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Glaring daggers?

Tags: Brev,  Polly,  Gidon,  Hraefengar

Short Summary: On a hot summer's day, Polly the Prude is horrified to find someone bathing in Staddle Pond. With no clothes on! What's a girl to do but stare? Oh, and this blond chap with a spear turns up to complicate things, too
Date (real-life): 2010-03-22
Scene Location: Breelands - Small Valley with Pond
Date (in-game): June 3049
Time of Day: Noon
Weather: Hot
Small Valley with Pond

Bree Hill comes down from the north in folds here, forcing the Great East to bend around it. There are two main hillocks, and nestled between them is a green and grassy meadow in which is a small, but deceptively deep pond. Trees grow thickly along the hill edges themselves, but the floor of the tiny valley only has a few: ancient oaks that preside over the pond.

Obvious exits:
GER - South

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Mon Mar 22 15:23:33 2010
Bree time: Noon on Hevensday of Summer - June 29,1449

Breelands Weather
The summer air is very hot and dry around you. The sky is clear with only slight wisps of clouds overhead.

Midsummer is almost here, and the noonday heat is stifling. Usually this pond, so close to Staddle, is a favoured spot for fishing, stone-skimming and paddling, but at this hour any sensible is indoors having their noonday meal, and the place is left to its natural inhabitants - splashing waterbirds, croaking frogs and gently hovering insects. And one more ...

 By the gnarled roots of one of the oaks is a neat pile of clothing, and between it and the pond the glint of metal. And in the water itself a human form, dark curls currently ducked beneath the water as the grime of weeks? months? is washed away.

[Nob(#16122)] It is noon - and hot. But there is another person out in the heat, a slim lad of 15 or so who whistles as he walks along the dusty path. Gidon's hair isn't quite so curly (or so light a brown) as most breefolk, and despite the heat, he is wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

Along comes Polly. Her curly, light brown hair is bundled on top of her head against the heat, and the skirt and apron of her dress are rucked up in the waistband. Her feet are bare, her legs showing beneath her knees, and the arms of her dress are pushed up passed her elbows. But somehow she manages to look fastidious. Naturally, for this Polly the Prude.

On her hip is a basket, and in the basket are heaps of laundry. Polly smiles approvingly at Gidon's shirtsleeves as she makes her way to the pond. At the end of the pond she stops and stares at a pile of clothes. Her pretty round face settles into a frown. She looks up. She drops her basket.

A thin shriek fills the air, hand flying to Polly's mouth, "'im's NAKED!" she cries. Horrified, apparently, but still staring at Brev's bobbing head.

At the sound of whistling, Brev's head breaks the surface, his amber eyes focusing automatically in that direction. Thus it is that Polly's approach is missed until the shriek comes. He turns, startled, taking in a mouthful of water, and has to splutter clear it as he starts to wade shoreward - currently chest-deep in water, but it's likely to get shallower. "That's the usual way to take a bath. woman. 'Fraid you'll have to wait your turn. And," his tone darkens, "get away from there." His narrowed gaze fixes on the woman who's standing there so near to his dagger. And his clothes, come to that.

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon has opened his mouth to call out when he recognizes Brev in the pool, but Polly forestalls him by her shrieking. The boy looks from one to the other, and he starts to laugh, helplessly, until tears are running down his cheeks and he can barely stand.

"Wait my...turn?" Polly echoes quietly, all colour draining from her face. Her fingers clutch at her bodice, hold her skirt down, lest Brev's mere suggestion could move them. But then the man wades. He wades closer to Polly, and Polly's face goes from white to pink to red to purple. Trusting her bodice to stay up on it's own, she levels a shaking hand at Brev, "That's quite enough," she commands in a wavering voice, "Quite enough, young man." She's his age, but it seems appropriate.

"You'm just be backing up into the deep stuff!" Her voice is rising steadily in pitch, her hand jabbing at Brev, her eyes wide in sheer terror, "I don' wanna! I don' wanna!" She shakes her head furiously, "I don' wanna see any...dangly bits!" She spits this last, the thought so scaring her that her hand snaps back protectively to her heaving bosom.

It is noon and /hot/, scarce wonder that the pond has drawn a few visitors despite it being the hobbits' nuncheon-time. Though how often does someone decide to /bathe/ in it? No wonder a nearby youth is laughing.

Brev, fortunately for Polly, stops a moment, staring at the hysterial woman non-plussed. Then, with a shrug, he moves on through the shallows, his feet squelching on mud. "Then shut your eyes," he says acidly. "And move away from that dagger /now/. Else something short, sharp and not at all dangly will be the last thing you see. Got it? Kiern," he adds with a snort, "you'd think you'd never seen a man."

Without taking his attention off the Danger, if a plump shrieking Breewoman can be described at such, he snaps at the laughing Gidon, "And what's got into you, eh?"

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon can't speak for laughing. He waves a helpless hand that takes in both the Bree woman and the Dunlending man.

From the trees comes the sound of singing. The voice is clear baritone, rich and resounding, the tongue slow, sonorous, the language of the Riddermark. And there comes a horse, dun-gold, a stallion long-limbed and proud. He carries on his back the flaxen-haired foreigner, Hraefengar. Yet, as the shrieks carry, the singing falters, and the thudding of horse's hooves can be heard. Hraefengar buirsts, horseback, from the wood, a ash-hafted spear in his hand. It is held in a striking position, but he holds, drawing up the charging horse, and he stares, blinking in confusion.

The bosom goes up. The bosom goes down. The bosom goes up - the bosom stops. Polly, she stares, mouth agape. A dagger? So he's calling /it/ a dagger? Thinks he's being clever, does he? Thinks he's being smart? The bosom rises higher as Polly draws a girding breath. She forces her hands to her hips.

"Now see here! There be these things we'm call manners. And these things we'm call manners say that you don't be flashing them parts to all an' sundry, y'hear? I have a right to keep my eyes open, I do, so you'll just be coverin' yer...yer..." She blinks at Brev, eyes narrowing.

Her voice drops, weakening, and the pointing finger rises accusingly again, "I ain't never seen that bit of a man," she murmurs, before promptly fainting.

Once again Brev's head turns toward the woman as she speaks - this time indirectly, for he's caught the thrum of hoofbeats against the ground. "I might," he says through gritted teeth, reaching the edge of the shallows and stepping from mud to grass, "if you'd move away from my-" The words halt unfinished as the woman faints; the discerning might notice that Brev's swarthy cheeks have just darkened a shade. Or not ...

As the spear-man bursts from the trees he snatches up his dagger almost from beneath Polly's feet, dropping to a fighter's half-crouch. His leather jerkin is nearby, somewhere beneath Polly's scattered laundry, and he eyes the pile longingly.

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon's head swivels, and laughter is suddenly gone. Wide-eyed, he backs up, hand fumbling for his sling and a stone to put in it. He is slowed by the need to do most of this one-handed, holding the sling in his left hand while he reaches for a rock with the other.

"Ic gehier--" The Rohir pauses, shakes his head, and he tries again. "I heard a scream," he says, his voice slow, heavily accented, and still filled with rich music. He narrows his eyes, staring at Brev a moment, as if some memory stirs. The horse stamps, and the man speaks soothingly, murmured words in that foreign tongue. "What has happened here?" His brow lifts as he regards the clotheseless state of Brev.

"The blazes!?" Polly shrieks, bolting upright as though moved by a spring. Her head is still flopped backwards, and it's thus that she takes in Hraefengar and his mighty horse. She makes a little 'ehhh' sound and her head flops sideways.

She licks her lips. Polly's head turns by degrees back toward Brev. Bearing in mind that she's still sitting, we needn't describe her view. Polly stares dazedly at Brev, "Now you'm done it. That's three as what's seen yer ol' dagger." That said, she faints again.

Brev tenses at the sound of that rolling tongue - with no clothing to hide the muscles on his thin frame, that is all too obvious. He manages to keep his features blank though, and his voice, when it comes, is more or less even. There's a certain hoarseness to it, but given the situation, who'd blame him? "Their kind don't wash themselves, apparently," he replies in singsong Common. "I, however, do. And now she's lying on my clothes." His voice rises just a little toward the end of that sentence.

He keeps his face toward Hraefengar and his steed, perhaps to avoid drawing attention to Gidon.

[Nob(#16122)] The boy is standing now, his sling and shot both ready. He steps sideways, so now he is hidden behind a scrubby tree - he can still see, and can step out again, if his help is needed.

"I see." Hraefengar's eyes narrow, though, hardening. "Still, if she has fainted, there is no reason you cannot take your clothing now. Just roll her gently over." Now that he remembers which language to speak in, his accent shifts, his voice lilting, Not so much an accent of Rohan. He nods his head cautiously. "I will stay and watch her."

Polly lies flopped on top of Gidon's clothes. Oblivious, thankfully. One hand keeps twitching, trying in vain to tug her neckline higher.

Brev considers Hraefengar's suggestion; likely he has noted the narrowing of the eyes. But in the end, what other options are there? He edges round Polly, eying that twitching hand warily as though he expected the Breewoman to produce a weapon from her bodice at any moment. Grunting he kneels and places a hand on Polly's shoulder to give her a (perhaps not so gentle) shove. His other hand still holds his dagger, though at the moment it menaces naught but air.

[Hraefengar(#30729)] "You can set it down." There is a sternness to the Rohir's voice now, though not quite command. "I shall not bring the quarrel of our peoples here to a peaceful town. And you'll need both hands. If I'd planned on killing you, you would be dead already." The horse moves, walking a few paces closer, and Hraefengar settles his spear so that it is resting against his leg, but ready in an instant to skewer the Dunlending.

Polly is given a shove. Some part of Polly's traumatized mind must be aware of this, because Polly's brows knit. One eye pops open, and then the other, revealing the legs of a horse and a spear and a rather scary looking blonde fellow. Polly's mouth churns around words it can't quite produce.

For the umpteeth time this lovely afternoon, Polly the Prude screams. In the same instant, she shoots upwards, seeking with all four limbs to latch onto the skinny little Dunlending. He may be naked, but he's not on a horse, and that's all win in Polly's books.

Brev's shoulders tense again. "Likely I would be," he concedes at Hraefengar's statement, the words clipped. "But .. lucky for me, I'm not." He attempts a smile, but it is a thin, strained thing. "And a man can never be too careful. amongst my own folk, know how this'd-"

The words are never completed. He had been stooping reluctantly to lay the dagger down when something grabs hold of his ankle. He overbalances, of course, and is tugged down almost on top of Polly - still clutching his dagger. "Get off me, you bloody squawking chicken," he hisses, automatically curling into a defensive ball, though he does not strike out with the dagger just yet. "I don't want you - not now, not tomorrow, not ever. And especially not with a spear at my back. Got it?" His free hand grabs the nearest item he can snag from Polly's dirty laundry pile.

"Lady..." Hraefengar coughs softly, perhaps stifling a laugh. "Let go the man. He was bathing... it is not uncommon in the lands south of here, where there are not so many rooms built just for such a thing. Let go, and let him get his own clothes. I shall not hurt you, nor shall he." For all the amusement in his eyes, the bard's voice is gentle, kind. "Be easy."

Polly lets go of Brev arms and legs at once, falling to the ground with a thud. She backpedals away from him before finally standing. Her dress is tugged straight with all the dignity manageable by a woman who just crawled up a naked stranger. "'Tis a public pool," she informs Hraefengar indignantly, "An' 'ere I was with a mind to clean me clothes, an' what do I get?" Polly glances at the Rohir while furiously yanking her sleeves back down to her wrists.

"I'll tell ya what I got. I got a naked man, an 'im all kinds of rude, flashin' his dagger about an' thinkin' that I wants 'im. 'im," she repeats vehemently, gesturing to Brev with a thumb, "Thin as a rail an' 'alf as smart. Not like ye, m'lord, no," she shakes her head, "You'm know enou' to keep yer britches on!"

Brev tugs on the item he's grabbed - a pair of breeches made for someone twice his girth - with a series of short, sharp jerks, then uses a muddy bare foot to prod at the laundry pile until he catches sight of his own leather jerkin. This is snatched up, and finally he lays his dagger down so that he can pull it over his head. "You're lucky," he says with an edge to his voice, "that you didn't end up with a dagger in you - or worse. Next time, stay away from strange men."

He sends a shrug in Hraefengar's direction.

The bard does not laugh, though his eyes twinkle, and he shakes his head. "Lady, he is, as I, a stranger in these lands. I do not think he knew it was not permissible to swim in yon pool. For that matOne dagger he could not avoid waving at you, whether he would or no, and to be frank, my good woman, your cries sounded like someone being disemboweled slowly by orcs. So I cannot blame him for waving the other dagger." He shrugs one shoulder. "And it is that dagger I think he meant. We are men, southwards, who carry our weapons. We cannot help the pet names you give our penises."

Polly decides to take the mature route and stick her tongue out at Brev. She begins to pack up her laundry again, making a great show of ignoring the fact that Brev is wearing her father's breeches. Her cheeks grow flush as Hraefengar speaks, and she can't meet his eyes when she stands, basket on her hip again.

But that was before he said The Word. A hand to her mouth, eyes shooting daggers at the Rohir. "Well, I never..." exclaims Polly. "I wouldn't be at knowin' what sort you are in the south, and I've ne'er a mind to find out. No woman safe!" She walks off, stunned, but clucking her tongue and muttering, "Them southerners. Them just air their parts when they like, them just talk about their parts like them talkin' about apples, them just threaten a poor maid with stickin's. Ne'er seen nor heard o' so many willies in m'life..." She shakes her head sadly and carries on.

Brev appears to be ignoring Polly as much as possible; he certainly does not react to the stuck-out tongue. Hraefengar's words are met by a raised brow and a twitch of the lip, but no denial on his part. He actually flashes the man a glance that is neutral, appraising rather than suspicious.

When Polly starts to leave, however, he bestirs himself. "Oi! Think you'll find something there that isn't yours. Fancy a swap?"

Polly puts her nose in the air at Brev, "No. I'd fancy you keep on whatever britches you've got. If yer want th'others, speak to me father." She sticks out her tongue again for good measure.

[Hraefengar(#30729)] "Have it your way, lady," answers Hraefengar. "Just let the man get his proper breeches, hrmmm? Else you will have to come back to get the ones you are supposed to be washing." He settles his spear behind him, a place non-threatening, but where it can be grabbed in an instant. "And I apologize if my words offended. We are a different folk in the South, and in my land, the Riddermark, a woman knows how to handle a dagger. The metal kind. Good day to the pair of you." He pats his horse, and the stallion turns. Soon after, the sound of singing can be heard from amidst the trees once more.

Brev scowls at Polly's words, then snorts. "Not likely. Don't get your hopes up, woman. Figure Gidon will have a spare." He shrugs, as though he did not care, then occupies himself in twisting the waistband of the breeches so that they will at least stay up for the moment.

As Hraefengar heads off, he bestirs himself to call out a level, "Good day." Only when horse and rider are safely disappearing into the woods does he murmur a rejoinder: "In /my/ land, they know how to handle both kinds."

Date added: 2010-03-29 04:54:14    Hits: 107
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