Elendor

(Archive) In the rain

Oldbie scene - desc says 'Hemel RP's in Arnor' but I cannot seem to get an exact location of where this RP took place.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Arnor(?) or Gondor(?)
Description:
Elendor - Thursday, July 20, 2000, 1:46 PM------------------------------------------ A drop. Then a pout. Finally, the platter of constant rainfall is heard. The gate doors suddenly open, spewing a number of men and women seeking refuge from the rain -- even in this late of night, some are caught unawares by the sudden assault. Bells ring, and the armadments are brought forth -- towels, buckets to handle leaks, and clothes to protect the soldiers wielding not sword and shield, but broom and apron. Against a wall stands a man unfit for battle -- he wears a strange outfit, interlocked metal rings -- but what good will steel do against the Enemy but rust? He stands wisely out of the fray, content to observe the professionals do their deeds.         Sitting in the great hall, not far from her place the former night, Lady Gweneth lays upon a comfortable looking couch. Though this night she does not watch the fire but a few yards from her, but instead gazes down at the tome in her lap, seemingly oblivious to both the rain and the clatter. A ornate bottle, translucent, filled with an amber colored liquid sits atop a table near her head. A glass snifter, half full sits next to it. She flips the through pages fairly quickly, on occation reaching for the glass to take a sip. Pouring in with the rest of the poor souls to be caught unawares by the sudden assault of storm, is a small contingent of men all wearing white leather tunics, the emblem of House Earendor upon their left breast. A motely bunch they appear, their hair smothered by the pelting drops of rain and their garb sagging a bit from a little saturation.Tallest among them is a lad that stands around six feet, his long black hair hanging limply at his shoulders and some of it streaming down his face. He stands at the back of the contingent of his comrades, dark eyes looking over their heads, looking. Silence is Faengor's keyword as he stands near the guilded doors of the great hall that give to the private office of Barad NImothan, his dark eyes gazing over the great hall with their usual silence, his lips tightly perched together and curled into an open and warm smile as he stands near the wall with his hands clasped together near his tummy.   And as the door to the fastness is opened Faengor's eyes turn to the gate, with genuine curiosity as he notices the white tunics with the emblem of Earendor. The men of House Earendor shuffle away from the now dwindling number of refugees from the storm outside to somewhere, more secluded. Together they sit, talking amongst themselves, offering only weary gazes for others, especially those who look upon them with curiosity. One such gaze does Hemel offer Faengor. Faengor continues to gaze upon the men of the House of Earendor with a curious gaze and a warm and hospitable smile, following them untill they are seated at the tables and begin to converse with eachother. Finally upon noticing the gaze Hemel returns tot the Lord, he moves from his wall near the door, walking towards the Lord with slow, soft, steps. A soft snicker grows among the men of Earendor as Hemel turns away from his weary gaze upon Faengor, and murmers something. One of the other men sneaks a glance at Faengor and they snicker again. Turning and standing, Hemel calls, "Ho there! Bother us only if you bear drink with you! For we are thirsty from travel." His eyes lock on Faengor as he speaks, in the attempt to let him know that indeed the words of Hemel are for him. "You challenge a Lord in his own house soldier of Earendor?" Faengor inquires with a warm voice filled mirth and joy, pulling the comment in jest as he continues to walk towards the men, a warm and joyous smile on his lips and his eyes tingling with mirth. "Yet I shall grant your request soldier," he adds as he raises his right hand, motioning to a couple of servants to aproach the men of Earendor."   And swiftly the servants turn to them, bearing drink and food with them of diverse properties. From bitter beer, to sweet wine and from apple to turkey. "Let noone say that the Nimothans do not treat their guests with the proper respect" Faengor smiles as he reaches the men. From behind the gilded door, the young scout Surlong makes his first appearance back in the main hall since his embarassing wine incident. He looks considerably more presentable, with his clothing washed, hair combed, and boots polished. Indeed, he is almost what one would call handsome, were it not for his scrawny figure. The young man looks about a bit sheepishly, but then comes into the room fully, his mended cloak flapping behind him. A cheer goes up from the men of Earendor as drink and even food is brought to them. Now having food, fresh food, all seem to forget Faengor for a while as the savagely enjoy their food and drink. "Tis a tragedy that a Lord abandons company of esteem for the company of mere sailors and soldiers," says Hemel, just after downing a bit of wine. "Tell me then," he prompts of Faengorn, "Why do you not bear the emblem of your own house for strangers such as us to know you by?" Surlong seems a bit intimidated by the rowdy crowd of newly-arrived men, their cloaks still damp from the rain, their boots muddy from the courtyard outside. He smiles at them shyly, nodding at one or two who catch his eye, yet he doesn't engage them in banter or join in their revelry. He seems a man used to the company of few. The servants hastily retreat after placing the plateaus of delicatesses and beverages in front of the rowdy bunch of men, quick and nimble as a good servant should be and patiently the Lord waits as the men attack their dinner with a ferocity unequaled by many, silently gazing over the men with the same mirthfull smile and the same joyous curl in his lips, his hands placed on his back. Then as the Man-at-Arms finds himself adressed by Hemel his right hand reaches to his neck, bringing forth a small amulet shaped to the head of a snorting ram, as he speaks with a soft voice, "My apologies Soldier of Earendor, yet I never wear the emblem of my house when I find myself in Barad Nimothan." and after some consideration he adds, "Or atleast not in plain view." "Truly a habit most uninque," notes Hemel just before delving his teeth in an apple. His eyes look over the rest of his comrades who also enjoy their meal. Finishing off the apple, Hemel wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. "If a Lord you be, then why is the garb of Minas Tirith upon thee?" Hemel continues to probe Faengor, looking for every possible weakness in his claim as a lord and he continues for sport as well, secretly entertaining his comrades. "I wear the garb of Minas Tirith, for I serve the Lord Steward, Soldier of Earendor," the Lord speaks with a soft tone as he motions to a servant with his right hand to bring him a glas of wine, keeping his left hand on his back, retaining his serene demeanor. And it is not before the wineglas rests in the Nimothan's hands, before Faengor speaks with an inquiring voice, "Yet, tell me Soldier of Earendor, who are you that you dare to question me? The young scout makes his way off to the side, near the couch where Gweneth sits, although he doesn't see her until he his nearly next to her. When Surlong does see her, he stops short, realizing she's the woman who commented on his outfit at the dinner feast. His ear grow red at the memory and he turns to make a hasty, but hopefully not noticeable, retreat. "We all bear the emblem of the House Earendor, yet we are not Lords, we serve the house, though some are of the blood," says Hemel calmly, abondoning drink and eat to smite Faengorn verbally. "I did not grow in ignorance ... A man-at-arms of Minas Tirith should not go claiming to be a Lord of such noble house to be of the blood should be enough," states Hemel, ending it all with a smug look on his face. Gweneth rises, not taking notice of Surlong. Indeed not, the conversation between the Lord Faengor and the men at the entrace to the hall seem to have taken her interest. She glides quietly over the floor, the trail of her gown following behind, dragging across the smooth stone. She stops behind Faengor's shoulder, crossing her arms, addressing Hemel, "Your words are rude for one enjoying the food and shelter of another. Lord Faengor may indeed not be the Master of his Family, but indeed, he is one of the Lords of this house. I would suggest you alter your tone and words to make note of the fact." And behold as the once mirthfull smile on Faengor's face dissapears as if ash in the wind, as the lord straightens himself, raising himself to full height, placing his wineglas on a table near him, immediately placing his freed right hand behind his back, near his left. His eyes narrow slightly, an angered gleam apearing in them as his lips curl in a sour scowl. Then he speaks with a strong voice, filled with pride and honor, "If you did not grown in ignorance Soldier of Earendor, then why do you speak as an ignorant fool? I am Faengor, Son of Gelevorn and Nimothan by heart and blood. Yet you dare to enjoy our food and then insult one of their Lor? --" abruptly Faengor finishes his speech as the Lady Braggollach apears from behind him. Surlong steps back and follows the woman with his eyes. Only then does he take notice of the altercation going on at the table. He joins the crowd that has begun to gather around the men, angry faces on both sides. A look of dismay is what Hemel gives to his comrades as he turns to them. Turning back to Faengor and now Gweneth, he resumes his calm appearance. Silence prevails over him as he stumbles in his mind for words, which eventually come to him. "Then as a lord, you would surely understand the rushed judgements of mere men of the sea who have traveled for nine days with little rest?" He keeps his appearance calm, though inside, a storm rages, and he is once again silent. Surlong stands amidst the crowd that has gathered around the arguing men, most of them sailors just arrived. Surlong is taller and skinnier than most, his clothes more fit for land than sea. Some of the men urge on Hemel, some the Lord. Surlong does neither, standing silently.             Now the Lady steps forward, looking into the eyes of Hemel, "Indeed, he may understand rushed judgements, but I do not. Nine days of travel, hard or not, should not wipe away greatfullness." She pauses, her lips pursing together, "You said you are men of the House Earendor?" She continues, not waiting for an answer, "The Lord of your House shall be given my complaints if a proper apology is not given, not only to myself for disrupting my night with this childish banter, but to Lord Faengor, for insulting his person and to the Lord Nimothan himself, Lord Erinhaim, Minister to the Lord Steward of Gondor, Denethor, for acting in such a disgraceful manner. Do you accept these terms? Or shall I have my messager begin drafting a letter to //your// Lord?" Tiralyn arrives meekly, carrying her special cargo of fruits within a cradled piece of linen. Allowing a sigh of relief as she did not enter into a silent room, she steps gingerly upon her toes to avoid any confrontation. Yet with all of her extreme cautiousness, she catches a foot about the leg of chair along the wall. Steadying herself, she notices the apple fall and start to roll into the gathered crowd. Her eyes widen as she freezes in her terror. Such a weed among the flowers of nobility. Faengor averts his eyes, looking away from the Soldiers and the Lady of Braggollach as she steps forward, raising her voice, flooding the men of the sea with a harangue of words. Silently confining himself to the background. The apple rolls into the crowd, narrowly missing being crushed several times until it comes to touch the well-worn boot of the young scout Surlong. He looks down at it, puzzled for a long moment, then bends down to pick it up. Straightening his tall frame, he holds it up, then looks around for its owner. Did it drop off a plate from the table? Out of a sailor's pocket? It is impossible to tell. Figedting a bit under the harsh words of Gweneth, all the men of House Earendol voice apologies to Gweneth and Faengor, all except Hemel, he remains silent. With his right hand, he sweeps his hair back from shoulder and face and to his back. His dark eyes gaze upon Gweneth for a moment, then upon Faengor, then upon nothing as he becomes lost in his own thoughts. "Lady," he begins, not so confidently, for Gweneth smashed just about everything, "No apology of mine would yet keep you from complaining to my Lord, that I, a mere man-at-arms, even know." He slowly begins to speak with more confidence, regaining it, building it up with each words "So I shall only say to you what must be said. These men and I, of House Earendol, are very grateful for the food and drink supplied to us. We are also far from the sea we know and are not learned in all Lords of this House, especially myself. If any complaint should be sent by you Lady, only I should be complained about, for these men behind me commited no rash judgements as I did."         "Do you mean you will not send the apologies?" Gweneth questions with a raised brow, "And rather accept the complaint?" Looking to the table and still completely caught in her silent embarrassment, Tiralyn finally breaks her stance and quickly refills the plate upon the table with her various fruits. Her linen emptied is her excuse to look about for the renegade apple that has probably met its fate upon the same shoe, that if she is not careful could squash her too. She takes a deep breath and manuevers about the crowd, her eyes to the ground and her hopes to the heavens that she doesn't not spoil the scene. With night appears Leif, the Rider hasnt yet left his travel and metal shirt. He seems worried and the shadows of torches playing on his features arent for softening him, not even the full light of the great hall dont dissipate his doubt and questions. He stands, alone in the gondorian crowd, looking there and there some familiar or if not familiar some known face... With night appears Leif, the Rider hasnt yet left his travel and metal shirt. He seems worried and the shadows of torches playing on his features arent for softening him, not even the full light of the great hall dont dissipate his doubt and questions. He stands, alone in the gondorian crowd, looking there and there some familiar or if not familiar some known face... The sought-for apple rests in the long fingers of the bowman Surlong, as he turns it over and over in his hands, looking for its owner, or at least the plate it might have rolled off of. But in the crowd of sailors, it's hard to see too much, so Surlong figures he'll just drop it on the table, and starts out to do just that, not knowing that he is on a collision course with the apple's owner, headed right for him, her head bent down. Crossing his arms about his chest, Hemel almost scowls at Gweneth, but holds out just long enough to summon words to his mouth "I do not apologize for disturbing you, for you needn't have gotten involved, you chose to be bothered, so no apology do I give to you. Yet, I do apologize to the Lord Faengor and the rash judgement I made of him and am grateful for the curtousy he showed to myself and the men with me and apologize for my rudeness to him." "Bravely spoken, Man of Earendor." Clear and heard with ease above the murmuring of those gathered thither, the voice drifts lazily from the table. And there sits one untouched by the clash of lord and sailor, tending to a goblet of wine, clad in azure and silver in the flickering light. Some words draws Leif attention and himself. The Rider smiles as the loud voice of another man rises and meets the babbling with stinging irony. Noticing Hemel stadning near Gweneth, Leif bows to her, exquisitely polite for now. Cutting right in the conversation as an instant of confusion floats he says "Faengor, you spoke of him, right ? Where is he ?", a perfect westron without any hint of foreign accent.         Gweneth does not appear to be amused, "Brave, but foolish and not with thought. Young man, you speak of two different things, I am afraid. It is quite true I choose to get involved but it was by no means my choice to be bothered," she says calmly, coldly. "Indeed, it was your raised voice, your attacks on Lord Faengor that //did// in fact disturb me from my reverie. Normally, such things indeed would not call for an apology, but they were delivered with malicious intent to the Lord, so I see no reason not to ask for an apology." She pauses, "It is quite simple and I will not argue on it further. Either choose to offer the three of us your apologies or do not. Either way will gain you consequences that you must deal with, good and bad." She holds her hand to Leif's chest, awaiting Hemel's answer. Tiralyn mumbles something very inaudible to the crowd, her words known only to her. So deft does she slide through the crowd, relieved no one has noticed her as of yet. She holds the empty linen in a free hand that once held the naughty apple and as she looks to the now lonely cloth, she bumps full force into an unfamilar figure, her own force sending her to the floor! Hemel takes a deep breath and glares at Gweneth, eyes cold and unforgiving. "/You/ get no apology, but I do apologize to this fair house that took us in with food, drink, and puts up with my rudeness." He raises a corner of his lip after he finishes talking, continuing to glare at Gweneth. "And are these the Halls of the Bragollach in Tirith Cobas that all must tread warily for their fear?" Yet again the calm voice rises -- and now the one who speaks leans forward into the light. Tall and lordly, with a silver star upon his breast, here is a Lord of Belfalas by bearing and blood. "The one who was given insult has been rendered an apology? You, lady, have no part in this." Surlong staggers back into a sailor as the woman crashes into him, the scout's thin frame providing little protection from such impacts. "Watch it there, my friend," growls the sailor, pushing Surlong off of him. The young man begins to apologise, first to the woman, then to the sailor, his face starting to go red with embarassment. Luckily, few eyes are on him, as the scene at the table still continues. He remembers enough of his manners to offer a hand to the fallen woman. Gweneth sighs, looking sadly at the man in pity, "So be it." She turns her back to Hemel and does not look towards the voice, but does answer it, "Thank you for your words of advice, milord," she reaches her couch once more and lowers herself onto it, "I will take them into account." She picks up her tome once more and opens it, returning to its pages. "I have little doubt you will, lady." And the goblet is raised in courteous salute to the Chamberlain of Dol Amroth -- is it amusement which runs through the words? And as if dismissing the matter, the Dunadan lord's gaze turns from Gweneth to the one who bore her ire -- Hemel, sailor of Gondor. With a muffeled scoff, Hemel turns once again to his fellows and seats himself, but not until Gweneth turns he back to him first. He murmers something to his comrades and takes a slow draught of wine. Then, words he had heard come back to him and he is sobered, his wits coming back, nerves calming, having been on edge to deal with Gweneth. "Lord Faengor was here, but seems to have departed," Hemel murmers as he sorts through questions and statements overlooked in his stress. "And true thanks to the lord that aided my cause," is also murmered. Yet, what he says is not loud, barely loud enough for those five feet away to even hear. Tiralyn sits upon the floor stunned, as she sees the conflict between the two strangers. When the hand is offered to her, she reluctantly takes it, leaving the clothed object that caused her such peril upon the floor. As she stands, she notices the apple, the embarrassment of the kind face before her, and immediately her own face flushes with fear as she chokes out softly, "Oh I do apologize for such a careless misstep M'Lord. I hope I did not cause you any ill." She brushes her hair from her face now red, as well and straightens out her worn dress. "Please excuse me M'Lord, I was looking for..." Her voice trails off as she backs away, cautiously lowering her head in a respectful bow,or moreso that her eyes do not meet his own. Leif turns on himself, looking each near him, Gweneth first, then the seaman and lastly the man who stood. He steps in behind Gweneth "Lady chamberlain, perhaps you could lighten me now ?", his tone bearing a forced note of patience. Hemel's word halts him and he says louder, to both to hear obviously "Ah he left... It greatly helps me... But perhaps you can, what is this place, explain me..." "An apple?" the young scout asks shyly, holding out the sought item in his large hand. "I think it found me, miss. I was trying to put it back on the table and didn't see you there," he tries to explain, his long face growing redder with each syllable he speaks. Yet the Belfalan Lord's clear gaze remains upon the soldier, until in the end, he rises and makes his way to the high doors. And as his steps carry him past the sailor, he halts as if on a sudden thought, looking down upon the Man of Earandor, "A letter shall be sent to your lord telling the tale of what happened here, if need arises. For insulting Faengor of the Nimothan, he may deal out such punishment to you as he deems fit...but for no other matter." And flashing amusement is glimpsed again in his eyes for a fleeting moment, even as his tone lightens, "The Lady Gweneth did speak truth. You have courage, but little wisdom to defy the Bragollach thus...but it was stoutly done." And with swirling cloak and swift tread, he makes his way from the chamber then, into the darkness beyond. Hemel looks questioningly at Leif and begins to say something, but then the lord begins to speak to him, and Hemel forgets Leif, even after the lord passes from the chamber. For a time after, he watches the door, unblinking, unmoving. Finally, he blinks and turns back to the drink still before him. He procedes to get drunk. Tiralyn covers her mouth with one of the only clean part of her visible presence, her hand. Her long and slender fingers hide her disapproving grimmace at her situation. Looking up once more at the extremely embarrassed young man before her, her eyes start to mist as she removes her hand to say, "Please keep the apple...I feel just awful." With that said, she turns and walks from the crowd, leaving the piece of white linen upon the floor at his feet. With the turn of her long hair sweeping the air, she disappears from the gathering. The tall scout seems bewildered by the whole exchange with the woman and the apple, his face still as red as the apple he holds. "Sorry!" again he calls after her, his voice cracking a little. He sighs and shakes his head, looking down. Only then does he spy the piece of linen. He picks it up and puts it in his pocket with the apple.
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