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*Notes On First Contact*
Edrahil!
The sudden burst of Finrod’s osanwe is nearly loud enough to launch Edrahil from the comfort of his bath. It is full of a familiar enthusiasm: some new scientific lode has been found, and it must (must, MUST!) be explored. Edrahil sighs. He rolls up the battered scroll he has been reading, and steps out, resignedly, into the steamy air. It is not a day for relaxation, clearly. But then, in service to his beloved lord, what day ever truly is?
Finrod’s mental excitement is followed closely by the sound of him bursting into Edrahil’s quarters, already in full cry. “Edrahil! Hurry out of there; we’ve a QUEST to go on!”
He is dressed nostalgically in the luminous robes he had worn on the night he first met Men, and carries only his harp and a tiny, elegant haversack that contrasts perfectly with the fabric of his clothing. Edrahil dries and dresses and readies himself for whatever dramatic action Finrod plans, stuffing his own weathered campaign kit with lembas, warm cloaks, matches, miruvor, and trinkets for trades and gifts. Or bribes.
“At my Lord’s service,” Edrahil offers, braced and ready. Finrod checks his pocket-watch and beams.
“Eight minutes, Edrahil! You are a paragon of haste. Now, attend!” Finrod draws a scroll from his cloak pocket and opens it with a graceful flourish. “See what I have learned, Edrahil! Had you thought our knowledge of Beleriand complete? Not at all, my dear; there are always new discoveries, right around the corner. Tonight, we go to make a new kind of friend!”
The charcoaled sketch on the parchment looms: tall and bulky and covered in what looks like long, luxurious hair. It appears to be unclothed, and Edhrahil wonders if he would overstep courtesy by including yet another cloak in his pack.
“The Men of Ladros say these creatures are terribly shy, so we must be graceful, Edrahil, and generous. I propose to find an appropriately moonlit boulder to rest upon and play. Surely the sounds that drew Bëor out of slumber will be equally appealing to these larger, darker…men.” Finrod spins on his heel, rainbow skirts swirling out around him. “To the woods, Edrahil! Come!”
*****
*Notes On Native Camouflage*
The thumps and thuds from within Edrahil’s workroom send him into a cautious crouch as he peers around the door, but it is only Finrod, flailing under a drape of unfamiliar fabric and trying to find the scissors.
“Blast!” the golden lord exclaims, as he knocks over Edrahil’s worktable. “How is one supposed to manage new discoveries without appropriate gear??”
He starts at Edrahil’s touch, and surfaces, blinking dimly, from under the swaddling cloth.
“Oh, hullo, Edrahil! It appears that our last hunt for the elusive Hairy Man may have been undermined by my choice of traditional clothing. The Bëorians have supplied me with this authentically woodsy alternative.” He gestures to his felted tunic, woven in a mix of greens and browns and yellows that makes Edrahil’s head hurt in a manner entirely different from the ache of Finrod’s usual excess of gems.
“It’s charming, isn’t it?” Finrod spins in place to show off the rustic stitching. “But I must have a cape to match. Scientific style, you know! And as you’ll recall, the woods of Ladros can be quite unpleasantly cold.”
Edrahil lifts the swathe of fabric from Finrod’s shoulders and sets about trimming and pinning and stitching, whilst his lord hums snippets of music and tries out accompanying verse to describe the enticements of the Wild Man of the Woods.
“Can you imagine, Edrahil?” Finrod’s eyes have gone hazy and his mouth is soft. “A footprint the length of my arm! What a stride he must have! What a…presence!”
He turns to gauge the fall of the cape in the mirror, tugging the matching tunic to sit smoothly and elegantly across his narrow hips.
“Yes, I do like this. Very charming and folksy and just the thing, I think, for tracking my new friend-to-be. The Bëorians always have such good ideas.”
Edrahil tidies away the scraps of flannel, brushing loose threads from Finrod’s shoulders and gathering up the scissors and tape.
“If you say so, my Lord. They certainly cannot complain that you are not an eager sponsor of their ingenuity. But I think I shall stick to my own comfortable uniform. Frankly, I would not be caught dead in that hideous plaid.”
*****
*Notes On Rituals of Call and Response*
Edrahil startles out of his doze, bumping his head on the beams of the hunting blind. The noise that has awakened him resounds again – through the fog, to his left, from the general location of Finrod’s talan.
The muttered imprecations that follow are reassuring: Finrod is irritated. Horrible noises notwithstanding, he is not, it seems, in the clutches of the large and excitingly dangerous Hairy Man.
“My Lord?” Edrahil ventures. “Are you well?”
Finrod sputters in frustration. “I am trying to call our elusive friend, Edrahil. The Bëorians assured me that this whistle would produce an attractive sound. Perhaps there is something wrong with it. The best I can get it to make is a gargling sort of…moan.”
Edrahil sighs, remembering the shared smirks and half-hidden mutual elbowing of Finrod’s latest trade contacts from Ladros when the subject of the Wild Man of the Woods was raised. Perhaps it is time to knock some Bëorian heads together to maintain the honor of the House of Arafinwë. These trips to the cloud forests of Dorthonion have become tedious, and Edrahil’s haunches are cold.
Finrod honks through the whistle again, and Edrahil winces.
“Bother!” Finrod declares. “I shall have to ask them to examine it for manufacturing defects. The blasted thing plays nothing even vaguely resembling a tune!”
Edrahil gathers his pack and offers Finrod an arm as he descends from the talan, still wheezing mournfully through the mouthpiece of his Bëorian instrument.
“Leave that to me, my Lord. The ears of the Aftercomers are not as finely tuned as yours.” Edrahil signals gratefully to the rest of their hidden band: Move out, head home. “Truly, the world is full of music, my Lord, and also full of Music. But that is nothing of the sort.”
*****
*Notes on Pheromones and Emotional Engagement*
The atmosphere in the barracks dining hall is merry – it is Edrahil’s begetting day and he has splurged on a cask of the very best wine for all to share. The guards are warm and pleased with themselves: well-fed, well-cared for, and cozy in Nargothrond’s depths while the winds of winter roar.
Perhaps it is the wine that bolsters Edrahil’s courage when Finrod appears, dressed in his plaids and clasping an ostensibly repaired Hairy Man-calling whistle.
Or perhaps it is the reek. His lord fairly stinks of something undescribable and highly undesirable, at least to an Elven nose. Edrahil watches the guards’ bright eyes widen and their fair lips curl. Not again, he thinks. Not now. Oh, no.
“Come, Edrahil!” Finrod exclaims. “At last I have the trick of it! Those canny hunters in Ladros have derived a scent that mimics the essence of the Man of the Woods. A spritz behind the ears and along the seam of the trousers and it’s a guaranteed Aha! Oho! So gather the lads. We’ll have our new friend out of cover in no time!”
Edrahil draws himself up from his comfortable slump by the fire. He judges his audience’s mood (grim; imploring) and turns to Finrod with a resolute sigh.
“My Lord,” he declares, “I have crossed the Grinding Ice for you. I have fought beasts we never dreamt of in Aman. I have delved at your side, and sung in your company, and promised my loyalty, whatever betide.”
Edrahil takes a deep breath, and regrets it immediately. O, foul miasma!
“My dear Lord, this is the thick, dark line. Any man here would willingly die for you. But not for your Great Hairy Man. And you'll be hard-pressed to find even ten of us willing to follow you into the wilderness if you insist on anointing yourself with that beastly perfume!”