Elendor

A welcome Stranger

Frarin receives a most unexpected and welcome visitor as he recovers at Bree's Healing House.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Bree's Healing House - Front Yard
Game Date: August 9,1443
IC Time: Late afternoon
Weather: Hot, cloudy
Description:

 

                              Breelands Weather                              
The late afternoon summer air is very hot and dry around you. The day sky is cloud-filled and gloomy.

Bree's Healing House - Front Yard
In front of the healing house is a narrow cobble stone walkway that wends its way to the double front doors of Bree's Healing House. On one side of the path is a yard filled with lush green grass and a rambling rose garden, while on the other side are neat rows of medical herbs, each one clearly labeled with a little sign. Along the cobble stone path are two benchs for guests to sit upon - one for human guests, and the other for hobbit guests. A small brass plaque on the front of the Healing House reads: "HEALING HOUSE OF BREE - NO WEAPONS ALLOWED"
Contents:
Rhifaroth
Obvious exits:
Healing House and Out


[Frarin] Hot and gloomy is the day as it hangs over Bree this afternoon. Or rather, it is gloomy up here away from the Pony and the market, where the bustle and excitement of the Summer Faire is in full bloom, undampened by the grey skies overhead. But up here in the quiet yard of the Healing House, only the sounds of the faire drift away from the centre of town to disturb the heavy air. Now and again a family of hobbits passes by, cheerfully dragged along by young hobbit lads and lasses as they make for the festivities, but else all is quiet.

That seems to suit Frarin the Dwarf just fine, for he is out of doors again this afternoon, seated once more on the small hobbit bench in the front garden area of the Healing House. He looks to be doing better today, with the heat of the sun bringing colour to his long-pale face, even if it gathers sweat on his brow and beneath his eyes. But he does not seem to have spent the entirety of the day in his solitude, for beside him on the bench is a string of daisies, tied together like a crown, and a small basket of biscuits and bread and two jars of jam.

Also beside him is a small inkwell and leather bag, and across his lap is a portable table with a scroll. His walking stick leans against the bench and a long, gently smoking pipe protrudes from his lips - oh if Thari could see that - but for now he leans over the scroll and table, a thin quill quietly scratching away.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Into this afternoon heat, but also thankfully gloom that might develeope into a much needed thunder storm, comes a tall man. He is a familar figure, with grey cloak thrown well back from his shoulders but with the cowled hood up. He still soiled from the road, and limping. But now he uses a walking stick rather than a crutch, and a very long bow is slung over his back that is nearly as long as the man is tall - to replace the shorter, thicker, black bow lost at Amon Sul.

    Rhifaroth pauses to look over the garden area before the Houses. Then as he is about to move on towards the structure, he notices Frarin off to the side upon a low bench. The man changes his direction and begins to head towards the familiar Dwarf.

    "Master Frarin. You look better."

[Frarin] The dwarf's pen scratches across the scroll with a steady pace, leaving behind a clear squarish, altogether very practical-looking script, written in the common tongue. Lifting the quill, Frarin glances to his side to dip the instrument into the inkwell again when a familiar voice brings his gaze around rather quickly.

A subdued look of happy recognition crosses his face and brings a small smile, perhaps as close as the sober dwarf comes to outward joy. "Master Ra--Rhifaroth," Frarin greets, using the man's name for the first time and doing the foreign name little more justice than the Breelanders. Instinct bids him lean forward as if to stand, but, without grimace this time, he seems to decide against the action. Instead, Frarin offers the man a deep nod and sets aside his pen.

"Thank you, I am on the mend, it would seem," he nods. "The healers tell me the bones are mended, if yet sore and still to regain their original strength." He gestures towards Rhifaroth. "You too seem better than our last meeting. Are you returned to Bree to finish your healing here or is there news from abroad?" The last question is more hopeful, the strain of forced rest apparently showing through.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is a glance to the parchment scroll that Frarin works upon, but no more than that. The man returns the inclination of the head in greeting but does frown very slightly at the use of his name, here. But for now, he says nothing upon it.

    The tattooed man leans his weight onto his good leg rather than upon his walking stick and glances around the garden from long habit to place any others who might be about. He listens to the dwarf before returning his gaze to Frarin.

    "No, I shall not linger here. If there is time yet, I have many things that need doing. Then I shall go north if I can get arrows. The host is there, beyound the Chetwood." His voice is very low so not to carry.

    Indeed, the man's quiver with the long bow is quite empty.

[Frarin] Frarin's brief pleasure at a familiar face swiftly fades to his usual sombre expression, a result perhaps of the man's low words, or perhaps the hint of a frown. Nodding grimly, Frarin likewise lowers his voice. "To the north," he repeats, rumbling as his gaze lifts slightly to glance that direction. "No, I would not expect you or any of the others to linger long in the town. It should be the last bastion. Do we now hunt the army, with the wounded...removed?"

Taking the long pipe from his lips, Frarin taps the stem against his closed mouth as his eyes drop to the ground in thought. "Have you encountered them at all since my departure?" he rumbles in the same low voice after a moment, own gaze coming up again to dart about in search of eavesdroppers. "And my fellows, the other dwarves, how do they fare?" Indeed, the silver merchant's unusual barrage of questions betrays a barely concealed longing to be gone from Bree and into the wild once more.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The man draws a slow breath and turns his own head to look north, his hood still up, shading most of his face from causual view - or from direct sunlight should it break from the cloud cover. He is slow to make a response until Frarin's low rumble ceases.

    Then, looking back at the recovering dwarf, gaze slipping to Frarin's pipe and that very familiar scent, Rhifaroth smiles thinly, "No, I came directly up from the camp shortly after you did. But it took me longer to cover the distance. So, I know essentually no more than you do."

    There is a gesture to the things scattered about the bench, the flowers, the parchment, and the pipe, "I see that you are well tended. I thought to ask if you needed anything, but other than news, I judge not?"

[Frarin] "No," says Frarin, grimly shaking his head as the disappointed hope of news slumps his shoulders forward slightly. "No indeed. I have been fussed over more than enough. And there is a young lad who is only to eager to run what few errands I have, for hope of coin." His good arm lifts to indicate the Healing House. "Under...other circumstances I should enjoy the kindness of the healers here, but it is bitter to me now. I desired to walk to the market today, only to be promptly forbidden. I did so anyway, and had these thrust upon me by a hobbit lass."

The dwarf waves to the basket and daisies at his side, and a sad smile falls across his face. "Kind, but my heart is still heavy," he continues, drawing on his pipe. "And now, I must write a letter that grieves me still more." He speaks of the scroll across his lap with a grim tone, but not guarded. He takes a breath, as if bringing himself slowly to speak aloud that which seems so daunting.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Not without understanding at the other's frustration, having had quite of a bit of it while stuck at the Dwarven camp himself, Rhifaroth smiles thinly, "Just rest, as best you may. The days may be short indeed before you shall have need to raise your axe again, right here perhaps."

    Frarin's tone and his letter though, the man perhaps can guess. His mouth tightens, "Your neffew, was it? I am sorry, Frarin." After a moment, looking away towards the street, the man adds still in his low voice, "I've had that task myself too many times."

[Frarin] "As have I," nods Frarin, voice growing more gravelly than rumbling. The dark, stony look settles comfortably over his face as the practical businessdwarf takes over, and he makes no reply to Rhifaroth's gesture of sympathy. "But I mean to deliver my task to my brother in person. This letter is only for if I should fall before I may do so. By the count of men, Gerin was quite old, but by the reckoning of the dwarves, yet very young."

He falls into silence, replacing the stem of his pipe between his lips and blowing off a hazy cloud of smoke. Exhaling a heavy breath, Frarin sets aside the table and scroll and reaches for the leather bag at his side. "The days may indeed be short," he says at length to change the subject, after clearing his throat. "And there is little to enjoy in their waiting, but if you are not too hasty in your departure, Stranger -" the dwarf falls back to his old greeting "- and if you partake of the weed of Eriador, then I might fill you a pipe before you go." The offer is genuine but absent, as if an effort to turn the conversation away from Frarin's letter.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    His own gaze having wandered again to watch the gardens, the Houses, and more the street and who passes by upon it, Rhifaroth nonetheless listens. He glances back at the Dwarf mentioning the span of their years, but he says nothing upon it.

    Frarin's offer to share some of his pipeweed causes the man's growing restlessness to check even as Rhifaroth was once more looking towards the street. He hesitates, perhaps uncertain.

    "I rationed my own, then gave it away at the last." Then he frowns, "I should not, friend. Time presses. I shall not be able to relax and enjoy it until this is over. Perhaps I may share a pipe with you then, if we are so fortunate?"

[Frarin] Frarin nods gravely and sets the bag aside, then waves to the street. "Perhaps we might," he says, stone-faced. "My own rest is forced, but my mind would be the same were my body more able." Then the dwarf's good arm reaches out and takes up the sturdy walking stick that leans against the bench. With a grunt, Frarin lifts himself heavily from the seat and stands, feet steady but shoulders hunched.

He gives a very shallow, but solemn bow to the man. "Then I bid you farewell, and good luck. Still yet I owe a debt to you I think, even if you do not acknowledge it, and I may repay it by the end. If fate be kind, we shall meet again. If not, then it has my good fortune to know you. Stranger I call you still, and ally, but also friend. Go now with caution."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    His own restlessness having returned, the tall man all the same is mindful of the other's condition and would make to put out his right hand as though to stay this Dwarf from getting up - but of course Dwarves are hardy, stubborn folk and the gesture is both too late and ignored.

    Frarin's formality and shallow bow elicit a wary glance around to see who might be watching. Bree apparently draws forth a greater caution in this man than being out in the wilds admist unkindly beasts such as even Trolls. Rhifaroth grows still a moment hearing the silver smith's words though, before he gives any answer himself.

    Then, mindful that they seem alone, the man returns the faint bow in turn, with his own right hand for a moment made into a fist over his own heart, grey eyes upon Frarin's own in a long practiced movement showing respect. Then it is gone.

    "If we might be friends, master Frarin, then there can be no debts between us. I shall save my own farewell until I know it is more certain." There is a hint of humor in the last before the man turns away. Using his walking stick like a cane, he begins to limp carefully for the street - mind already turning to more pressing concerns.

[Frarin] The dwarf says nothing in response to Rhifaroth's own words. Perhaps he accepts the man's judgment over the payment of debts, and perhaps the solemn honour of his race forbids such acceptance, but for the time he says nothing more on the subject. A last nod is offered after the man's departing back before Frarin gently seats himself on the small bench again.

Pen and parchment are taken up once more and soon the scratches of the nib is the only sound permeating the front yard again. Except, that is, for the distant sounds of the market and, more distant still, the summer faire. Bree continues its celebrations with vigour, unimpeded by such dark thoughts as trouble the dwarf of the Lonely Mountain or man of the south.
 

Players: Frarin, Rhifaroth
Located in: Erebor | Isendrim