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(Archive) PELARGIR: Sport

Tags: Lominzil,  Gwaithmir

Short Summary: As Lominzil prepares to leave Pelargir, he meets his brother, Gwaithmir.
Date (real-life): 2014-01-03
Scene Location: Pelargir
The Lists of Pelargir
This area has been set aside for the defining events of the Tournament: the martial games. A field of green grass stretches seventy paces wide and nearly one hundred and fifty long. On either side of the field rise wooden stands constructed for the pleasure of the crowd. Row upon row of simple benches line the tourneying ground. At the summit of either bank of seats has been fashioned as special viewer's box, most likely to accomodate the most distinguished guests at the Tourney. Colorful parasols and embroidered tapestries add luxury to these seats.

The southern stand has been festooned with purple and white bunting. At regular intervals, the White Anchor on Purple Field banner of Pelargir flutters in the breeze. Further standards of various noble houses line the margins of the field. Indeed, the northern bank of seating is the mirror image of its companion, with one major difference: Here, the gallant Ship and Swan of Dol Amroth float serenly in the wind.

The eastern and western ends of the lists have been marked off with ropes. Beyond these barriers lie specially constructed wooden sheds, which house blunted lances, swords, and even stretchers which will doubtless find use in the contests to come. 

It is just after sundown, and fog from the sea-wind blankets the fairgrounds outside Pelargir. The shadow condenses into the figure of a man, black-cloaked, who sits down on the first spectator bench.

[Gwaithmir(#31254)] There is a man in the list, a white spectre in the mist. A hand trails along the gaud of the bunting, bringing him nearer to the cloaked shadow. His eyes, grey as the sea-storm sky, dimly follow the path of his hand. "There's a sorry thing," he tells the fog. "To make war of peace and call it sport."

Indoron has arrived.
[Combat(#13388)] Indoron wields Longsword.
Like a corpse-candle, a faint glow appears near the first man's hand, and then brightens as it fills a lantern with light. "What else is sport but a war of the idle?" asks Lominzil Girithlin. "What is war but a besting of wills and bodies? And most importantly, Gwaithmir, why are you in Pelargir?"

The elder Girithlin's gaze is summoned by the spark, overwhelmed by its gathering strength. "Why need the idle war, pray? You speak it as though it were a thing inevitable, that one man must be ahead and the other behind. Victor and vanquished, conquerer and conquered, living and dead. Do you not dream, little brother? I would stand beside you at the gates of Mordor, were it needed, but for no praise, or glory or -- " he cannot but spit ire with the word "sport would I set my hand against yours. And yet in men's thoughts you have honour and I none. Or do I see all askew?" There is amusement in him now, a slight curve of his lips, a light in his eye. As for Pelargir, he would seem to rate its importance rather differently than his brother, and neglects to answer.

"To hone our souls for a war we wish not to arrive," says the younger, "that is the purpose, or so I was taught. But if you dreamt as I do, you might not call it honor. -- Do you wish for wisdom? Then take this outstretched hand, for I hear someone coming."

Gwaithmir laughs at this, wordlessly taking the outstretched hand. "Is there wisdom in this calloused palm? Well, and perhaps there is." He waits a while, for whatever approaches to make itself known. At the great, foggy nothing he smiles, "Have all these years of war made you see ghosts, brother? And fear them?"

'Perhaps,' smiles Lominzil, and tugs on the hand, conveniently pulling himself out of his seat. He leans in close, with only a whisper, "There are rumors that pestilence is at hand. If not of the body, then of mind and tongue. If you love me, then guard those whom you love."

Gwaithmir smiles while Lominzil pulls himself up, but it is his brother's own smile that causes Gwaithmir's to fade. Shadows cloud his countenance. "You first of all, then. Mayhap it was not the ill-fortune I thought that I have come here? Speak plain, brother, else my mind shall conjure such premonitions of evil that even you, maybe, have not thought."

"A fever in the mountain villages, word brought by a peasant to the markets of Pelargir. But it is unknown if such sickness is the threat, or the chaos that such a word might spread. In either case, guard well your home, and your heart."

Lominzil releases the hand, saying, 'It is here again.'

Indoron passes out into the fairground.
Indoron has left.

Gwaithmir's breath turns to slow-forming mist in the cool air. When his hand is released he freezes, waiting breathless. No fell form comes out of the fog and Gwaithmir dares to breathe again. "Well. I shall as I might. But how do I guard my own heart, now? Do I not wear it flapping in the breeze for all to see who will?" He grins in defiance of fear.

"Or yours, brave brother?"

"It is on your sleeve," says the younger matter-of-factly. "I suppose there is no better way. Love, brother, and love generously."

"As for me," Lominzil continues, dangling the lantern, "I too should like to know. I hear that if one cuts out his heart and locks it in a box, perhaps then it will keep its secrets to itself. But then it would become solitary and cold, congealing in its box."

Gwaithmir laughs softly, "I shall try."

As he listens to Lominzil his head slowly cants. Gwaithmir watches his brother's eyes closely, unblinking, and when that proves too little he seeks to raise the lantern up a little higher still. He studies a little while longer yet. "Is that why your complexion reminds me of congealed pudding?" He manages a straight face for a moment. "Mind that casket, Lomin. But you are wiser far, I think, than you will own or than I might seem to give you credit for. In any case, should you succeed in locking that box I should chip away at them for the rest of my days, knowing full well that treasure that is inside. And that is a frightening enough prospect for you, nay?"

"Yes, you know me."

Lominzil hands over the lantern, saying, "I am to accompany an investigation on the matter soon. Since you are here, might you bring Farielle home? We were here to visit Tathar."

"And where is that trainee?" he murmurs irritably, almost to himself.

The elder brother laughs, "How you do phrase it! Some hardship, is it? Home I will bring her, but first to speak me with Tathar, that dearest lady. I had thought to ask -- but she is better for it."

Lominzil's muttering gets a bemused smile, "A trainee? And here I was in fear of ghosts! Well, shall I leave you to your martial ways? My harpstrings are calling me in the voices of all the laments I have yet to write."

"Very well," says Lomin, "I shall wait here and be damp." A fond grin crosses his face, and he waves Gwaithmir away. "Goodbye, brother."

"I will have a nice warm drink on your behalf," Gwaithmir answers, shooing. "Goodbye, brother." He salutes Lomin before turning to seek refuge in the mist.

Date added: 2014-02-26 01:10:49    Hits: 66
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