Corumallen's Block Party!
Elendor - Wednesday, April 01, 2009, 5:17 PM
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Stonewright Street: Residential Area
The entry into this neighborhood is afforded by the Lesser Gate the Moon, stone arches surmounted by a marble effigy of Isildur. Though he fell at Gladden Fields, so very long ago, he nonetheless keeps steadfast vigil over Minas Tirith. Beneath his gaze the roofs of the common folk of the city rise toward the sky, chimneys sending smoke skirling upward.
The main road, paved in white stone, makes its way steadily upward toward the next tier, spoked by numerous streets and alleys that break away to wind through tiny gardens and past front doors of sturdy oak and iron. Grim homes, built for strength yet these small gardens, in window-boxes and carefully tilled patches of earth, sing of the hope that lives within.
In the main square between the two gates, a mighty basin flows over with water for all, the raised channels bearing it into the heart of the residential section where it will be gathered from fountains. Then it tumbles on its way down, through a carefully-wrought breach in the great wall.
The light of day only highlights the well-kept residences of this quiet area of Minas Tirith.
Contents:
Gweneth
Corumallen
Obvious exits:
Gate to the Second Tier
Southeast
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A large throng has gathered in the streets in the vicinity of number 22 Stonewright street, more or less following the path of a white ribbon that leads some distance from the Lesser Gate of the Moon. Mostly they mill in the street talking together, dodging gangs of children at play, dancing, or eating from plates they bear in hand. Most of those in attendance are of lower classes, presented in simple attire, but no less merry, and even a few are wearing costumes.
Two broad tables have been arrayed with food one full of salads and sliced fruit, the other with a carcass of beef, two geese, two fillets of some large white-fleshed fish. Nearby, servitors circulate with drinks, include wines, white and red, as well as fine dark ale. In a few places tables have been arranged, without chairs, though seating can be found on retaining walls, portable benches and various other apparatus imported for the purpose.
On the roof of number 22 a band has assembled of musicians playing chiefly stringed instruments, but their jaunty tune is interrupted by a large fellow borne atop an ornate sedan chair positions who calls attention to himself in a loud, high-pitched voice. "Good afternoon my countrymen, friends and esteemed guests! For those who do not know me, my name is Corumallen Lothron - I am a Journeyman of the Guild of Venturers, but nevermind all that! I want simply to bid all of you a wonderful time, and to encourage you to eat and drink your fill - and remember, a special prize shall be given away to the one with the best costume, I hope you have all come prepared. Now, enjoy yourselves!" On cue, the music resumes, and the gargantuan host of the present party is borne away to circulate among the guests.
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Curugil coming from Woodwright Street, there comes a small delegation. At their head, is Curugil Gildring, wearing purple and gold.
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"Why, hello my Lord Gildring, how good of you to come!" Corumallen beckons the men carrying him toward the delegation at which Curugil is at the fore. "What news my friend? I trust all is well at the House of Lore!" A wild gesture of his hands conjures servitors bearing platters of portioned food and drink, which is offered the Lord and his companions.
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One of the guests dressed in an ornate costume and already arrived looks up briefly from the food laid out at the proclamation of the merchant Corumallen. Her lips curl into a smile after he finishes his proclamation. She spares the food another glance then seemingly changes her mind and moves towards the flamboyant journeyman.
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"Tis most pleasant of you to throw such a festival," says Curugil crossing his hands over his chest and inclining his head. "I daresay that there are not enough such occassions. Why now?"
Curugil reaches out to one of the platters and takes an apple. He bites on it.
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"Various reasons, naturally:" replies Corumallen in his cheerful, castrado-like voice, "I want to make my presence known in the city and give my new home here a healthy dose of good luck and lived-in charm," he chuckles, "and not least, to bring a bit of happiness to the Steward's stronghold in these troubled times, and as the old saying goes, a happy customer is a generous customer!" He offers Curugil a wink before his attention is drawn, almost by some power of mangetism, to the feminine form of Gweneth. "Oh goodness, my Lady, you look ravishing - so refined and delicate raiment, and what a splendid hair style! May I ask who you are?"
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Curugil nods and says, "Well then Master Corumallen. I wish you best of luck. And also, I may have need of you soon. We can speak more on this later, but I will probably need several items that are rather hard to find."
He turns now to look at Gweneth and bows.
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"But my lord," the girl replies simply, "I wear a mask. Would not revealing who I am defeat the purpose of the mask and thus, a masquerade?"
She then answers Curugil's bow with a curtsey of her own, "Good Lord Gildring, it is well to see you. I fear we have not seen much of either other since my work with my family has picked up. Are your halls well since the," a slight pause, "Incident?"
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"Really, my Lord Gildring? Do tell, and do not be shy, unless the matter is of a private nature, of course. Business and pleasure are fine things to mix, after all!" Laughing merrily, he tugs gently at the tail of a white feline perched on his belly, before plucking leg of goose from among a wide array of tidbits set on the sedan chair before him. "Would you like something to drink?" he asks of the Loremaster further.
Gweneth receives his focus once more. "Ah, clever, clever! Though, like as not I would not recognize your name anyway." He shudders with excitement, "Very well, leave it a surprise then - I shall relish the suspense." His face grows dark and solemn upon mention of the said 'incident'.
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"You mean aside from those who have been accusing me of every sort of madness under the sun from necromancy to arson?"
Curugil sighs, "How exasperating it is I must say! To think in this day and age a man of Isilrim's reputation to accuse me of sorcery! Sorcery! I have never been so hot. I fear I need a drink to cool me."
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A light laugh sounds from the girl, "Well, I suppose then it must be asked are you a necromancer or arsonist, Lord Gildring?"
For the merchant she says naught, only tapping the side of her mask and giving a wry grin.
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"Absolutely!" laughs Curugil. "I set my heart on fire for the love of beautiful women such as the Lady and of course for my science."
He now looks to Corumallen and says, "We shall speak more on that soon. But not yet."
The loremaster smiles and now takes red wine to sip.
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"Sorcery?" Corumallen exclaims in a outraged, allbeit childish, tone. "Who are your accusers, my Lord? I should like to give them a talking to indeed, shall we say! Here a man is a victim of the most vile form of treachery, risking the very flower of our nation's heritage and acheivement, and they would have you accused of perpetrating the very act from which you suffer! Such nerve! Unconscionable!" The merchant's mood abruptly changes, however, upon seeing the good humor with which the subject is addressed. "Later, yes, fair enough." Then, smiling pleasantly at Gweneth, he asks with an entreating expression, "Not even a hint my lady? Perhaps a pseudonym for me to use, in the meantime?"
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"I know with you on my side Corumallen," says Curugil, "that I would certainly be han... errr I mean vindicated."
The Loremaster smiles and his eyes twinkle.
---
Oh look, it's Daerien. He's ambulatory, or at least partially for there is a slight limp to his gait, not from the legs but rather eminating from his core. He has not found himself a costume, indeed, he doesn't appear to own any clothing beyond that which he is wearing now. Well made, and well cared for, but faded, antiques regardless. The slightly elder scout looks prepared for battle, in as much as he is still wearing the hardened leather plates on his torso and a battered utilitarian blade swaying from his brown leather belt. Eyes sunken slightly, as if a distinct lack of sleep, but otherwise seeming to have recovered from his wounds, save for that hesitation in his steps. "Here?" he mutters softly to himself as he moves about, hunting amongst the assorted treats for something in particular, his thumb lifted to his mouth to let his teeth slowly chew against one corner, biting at the nail.
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"Could you not address me as that which I am dressed? I fear my costume is not original, but I so enjoyed the last time I portrayed this," she thinks of the word, "Character I decided to again become her. Name me as that, if you must find a name for me."
She then focuses on Curugil, her head tilting in question, "It seems mad to even address the topic. It is as if I claimed myself to fly as the birds or breath water as the fish to speak honestly your belief a man can ply magics as like any other trade."
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"Tis not magic my dear," says Curugil. "Tis no trickery, but rather a term which has little use here: S-C-I-E-N-C-E."
He sighs but smiles, the scar across his face glistening. He touches it, "By my late wife I wish reason could bear in the face of this folly."
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"I think my analogies were too numerous and my point was lost in my words. Indeed, your science is not the thing of tales of powers beyond mortal man and I only wished to say that to claim different is madness for whoever would speak it," Gweneth says, her eyes drifting from the pair to others arriving.
"Do you know if any of the Steward's family are due to arrive?"
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Curugil nods and says, "Ah, you speak true to that. I suppose I was just dazzled by your fiery beauty. Oh I do not know if any of *them* are coming. I doubt it though, I don't think they go below the fifth circle unless they are leaving the city."
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Daerion does not escape the notice of the merchant, who hails him with a crude military salute and the brightest of smiles, "Welcome good soldier! Take heart and rest yourself!" Whipping his head back to the present conversation he grins demurely before his amble features take on a cast of sheer horror on a sudden. "I must confess my ingnorance, my Lady, for I cannot guess as to whom this bejeweled masterpiece alludes. My, how embarassing!" A moment of pause, accompanied by contempation, produces the following comment from Corumallen as well, "Magic, hmm. Whatever it is one might term magic must in some measure owe to scientific knowledge of one form or another, which the uniniated can explain only in supernatural terms. It is not as if a man could, for instance, throw colorful flaming pine cones from a tree, in absense of any logical source of fire, and some chemical element to give it color."
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Daerien acknowledges the greeting with the languid raising of his own hand in salute. A wry smile painted on his lips in lieu of any other expression though perhaps there is less joy there then might be anticipated. With his pale grey eyes downcast to the table, he grabs two pieces of fruit, one surreptitiously stashed in a pocket, the other bitten into with relative gusto, juices caught by fingers at the corner of his mouth as he chews, then swallows and meanders on a little further. Still with one hand resting on his weapons pommel, the other swinging free he continues his circuitous navigation from the center of this fete to the periphery from where he might in silence observe and finish his piece of fruit, seeds, core and all.
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As the merchant goes on about trees and fire and color, the girl's eyes slowly glass over. As he finishes she nods politely, "Yes, of course."
"I will give you some time to contemplate the costume. I must sample your banquet. It looks quite delicious," with another nod to the two men, she turns and rather quickly makes for the table of fruit.
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A short, older figure emerges, adorned in some of the finest linens to be seen in the land. Incidentally they are on display, for much of his entourage is adorned alike. His short dark hair recedes deep from the line of his brow, and a wily smirk seems to be a fixture of his countenance. Sandaled feet lead the procession toward the host.
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"Drat, another suspenceful test in store! A most wily woman you are! Try the fish, my Lady, it is most succulent. It is a variety harvested from the Anduin, caught fresh this morning." Heeding his own advice, Corumallen claims a bit of the said substance in his fingers and proceeds to nibble it with delighted enthusiasm. The merhcant's eyes remain sharp, however, and he thus perceives the approach of Nathron and his group. "I know a well dressed company when I see one!" He waves to them exuberantly and adds, "Welcome! Drink and dance, the day is young!"
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A hand patting at his pocket, assuring himself that his purloined fruit is still in place before Daerien stumbles from where he stands to find a chair, and something to drink. Eying the various options he finally pours himself vaguely crimson from a pitcher into a small clay cup and sniffing at it a moment, then a sip as he finally finds himself a chair out of the way to sit in and leaning forward, face held up in the palm of one hand to watch those who will talk, another sip taken as he attempts to piece together a meaning from disjointed fragments heard, or barely overheard.
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"At your insistence I shall, Corumallen. And to your health, too, if your Venturers have the goods I seek in port by next fortnight." Amusement and agitation mix into his words as he bows and turns towards the refreshments.
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Corumallen grows solemn indeed and, with a curt snap of his fingers, directs the bearers of his sedan chair to approach Nathron. "Who might you be, Sir? It seems you mean to give me to understand that we share a business relationship."
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A look is spared for the scout as the costume girl has a cup filled for her as well. She sips from it,eyes wandering over the patrons. Finding a familiar face, she quickly disappears behind a cloud of party-goers.
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The merchant tailor returns with his refreshment in hand, a fine pewter goblet filled with the product of Belfalas grape. He looks plainly at the Venturer merchant prince for a moment and bows with a thin smile. "I am the Prince of Ports and the Master of the Marketplace, but you might perhaps know me as Nathron." Rising, he sips greedily from his chalice.
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A small bowl of nut meat is pulled slightly closer and then palming one of them, Daerien bounces it on the table, launching it higher into the air to fly through the air to land, skittering across the next table, nearly striking a roast goose, his second shot is not so well aimed, falling forlornly to the floor of the street where it will surely be ground to dust. "Damn." he growls as he eats the third, teeth chewing far more then necessary to break up the sweet flesh.
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"Ah, well, Nathron, well met!" Corumallen looks surprised, and a pleasant smile plays on his lips, if discernably insincere. "It is high time we should come together in person. I foresee an increase in trade between us, now that we are in closer proximity. As to your shipment, I expect it to arrive on time without any trouble. How are my new curtain's coming the ones a certian young lady in my emply, Veal, commitioned on my behalf?" His attention flails aimlessly to find the source of amusement in Daerien's vicinity.
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The antics of the Cuthalion knifeman merely attract Nathron's eye for a moment before he nods deeply toward the host. "They are beautiful, I can assure you, and ready to drape you in privacy, if you should wish this exchange in the near future."
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Daerien looks up, startled that anyone even noticed his little game. A sheepish smile on his features, though it doesn't rise so high as his eyes. A shrug of his shoulders and taking another half of a nut, carefully positioning it between his curled index finger and his thumb, and sighting along an extended arm he launches it at speed towards the scouts who urged him on. "Be careful what you wish for." a whisper spoken aloud, as a second nut is also carefully positioned and propelled across the tables. The talk of curtains now lost to his own mind, he certainly doesn't seem to be one to bother with such acoutrements, if he will not even spare the coin for a comb, thus keeping his head shaved close. A third nut is launched, this one almost straight up,neck craning back to catch it in his mouth, but the wind blows too strong, and the morsel is carried up and over the overhanging roof of a nearby building where surely it shall be of much use to the arboreal denizens of this stone city.
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"I have yet to meet with Guildmaster Morgaen since arriving in Minas Tirith, but I expect a formal conference will be arranged, perhaps for the third quarter of the year. I have many ideas - this city is ripe with opportunity." He winks, before finally descrying Daerien and his game of playing with food. Pointing that way, he bends down to whisper something to one of his entourage, who trods off in the Scout's direction. When the man arrives he stands menacingly at the Cuthalion man's side, saying, "My master asks that you cease this waste of good food," he indicates the bowl of nuts, "for he considers it an insult to the poor in attendance."
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The entry into this neighborhood is afforded by the Lesser Gate the Moon, stone arches surmounted by a marble effigy of Isildur. Though he fell at Gladden Fields, so very long ago, he nonetheless keeps steadfast vigil over Minas Tirith. Beneath his gaze the roofs of the common folk of the city rise toward the sky, chimneys sending smoke skirling upward.
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The RP continued but this is the end of the log that I have (Indy)
