(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 37

Celebannon

You stand upon the western square of a small river settlement. A well packed dirt road cuts through the town and follows the river's path to the east. Several buildings line the square wooden cabin-like structures with thatched roofs all of fine construction and some elegance. To the north is a low circular building, built around a tall healthy oak tree. People mill about entering and exiting the structure on personal business. To the south stands a quaint structure over the doors is a sign bearing the stylized image of a wolf. Smoke makes its way lazily from a small chimney at the side of the building, and the smell of fresh food wafts from the place. In the center of the square stands a tremendous oak tree, nearly one hundred feet in height. The shadowy boughs of Mirkwood loom to the west.
You must either add a seasonal description (ie. &descnight.darkSpring) or add a normal &descnight.dark to the room. See Thranduil for help.

The sky is clear.

Contents:
Aearwen

Silent the encampment lies, night all around. The sky is almost starless, only a few spreading their silvery light. As few the stars are in number, so few men aswell roam the camp at this hour, not many being about. Some lone figures can be distinguished in the blackness of this late hour, mostly guards, perhaps a few holding a converse. There a Secondborn comes staggering from the south, ending a visit to the nearbye inn...

Alone a dark figure sits aswell, near the fire, fire burning high, flames slightly moved by a still chill breeze. The figure is clad in Blue and White, bearing signs of a Blue Squire of the Order of the Swan. His jet-black hair and sullen blue eyes further show tis Rowaen sitting here, silent, in thoughts... A large bandage surrounds his left shoulder, cloth being cut away, another bandage surrounding his upperchest. Wounds from his last encounter with the accursed ones.

[Sagan(#24836)] Among the boughs of the looming forest to the west, a figure may only barely be seen, little more than a shadow in the night. Fleeting the shape is, moving among the trees, drawing nearer to the encampment, to Celebannon. As it comes yet closer, stray firelight reflects off a dented metal helm and the head of a long spear. The approaching form is tall, though not to the extent of these southern visitors, and may be seen to be broad of shoulder. Too large to be one of the Elves, and too quiet to be of goblin-kind.

A glimpse perhaps causes the young Nimothan to stirr, silently looking up from his pondering. Aware the blue eyes stand, cold and calmth so clearly within. Tis such a glance the Blue Squire gives the guide, eyes now falling silent upon the man's figure. A respectfull nod is given, eyes for a moment lingering on the tall form, before retreating back to the fire.

[Aearwen(#7229)]
Yawning slightly as she emerges from a tent, Lady Aearwen stretches slightly as cerulean eyes survey the encampment. Pulling her cloak tightly around her form as the cool night air makes its presence known the noblewoman walks quietly across the open area to where Rowaen is seated. Her greeting is spoken softly so the others can continue with their slumber, "Good morn Rowaen. How are you feeling today?"

Kneeling beside a formation of rocks that serve as a cooking area, Aearwen pulls forth a battered mug from her pocket and dips some of the boiling water from a small pot there. Sprinkling a few pinches of tea taken from a pouch she stirs the brew with one finger. Taking a tenative sip she turns back to Rowaen with inquisitive eyes. Unaware of the figure looming in the forest in her sleepy state, Aearwen takes a seat by the fire, holding out one hand to the warmth.

And again the silent lad stirrs, now looking up at the figure of Aearwen, following her in her movements, falling silent as she seats herself. A wry grin seems to curl around his lips, though quickly it is broken as the young lad speaks his reply. "Good morn, milady. I am feeling quite well today, the pain has lessened in regard to yesterday morn... Even slight movements I am able to make without too much of agony."

[Sagan(#24836)] The figure enters the circle of the fire, revealed to be the Beorning guide, clad in his green and brown garments of wool, red curls peeking from beneath his battered cap of steel. Hazel eyes pass over those seated by the flickering source of light and warmth, giving Rowaen no more than a cursory glance before falling upon the Lady Aearwen.

Sagan regards her in silence for a moment before sitting himself, another glance moving to the Squire as that man speaks. No sound does he make himself, content to watch and listen as he plants the butt of his spear in the ground.

[Aearwen(#7229)]
Taking a sip of her tea and studying the flickering flames Aearwen remarks, "I shall brew you some feverfew tea in a bit. That will ease the stiffness and you give you some relief from the pain, but be warned that I have little in the way to sweeten the tea here in the wilds." Grinning as her eyes cut to the squire Aearwen teases, "But I daresay a little bitterness in a cup of tea is the lesser of evils. Correct?"

The crackle of leaves breaking under the heavy footstep of Sagan alerts the noblewoman to his presence and her sea blue eyes raise to his. A smile that borders on irony is seen as it slowly curves the soft lips of Aearwen as she lifts her cup in greeting, "Good morn to you Sagan.", clearly amused that she was forced to speak first.

[Sagan(#24836)] "Is it really, leech?" The woodman asks from beneath raised brows, watching her for another moment. Another glance toward the Squire, flashing the young man a look of pity.

He stands as quickly as he came, plucking his just-planted spear from the ground. "I suddenly feel the need for a drink. A hefty one." He nods to Rowaen, brushing past the seated figures and heading toward the tavern.

Faint is the smile, though sincere. "Indeed, milady, a lesser evil I am gladly to accept, to prevent others of a larger kind..." Only then Rowaen becomes aware of the words spoken between the other two, astonishment being his part. A brow being raised the lad following the figure of Sagan in his departing way. Wondering lying within, his eyes now fall upon Aearwen once more, glance turning more intens, as if studying the woman before him, so finding an answer.

"Leech?..." mutters he softly, shrugging lightly, as if dismissing the matter. "My thanks milady, for your care. Tis a favor hard to be repaid, not even a bow I can give, not in this state... so I fear tis words you will will have to take for granted at this moment."

[Aearwen(#7229)]
The sweet clear melodic tinkling of laughter spills from the lips of Lady Aearwen as Sagan stands quickly and announces his need of drink. Throwing her head back, oblivious to those still sleeping she shakes her head as she laughs. Wiping a tear from the corner of one eye she turns to the squire and says, "Pay us no mind. Sagan and I seem to have become the -best- of friends since our first meeting.", sarcasm fairly dripping from her words.

Throwing the last bit of liquid in the bottom of her cup into the fire, Aearwen watches the flames sputter and then rise again with a studied fascination. To the squire she remarks, "Leech is a common term used for healers since we do use leeches when the skin has rotted and needs to be removed to lend quicker healing." Shrugging one delicate shoulder offhandedly, "To some it might sound as an insult, but I take it as a high compliment. There are few that have the knowledge to see to the wounded." Drawing her cloak ever closely around her form the noblewoman of House Bragolach stares into the fire and her words are perhaps a bit odd to the squire, but then, he too has faced much in his lifetime, "No thanks is needed Rowaen. Your life is the best gift you could give me. Life. Life is the most precious gift we have.", her eyes shimmering with tears as that last statement is barely whispered as her hand curls around her stomach.

Merriment lies within those blue eyes, still not leaving the figure of the Healer. Merriment caused by her words in concern to Sagan... Lips part as if ready to speak now, but silently they close again, for Aearwen speaks some more. Words less merry, dark even... A blink, merriment forgotten, cold and calmth returning, so common to the gaze of this young grave lad...

"Tis truly as you say, milady, life we should charish the most, life itself being the reason we walk upon these lands... Life even being the reason for the quest on hand. To restore the life a young lad... to reunite him and his family. A noble quest, it succeeding already enough reward for the hardships we come across. Yet," his voice lowers now, soft, near a whisper, apparently unwilling to share his words with others near, "life brings more then joy... is it naught milady? Perhaps those less joyous matters troubling you now? If there is something a young ignorant lad can do to help relieve your worries, then please, do not hesitate to speak your mind..."

Silence follows, Rowaen sitting patiently, eying Aearwen still. His gaze moves naught, only his right arm, grabbing hold of a lump of wood, it being thrown softly into the burning flames.

[Aearwen(#7229)]
The words of the squire, meant to ease the sudden melancholy mood of Lady Aearwen, seem to bring more grief to her person as she solemnly shakes her head and replies softly, "Nay. My burden I shall bear alone. It would be grievous to weigh another with such worry." A smile, seeming as ancient as time, curves her lips as Aearwen rises to her feet and remarks, "Your offer was most kind and it does warm my heart. Thank you. I shall have the feverfew tea brewed for you in but a moment." With that the Envoy of the Prince strides from the fire, her face lined with grief, an untold sorrow weighing heavily upon the normally cheerful woman.

A nod all the squire seems to give, at the so sudden departure of the Healer. Perhaps he is unable to speak, even troubled by worries of his own? Though none of it is clearly expressed, the common coldness proving to be indeed a sufficient seal. Only brief seems the change of expression, compassion reflected, blinked away swiftly. A weary sigh, before Rowaen turns back to the fire, eyes piercing the fierceness of the flames.

"Life... a blessing, but also many times a curse..."

Soft is his phrase, muttered not meant for other ears then his own.

[Sholto(#29744)] A lone quendi appears from the west, heading east towards Celebannon....Just walking along quietly, it seems that the fellow is simply out for a stroll..

[Sholto(#29744)] Distance closes, and the quendi figure is seen more clearly....dark red shirt, with forest green pants, tapering into leather boots, he appears as most of his kind does. Nothing too frightening with Sholto, but then, appearances are not everything.

Tis so that Rowaen becomes aware of two new arrivals, one he knows by name, though the other he knows naught... Pleasant is the glance, directed at the approaching figure of Dariune, a firm nod being given. Another nod is granted by the Secondborn, this one meant for the nearing one of elven, only differing from the first in this one being more respectfull. A moment Rowaen's eyes linger upon the figure of the Firstborn, as if still amazed by their common fairness and tales told...

[Dariune(#23645)] Spying the firstborn, no matter how benign Sholto may seem, Dariune stumbles backwards in shock. Losing his balance, he falls over in an unceremonious heap, peering up fearfully at the elf until it's as if he suddenly, the boy remembers that elves are kind. Only then does a goofy smile comes to his face and he waves. Struggling back to his feet, Dariune limps over to Rowaen and sits down, unwrapping some bread and dried fruits that he has manage to procure and offering them to the injured Rowaen.

A smile upon his face, eyes bearing the same merriment, now glimmering, cold calmth for a moment is lost. Rowaen reaches out his uninjured right hand, thankfully accepting the kind offer made by Dariune.

"Don't mind if I do, dear friend. And how are you on this fine, just starting morn?"

Eying Dariune inquiring, a piece of bread is brought to the young squire's lips, a piece being munched down.

[Sholto(#29744)] Blue-grey eyes catch the nod presented to Sholto from the wounded edain, and, almost reactionary, offers a nod in return. The poor stumbling of Dariune, however, garners a stunned expression, which soon dissolved into a light laugh as the wave is returned. Amused with the prospect of conversation, the Quendi changes direction, which seems to have been the Inn, and heads towards the pair....

[Dariune(#23645)] As wordlessly as ever, Dariune points to himself and smiles broadly, as if to indicate that he was well. He then grows more serious and gestures to Rowaen's wounds, frowning deeply. With a hopeful expression upon his face, Dariune pantomimes scrubbing dishes and then stands up and acts out running an errand, he then looks to Rowaen questioningly. As Sholto comes over, Dariune looks a tad nervous again, but at least he doesn't flop right over like last time.

The smile is continued as Dariune makes his 'gestures' towards the Blue Squire, Rowaen answers not right away. First he aswell glances up at the approaching Firstborn, a greeting spoken to his person. "Good morn, elven friend, how fares you this day?"

Turning now again to Dariune, a hand is raised, kindly declining offers made. "Nay, Dariune, worry naught, there is nothing I need or any you should do. Though tis a kind gesture! As you can see, my right arm is still in good strength, the left being injured is no reason for laziness." A wink is added, the young lad for a moment falling silent, eyes shifting between the 'halfwit' and the elf.

Sholto chuckles softly, and offers a short bow..."Good Morn and Mae Govannen, gentle sirs....the morning finds me well, and I trust that it is the same for thee?" Confusing wording, but at least he is cordial...the smile, soft and gentle, remaining with him

[Dariune(#23645)] With a little sigh, Dariune nods his understanding. Forever in motion, he cranes his neck, as if searching for more chores to do. Brown eyes settling on the fire, the boy rises and limps about, picking up sticks to toss into the flames to keep the fire alive. As Sholto speaks, the boy smiles and waves shyly yet again, as if this was the first time he had seen this particular elf.

Long Rowaen seems to keep his silence glancing briefly from Dariune to the elf before him. Almost apologetic is his smile when he speaks, as if sorry for the long wait for an answer on the question asked. "It goes well to circumstances, yes. Oh and Dariune... if you are that eager to be busied, if you want, you could polish my sword? After my last skirmish, my wounds prevented me to clean it at the battleground itself.. Since I had to make a rather.. 'hasty' departure. Though departure I prefer above death anyday... Foul orc's..." His last two words are whispered, a moment glance darkening with the memory. Silent is the movement of his right hand, going to the belt around his waist, there where a sheat is attached. The sheath is removed, placed before the Squire's feet, still the Blade stays within, Rowaen glancing inquiringly at Dariune.

[Sholto(#29744)] Of course, the wave catches the elf's eye once again...and he turns with a soft laugh to face Dariune...."yes....hello. I imagine I gave you quite a fright as I approached, from your surprised reaction." Forever polite, Sholto remains in his place....allowing time for the two to react. Attention shifts to the speaker....and a nod to well spoken words. "Yes, considering...forgive my intrusion, but I rather could not help but notice the injuries sustained by thee, and I was going to inquire as to how...but you just answered that..."

Dariune beams as brightly as if he had just been named King of Gondor. Puffing up with pride, the boy salutes Rowaen, then he nods his head emphatically, then he salutes again, then his face dives into a frown as he can't find anything to polish the sword with. Pursing his lips and having to give this problem serious thought, the odd halfwit must have found a solution for he dashes off as fast as his crippled leg will allow him. Returning minutes later, the boy holds a clean rag and some cleaning supplies in his hand. Easing himself back on the ground, his frantic motions slow as he lovingly removes the sword from its sheath and lays it across his legs. With the wet cloth, he busies himself removing the blood and gore. Occasionally, the boy looks up and waves to the elf again before getting back to work.

Curtious is the nod given to Sholto, Rowaen eying the Firstborn now. "Indeed, t'was rather foolish of my part... I and a fellow squire, at the edge of this realm, east of this area, we were having a converse, checking with the guards. T'was there we came across acursed one's. Four being their number, also a maiden was with them, one human.. We fought a fierce battle there, and bested the foul ones. But it was not then when I sustained my injuries, nay... Barely injured was I, a single scratch was all," Thoughtfull is he know, memories apparently recalled ones not too pleasant, for the gaze of the young lad darkens with every word he speaks, "yet... I had to return. Three days past, another silent night, a restless sleep. So the foolish idea took form, to seek the battleground once more. And again... again a figure was present there. Another orc, yet this time, I was alone, no companions. The orc's advantage within the night together with his fierceness, I was lucky to have escaped there... thank the soil, blinding the creature's eyes. Aye.. luck indeed..."

Darkness lightens a bit as Rowaen eyes fall upon Dariune, so pleased with the given task.

[Dariune(#23645)] Settling into a rhythmn, Dariune runs the rag up and down the sword, removing the blood, the cloth slowly but steadily being turned crimson. Yet he listens intently to Rowaen's words, curious to hear the tale. When the squire is done, he offers a sympathetic look, if no sympathetic words.

[Faengor(#18480)] Trough brute force the white flap of the Pavillion is slammed aside and kept that way by a stretched out arm. Trough the opening, Faengor apears with a focused face, flexed muscles and a stern demeanor. Dressed in full attire, from the black cloak, to the sword and scabbard in his belt, he moves away from the pavillion and his eyes start to glance around him.

Though perhaps Dariune not speaking words, still Rowaen is aware of the lad's sympathetic expression, a look swiped away with a gesture of his hand. "Aah but I see I speak to gravely, worry naught Dariune, I do not bear injuries so severe. No more then a flesh wounds, needing a few silent days to become whole again, kept free from infection. In five to six days I should be able to hold my shield again with that sword you are polishing, to stand ready to deliver that what was given by the acursed ones... Though revenge should not be one of my worries..." Again tis thoughts that bother the young squire so clearly, state of mind half-spoken aloud, as if to exspect a spoken answer from the 'halfwit'.

Eyes turn cold again, regaining their so common calmness, Rowaen speaking some more. "And Dariune, correct me if I might be wrong, yet... if it pleases you so, then another task can be your part. For with the sword comes a shield, one dirty and stenched with aswell dark as red blood... If you are willing then it is yours to clean and polish?" Exspectant Rowaen glances now directly at Dariune, for a moment elf forgotten, or so it seems...

Sholto listens....his eyes seemingly lost in thought. "Yrch...excuse me, orcs....they are an ignorant lot....but danger always lies in those that know not what is best for them. Yet, to come away from a battle with one, especially with the advantage given to the orc....that can only speak of your tireless resolve...and your strength of character." So what if he has been forgotten for now....he is giving respect....and now he has a name to place with the child-like squire.

[Dariune(#23645)] Sensing the heavy weight that rests on the squire's shoulders, Dariune does about the only thing that he can do, he offers a warm smile, as if trying to cheer the man up and tell him it's not so bad. And in return for his efforts, the boy is cheered up, for once again he beams at having yet another chore to do and he salutes, searching about for the shield to bring it next to him and begin his work on that.

[Faengor(#18480)] With hefty steps, crushing twigs beneath his strong boots Faengor seeks his way to the ever so popular fire. With peering eyes he walks, squinting them upon noticing Rowaen. A hand is placed upon the pommelgem of his sword, stroking the hilt and the inlaid silver that holds the gem softly with his thumb and as the fire is reached, Faengor halts in his steps. "Greetings," he speaks with a heavy voice, inclining his head to the elf.

Not unseen stays the approach of Faengor, sullen blue coming across with the figure of his brother. Immediate is the frowning of brow by the younger Nimothan, already half rising to his feet. The blue changes into icy cold, Rowaen blinking twice before turning to both elf and man. "T'was both a pleasure and honor to converse with you both, yet alas I fear there is rest that needs my attention. I will not find myself 'lucky' going against a Healer's wishes..." Wry is the grin, as if not fully convinced by his own jest.

Silent, rising at full length now, Rowaen eyes only the elven figure. "Perhaps we shall speak another day, friend, until then. For now I wish you both a pleasant day... Oh and Dariune, please be so kind, when done with the polishing, to bring both shield and sword to my tent. It is the one near those trees," a finger points eastward, to a tent few feet away from a group of trees, "many thanks for your efforts, Dariune, you are a great help!" And with such departing words the Squire moves away from the fire, raising right hand in last greeting. Not a single word or glance is given to Faengor, Rowaen passing him stern and silent.

With a confused frown, for even a halfwit can sense the tension that lingers in the air as the two brothers meet, Dariune looks between the arriving Faengor and the departing Rowaen. With a soft sad sigh, Dariune shrugs his shoulders slightly, waves a little to the elf, and happily puts aside the sword for a moment to check the shield out. It took is coated in blood and gore and will need a thorough cleaning...Dariune couldn't be more pleased.

"Indeed, rest well squire Rowaen, for your knight needs your protection!" Faengor exclaims towards Rowaen in passing words. Hefty, encouraging words to anyone, yet given with the biting undertone that Rowaen should be all too familiar with. One last regard is given at Rowaen with arched brows and flaring pupils. Yet, the pupils douse quickly after his departure and Faengor turns away from the squire, turning his lips into a pleasant smile as he regards the elf.

Sholto offers a nod to the incoming Faengor, then another smile to Dariune...."Perhaps we shall meet again, young one." He then returns his gaze to Faengor and offers a welcoming, but again short, bow..."Good Morn to thee, gentle sir...."

The halfwit shoots Faengor a confused glance, his brows knitting together, deeply puzzled by the man's animosity towards Rowaen. After all, how could Faengor hate someone as good as Rowaen, who was kind enough to let the boy polish his sword? Offering a small smile to Faengor nonetheless, Dariune finishes his work on the sword and begins to clean off the shield.

Faengor smiles gently, sending a small huff of air trough his nostrils and inclines his head again, "Welcome, Elf of Mirkwood." Faengor speaks with a noble voice, ere turning to one of the rocks that are littered around the camp, seating himself on it. Then oncemore, the Errand Rider's gaze is placed upon the elf. "Pray tell, what has brought you to the camp of the men of the West?" Faengor continues with the same, virtuous voice, ignoring Dariune's accusing gaze.

The said elf laughs, softly...."Well, Sire, thy camp is upon the doorstep of Mirkwood itself....And it was truly chance that brought me here. Was just a normal walk from my home, which is not far at all from here."

Stung to be ignored by Faengor, and the halfwit suspects, intentionally ignored, Dariune plays the same game and turns away, humming a little as if to try to get back into his good mood.

The Gondorian nods and smiles at the elf, speaking "I see ... indeed we are at the doorstep of Mirkwood and we have been here already for a while." Arising from his rock, the Errand Rider turns his glance to the east, "Yet, we should continuing our voyage soon, we have been here for too long." He grins and turns his eyes to Dariune, frowning his brows and watching the halfwit with curious interest

Sholto says, "If I may be so bold as to ask, what aventure awaits you to have you so far from your home? I know that this land is not native to thee...."

Having removed the grisly stains from both shield and sword, Dariune rises and hobbles off, offering no indication as to whether he will return or not. In a few minutes though, it is clear that he has every intention of returning, as the boy hobbles back with a new cloth and some oil. With great care, as if this were his own sword and shield, he polishes each until they shine. Continuing to play his game, he acts as if Faengor wasn't even here.

Faengor chuckles softly and shakes his head, turning away from Dariune as he crosses his arms, returning his gaze to Sholto. "I am sorry," Faengor then speaks, "It is best as little as possible know what we are doing in these places." he smiles with apologizing lips. "Sorry"

Sholto chuckles softly...."but of course, noble sire. Tis but idle curiousity that sprang the question, nothing more." He pauses, casting a sidelong glance towards the faithful sword-cleaner, then back. "Then, if I may, I shall take my leave....and place such idle curiousities behind me...."

Faengor nods and bows in greeting, "Good day to you then, Elf" and without casting another glance at the elf, Faengor turns away, turning towards the pavillion with hefty steps and thumping boots.

Sholto chuckles politely to himself...then turns to Dariune, and offers a parting wave, before turning on his heels to disappear into the wood

Rising, the halfwit sets aside the sword and shield for a moment and goes to follow after the errand rider. Given his crippled leg, it is a struggle to keep up, but Dariune tries his best.

Noticing, Dariune's chase Faengor immediately halts in his steps and turns about face. Huffing with annoyance, he glares at Dariune with piercing eyes and speaks with a sighing and hurried voice, "Yes, dariune?"

But the halfwit has some bravery in him after all and stands his ground, drawing himself up to his full, if rather unimpressive, height. He points towards Rowaen's tent, then points towards Faengor and shoots the man a questioning look.

Faengor growls with restrainer anger. With pupils set ablaze, he glares at the tent for a split moment and then to the boy. "This matter has nothing to do with you Dariune, and it never will, so I suggest you keep it that way." Faengor speaks with a hefty voice, "anything else?"

With a heavy sigh, Dariune lets his gaze drop to the ground and shakes his head. Like a chastened puppydog, he limps back to the sword and the shield.

Faengor shakes his head menacingly and turns to his pavillion, slamming the flap away with frustration as he enters.