Elendor
Help from the Haradrim?
Menelglir and Tathar ask Lady Azradi if any among her people might have knowledge of rare herbs. Or poisons.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Pelargir
Description: Late afternoon light angles in from the narrow windows of Minas Sirion's ballroom. Dust motes dance in the beams and silence of the empty room - or nearly empty room.
Away from the bustle of the keep, Azradi the Southroner has found refuge in the large, richly appointed room. She sits upon the stone floor, several feet from the closed doors of the chamber, her legs folded beneath her red silken skirts tribal style. Upon her lap sits a large open book - though she does not appear to be reading it.
It is difficult to tell just what she is doing to the book as her back is to the doors, but the movement of her right arm and shoulder suggests writing or some similar activity.
"In here? A ballroom? The door has opened and a Blue Squire of the Swans has entered, hesitant, talking to someone as yet outside the door even as he steps in. "Why would..." Menelglir continues, only then he spots the red skirted woman. "Ah. Lady?"
Tathar follows him, turning to say something quietly to someone behind her. Corlin looks at his lady, steps inside to look around the room - it is empty. There is no other apparent doorway. Still, stubbornly, he says, "I will wait here, by the door." By the jut of his jaw, no other compromise will be accepted.
Tathar sees this, and nods, and as she moves into the room after Menelglir, her armsman takes up a pose against the wall.
Head bent over her mysterious industry, her long braid shifts along her back with her movements. She lifts her head when she addressed -- of a sorts -- and glances over her shoulder to see the young man and shortly after, lady enter the room. "Squire Menelglir, Lady Tathar," she greets. "Do come in."
Thus invited to enter (as if she held court in her own Tower) the Lady does a strange thing: She turns her back on Gondorians!
She glances up to the room stretched out before her and then back to her book. Her arm moves again.
A red streak of dried blood marks Menelglir's cheek, and he carries his helm under one arm, adjusting it now as he steps forward into the room. "Lady Farside," he says quite formally, venturing a quick glance to Tathar to measure her reaction at this approach.
"I regret having to trouble you, but we were hoping you could be of some assistance. With our countryman. Sir Findon."
The lady watches Azradi's turned back, but her face is - if not quite neutral, a strange mix of expressions which balance out to something very near it. She says nothing, only waits, glancing around the room once, before returning her attention to the other woman.
"And what assistance can I render the good Swan-Knight?" asks Azradi. If close enough, her visitors might catch a glimpse of her book and industry. It is a drawing of the room itself - rendered in a fair and accurate hand. She holds a bit of hardened charcoal, moving it across a section of the paper in short strokes as she shades in a corner of the ballroom.
The Squire chuckles lightly, though it is before the lady answers him, and he walks further into the ballroom, coming to stand at Azradi's side. He glances down to her drawing, appraising it and nodding at what he sees.
"He is ill still. The blade of the traitor cut him, and Lady Tathar as well, and Lady Tathar believes...." But he glances to that woman to let her finish.
Tathar comes forward also. "The healers said to me that it was poisoned. That I must have gotten only a small amount. I was dizzy I couldn't walk, or think. And nauseated. Moving quickly made the world spin until I thought I would fall off. But as you see, I have recovered and Sir Findon - " she swallows. "Sir Findon does not regain consciousness."
Her hand stills, leaving the charcoal to rest lightly upon the page - a half-finished capital atop the further column. Azradi glances up to Squire and Lady, her features composed to polite concern. "I am sorry to hear that."
"But I am not quite sure what assistance I can offer. I am not a healer and I do not know anything about poisons."
"Of course you would not," Menelglir says. "But the traitor Ceredir is dead and so we cannot ask him what he used on his blade. Our healers search for the answer, but it seems to be some rare plant extract. Perhaps there is one among your folk who has knowledge of such things? Since this is a rare opportunity for peace and cooperation--a chance to work together in many things," he says, the words carefully chosen.
Menelglir adds quickly, "Knowledge of rare plants, of course and healing properties of them."
Lady Farside laughs at the Squire's earnest clarification. "You need not worry about insulting me. Our healers are knowledgeable in poisons because they are the ones who try to save those who are poisoned."
"I will see if there is anyone among my people skilled in such things. But you must understand, this poison your traitor used may not have been from Harad and therefore could be outside the experience of our healers, too."
The Squire looks quite relieved, and sounds it, as well. "Thank you," he smiles, glancing to Tathar briefly. "It may not be from your land, no, but if there is a chance, even, that it is....Sir Findon is very ill. So I thank you."
Away from the bustle of the keep, Azradi the Southroner has found refuge in the large, richly appointed room. She sits upon the stone floor, several feet from the closed doors of the chamber, her legs folded beneath her red silken skirts tribal style. Upon her lap sits a large open book - though she does not appear to be reading it.
It is difficult to tell just what she is doing to the book as her back is to the doors, but the movement of her right arm and shoulder suggests writing or some similar activity.
"In here? A ballroom? The door has opened and a Blue Squire of the Swans has entered, hesitant, talking to someone as yet outside the door even as he steps in. "Why would..." Menelglir continues, only then he spots the red skirted woman. "Ah. Lady?"
Tathar follows him, turning to say something quietly to someone behind her. Corlin looks at his lady, steps inside to look around the room - it is empty. There is no other apparent doorway. Still, stubbornly, he says, "I will wait here, by the door." By the jut of his jaw, no other compromise will be accepted.
Tathar sees this, and nods, and as she moves into the room after Menelglir, her armsman takes up a pose against the wall.
Head bent over her mysterious industry, her long braid shifts along her back with her movements. She lifts her head when she addressed -- of a sorts -- and glances over her shoulder to see the young man and shortly after, lady enter the room. "Squire Menelglir, Lady Tathar," she greets. "Do come in."
Thus invited to enter (as if she held court in her own Tower) the Lady does a strange thing: She turns her back on Gondorians!
She glances up to the room stretched out before her and then back to her book. Her arm moves again.
A red streak of dried blood marks Menelglir's cheek, and he carries his helm under one arm, adjusting it now as he steps forward into the room. "Lady Farside," he says quite formally, venturing a quick glance to Tathar to measure her reaction at this approach.
"I regret having to trouble you, but we were hoping you could be of some assistance. With our countryman. Sir Findon."
The lady watches Azradi's turned back, but her face is - if not quite neutral, a strange mix of expressions which balance out to something very near it. She says nothing, only waits, glancing around the room once, before returning her attention to the other woman.
"And what assistance can I render the good Swan-Knight?" asks Azradi. If close enough, her visitors might catch a glimpse of her book and industry. It is a drawing of the room itself - rendered in a fair and accurate hand. She holds a bit of hardened charcoal, moving it across a section of the paper in short strokes as she shades in a corner of the ballroom.
The Squire chuckles lightly, though it is before the lady answers him, and he walks further into the ballroom, coming to stand at Azradi's side. He glances down to her drawing, appraising it and nodding at what he sees.
"He is ill still. The blade of the traitor cut him, and Lady Tathar as well, and Lady Tathar believes...." But he glances to that woman to let her finish.
Tathar comes forward also. "The healers said to me that it was poisoned. That I must have gotten only a small amount. I was dizzy I couldn't walk, or think. And nauseated. Moving quickly made the world spin until I thought I would fall off. But as you see, I have recovered and Sir Findon - " she swallows. "Sir Findon does not regain consciousness."
Her hand stills, leaving the charcoal to rest lightly upon the page - a half-finished capital atop the further column. Azradi glances up to Squire and Lady, her features composed to polite concern. "I am sorry to hear that."
"But I am not quite sure what assistance I can offer. I am not a healer and I do not know anything about poisons."
"Of course you would not," Menelglir says. "But the traitor Ceredir is dead and so we cannot ask him what he used on his blade. Our healers search for the answer, but it seems to be some rare plant extract. Perhaps there is one among your folk who has knowledge of such things? Since this is a rare opportunity for peace and cooperation--a chance to work together in many things," he says, the words carefully chosen.
Menelglir adds quickly, "Knowledge of rare plants, of course and healing properties of them."
Lady Farside laughs at the Squire's earnest clarification. "You need not worry about insulting me. Our healers are knowledgeable in poisons because they are the ones who try to save those who are poisoned."
"I will see if there is anyone among my people skilled in such things. But you must understand, this poison your traitor used may not have been from Harad and therefore could be outside the experience of our healers, too."
The Squire looks quite relieved, and sounds it, as well. "Thank you," he smiles, glancing to Tathar briefly. "It may not be from your land, no, but if there is a chance, even, that it is....Sir Findon is very ill. So I thank you."
