CALEMBEL: Ice Cream Social
Calembel: Keep of the Isilrim
Truly, this is an ancient structure, seeming to be part of the very mountains themselves, yet, as strong and defiant as the rocks which form those mountains. A massive hall stretches out before you, fluted columns marching on either side. In deep alcoves on either side are set likenesses cast in stone of noble men, stern and proud. There too are suits of armour of marvellous workmanship, clearly of ancient make.
The hall broadens at the end, forming an open round space of large proportions. Here is a table of dark hued lebethron which can seat many, surrounded by beautifully carved chairs, of which the most magnificent is the one placed at the head of the table. On the wall above are hung three banners, one of the House Isilrim, another of the Ship and Swan of Dol Amroth, and lastly, the banner of Sirion III, the Lord Isilrim. Set deep into the wall is a cavernous marble fireplace, stocked with kindling. On both sides of the Hall, doorways open to various parts of the Keep, and a stone stairway winds its way to the upper levels.
The severity of the stone hall is lessened by the rich tapestries which abound here, lining the walls on either side, and the mosaics set into the glass of the windows high above the floor. The rays of the sun shine in through the mosaic windows, forming pools of varied hue upon the floor. Motes of dust swirl, transfixed in their path, and sounds of men calling to each other and the neighing of horses can be heard drifting faintly from the town.
Contents:
Arathis
Nimriel
Obvious exits:
Out
[Arathis]
The rays of a midday sun congeal within the Isilrim keep, coppering beams of dust across a seldom-visited garret in one of its spires. But Arathis, known to retreat here for favor of its view, sits with a hand over his brows, shielding the light and casting his gaze only idly upon his legs.
[Nimriel(#15387)]
The sound of the lady's footfalls precede her arrival. Quick and light, their booted rhythm nonetheless sounds against the cold stone underfoot. Not long after, Nimriel's rosy face is peeked around the corner, her dark eyes flicking about the small space in search of something or someone--and here she finds him. "Uncle," she greets, her tone pleasant. "I thought I might find you here. Has the view changed since you last visited?"
So said, the young woman draws herself to her kinsman's side, her own gaze lowering to regard the golden morning beyond the glass.
[Arathis]
Arathis lifts his hand invitingly from his brow his gaze, however, weights downward still.
The movement agitates him, levering a slow, gurgling growl from his stomach. He sighs.
"Nay, dear Nimriel, the view has not changed. It is my vision that has worsened.
"May you find a way to avoid the curiosity of age, to look upon a familiar sight with worse eyes."
He pauses then a faint smile appears beneath his beard. Arathis has not forgotten how to tease his niece: "Do you search for me? You have not brought me, a bemoaner of years like the King’s Men, good wine or pipe, have you?"
[Nimriel(#15387)]
Feigning a deep, heavy sigh, the young woman clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "Alas, how dear can I truly be when found so empty handed? I suppose, instead of wine, you must instead drink in my winning charms." Tilting her face up and away from the window, she fixes Arathis with her most wide-eyed and vacuous smile--before dissolving the look with a bright laugh.
"Really though, you ask such things as if I am not your brother's favorite child." So said, she reaches into the pouch that is affixed to her belt and draws forth a small, ornate box and pipe. It is not one of his own, but perhaps belonging to her mother? Perhaps.
"...I had wished to update you on the keep's preparation for our guests, but if this is not a good time...?" A pointed look is sent toward Arathis' pained stomach before lifting back up to meet his gaze.
[Arathis]
The man’s brows furrow as he reaches casually for the lass’s box. “What, is a dagger too buckled on thy girdle?
“A lady -- and thou art a lady, Nimriel -- has no need for this. Comport thyself as a lady, m’lady, lest you wind up peering alone from spires in thy old age too.”
He attempts to pull the pouch away and inspect its contents.
[Nimriel(#15387)]
"Oh pah," the lady says, one of her pale hands lifting to give a dismissive flit. "I could not forget my place as a lady even if I wished--and wish I do not. Besides, why should I worry, when you are perfectly capable of doing so for the both of us?"
There is a pause--just for a moment--before the Isilrim lass neatly twirls to make a slow exit toward the door. "...And don't be silly, Uncle. I keep no dagger on my girdle--only in my boot."
[Arathis]
Austerity lacks from Arathis. His niece earns an affectionate smile as she avoids his attempt.
“Then you will not tell me of the preparation?” he asks lightly.
[Nimriel(#15387)]
Nimriel pauses at her kinsman's words, the lady turning about to face him whilst nimble fingers secure the pouch upon her hip. Speaking with a tone still light and pleasant, she says, "Oh, yes--my apologies. I thought I sensed a lecture coming and thus prepared a swift retreat.
The preparations are well underway--or at least as well underway as one might expect given the short notice. Poldon should be returning from the market within the hour--it seemed prudent not to strip our larder bare. The kitchen staff have been instructed to prepare meals for the estimated number of men, but given that it is indeed that--and estimation--they thought it best to stick with simpler fair."
She takes a breath before continuing. "...Accommodations are also being readied, but the steward wished to know if we ought to seek out some sort of entertainment--a bard perhaps--for our guests as well? I would offer /my/ minstrel services, but as we both well know they would only leave our company more worse for the wear."
[Arathis]
“Food and song,” mutters the Isilrim disinterestedly. With time, the beam has bent to once more strike his eyes. An agitation courses him, and his stomach protests loudly. His hand, upheld wearily, returns to rest in a crescent over his brows.
At length, he states, “It would be best if it were you to sing, Nimriel.
“And it shall be eighteen men, unless I have counted them wrongly.”
He again looks down at his legs.
FADE
