(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 72 - Morrandir's Loose Lips

The Common Room of the Prancing Pony is quiet tonight, and the few occupants all seem to be staring at one man. A one-eyed foreigner, garbed in a white wolfskin, tall and raven haired. He does not return the stares, being content to sit and drink his tea. He is a Gondorian, unusually far north. This seems to arrouse curiosity among the Breefolk, who regard him with awe and suspicion.

Barliman comes sleepily through the doorway, rubbing an eye with his right hand. Acknowledgeing the few guests with a one eyed squinting glance and a nod, he stumbles towards to counter mumbling something about needing some strong coffee.

Off by the side, not so outlandish of dress as the other, a brown-clad hooded traveler stands to take an empty glass -- water, not wine or tea -- back to the counter, making his way forward with only the barest hint of noise. "No more, thank you," he answers in a quiet whisper before any word is said to him, and tilts his head in recollection. "I've paid, haven't I."
The Gondorian looks up, and watches the traveller with a narrowed eye. He sips his tea, his eyes never leaving the brown-clad figure. One of his northern kin perhaps? He sits back, waiting for him to turn so that he can see the face.

Maple, the barmaid, nods to Sulraen. "Indeed ya have, sir." she says quietly, noting Barliman's approach and thinking he must have a headache again. "Anything else I can get for you, then?"

The hooded head turns downward for a moment. "I shall let you know."
A subtle turn toward the Gondorian. Within a hood, perhaps a silent smile, but difficult to make out with the shadows. He offers a brief nod of the head, but takes no step forward, still in observance of the outlander.

Barliman gets himself a steaming mug of coffee, ignorant of the room and any of it's inhabitants for a few moments. He adds a generous amount of sugar and stirs it gently. Lifting the mug to his lips, he blows gently several times before attempting to take a sip. "Ah, there now!" he says to himself quietly. "This should do the trick." After several more mouthfuls of the warm fluid he finally manages a look around the room. A couple of Outsiders quickly catch his attention. Although the locals seem curious, all seems quiet as it should be at this time of the night.

The Gondorian smiles, and nods to the man. "Sit down, traveller." He says pointing to a chair opposite him. "From your height I can see you are not of the same kin as these folk. Are you a ranger? If so I have perhaps met some friends of yours."

A trifle loud the other might have deemed the Gondorian's speech, and a slight grimace is the immediate answer as his eyes sweep once more over the rest of the room, but he comes, brushing by a set of mostly empty tables and stopping beside the proffered chair. 'Strange that you say so,' he answers quietly as he looks to the Gondorian -- then a change in voice inflections, almost in mid-sentence. " I may think that you know what I say?"

" I certainly can." The Gondorian replies, frowning slightly. " In Gondor we can all speak it quite well. Though something in your speech makes me wonder if you are indeed a ranger." He looks into the mans hood, trying to see his face. " Are you of the first-born?"

A further deliberate tilt of his head as the traveller settles into his chair. " Word of you has passed over the lone-lands like wind through a forest. I may well think that you have seen some of the firstborn, even, if all that I hear is truthful." He pauses, looking intently into the wood before him. 'But I am called Windhover around here, and that is enough -- for here is the place of our meeting.'

" I see. I am called Morrandir, and I am a Blue Squire of Dol Amroth." He takes another sip of tea. " I have met many of your kin on my travels, having stayed at Imladris, Lothlorien and Mirkwood. But meeting your kind never gets any less interesting." Morrandir says with a slight grin.

The traveller shakes his head with a light laugh. "Imladris. Lothlorien. Taur e-Ndaedelos. Those are strong words, squire Morrandir -- and some of them have left their mark on you, by your manner. And yet you are not there and there, but here in a small town bereft of fairies and kings. What wind is it that bears you -here-?"

The squire sighs, and gravely speaks thus, " It is an ill wind, to be sure. A large party of us are on a quest, seeking an ancient artifact. We need this to free the son of our Prince, Imrahil the fair. His youngest boy is within the clutches of a cursed undead, and we have trekked all across the land to free him. Long is it since I last saw the green fields of Belfalas by the sea..."

A slow nod. "And you come to a land of ghosts, a lost land, to find this freedom! Then you have my sympathy, if not aid -- for you have already heard counsel plenty, I guess." He taps the table softly, absorbed in thought. "There is some talk of wraiths about here and their curses -- but of a manner different than what you speak of."

Barliman leans over and speaks to his barmaid in a low voice.. "Everything alright here, Miss Maple?" When she nods and answers affirmatively, he sighs and downs the rest of his coffee. Pouring himself a second, he again adds a large portion of sugar. He rubs his bald head with his left hand, back and forth and back again. "It's my head again. S'my own fault, I suppose. A night off and too much ale, well... what can I a'spect?" He picks up his steaming mug, cupping it between his large chubby hands. "Think I'll go outside and see if a little night air might clear it up." With a glance at the two men talking unintellibibly at one of the tables, he says "If'n ya need anythin, well, just holler." With that, he turns and heads out the door.

Barliman steps through the open doorway that leads out to the Foyer.
Barliman has left.

"Will do, thankyou." Morrandir calls out to the Innkeeper as he disappears out the door. He then turns to the elf. "Aye, we have even met the cursed things on our travels." He shudders. "The worst kind of all. I don't think I need to elaborate..."

"The darkness reaches far these days, and achieve your quest or no, the wings of shadow spread still. I know you have felt it, but if we can only put that aside for an hour." He frowns slightly, as in concentration at an elusive thought. "After all, I cannot believe that there has not been some new gladness opened to you for having undertaken it. Speak of it or no, but bear it with you! Now -- you say that you have seen Rangers of the North nearby? I must seek for my own errand."

Morrandir shakes his head, "Oh no, this quest has brough much gladness, but sorrow also. But to other matters now. I have indeed seen the Rangers, but it was not here. It was in Imladris, there was quite a gathering. I have not seen any since then." The squire pauses, and looks sideways at the elf. "Pardon me, but may I enquire as to where you come from?"

The traveller considers, lifting his head slightly -- and for once and only a moment their gazes meet. "From a mother's womb, squire." He pauses, then sighs and rises to his feet swiftly. He glances again at the Gondorian's face. "Forgive me if I mis-speak! It is a town of rumors, my friend, and I cannot tarry here too long -- for as I say, I have too my errand, and it touches too the fringes of the shadow. Therefore I say farewell, Morrandir Dark-Wanderer, but the sun shall shine upon your path."