Elendor
Smoking Bitter Herbs
Indoron looks into the common room of the Golden Kraken Inn while searching for the soldier Silmir. There he finds Niphredil.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Dol Amroth: The Golden Kraken Inn - Common Room
Game Date: April 10, 3061
IC Time: Early Afternoon
Weather: Clear
Description: You push the door wider, its hinges making a scraping metallic sound. It swings shut behind you as you step through, though not all the way.
Dol Amroth: The Golden Kraken Inn - Common Room(#19089RA)
The ceiling of this room reaches high into the air, and all you can see as you look up, is an army of stout wooden beams, crossing one another in a sturdy frame. Between the beams, thick and heavy, massive shadows lie in wait like a beast stalking its prey...
But that does not destroy the friendly atmosphere of the room, which is as cozy as one's own home. One side of the room is devoted to beds, which sit side by side in great numbers. Opposite the side meant for sleep, a number of tables are arranged about one another, in no real order. Nearby is a hearth, with has a plentiful supply of wood. The chairs loiter about their tables, some actually poised between, like small undecided children. There on the wall to the left of the fireplace, many small carvings mar the wood.
Several people stroll in and out, going to and from their daily business. There are a few beds left unmade from the previous night, but surely they mean to return again, when the sun sets.
Obvious exits:
Cloakroom
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Clear
Time: Early Afternoon <15:33:30 >
Season: Spring
Date: Orithil - April 10, 3061
Real Time: Mon Feb 24 20:11:10 2014
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Indoron comes into the common room of the inn this afternoon. He seems to be looking for someone by the way he is scanning the chairs and perhaps even the beds for a late late riser. Approaching a guest who is sitting and reading a book, the captain of the Silver Ship bends over and catches the man's attention, asking with one word a name, "Silmir?"
The Last Willow, they call her.
And it would seem this willow is thirsty -- and not for the finer spirits of Imrazors' palace. Occupying a table by one of the larger windows, Niphredil, long-limbed and garbed in black, the only color she has worn in weeks, lounges back on her large lebethron chair as though it were her own ornament. Her elbows nestled comfortably on the armrets, and her booted legs crossed at the ankle, calves resting against the corner of her table, she sits accompanied only by a half-empty bottle of Tarnostian wine, a goblet, and a pipe, which she habitually packs with mixed green and brown leaf.
She leans forward to light it with the candle on her table -- which would otherwise be unnecessary, given the light of day still streaming through the windows. Smoke escapes her mouth in a deep, but calm, exhale, as she gazes through the glass -- her sharp stare cutting through like a dull knife. She is not Silmir therefore it may be of no surprise to any that she does not stir with the inn's newest patron.
"He won't be here," grunts a sleepy patron by the door. He jerks a thumb to the window, and the cat on his lap stirs. "The fishin' soldier. Left early for the docks, he did."
Indoron looks to this sleepy patron and questions, "So he is staying here? That makes my task easier then." The captain walks over to the windows to look out. Curiosity satisfied for the moment, he turns and looks to Niphredil as if he had not seen her before when searching the room. A small bow is offered, appropriate for when one is addressing another of uncertain rank. "Forgive me for intruding, but you are not the first I've heard of using herbs in that manner."
"Didn't say nothing about his name," amends the sleeper irritably, and rolls over. The cat springs lightly to the floor.
With the approaching footsteps announcing Indoron's nearness, Niphredil's stare turns sidelong, and then away. She expels a second cloud of air through her mouth, her breath angled low, and the last of it through her nostrils as her lips pucker into a bored sneer.
"I should hope not," she says -- and at least her voice is even. With her left hand, she puts the candlestick back on the table, her other left to support the large bulb of her pipe beneath her chin. "Where I come from, it is quite common."
She touches her forehead with her two longest fingers, and uninspiringly gestures outward with it, in the motion of a bow she may have given had she the energy or the will. It is unclear which of these virtues she lacks now, but nevertheless, the girl does not rise to give the man the same greeting she has been afforded.
Indoron nods slowly, inhaling for a taste of the air the lady has exhaled. A queer look comes to his face, but he seems not to be too bothered by the scent of burning things. "I am familiar with most of the regions of Gondor. This habit in which you indulge, it must be unique, my lady." The soldier offers that last bit of courtesy.
In one movement, Niphredil lifts and twists her legs back under her table, and leans forward so her elbows touch against the edge of the tabletop. Her free hand takes the bottle of her wine, and unhurriedly pours it into the goblet set beside it -- and in a long, but single, swig, the girl drinks it down. The cusp of her sleeve is boyishly used to wash the stray drop of red left on her snarling lower lip -- and then she snickers, almost good-humouredly, but not quite. "You said it yourself -- most," she repeats the word, her tone condescending enough that perhaps, if she hadn't been sitting alone, she may have expected someone to laugh with her.
But no one does, so she quietens down on her own, places her cup back down to be refilled with the last portion of her second bottle of wine. "Most, not all. It is not unique." And all the while, the herb in her pipe simmers, slowly but surely turning to embers -- glowing like small, red jewels.
With some newfound impatience, the girl turns her head to regard the soldier properly -- she starts with his boots, and then his face. With a shrug that seems to question his presence better than another snide comment might, she asks in a blunt clap of sound, "Who are you?"
The soldier returns the woman's regard without any short of annoyance evident. "Out of place, am I? A Man of the Hosts is no more than a lady in black with strange habits and a perchant for drink." Smiling darkly in return, he answers at last, "I am Indoron, Lord Telumehtar. of Minas Tirith."
And in the same tone, Niphredil asks -- her pipe, in her hand, making a loose circle in the air, "And what do you want?" The girl gestures with it toward herself -- and then reaches out, not for her goblet, but for the wine bottle. She drinks from the glass lip, but her silence seems not an indication that she has finished her train of thought, for a second after downing this more recent mouthful of wine, she speaks again. "You are far from Minas Tirith."
Canting her head to the side, she looks down the neck of her bottle, closing one eye so she can better see how much remains in its murky depths. "If I were you, I would consider returning at your earliest convenience, Lord Telumehtar. Men disappear into fire here, didn't you hear?" Looking away, brows rising almost smugly -- almost -- she stalls on taking another scull to reckon, in an absent tone and a bounce of her left shoulder, "Perhaps you will be next."
"Ah. I see. A most dangerous city." Indoron's smile fades as he ponders this and then adds, "Perhaps you speak truly, my lady, but such threats do not scare me. I have seen the power of the East..." The soldier's voice trails off and silence between the two reigns before he adds, "I will collect my man Silmir and then return. And you, Lady Niphredil? You have no fear of disappearing?"
The girl is irritated when she hears her name -- she pulls away from her bottle with a frown she directs to the floor, before gazing back up, squinting against the bolt of sunshine crossing her face from a space in the clouds through the window. But she does not lash out at being recognised. Strangely, a beat later, her expression brightens in a cynical laugh. "Me, disappear?" she entertains the thought a moment longer -- she laughs again, louder than before, sadder than before, angrier than before. The bottle is nudged back on the table. Her smile is bright, wide, but does not reach her eyes as it ought to -- they remain sharp and unyielding. "I am unsure of who would have their heads first, the Prince or my family-men. I suspect it would be the former."
"Ironic, isn't it, what men choose to act on and what they choose to ignore? Discard this, protect that." It is a rhetorical question, surely. Lowering her face to take a fresh puff of her pipe, she pauses just long enough to gather the smoke into her lungs, and then exhale it through her mouth again, before concluding in a low tone: "My fire will eat theirs. Perhaps you will see it yourself."
The cat bounds to the door, its hairbrush tail upright, and begins to weave and purr. It is a man who pats it behind the ears - a man who has padded in without creak of door or tap of boot. It is Lominzil Girithlin, black-cloaked, damp hair feathering dry in the heat.
He says nothing, but gives the housecat its pampered due.
"Perhaps." Indoron seems to read much and he nods slowly. "Your foes have no need for worry about your family-men, I daresay. The rumor that has been long heard in Minas Tirith is that a son of Lord Hlorithain was often seen in the hills despite it being well known that he had only daughters. In this case, the rumor is closer to the truth than the truth itself."
With a slight smile reappearing, Indoron comments, "I would like to speak to you again before I leave Dol Amroth."
Silmir enters behind Lominzil, leaning to pet the cat as well. He pauses as he sees Indoron, saluting, then moving to the bar to order his food. He stops to talk to the bartender, the two apparently knowing each other.
"The Imrazor keep me." Mincing no words, Niphredil points two fingers to her left -- far, in the corner, a large guardsman sits, drinking ale, watching and carrying the Prince's sigil. "My family-men can stay where they are -- safe in their woods." But these words shape her lips like an insult instead of an invitation. Barely softening, she moves on with a shrug and another puff of her pipe, "With the Lord Hlorithain who is now neither married nor a father, you should know." When the Lord Telumehtar speaks of meeting again, and smiles at her, she looks back at him with an expression that remains blank -- blank save the squinted peer of her eyes, which seems to demand more than what she has been given to reciprocate his kindness. When she smiles back, it is thin and soon obscured in smoke -- on purpose.
"Would you?" she asks, and resting her shoulders into the backrest of her chair, muses with a curious glance going toward the door -- and then the bar -- and back again. She softly snorts, and as she speaks, waves her pipe idly through the air as a conductor might a baton. "I would like a great many things I will not have, but perhaps the future will be more generous to you. Hold your breath, make wishes on stars, pray before your evening meals, perhaps you will have the illustrious honor again, Lord."
But still, sarcasm thoroughly injected into the conversation like denim -- she inclines her brow in farewell.
There is the occasional flutter of white caught by Niphredil's point even the ale which sits before the man cannot mark him otherwise.
"Here is your match," utters Lominzil, looking between Silmir and Telumehtar.
Indoron laughs despite the smoke and comments, "I look merely for information on this city, its ancient houses and their politics. You seem to know much on the subject. I shall certainly pray that we meet again fpr ot has been a long time since I have had such a delightful companion for conversation." Indoron bows far more deeply than before, perhaps even more than is called for, and then leaves Niphredil behind. As he passes Silmir, he calls to the man, "Tomorrow call on me at the Telumehtar house in White Town."
Silmir frowns and looks back at Lominzil. "My match?" He looks around confusedly, then shrugs and sits with his meal and ale at a table near the pipe smoking woman. He looks up as Indoron passes, nodding. "Of course, my Lord." He glances toward Niphredil, giving a bow of his head to her.
The cat slips out the door.
The Hlorithain girl observes Indoron's departure plainly, saying nothing in return for his explanation -- although as his back turns, she mouths the word, "Delightful?" as though it were a question only the ceiling, which she casts a confused glance, could answer. Alas, the planks of wood offer no illumination for the teen so she sits again in silence.
Until her boots hit the floor, and she rises -- and then takes an abrupt, clumsy step sideways, crushing her fist on the tabletop in front of her to regain her balance. She shakes her head determinedly, her eyes briefly pinching closed as though the stumble pained her.
And then when she straightens, and moves again, she leaves the gracelessness behind. Catching Silmir's greeting, her left eyebrow raises, and she touches her brow -- and again uses her hand to draw the downward motion of a bow, which she would have exacted properly, had she the inclination. "Good day," she says to him, and then her stare moves to Lominzil.
She extends her hand with her pipe out, to him.
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir sits back and begins to eat his dinner. He glances up from time to time out of curiosity, occasionally looking at the girl's face, as though trying to place her in a memory. He frowns and looks away again, pulling out a book from a pouch at his belt to read, to try to keep his mind off Niphredil.
"How striking," muses the Squire, finding an errant hair on his sleeve, "for a Captain and Amroth to meet."
A soldier's gait carries him to the center of the room -- the sleepers, diners, and watchers surveyed with a critical eye.
"Friend," greets Lominzil of Niphredil, and takes the pipe.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
On the third occasion that Silmir's glance scans the Hlorithain for features he could recognise, he finds the girl peering back, her face canted and her eyes similarly narrowed -- and then a moment later, breaking away, she turns to release the pipe into Lominzil's grip.
"Friend," she greets him back -- and with a sardonic smirk, she waves a hand toward her chest. "Did you hear? I am delightful."
She waits only a beat before laughing -- loudly. Her arm snakes back to pick her bottle back up, and she takes a casual sip as though it were not the first, or second, or third occasion she might've indulged in such a beverage without the assistance of a cup. "Delightful!" she squeaks with some good-humor when her mouth is empty again.
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir holds her gaze for a moment before looking back to his book and dinner. Her exuberance makes him look up again, this time with a small smile tugging the corners of his lips. His meal finished, the plate is picked up to be taken back to the bar, his steps taking him past the speaking friends.
"Pity the man," answers Lominzil. The leaf glows between his fingers, and he exhales slowly, the smoke hanging from damp cloth like mist. "He knows nothing."
"Fisher," he asks, a hand raised to pause, "have you any more news?"
[Niphredil(#10854)]
When Lominzil's words turn toward Silmir, Niphredil's smile disappears again behind her bottle -- and her attention shifts, like his, to the Man-at-Arms. "Whoever you are," is her chosen manner of acknowledgement hardly polite, though she gives a flowery wave of her hand as though she may have been calling him by only the most respectful of titles, "Delight us with your words."
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir pauses on his way back to his seat. "None. I had intended to return to Minas Tirith tomorrow, but Lord Telumehtar seems to have a task for me, perhaps." He looks over to Niphredil as she speaks, an eyebrow raising a little. "I apologize for staring, my lady, but you have a very similar bearing to one I knew. Not well, but the man was kind to me, before I took oath."
Lominzil taps the pipe-stem against what might have once been a tea saucer. Smoke clouds his eyes, and his fingers are still against the table-top.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
As the Man-at-Arms speaks, Niphredil's tongue begins to angrily rub against one of her canine teeth -- and her star lowers, at last, when he mentions her demeanour reminding her a man in the past tense. She seems to know immediately who he speaks of, and her nods express as much. "Terrible, isn't it?" she says, seemingly to no one in particular -- or everyone who may hear her -- or simply herself. Her finger makes a line around her face, and she shrugs. "To have your appearance be a monument to the kindly deceased. There can be no escape from the dead when you should see them staring back at you every occasion you find yourself in front of a mirror."
Her smile is sarcastic, at first -- and then kinder. Dismissively, she shrugs her shoulders and waves her bottle, nearing its final slither of wine that she lingers on finishing for now. "But it can be motivating too, I suppose -- like a reminder, when you have much to do."
"I am glad my father was kind with you, so you can have a pleasant memory of him," she says -- and casually now, she takes another sip of wine. "He was often kind." And then, when she lowers it after a larger drain it is empty, and she must pant from the effort spent on depleting it. With some satisfaction, she places the bottle on the table behind her and concludes: "Too kind of a man."
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir shrugs as well. "A sad reminder, perhaps, and a motivator... The ones we love live on in our actions, I've thought." He watches her drain the wine bottle, smiling as she finishes it proudly. "I would wonder at what you could mean by too kind, but I would hate to press you for information that may be painful."
[Niphredil(#10854)]
"Too kind," Niphredil near-snaps in a flash, though her intonation is not unkind. She almost smiles, even, as she explains with a razor's precision and delicacy. Her stare is direct and true, as though she bestows advice inside her truths: "For he spoke too gently to those he should have run through with no hesitation. He worked beside men who repaid him for his services and the goodness of his heart by setting him on fire and crawling behind their land and titles as though it would be enough to keep them from true justice. He bled for a Prince who rewarded his murder with no investigation no arrests nothing. Had he been less kind, Man-at-Arms, perhaps he would have had the sense to kill first -- but my father was a kind man."
She looks down at her hands, rubbing them against each other as though in preparation -- but when she is done, she lets them hang back at her sides again. "I think I am many things, but not kind, no." A look goes left to Lominzil, and to him she asks, "Am I?"
But already the girl assumes her answer. Two steps she takes, and in a strange motion of farewell, she takes a boyish -- near brotherly -- hold of Silmir's shoulder, and looks him straight in the eye. "Do not waste your time being kind," she tells him, and she is solemn as she does it. "Find what you want, take it, and destroy what may keep it from you -- and trust only the hearts you can hold in your hands. There is no room for kindness here."
Her hand falls, and she takes backward steps, her boots light on the wooden floor. Breaking the mood, she lets out a small chuckle. "Only glimpses of it."
[Silmir(#24455)] "When you put it like that..." Silmir smiles grimly, drinking his ale. "There is a difference between politeness, being friendly, and thinking that smiling at a viper will keep it from biting you. It's not my place to presume anything of the matter." He looks down at her hand on his shoulder, grinning a little as she steps back. "I think that you could be kind, when you know that the hand that reaches to you in friendship doesn't have a concealed dagger. And it is my hope that you find someone you are comfortable enough to be kind to."
"As you say," answers Lominzil, though not readily. At the pipe, his hand has tightened, and he studies the haze between girl and Host.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
Niphredil listens to both men -- though it is the first one who earns a second bout of laughter, the sound sandwiched between her lips and the back of her hand. She shakes her head and does not speak of vipers or presumptions or friendship, though her gaze rises to the roof -- and her eyes almost roll, but they don't. Her sight refocusing on the scene in front of her, she reasons as simply as she can, "Kindness can encourage betrayal and it mustn't be trivialised. My father was too kind to people he should not have been kind to. I will not make that mistake nor do I encourage either of you to do the same, though you," she nods toward Silmir, "seem of a jollier make than us two -- though you agreed with him, Lominzil." The girl gives the squire a sidelong peer when she refers to him -- and her look seems slanted as she squints at him in study, and then looks down.
"But who knows?" she offers in respite. Steps move to take her toward the cloakroam, and she gestures with a nod for Lominzil to follow, "Perhaps you will be luckier than I, Man-at-Arms, and you all you drink and eat will be honey and joy for all time." Her hands rise, palm out, as she paints this picture of happiness but she does not seem to believe it.
"Lominzil, my Pa's once-squire, my friend in black, help me find my cloak before I start smashing bottles?"
[Silmir(#24455)] "I doubt I shall be so lucky. But it is a hope that some shred of happiness can be found for all of us." Silmir collects his book from the table, heading for the door as well. "If you are ever in Minas Tirith, you ought to seek out my brother. He is always in need of drinking companions that he is inclined to underestimate. And I enjoy watching him be shocked." He looks back toward Lominzil, then to Niphredil, then back to the squire. "... I wish you luck." He smiles and bows, before slipping out the door.
"Be well, Silmir," is Lominzil's farewell.
Without complaint, he sets a hand to steady Niphredil's elbow, collecting pipe and bottle. The smoke stings - his eyes are faintly pink as they turn from roof-beams to door. "I wish you hadn't drunk it all," he chides gently.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
"Take care," is Niphredil's final farewell to Silmir, and as the squire keeps her steady and prepares their leave, she is still and patient -- enough. "Interesting people, those from Minas Tirith. Very upbeat," she muses in the Man-at-Arms' wake, watching the squire collect her pipe and bottle. Chided though she may be, her mouth curves into a grin -- and perhaps aided by the wine he has chastised her for drinking, it reaches her eyes, for they near-vanish in a pair of wry squints.
"I can get another bottle if you want one, boy," she tells him -- a hand raised as though she is prepared to take an oath, "And I can even help you drink it."
"Minas Tirith is a bastion," states Lominzil. "I should not be surprised."
He draws a deep breath and exhales, the smell of salt rising from his drying clothes as the smoke clears from his chest. "Tomorrow, Niphredil," he demurs, meeting her hand with his own, to fold it down again. "There will also be time for wine tomorrow."
And the friends are thus steered to the door.
Dol Amroth: The Golden Kraken Inn - Common Room(#19089RA)
The ceiling of this room reaches high into the air, and all you can see as you look up, is an army of stout wooden beams, crossing one another in a sturdy frame. Between the beams, thick and heavy, massive shadows lie in wait like a beast stalking its prey...
But that does not destroy the friendly atmosphere of the room, which is as cozy as one's own home. One side of the room is devoted to beds, which sit side by side in great numbers. Opposite the side meant for sleep, a number of tables are arranged about one another, in no real order. Nearby is a hearth, with has a plentiful supply of wood. The chairs loiter about their tables, some actually poised between, like small undecided children. There on the wall to the left of the fireplace, many small carvings mar the wood.
Several people stroll in and out, going to and from their daily business. There are a few beds left unmade from the previous night, but surely they mean to return again, when the sun sets.
Obvious exits:
Cloakroom
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Clear
Time: Early Afternoon <15:33:30 >
Season: Spring
Date: Orithil - April 10, 3061
Real Time: Mon Feb 24 20:11:10 2014
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Indoron comes into the common room of the inn this afternoon. He seems to be looking for someone by the way he is scanning the chairs and perhaps even the beds for a late late riser. Approaching a guest who is sitting and reading a book, the captain of the Silver Ship bends over and catches the man's attention, asking with one word a name, "Silmir?"
The Last Willow, they call her.
And it would seem this willow is thirsty -- and not for the finer spirits of Imrazors' palace. Occupying a table by one of the larger windows, Niphredil, long-limbed and garbed in black, the only color she has worn in weeks, lounges back on her large lebethron chair as though it were her own ornament. Her elbows nestled comfortably on the armrets, and her booted legs crossed at the ankle, calves resting against the corner of her table, she sits accompanied only by a half-empty bottle of Tarnostian wine, a goblet, and a pipe, which she habitually packs with mixed green and brown leaf.
She leans forward to light it with the candle on her table -- which would otherwise be unnecessary, given the light of day still streaming through the windows. Smoke escapes her mouth in a deep, but calm, exhale, as she gazes through the glass -- her sharp stare cutting through like a dull knife. She is not Silmir therefore it may be of no surprise to any that she does not stir with the inn's newest patron.
"He won't be here," grunts a sleepy patron by the door. He jerks a thumb to the window, and the cat on his lap stirs. "The fishin' soldier. Left early for the docks, he did."
Indoron looks to this sleepy patron and questions, "So he is staying here? That makes my task easier then." The captain walks over to the windows to look out. Curiosity satisfied for the moment, he turns and looks to Niphredil as if he had not seen her before when searching the room. A small bow is offered, appropriate for when one is addressing another of uncertain rank. "Forgive me for intruding, but you are not the first I've heard of using herbs in that manner."
"Didn't say nothing about his name," amends the sleeper irritably, and rolls over. The cat springs lightly to the floor.
With the approaching footsteps announcing Indoron's nearness, Niphredil's stare turns sidelong, and then away. She expels a second cloud of air through her mouth, her breath angled low, and the last of it through her nostrils as her lips pucker into a bored sneer.
"I should hope not," she says -- and at least her voice is even. With her left hand, she puts the candlestick back on the table, her other left to support the large bulb of her pipe beneath her chin. "Where I come from, it is quite common."
She touches her forehead with her two longest fingers, and uninspiringly gestures outward with it, in the motion of a bow she may have given had she the energy or the will. It is unclear which of these virtues she lacks now, but nevertheless, the girl does not rise to give the man the same greeting she has been afforded.
Indoron nods slowly, inhaling for a taste of the air the lady has exhaled. A queer look comes to his face, but he seems not to be too bothered by the scent of burning things. "I am familiar with most of the regions of Gondor. This habit in which you indulge, it must be unique, my lady." The soldier offers that last bit of courtesy.
In one movement, Niphredil lifts and twists her legs back under her table, and leans forward so her elbows touch against the edge of the tabletop. Her free hand takes the bottle of her wine, and unhurriedly pours it into the goblet set beside it -- and in a long, but single, swig, the girl drinks it down. The cusp of her sleeve is boyishly used to wash the stray drop of red left on her snarling lower lip -- and then she snickers, almost good-humouredly, but not quite. "You said it yourself -- most," she repeats the word, her tone condescending enough that perhaps, if she hadn't been sitting alone, she may have expected someone to laugh with her.
But no one does, so she quietens down on her own, places her cup back down to be refilled with the last portion of her second bottle of wine. "Most, not all. It is not unique." And all the while, the herb in her pipe simmers, slowly but surely turning to embers -- glowing like small, red jewels.
With some newfound impatience, the girl turns her head to regard the soldier properly -- she starts with his boots, and then his face. With a shrug that seems to question his presence better than another snide comment might, she asks in a blunt clap of sound, "Who are you?"
The soldier returns the woman's regard without any short of annoyance evident. "Out of place, am I? A Man of the Hosts is no more than a lady in black with strange habits and a perchant for drink." Smiling darkly in return, he answers at last, "I am Indoron, Lord Telumehtar. of Minas Tirith."
And in the same tone, Niphredil asks -- her pipe, in her hand, making a loose circle in the air, "And what do you want?" The girl gestures with it toward herself -- and then reaches out, not for her goblet, but for the wine bottle. She drinks from the glass lip, but her silence seems not an indication that she has finished her train of thought, for a second after downing this more recent mouthful of wine, she speaks again. "You are far from Minas Tirith."
Canting her head to the side, she looks down the neck of her bottle, closing one eye so she can better see how much remains in its murky depths. "If I were you, I would consider returning at your earliest convenience, Lord Telumehtar. Men disappear into fire here, didn't you hear?" Looking away, brows rising almost smugly -- almost -- she stalls on taking another scull to reckon, in an absent tone and a bounce of her left shoulder, "Perhaps you will be next."
"Ah. I see. A most dangerous city." Indoron's smile fades as he ponders this and then adds, "Perhaps you speak truly, my lady, but such threats do not scare me. I have seen the power of the East..." The soldier's voice trails off and silence between the two reigns before he adds, "I will collect my man Silmir and then return. And you, Lady Niphredil? You have no fear of disappearing?"
The girl is irritated when she hears her name -- she pulls away from her bottle with a frown she directs to the floor, before gazing back up, squinting against the bolt of sunshine crossing her face from a space in the clouds through the window. But she does not lash out at being recognised. Strangely, a beat later, her expression brightens in a cynical laugh. "Me, disappear?" she entertains the thought a moment longer -- she laughs again, louder than before, sadder than before, angrier than before. The bottle is nudged back on the table. Her smile is bright, wide, but does not reach her eyes as it ought to -- they remain sharp and unyielding. "I am unsure of who would have their heads first, the Prince or my family-men. I suspect it would be the former."
"Ironic, isn't it, what men choose to act on and what they choose to ignore? Discard this, protect that." It is a rhetorical question, surely. Lowering her face to take a fresh puff of her pipe, she pauses just long enough to gather the smoke into her lungs, and then exhale it through her mouth again, before concluding in a low tone: "My fire will eat theirs. Perhaps you will see it yourself."
The cat bounds to the door, its hairbrush tail upright, and begins to weave and purr. It is a man who pats it behind the ears - a man who has padded in without creak of door or tap of boot. It is Lominzil Girithlin, black-cloaked, damp hair feathering dry in the heat.
He says nothing, but gives the housecat its pampered due.
"Perhaps." Indoron seems to read much and he nods slowly. "Your foes have no need for worry about your family-men, I daresay. The rumor that has been long heard in Minas Tirith is that a son of Lord Hlorithain was often seen in the hills despite it being well known that he had only daughters. In this case, the rumor is closer to the truth than the truth itself."
With a slight smile reappearing, Indoron comments, "I would like to speak to you again before I leave Dol Amroth."
Silmir enters behind Lominzil, leaning to pet the cat as well. He pauses as he sees Indoron, saluting, then moving to the bar to order his food. He stops to talk to the bartender, the two apparently knowing each other.
"The Imrazor keep me." Mincing no words, Niphredil points two fingers to her left -- far, in the corner, a large guardsman sits, drinking ale, watching and carrying the Prince's sigil. "My family-men can stay where they are -- safe in their woods." But these words shape her lips like an insult instead of an invitation. Barely softening, she moves on with a shrug and another puff of her pipe, "With the Lord Hlorithain who is now neither married nor a father, you should know." When the Lord Telumehtar speaks of meeting again, and smiles at her, she looks back at him with an expression that remains blank -- blank save the squinted peer of her eyes, which seems to demand more than what she has been given to reciprocate his kindness. When she smiles back, it is thin and soon obscured in smoke -- on purpose.
"Would you?" she asks, and resting her shoulders into the backrest of her chair, muses with a curious glance going toward the door -- and then the bar -- and back again. She softly snorts, and as she speaks, waves her pipe idly through the air as a conductor might a baton. "I would like a great many things I will not have, but perhaps the future will be more generous to you. Hold your breath, make wishes on stars, pray before your evening meals, perhaps you will have the illustrious honor again, Lord."
But still, sarcasm thoroughly injected into the conversation like denim -- she inclines her brow in farewell.
There is the occasional flutter of white caught by Niphredil's point even the ale which sits before the man cannot mark him otherwise.
"Here is your match," utters Lominzil, looking between Silmir and Telumehtar.
Indoron laughs despite the smoke and comments, "I look merely for information on this city, its ancient houses and their politics. You seem to know much on the subject. I shall certainly pray that we meet again fpr ot has been a long time since I have had such a delightful companion for conversation." Indoron bows far more deeply than before, perhaps even more than is called for, and then leaves Niphredil behind. As he passes Silmir, he calls to the man, "Tomorrow call on me at the Telumehtar house in White Town."
Silmir frowns and looks back at Lominzil. "My match?" He looks around confusedly, then shrugs and sits with his meal and ale at a table near the pipe smoking woman. He looks up as Indoron passes, nodding. "Of course, my Lord." He glances toward Niphredil, giving a bow of his head to her.
The cat slips out the door.
The Hlorithain girl observes Indoron's departure plainly, saying nothing in return for his explanation -- although as his back turns, she mouths the word, "Delightful?" as though it were a question only the ceiling, which she casts a confused glance, could answer. Alas, the planks of wood offer no illumination for the teen so she sits again in silence.
Until her boots hit the floor, and she rises -- and then takes an abrupt, clumsy step sideways, crushing her fist on the tabletop in front of her to regain her balance. She shakes her head determinedly, her eyes briefly pinching closed as though the stumble pained her.
And then when she straightens, and moves again, she leaves the gracelessness behind. Catching Silmir's greeting, her left eyebrow raises, and she touches her brow -- and again uses her hand to draw the downward motion of a bow, which she would have exacted properly, had she the inclination. "Good day," she says to him, and then her stare moves to Lominzil.
She extends her hand with her pipe out, to him.
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir sits back and begins to eat his dinner. He glances up from time to time out of curiosity, occasionally looking at the girl's face, as though trying to place her in a memory. He frowns and looks away again, pulling out a book from a pouch at his belt to read, to try to keep his mind off Niphredil.
"How striking," muses the Squire, finding an errant hair on his sleeve, "for a Captain and Amroth to meet."
A soldier's gait carries him to the center of the room -- the sleepers, diners, and watchers surveyed with a critical eye.
"Friend," greets Lominzil of Niphredil, and takes the pipe.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
On the third occasion that Silmir's glance scans the Hlorithain for features he could recognise, he finds the girl peering back, her face canted and her eyes similarly narrowed -- and then a moment later, breaking away, she turns to release the pipe into Lominzil's grip.
"Friend," she greets him back -- and with a sardonic smirk, she waves a hand toward her chest. "Did you hear? I am delightful."
She waits only a beat before laughing -- loudly. Her arm snakes back to pick her bottle back up, and she takes a casual sip as though it were not the first, or second, or third occasion she might've indulged in such a beverage without the assistance of a cup. "Delightful!" she squeaks with some good-humor when her mouth is empty again.
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir holds her gaze for a moment before looking back to his book and dinner. Her exuberance makes him look up again, this time with a small smile tugging the corners of his lips. His meal finished, the plate is picked up to be taken back to the bar, his steps taking him past the speaking friends.
"Pity the man," answers Lominzil. The leaf glows between his fingers, and he exhales slowly, the smoke hanging from damp cloth like mist. "He knows nothing."
"Fisher," he asks, a hand raised to pause, "have you any more news?"
[Niphredil(#10854)]
When Lominzil's words turn toward Silmir, Niphredil's smile disappears again behind her bottle -- and her attention shifts, like his, to the Man-at-Arms. "Whoever you are," is her chosen manner of acknowledgement hardly polite, though she gives a flowery wave of her hand as though she may have been calling him by only the most respectful of titles, "Delight us with your words."
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir pauses on his way back to his seat. "None. I had intended to return to Minas Tirith tomorrow, but Lord Telumehtar seems to have a task for me, perhaps." He looks over to Niphredil as she speaks, an eyebrow raising a little. "I apologize for staring, my lady, but you have a very similar bearing to one I knew. Not well, but the man was kind to me, before I took oath."
Lominzil taps the pipe-stem against what might have once been a tea saucer. Smoke clouds his eyes, and his fingers are still against the table-top.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
As the Man-at-Arms speaks, Niphredil's tongue begins to angrily rub against one of her canine teeth -- and her star lowers, at last, when he mentions her demeanour reminding her a man in the past tense. She seems to know immediately who he speaks of, and her nods express as much. "Terrible, isn't it?" she says, seemingly to no one in particular -- or everyone who may hear her -- or simply herself. Her finger makes a line around her face, and she shrugs. "To have your appearance be a monument to the kindly deceased. There can be no escape from the dead when you should see them staring back at you every occasion you find yourself in front of a mirror."
Her smile is sarcastic, at first -- and then kinder. Dismissively, she shrugs her shoulders and waves her bottle, nearing its final slither of wine that she lingers on finishing for now. "But it can be motivating too, I suppose -- like a reminder, when you have much to do."
"I am glad my father was kind with you, so you can have a pleasant memory of him," she says -- and casually now, she takes another sip of wine. "He was often kind." And then, when she lowers it after a larger drain it is empty, and she must pant from the effort spent on depleting it. With some satisfaction, she places the bottle on the table behind her and concludes: "Too kind of a man."
[Silmir(#24455)] Silmir shrugs as well. "A sad reminder, perhaps, and a motivator... The ones we love live on in our actions, I've thought." He watches her drain the wine bottle, smiling as she finishes it proudly. "I would wonder at what you could mean by too kind, but I would hate to press you for information that may be painful."
[Niphredil(#10854)]
"Too kind," Niphredil near-snaps in a flash, though her intonation is not unkind. She almost smiles, even, as she explains with a razor's precision and delicacy. Her stare is direct and true, as though she bestows advice inside her truths: "For he spoke too gently to those he should have run through with no hesitation. He worked beside men who repaid him for his services and the goodness of his heart by setting him on fire and crawling behind their land and titles as though it would be enough to keep them from true justice. He bled for a Prince who rewarded his murder with no investigation no arrests nothing. Had he been less kind, Man-at-Arms, perhaps he would have had the sense to kill first -- but my father was a kind man."
She looks down at her hands, rubbing them against each other as though in preparation -- but when she is done, she lets them hang back at her sides again. "I think I am many things, but not kind, no." A look goes left to Lominzil, and to him she asks, "Am I?"
But already the girl assumes her answer. Two steps she takes, and in a strange motion of farewell, she takes a boyish -- near brotherly -- hold of Silmir's shoulder, and looks him straight in the eye. "Do not waste your time being kind," she tells him, and she is solemn as she does it. "Find what you want, take it, and destroy what may keep it from you -- and trust only the hearts you can hold in your hands. There is no room for kindness here."
Her hand falls, and she takes backward steps, her boots light on the wooden floor. Breaking the mood, she lets out a small chuckle. "Only glimpses of it."
[Silmir(#24455)] "When you put it like that..." Silmir smiles grimly, drinking his ale. "There is a difference between politeness, being friendly, and thinking that smiling at a viper will keep it from biting you. It's not my place to presume anything of the matter." He looks down at her hand on his shoulder, grinning a little as she steps back. "I think that you could be kind, when you know that the hand that reaches to you in friendship doesn't have a concealed dagger. And it is my hope that you find someone you are comfortable enough to be kind to."
"As you say," answers Lominzil, though not readily. At the pipe, his hand has tightened, and he studies the haze between girl and Host.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
Niphredil listens to both men -- though it is the first one who earns a second bout of laughter, the sound sandwiched between her lips and the back of her hand. She shakes her head and does not speak of vipers or presumptions or friendship, though her gaze rises to the roof -- and her eyes almost roll, but they don't. Her sight refocusing on the scene in front of her, she reasons as simply as she can, "Kindness can encourage betrayal and it mustn't be trivialised. My father was too kind to people he should not have been kind to. I will not make that mistake nor do I encourage either of you to do the same, though you," she nods toward Silmir, "seem of a jollier make than us two -- though you agreed with him, Lominzil." The girl gives the squire a sidelong peer when she refers to him -- and her look seems slanted as she squints at him in study, and then looks down.
"But who knows?" she offers in respite. Steps move to take her toward the cloakroam, and she gestures with a nod for Lominzil to follow, "Perhaps you will be luckier than I, Man-at-Arms, and you all you drink and eat will be honey and joy for all time." Her hands rise, palm out, as she paints this picture of happiness but she does not seem to believe it.
"Lominzil, my Pa's once-squire, my friend in black, help me find my cloak before I start smashing bottles?"
[Silmir(#24455)] "I doubt I shall be so lucky. But it is a hope that some shred of happiness can be found for all of us." Silmir collects his book from the table, heading for the door as well. "If you are ever in Minas Tirith, you ought to seek out my brother. He is always in need of drinking companions that he is inclined to underestimate. And I enjoy watching him be shocked." He looks back toward Lominzil, then to Niphredil, then back to the squire. "... I wish you luck." He smiles and bows, before slipping out the door.
"Be well, Silmir," is Lominzil's farewell.
Without complaint, he sets a hand to steady Niphredil's elbow, collecting pipe and bottle. The smoke stings - his eyes are faintly pink as they turn from roof-beams to door. "I wish you hadn't drunk it all," he chides gently.
[Niphredil(#10854)]
"Take care," is Niphredil's final farewell to Silmir, and as the squire keeps her steady and prepares their leave, she is still and patient -- enough. "Interesting people, those from Minas Tirith. Very upbeat," she muses in the Man-at-Arms' wake, watching the squire collect her pipe and bottle. Chided though she may be, her mouth curves into a grin -- and perhaps aided by the wine he has chastised her for drinking, it reaches her eyes, for they near-vanish in a pair of wry squints.
"I can get another bottle if you want one, boy," she tells him -- a hand raised as though she is prepared to take an oath, "And I can even help you drink it."
"Minas Tirith is a bastion," states Lominzil. "I should not be surprised."
He draws a deep breath and exhales, the smell of salt rising from his drying clothes as the smoke clears from his chest. "Tomorrow, Niphredil," he demurs, meeting her hand with his own, to fold it down again. "There will also be time for wine tomorrow."
And the friends are thus steered to the door.
Players: Indoron, Sul, Niphredil, Nira, Lominzil, Turtle, Silmir, Lucky, Rand
Located in: Gondorian
