Grey Havens - probably came all the way from Lothlórien, I reckon. Rivendell has been empty for a while now, according to reports. Still a shame to see them leave; just imagine what we can learn from them! I'm just glad that some have stayed in - " At this point, Adelard's rambling speech came to a sudden halt, much to his tired guard's relief. The poor Bracegirdle had expected a simple escort job; he hadn't taken into account the distance they had to cover. Nor the incessant chattering and stories of his Emissary. However, even the obstinately traditional Hobbit couldn't help but to be amazed at the very sight that had cut off Adelard's talking.
"Bless my furry feet!" Adelard whispered, his pipe finally falling from his wide open jaw. "That - That's an Oliphaunt! They've brought an Oliphaunt!" By the time the four Ponies and their riders had reached within earshot of the Men, Elves and Dwarves stood on the fields, Adelard was still gazing at the magnificent, enormous beast before him, his face lit up like a child's would upon seeing fireworks for the first time.
"Look at that, my friends! Is that not the most glorious sight you've ever seen?" Adelard called out merrily to his guards, keeping his pipe still by grasping it with one hand. Of course, the Hobbit was not talking of his pipe (Nor the smoke ring he had just puffed out, although it was quite a splendid one at that), but of the city that lay before them. Minas Tirith - the greatest city of men still standing to this day, and shining brightly underneath the protection of it's mountain. The Pelennor Fields stretched out before the four Hobbits and their Ponies, and in the distance, the re-built city of Osgiliath could be seen on the great river. Beyond that, however, were less glorious sights. While awesome to look upon nonetheless, the Ephel Duath, or Mountains of Shadow in the common tongue, stood tall and ominous against the silhouette of the once-capital of Gondor. Adelard's excited bouncing paused for a moment as he looked upon them, and a deep shudder went down his spine. The red hue was long gone from the skies above those mountains, but simply being where he was, and looking upon these sights, brought him right back to his Grandfather's shoes. (Or feet, he supposed, as Hobbits rarely wore shoes.) When Peregrin Took had been brought here more than a century ago, Osgiliath was a battered ruin; the Tower of Guard ruled by a mad Steward, the Pelennor Fields ready to soak up the blood spilled in the battle of Minas Tirith, and the dark, crimson skies of Mordor ever present in the distance. The Orcs that dwelt there could not stand the pure light of the sun, and so their dark master made sure to shield them from it.
"Adelard?"
The sudden voice in his ear made the Hobbit jump, and he looked to his guard in surprise. It seemed he had become lost in his own thoughts; or rather, the thoughts that had gone through past Hobbit's minds when they had stood where he had, on the brink of battle. In fact, Adelard had become so preoccupied with the view before him, and the memories attached to it, that their party had come to a standstill.
"There seems to be a congregation on the fields. Can't tell who they are from here, but they're bearing banners - perhaps they're others coming for the meeting?" The guard suggested, scratching underneath his helmet irritably. He was a fine fellow, but Adelard couldn't understand why he insisted on wearing a helmet when it was both too big and too itchy for him. In fact, all of the Bracegirdle guards seemed to be the same... something to prove, perhaps? In Adelard's opinion, if one were to try and seem more impressive than a family member, uncomfortable headgear wasn't the best way to do it; working on your aim with a bow or skill with a sword would be better. As for that, the Hobbit Emissary knew he was in good hands. One of his other guards, Cassinia Fairbairn, was a wonderful shot, even by Hobbit standards. And while many liked to underestimate Halflings when it came to matters of war or frays, it should always be kept in mind that all Hobbits - no matter how fat, short, or old they were - had impeccable aim when it came to throwing things. Indeed, back in the old, old days that not even Adelard's grandfather's grandfather could remember, the Hobbits had sent a group of archers to aid King Arvedui of Fornost, against the invasion of the wicked Witch-King and his forces from Angmar. The stories of men tended to forget the aid of Hobbits during that battle, but if there was one thing that Hobbits knew, it was their own history. To a certain extent, anyway - after a while it got a tad too boring and bothersome to dredge up the far past, especially when so little documents remained of such times.
Again, Adelard realised he was getting lost in his own mind again, and the bemused Bracegirdle guard waited for his command.
"Ah yes - excellent spot! I dare say there's a few Dwarves down there, if their stature is anything to go by." He said eagerly as he looked at the varied heights of the figures in the distance; jolly grin returning to his face, and pipe once again threatening to fall from his mouth. "And if there's Dwarves, I'd bet there'd be a couple of Elves and Men down there too! Isn't that fantastic? Have you ever met the fair folk before?" Already anticipating the somewhat agape expression of his guard, Adelard dug his bare heels into his steed, getting the group moving once again. "I have! Well. I saw a group of them leaving for the Grey Havens - probably came all the way from Lothlórien, I reckon. Rivendell has been empty for a while now, according to reports. Still a shame to see them leave; just imagine what we can learn from them! I'm just glad that some have stayed in - " At this point, Adelard's rambling speech came to a sudden halt, much to his tired guard's relief. The poor Bracegirdle had expected a simple escort job; he hadn't taken into account the distance they had to cover. Nor the incessant chattering and stories of his Emissary. However, even the obstinately traditional Hobbit couldn't help but to be amazed at the very sight that had cut off Adelard's talking.
"Bless my furry feet!" Adelard whispered, his pipe finally falling from his wide open jaw. "That - That's an Oliphaunt! They've brought an Oliphaunt!" By the time the four Ponies and their riders had reached within earshot of the Men, Elves and Dwarves stood on the fields, Adelard was still gazing at the magnificent, enormous beast before him, his face lit up like a child's would upon seeing fireworks for the first time.