And a woman in armor appears with an expression of shock turning to determination as she grabs a glowing shield from her back and begins to gesture something.

And a man appears halfway through a fall to the ground, but in an instant he's up with his sword drawn and slashing at whatever that blurry dark shape is.  He's never seen a demon before, but the situation is clear enough.

The woman finishes her gesture and incantation and a sphere of golden radiance blooms behind the--fiend? undead?--whatever it is, it's getting blasted.

The cloaked thing screams at the sword-blow and again at the burning light, and turns to flee at the speed of a galloping horse.

The man looks at the miraculous radiance with clear awe on his face, but turns to glance around them for more enemies or urgent tasks before reacting further.  Are there more of the cloaked things visible anywhere?

Samora looks at Phrenk to give her flight so they can give chase--Phrenk isn't here. Marshall isn't here. Whatever happened on the road only happened to her. Where is she?

They're on top of a hill at night. There are no more cloaked things around, but there is this halfling who's on the ground looking like he's been stabbed.

Also this man, who is clearly a powerful adventurer and is only not stabbing the two mysterious arrivals because they both immediately attacked the wraith.

Also three other halflings.

Marc is a stranger here, and should not give them cause to fear, now that there isn't need.  He sheathes his sword, gives a reassuring nod to the man and the strange small people, and a low bow to the woman.  Gestures questioningly to the hurt one on the ground, standing back away from him.  "I can bind a wound if I have to, but hopefully one of you can do better?  I have no supplies and don't know where I am."

He looks disoriented, but not in an urgent way – if someone is hurt, his questions can wait.

His clothes are those of a high nobleman – bright-dyed wool edged and embroidered with silk all in blue and gold, with a few pieces of jewelry to match, and a large gold sunburst on his belt.  He goes nowhere without a sword, but he was at home and wearing no armor; he doesn't look equipped for travel, or even dressed for the outdoors at night.  None of this is anywhere near the top of his current list of concerns, but it is what the others see when they look at him.

The woman slings her shield back on her back; it keeps glowing. She's wearing a cuirass and gauntlets over simple, sturdy traveling clothes with a few pieces of much finer work; her cloak and headband and belt and one of her gauntlets gleam with something more subtle than light. Strength is in her hand, protection around her shoulders, and wisdom upon her brow. She's young, not yet twenty, but she stands and moves like someone accustomed to combat.

"I don't know where I am either, but it was morning there, I have all my spells," she says in perfectly understandable if oddly accented Gorhaut (as heard by Marc) or Sindarin (as heard by Aragorn) or Westron (as heard by the hobbits). "I'm going to heal him." Samora taps the downed one with a Cure Light Wounds.

Frodo goes from "facedown and unconscious" to "awake enough to moan and curl up on his side".

"One of you speaks a language I have never heard, and the other has a form of magic I have never seen. Who are you, and how did you get here?"

So she speaks his language but the man doesn't – which is a rather strange state of affairs, but who is Marc to know what to expect after death.  "Thank you, my lady," to the strange priestess-healer, and "I cannot understand you" to the man, who seems understandably concerned about the situation and whom Marc doesn't want to ignore even if they can't communicate.  Back to the woman: "Can you understand him?"  If she speaks Marc's language even though so much about her is entirely alien to him, then clearly she is better-traveled or better-learned than he is.

"Oh, my apologies, I have Truespeech. He asked about available healing, he asked about my magic, I can translate for everyone going forward," she says, pointing as appropriate. "I'm Samora and I have magic as an empowered priest of Iomedae, Lawful Good goddess of prioritization and the defeat of Evil. I don't know how I got here; one moment I was walking down the road with my party and no enemies in sight, next moment I was here. I don't even know if it was a Teleport or a Plane Shift." Phrenk and Marshall are probably terrified right now; if she's not back home by tomorrow she needs to prep a Sending and tell them she's alive.

She sounds impressively efficient at dealing with being stranded in another world.  Marc doesn't feel half as well-oriented as that.

"I'm Marc d'Ambray, a coran of the god," clearly a set phrase, which translates to her as something halfway to an unempowered paladin, "--Of the god Corannos, since there are more of them here than I'm used to."  Which may mean none of it means anything to them, but he doesn't have a prepared one-sentence summary of everything he is, having never met anyone who didn't recognize the symbols.  "I'm fairly sure I just died, but I'm starting to think this is not the afterlife."  A rueful smile.  He does not look noticeably upset about dying.

"I still have all my items, so I'm pretty sure we're not dead, but I guess you could have died and then been resurrected here? I'm afraid I don't know Corannos, which suggests you're not from Avistan." She turns to the man who was here two minutes ago. "Do you know how we got here? What is this country?"

Aragorn has been examining Frodo's wound. "This hill is Weathertop, east of Bree and west of Rivendell. We're going to Rivendell, and if there's anyone who can get you home I expect its lord Elrond has the best chance. But my guess is that you were brought here by the intervention of a Vala, and so here you will stay at least until you have achieved whatever purpose she had in bringing you."

"I also think it must have been a god who brought me here, in whatever way it happened," though he does remember dying, or at least something very much like it, "and so far it does not seem an evil thing, so I have no objection to staying."

"I have never heard of Avistan, Iomedae, or Rivendell. Or the sort of magic you wield, lady Samora. But I expect if we start asking each other questions about our worlds, we will not stop all night. First - what were these dark things, and do you expect more of them? What else should we know about what's happening, if we were sent here to help?" 

It is of course possible that they weren't, but the way to find that out is still to stay and see, not to ask strangers to justify themselves.

Samora is getting concerned about the stabbed man. Usually when someone is alive enough to move but not alive enough to stand it means they have something other than regular injuries going on. She taps him with another Cure Light Wounds, in case the first one was a dud or he had started out moments from death, and frowns when the only response is one slightly opened eye and a mumble that could be a thanks or a question or neither. Even a dud should have done a lot more than that.

"They were wraiths, servants of the enemy in the east. I do not think they will return tonight, if we are watchful, but return they will. The sooner we can get moving in the morning the better. For now, we must keep the fire burning. As for Frodo's wound . . ." 

Aragorn peers into the darkness past the edge of the firelight, takes a few steps into it, and returns carrying a long thin knife, broken and notched but gleaming with a cold and deadly light. "He has been stabbed with a morgul blade", Aragorn says, as the blade melts into mist and then into nothing. "Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons. But I will do what I can." He starts examining the knifeless hilt, singing an incantation over it.

That is less than fully informative, but it will do for now, and the man is busy with more urgent things.  The blade looks evil indeed, to melt in the firelight.  "I have no healing magic, nor any other sort, but tell me if there's anything I can do to help."  And in the meantime he can keep watch, at least. 

A priest, a swordsman, and a woodsman. They don't know how to work together as a party, and there's something the local one isn't telling them. But it's not a bad set of skills, as far as it goes. And the way that one halfling looks at her every time she gets close to Frodo has her thinking that this might be more like a party of four or five escorting two or three than a party of three escorting four. (She wishes her friends were here, except that if she can't get back then it's important that they're still in Otari and have a chance to stop Belcorra.)

"If we can keep him alive until an hour after dawn a Remove Curse might help, or a Lesser Restoration."

"That much I can do." Aragorn pulls some leaves from one of his belt pouches, long and thin and green-black.  "These leaves," he says, "I have walked far to find; for this plant does not grow in the bare hills; but in the thickets away south of the Road I found it in the dark by the scent of its leaves. It is athelas, a healing plant brought out of the West, and it is not known in the North, except to some of those who wander in the Wild. It has great virtues, but over such a wound as this its healing powers may be small."

Everything the man says carries suggestions of meaning that Marc doesn't know this world well enough to decipher.  The one clear impression is that he knows a lot of things that most people don't – which is certainly valuable, but there's a tint of secrecy to it that puts Marc on edge.  Then again perhaps the man finds the barrier as difficult to cross from his side.  It would be a lonely thing.

"Still, he is clearly lucky that you are one of the few who can use it. May we have your name?"

"And yours as well," turning to the rest of the company.  "And – forgive me – is there a word for what you are?  Small people such as you are on the long list of things I've never seen before."