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Of Thieves and Elves in Dale

Short Summary: Caladbyr and Wyldan discuss matters.
Date (real-life): 2008-07-26
Scene Location: Esgaroth

"Stop, will you not hear me?"
"Come Wyldan, you offend them most unkindly."
"Must you, now, and by this I mean to say /right/ now?" 
"If you met an old friend would you pass him by with no sign of greeting?"
"I choose my friends more carefully. 'Sbones! Will you not get up?"
Near the mighty statue of Bard the Bowman comes this argument. It is beginning to draw the curiosity of townsfolk summoned to the street to do their business by the dawn. One is a russet haired fellow named Wyldan. The one he is arguing with is a portly man wearing a leather hat pinned with oak leaves. The fat man is on his knees and pressing an ear to the deck of the town.

Caladbyr is one of those passing by - his hours seem to be entirely erratic - and he stops, his eyes widening at the sight. The man's gaze lifts to Wyldan, then drop to the other man, then lift again, and cautiously, Calad takes a step nearer. "What...?" he asks.
He makes a half-gesture with his hand towards the fat man on his knees.

The voice of Caladbyr interrupts Wyldan as he was about to share a long litany of curses he had learned from the southern lands below the falls of Dale. "Ah Calad, well met. Or not. Do not dwell long on Rospur here," he nudges what may be a kick, certainly a foot at the fat man who is humming. "I am glad to see you though I confess surprised."

"Surprised?" Calad asks. "I am the one who is surprised.." He peers down at Rospur, and lowers his voice. "What is he doing?" he whispers.

The young captain has a reluctant twist to his lips, "Well Rospur here thinks ¬ñ " 
"I am an Elf," Rospur says scrambling to his feet, strangely agile for a man of such girth. "Do not be alarmed good fellow, to see one of my fair kind on these rough streets." He holds out a pudgy hand to Caladbyr.

Caladbyr takes half a step backwards, staring at Rospur's hand as if it might bite him, and then he stops himself. His eyes lift, and he bows, his voice gaining an oily tone. "I am honored, fair one," he says. "May one ask what brings such a one as yourself to our humble town?"

"Alas I may not speak of that. The King of the Boundless Wood has sent me. Alas I may say no more. Here you may call me Rospur. Yet what is that? Forgive me!" the stout man cries. He drops once more to his knees and presses his face in wet kisses upon the well heeled boards of Laketown.

Calad's thin sallow face falls. Then he shrugs and gives Wyldan a half smile. Ah well, you can't win them all; but it never hurts to try. "And the, ah, boards?" he asks. "They are your lordship's ...retinue?"

Wyldan has his face screwed up in a wincing wink, one eye closed, which may help him studiously ignore the press of curious stares from passers by. Rospur is humming again. He does not answer.
"My erstwhile friend here believes that he can talk to tree and beast," Wyldan says. "Such included the fallen trees of which our town is made from."

"Oh." Caladbyr continues staring, and behind his pale eyes run a series of swift calculations - likely all having to do with: is there any way I can make money out of this. He apparently comes up empty, for he sighs a little and says to Wyldan, "I think me that there was a conversation we had together? Yet I forget just what it consisted of...." ie: did you hire me for anything??

"The one that left me lighter of coin?" inquires the young captain. It seems Rospur has only just recalled the small garden by the statue. He crawls over to a bounty of roses.

The other man's face is blank of guilt or knowledge as he lifts his eyes to meet Wyldan's. "Short of coin?" he asks. And a slight frown of puzzlement wrinkles his forehead as he tries to think. "We... drank together. I remember ... drag - helping you out. But then..." He shakes his head. "Nothing. Did you buy that much ale, to lighten your purse so?"

Rospur's pendulous buttocks perch high into the air casting a long shadow behind him as he sniffs mightily at the flowers. "Nay," answes Wyldan. "Though truly all my coin was spent on the ale. The rest belongs to Arathmor which I was to deliver when chance met us."

Caladbyr's hand seems to freeze mid-motion as he raises it to scratch at his ear. But it continues as it ever did, so maybe it was only a trick of the eye as one blinked. And his face hardens into anger. "Arathmor," he says, and turns his head aside to spit.

"Aye Arathmor. They are spitting with anger," says Wyldan cheerfully, watching Rospur and perhaps not deliberately mimicking Calad. "They are most keen to find the thief. These masters are not ones to forget their slight even when it escapes their sight."

An expression of sly and evil rejoicing flashes across Calad's face. But he manages to surpress it swiftly, and even keeps most from his voice. "Can't say that I'm sorry to hear it," he says, smirking a little. "Reckon it's about time they got some of their own." He is suddenly restless, feet moving back and forth; a swift little smile appearing then disappearing, and his eyes seem alight with some inner glee.

Wyldan is now looking at Caladbyr. "I would be deeply afeared if I were the thief," he says. He appears puzzled.

"Yes, yes," Calad agrees hurriedly. "Of course. I am sure the fellow has long since fled, if he has any sense." He can barely keep from rubbing his hands together - indeed, he cannot: thin fingers tangling around each other before he snatches them down and crams them into his pockets. But his last words are sober enough. "Arathmor is not a house that it is comfortable to be on the bad side of."

Rospur gains his feet. His cherry jowels quiver. "I hear you my friends. You speak of a thief. Fear not! Rospur, brave Rospur, valiant Rospur shall hunt this thief down with such a vengeance that shall ring through this town of fallen peers!"
"I think you mean piers," comments Wyldan.
Undettered by the interjection Rospur spurs on, "My quarry shall find no rest. He shall know no joy. The ancient warcry of my people shall be the only words he knows! Hairy Will! For Hairy Will!" Rospur roars.

The interruption has Caladbyr staring at Rospur as if he is an apparition. Finally, he manages to gather his scattered wits, and nod. And only the faintest hint of sarcasm colors his voice as he says, "Ah.. yes. Indeed, your foes will tremble before you." But there is scorn in the man's pale grey eyes. If this is the caliber of hunter he needs to fear...!

"Oh my Hairy Will!" Rospur cry is suddenly muffled by Wyldan's hand clamping over his thick lips. "Your will will be shaved if you go thus. Quiet now! Or you will not be sailing on the morrow.
The fat man subsides and Wyldan glances at Caladbyr, "Forgive my friend, he is excitable as you see. We must be on our way. Before we do, what say you to a job? It will be rewarding."

Calad watches Rospur in something like fascination, which turns to a hastily smothered chuckle at Wyldan's reaction. "Indeed," he say smoothly, I can see this. A most entertaining fellow, to be sure." His eyes sharpen at the mention of a job. "What might that be?"

"Not here, not now," says Wyldan. "I fear our elvish friend has drawn too much attention."
"Mortals are oft 'mazed by my beauty," observes Rospur.
"Look for me at the Tavern in two days." Wyldan regards Rospur wryly before nodding to Calad and moving off in the direction of the Markets, keeping the fat man in orderly tow.
The other man nods, saying nothing, and stands there in the cool dawning morning watching the two depart.

Date added: 2008-07-27 08:35:23    Hits: 37
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