Elendor
Chaos in Minas Tirith
The Haradrim Ambassador is attacked in the Steward's Arms.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Steward's Arms
Game Date: June 12, 3050
IC Time: Mid-afternoon
Weather: Sunny and Warm
Description: It's mid-afternoon - a beautiful, clear day - and warm. Those who have come here to the Steward's Hearth for their noonday meal have left, and the room is more empty just a few people scattered here and there talking quietly or drinking.
The door opens and a woman comes in she is not in her first youth, but is still young, and her clothing, while plain, is finely made. She pauses and looks around, letting the door swing shut behind her.
At a small table near the middle of the room sits a man. A young man, actually, as his smooth skin reveals. He drinks from a large wooden mug, like many others in the room a maid bustles over to serve him another mug - and just then, he catches sight of the woman who has just arrived.
Standing at the bar is the large Lieutenant Aearon, talking with one of the other patrons, he is dressed in his usual military uniform with his helm sitting upon the bar next to him, in his hand is a large tankard and he takes a large drink. Upon hearing the door close he looks over to see who has entered the establishment. Recognizing the woman he bows his head towards her slightly.
The room seems dark at first, after the brightness of the outdoors, and so it is a minute before Tathar moves into the room. She moves purposefully, her face determined, until the nod of a head catches her attention and she turns to see the lieutenant. A bit of surprise crosses her face and she hesitates uncertainly, pausing near the table the young man sits at.
The young man solves her dilemma he stands up, motioning towards the bar. "My lady, I am Daerthor," he greets, smiling, while grabbing his mug and moving from the table. "Let me not keep you from familiar company." As he nears the Lieutenant, he salutes. "Sir."
Upon seeing the two approach Aearon returns the salute to the scout and bowing his head to Tathar he says "Nice to see you again Mlady" taking another drink from his tankard he then looks back to the scout and says "Lieutenant Aearon Telpekhor"
There is a look of ... can it be consternation? ... on Tathar's face. But she covers it swiftly with a smile. "Daerthor. I'm pleased to meet you." And following the scout, she comes near to the bar, dipping a slight curtsey to Aearon. "I didn't expect to see you here," she says, then smiles again. "Though I cannot say why."
"Scout Daerthor Carmayar, sir," the young man says. He then looks at the woman, unsure of his words... but he decides to keep silent. Interrupting a superior's conversation is certainly not a good idea.
Aearon nods his head and says "Well met Daerthor Carmayar" looking to Tathar he says "A drink perhaps mlady?" then to Daerthor "A refill?" with that said he takes another drink from his tankard.
In walks...of all things, another Telpekhor, this one being the Blue Squire Menelglir Telpekhor. He's making his way through the tavern and happens to be close enough when Aearon introduces himself, so the Squire heads that way, coming to stand behind where Aearon and Daerthor are seated.
Tathar hesitates again, looking behind the bar, then straightening. "Thank you," she says. "What is available here?" She glances at Daerthor again, and her small nose wrinkles up slightly as he says all of his name. Behind her, someone else is coming in, but she doesn't turn to see who it is.
Hearing the young squire walk up behind him Aearon turns about and says "Menelglir, nice to see you again." turning back he says to lady Tathar "Just about anything you could want mlady, ales, tea, and the food isnt half bad" Setting his tankard upon the bar he says " should we move to a table perhaps?"
"Thank you, sir," Daerthor says, as his mug is refilled. At Aearon's greeting, he turns around, only to find Menelglir. Again, he gives a quick salute, and grabs his mug in anticipation of moving.
Entering into the common room is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a trimmed beard and dark hair. Glancing around the room, he keeps his head down humbly as he heads over in the direction of the bar. he wears common clothes- a cream-coloured sack cloth shirt, with dull green leggings and brown boots, and he doesn't look to be the epitmoy of hygeine- he has several dark smudges on his face, and his hands seem filthy. The hands of a craftsman.
Spotting the gathering by the bar, the large man leaves keeps a respectful distance as he goes to order.
"Tea, then, if you please," Tathar says. "I'm not hungry..." She turns to look for a table at his suggestion and her eyes land on Menelglir. "Hello there," she says to him, grinning. "I hope I didn't make you late the other night!"
A large man moves past her, and her eyes follow him curiously.
Seeing the large man walk past Aearon nods his head to the man, turning about to the bar he says "Could you bring the lady a cup of tea and myself another ale to" pointing to an empty table "that table" leaving his empty tankard he makes his way to the table.
Meanwhile, as they move, Daerthor's gaze follows Tathar's towards the large newcomer.
The big man nods politely to those he passes, but he seems to be frowning somewhat. Making his way to the bar, he takes a seat. He orders a pint of ale in a quiet tone and, receiving it, takes a long darught, before plonking it down on the bar and falling into a brooding silence. If one looked cloesly, they could see a slight bruising around his knuckles- as if he has recently hit something.
Tathar hesitates by the table, then turns quietly and goes back to the bar where the big man is sitting, while the others are finding their chairs. "Excuse me," she says. "But .. is everything all right?"
Reaching the table Aearon pulls out a chair and takes a seat, setting his helm upon the table he leans back and looks back as Tathar approaches the large man.
The sun sets as the day draws to an end, leaving the night sky dark save but the twinkling of stars.
Daerthor also takes a seat next to Aearon, his gaze still on the man and now, Tathar.
The big man looks up at the dark-haired woman, and sighs, giving her a weary nod. " Aye, everything is fine, ma'am. As it always is, I suppose." He grunts as he lifts the tankard to his lips and takes another plentiful swig, before slamming it back down on the bar and giving a little burp. He wipes a hand over his beard, which still has traces of white froth in it, and sighs again.
Moments after taking his seat Aearon is handed another tankard of ale "with a nod to the bartender" he points to an empty seat at the table to set the tea down at. Handing him a few coins Aearon says "thank you my good man". Turning back to the table he takes a drink of ale and says " So what brings you to this fine establishment Daerthor"
"It's him!"
A shout comes from the corner of the room, followed by the sound of a particularly noisy bit of spitting. The crowd parts for a moment as a man grab the hood of another and pulls it back revealing long hair and the olive colored skin of a Southern. A pair of Hostmen nearby quickly intercede between him and the other, but it is too late, his presence is known to all the Haradrim is here.
Oddly, he but smiles and wipes his face with the back of his hand. He turns from the man of rough manners, leaving his drink behind, and begins to walk in the direction of the table of the oddball group sitting and chatting, his guards following behind with an eye for trouble.
Tathar nods, and smiles. "I am glad to hear it," she tells the man. "I am sorry for interrupting your drink. You looked - worried." She turns away to go back to her waiting drink, when a commotion starts up nearby, and she stops, staring.
Hearing the commotion Aearon jumps to his feet and in a load voice he shouts at the rowdy patron "I suggest you sit down and shut your mouth, or you will be escorted from this establishment" Looking to the Haradrim and his guards he says "I apologize for that man, I am sure he has simply just had one to many drinks"
"I am here after a morning session of training, sir," replies Daerthor, drinking his ale. "Ithilien has seen orcs, orcs and more orcs, and my company was sent here to rest, but also because--" Just then, the shout echoes throughout the room, and Daerthor jerks his head around to look. A grimace crosses his face for a brief moment. "--and, yes..." he trails off. The rest can be understood without explanation.
The large man grunts moodily as she speaks, but as she moves to leave and the commotion begins, he turns, his brow furrowing as he watches whatever is about to unfold. His bruised hand coils into a fist as he spots the Southerner.
The Haradrim pauses at Aearon's support. He offers a bow, deep and formal, "Your gracious words are welcome and your apologies accepted. I am sure it must only be the drink speaking."
"I have but a few coins, but I offer to refill your drink with them, if you would accept my thanks for your words?" As he speaks, his eyes quickly run over the rest of his group, taking stock of them as a whole.
Bowing his head to the Haradrim Aearon says "I would accept your offer, but this drink has just been refilled moements ago. I thank you." Looking to those about the bar Aearon takes a deep breath and looks to the Haradrims guards and gives them both a nod of his head.
The woman is frozen behind the Haradrim, a few steps away from the table where her tea is getting cold. She says nothing, does nothing seemingly unable (or unwilling) to move. But when Aearon speaks, her gaze goes to him with a jerk, and something kindles in their depths.
The big man by the bar realises that the tension in the room is undwinding, and unclenches his fist, moving to turn back around when he glances up at the woman by his side. He notices her frozen posture, and keeps a curious eye on her, wondering what would inhibit such a reaction.
Tathar pats sympathetically.
As the Southron's eyes sweep across the room, Daerthor refuses to let his gaze wander.
"I see. Of course. Peace and good day to you, man of Gondor."
A casual pause and then he continues on his way towards the door.
Hearing the words of the Hardrim Aearon says "Have a good day.. Ambassador," then to his guards "Try to keep a closer eye on those around him, not just him"
Looking to Tathar he says "Please come join us, your tea is getting cold."
But Tathar waits until the man from Harad is a good way from the table before she comes up to it and sits down, and even then, though she takes her tea and sips at it, her eyes remain on his back, and her shoulders and neck are stiff.
The presence of Tathar causes Daerthor to turn his attention back to the big man his instinctive reactions have not gone unnoticed.
"Yildirim..." Menelglir is near the door, having entered previously but not taken a seat, and now he spots the Haradrim and moves his way. "Unexpected to see you here."
The big man relaxes, turning back to his pint and taking another swig. And then, peering into the contents of the tankard and realising that it's almost empty, finishes it off with a sigh of content. A frown still fixed to hs face, he orders another pint from the barmaid. She asks fr coin, and he mutters to himself as he searches through all of his pockets, flicking whatever coins he can find on to the bar.
The woman shake her head, still holding out her hand for more.
Looking as Menelglir approaches the Haradrim Aearon takes his seat and takes a large drink from his tankard of ale. Breathing a sigh of relief, obviously happy the way events unfolded. Looking to those at the table he says "I apologize for that, some men do not know when to keep their mouth shut."
"Ah, my favorite of the Stone Lands People. I hope you and your mother are well," Yildirim replies with a grin. "It has been long since you last visited me. I miss our conversations. So much more interesting than the sort I find in places such as these," he says with a motion towards the tavern.
"Excuse me, sir, for a short while," says Daerthor to Aearon. He gets up from his seat and swiftly strides to the bar, sitting down on a stool and slapping some coins towards the barmaid. "A refill for my drink, and for his', too," he says, gesturing towards the big man.
Then he offers a nervous smile. "I saw you from the table," he says. "I am Daerthor. We seem to share the same opinion of"- here he lowers his voice, but with equal emphasis, continues-"him. Them."
Giving a nod to Daerthor as he leaves, Aearon takes another long drink and looks back to the Haradrim and Menelglir, setting his now empty tankard upon the table he breathes deep and leans back in his chair.
"My mother passed when I was but 7 years old and I'd appreciate your not mentioning her, Ambassador," Menelglir says, his lips pressing to a thin line of distaste at the Haradrim's seemingly benign greeting of him. A glance about the room has the Blue Squire settling his gaze on Daerthor and Aearon, and he watches them for a moment before again addressing Yildirim.
"I see you have made friends of my countrymen," he notes dryly.
The big man in his work-stained clothing peers at the young man in a curious manner, as the bar maid bustles off for the drinks. Grunting a greeting, he pushes all the coin he had scavenged from his pockets in the man's direction.
" I have no love of Southerner's..." He says,not even bothering to keep his voice down, his tone rough and heavily accented, " Especially those who don't have the balls do admit what they are."
Muttering, he looks up as the barmaid returns with two, frothing pints.
Daerthor pushes the coins back. "Take them. As my thanks to you for protecting the woman. None of us were near her save you, and had /he/ tried to do anything..." He grips his mug handle tightly, meaning to take a drink, but stops himself after the big man's statements, waiting for any sign of trouble from the Haradrim ambassador.
Slowly Aearon sits up in his chair and looks to the barmaid, ordering another tankard of ale. Looking back to the Haradrim for a moment and then to the bar at the two men talking.
With his grin widening and a nod towards Amdil's voice, Yildirim replies, "No friends but the barkeep for I keep his hands filled with gold to keep my thirst at bay. Though the odd brew you drink here is a bitter one. Much could be done for the mood of your people with better alcohol, say I."
"It is an amusing situation though. The fear I see when I am revealed is so interesting. Clearly I am at a disadvantage, one man under guard. And yet, many cower or brace for attack as if I will strike at any time and take their lives. None I know in Umbar feel in such a way towards a Gondorian, quite the opposite. It is vastly amusing though. This must be what it is like to have power in your land and yet... I have none."
"Better to be cautious than to be caught unawares," mutters Daerthor. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to let go of the mug handle, reminding himself that they are at a state of tentative peace, however volatile and unstable it may be.
Listening to the words of the Haradrim Aearon says "It is not fear ambassador, but simply no knowledge of how to act in the presence of our longtime enemy." pausing to retrieve a small flask from his side he holds it up and says "As for drink, try this and tell me that our drink needs to be stronger" tossing the flask to the Haradrim with a smile. Looking to Daerthor he gives him a look of calm down.
The big man grunts again, reluctantly accepting the coins back and slipping them into his pocket. Lifting his tankard, he takes another large swig, downing a quarter of the pint in one go. Eventually, he loooks back at Daerthor and grunts again.
" So, can I help you with something, friend?"
"Then tell me, Yildirim," Menelglir addresses the man, his smile, if any, forced, "how would your people treat a Stone Lander, as you call us, given leave to wander your city streets wtihout escort? I should like to know. Have you any Stonelanders wandering free?"
Aearon addressing him causes the Haradrim to turn, "If you say it is so, then perhaps it is. It is but strange for me."
He takes the flask and sniffs from it, then sips, "Ah... yes... as expected. The drink of Gondor is often about strength. A drink that burns, that tests your ability to withstand it. There is little in the way of subtly, a smooth taste that can be enjoyed rather than suffered as a test."
He hands the flask back to Aearon, "My thanks for the sharing of your drink. It is appreciated."
Then to Menelglir, "As to that, we would not allow such. But I think we would treat you as any prisoner or slave. A non-person, unfit of our recognition until there is reason for there to be. Really, it is the attention that is so odd for me. But perhaps, as the other said, it has long been since a man from the South has walked these streets without malice to be done to or from him."
Tathar has said nothing at all all this time. She has drunk at her tea, sip by tiny sip, until it is gone, and now she sits with the cup between her hands - the fingers pressed white against it. Her dark grey eyes are angry as they move between Aearon and Menelglir - and attempt to avoid looking at the Haradrim at all.
Catching the look from Aearon, Daerthor takes a deep breath, and rolls his shoulders to relax them. He grabs the mug again, taking a drink to calm himself. "I only wish to know who you are," says Daerthor, his tone rather casual, given the tense encounter just moments before.
Taking the flask and taking a long drink, Aearon says "It is all about personal taste"
Looking to Tathar he says "Another cup of tea mlady?"
" My name is Amdil," The man says, his voice deep and throaty. He takes another swig of the tankard, which is now half empty, " And I have no titles or ranks to speak off."
He mutters something darkly, before looking back at the young man with the dark hair. " And who might you be?"
"Come to your faire in Pelarglir and sample from the Haradrim traders. Then you will find taste," Yildirim replies with smile. Then a glance towards Tathar and a nod, "For tea, as well as spirits, milady."
"I am Daerthor. I am but a lowly Scout in the ranks of Ithilien." Here Daerthor smiles lightly, and calls for another round of ale, before deciding to go straight to the point. "Were you hitting something before you came here?"
"And yet, you say that you are treated here better than a man of Gondor would be treated in Umbar, yes? And still nothing here is as good as Umbar. Not our mothers..." Menelglir says with a sly half grin, "nor our tea or spirits. Yet we freely give you our hospitality as well. And this, Ambassador, is not even the best of our hospitality. Our Prince Imrahil would show you more. Know you of him?"
"No, thank you," Tathar all but snaps. The Haradrim has the gall to speak to her, and she turns her angry glare on him, opening her mouth, and then shutting it again firmly and looking away pointedly.
Amdil nods to the man. " An honour. Ithilien you say? Interesting. I have never been there..." He finishes his tankard with a generous swig, and glances up at the bar maid as another round is ordered, before looking back at Daerthor.
He raises his eyebrow as the young man poses his question. " What makes you say that?"
Daerthor barks a short laugh. "If you had been there before, you would probably not be here now." Drinking up his ale, he raises his eyebrows, still smiling. "Your knuckles, Amdil..."
Another nod to Tathar but then a raised brow is given by Yildirim to the Squire, "You are getting better as this, Menelglir."
"I then humbly offer a correction, for it is true, in Gondor there are items of note that I prefer over Umbar. Your buildings here are grand and breathtaking. Your streets, clean of filth and debris, human or otherwise. As to hospitality, well, perhaps there is still room for debate there."
"As to your Prince, I know him well, or at least, his order. He is the leader of your Swans, yes? And yet, he does not fight as you do, on the seas against my people and worse. Why is this?"
Slowly Aearon gets to his feet, looking Tathar he bows his head and says "Thank you for company mlady" Looking to Daerthor he nods his head and starts towards the door, reaching the Haradrim and Menelglir he says to the Haradrim "Once again, I apologize for the actions of a drunk man, I hope you have no more encounters of that kind. Have a good day"
To Menelglir he says with a nod of his head "Have a good day Menelglir"
Putting his helm upon his head he makes for the door, and opens it shutting it filmy behind him.
Glancing down at his bruised knuckles, the big man gives a snort. " His jaw was harder than i thought it would be..." He takes a swig of the new pint, devouring a third of the tankard and showing no intentions of slowing down. With a sigh of contentment, he looks back at Daerthor and frowns, thinking back. " The bastard thought he could talk to me like a piece of filth, just because I'm of common stock. Well, I thought I would show him that doing that is a very bad idea..." He lets out a low growl, shaking his head before taking another swig.
" Anyways, I am now unemployed."
The "compliment" of sorts from the Haradrim only serves to make Menelglir color red. "Well, you yourself just said that a man of Gondor would not be allowed to walk your streets. And we permit you this privilege.." He shrugs.
"Yes, Prince Imrahil leads our swans. And he does sail the seas at times. But it seems that your folk do not know this?" the Blue Squire asks, head tilting. A glance is given to Aearon's departure, the word "cousin" mouthed in a farewell, but the man leaves too quickly.
Daerthor shakes his head, a crease furrowing his brow, a curse on his lips. "Have you thought of joining the Hosts?" he asks, rather suddenly. "You look strong. And combat is a great frustration-reliever."
A glance up towards the tavern entrance shows that the young Scout is still following every word of the debacle between the Southron Ambassador and Menelglir.
Tathar nods her head. Once. She watches Aearon leave, and as he actually /apologizes/, her angry glare grows in intensity. It is just as well the lieutenant is gone his shoulderblades might have gotten scorched.
Amdil looks thoughtful. " The hosts, you say? Do they accept people like me?" He takes a swig of the tankard and then peering in, takes another swig, finishing his third pint.
He seems to have completely lost interest in the Southerner.
"Perhaps when he was young, this was true. But the Haradrim have had no tales of Imrahil for years. It is...," Yildirim clears his throat, "Unbefitting a warrior king to not have tales. Perhaps it is time for his children to take his throne?"
Then a light of idea appears in his eyes, "Woman! Certainly, we treat our women better than in Gondor. They are like slaves here. Cook, clean. Certainly there are some that would prefer to take up a blade and serve their nation as something useful? It would aid your countries defenses as well to take their skill."
"They do," says Daerthor. "Every man who wants to serve in the defence of the White City, unless physically unfit, will not be denied. What was your profession before today?" Flicking his eyes up, he raises his brows at the Haradrim's words. He is, quite obviously, taunting the woman whose glare even he can feel, though it is not directed at him.
That is enough. Tathar is on her feet. "I'll have you know that I can use a sword perfectly well, and I have! On /your/ people!" So it was a dagger - a blade is a blade, right? And she can use a sword. Her gaze switches to Menelglir, equally furious. "How can you sit here and talk to him? Murdering, lying, dishonorable...." She sputters to a stop, unable still to think of words bad enough.
A motion towards Tathar is made by Yildirim, "See? I am correct."
The big man still has that thoughtful expression. " I was a blacksmith...Skilled enough at my work, but that wasn't enough for that bastard of a gaffer..."
But as he hears a woman's outburst behind him, he looks over his shoulder, frowning.
"Now.." Menelglir's eyes are fixed on the Haradrim, "what would make you suggest that? That his children take over?" He seems intent on the answer, at least until the Southron opens his mouth about women.
"Yildirim!" the Blue Squire snaps angrily, hands balling into fists, but he checks, taking a deep breath--in which space, Tathar snaps her angry words.
"M'lady! I don't condone his words nor the behavior of his people, but he is here as an ambassador and we have given our word not to harm the man!" Though Menelglir certainly sounds angry enough as it is.
Confused by Menelglir's anger, Yildirim asks, "I do not understand. Is this," his voice lowers to a whisper, "Is this something you try and hide from them? The women?"
Assuming the case, he turns back to Tathar, "My apologies, milady. It is well for you to cook and to clean. It is a great thing for you to be doing. Better than the sword by far! They are so... so very heavy."
With a hushed voice, Daerthor murmurs so that only Amdil can hear him. "I would bring the woman some tea, but I would only get porcelain shards in my face for my efforts. Still, the Southron is intolerable." He pauses for a moment, comtemplative. "Your blacksmithing skills could transfer to a number of weapons-work. Are you trained in any? Even to the most basic level?"
"You had better not!" Tathar rages at the unfortunate squire.
Then she turns her ire back to Yildrim. "They are not either too heavy! You don't believe me!" Back to Menelglir, "Give me your sword! I will show him!"
Smiling now, Yildirim nods to the Squire, "Do so! I am eager to see it!"
"No! I mean..." Beset on both sides, by raging Gondorian woman and clueless or serpent-like Haradrim, Menelglir looks aghast first at one, then the other. "Our women do not fight in battle like your who...women!" he objects, flushing red and changing his choice of words at thelast moment. "And I cannot give you my sword!"
Amdil shakes his head. " Nay, friend, I am nor yet. I made only trivial things...Horseshoes and the like. Yet, I bet I could swing a sword as hard as any of your boys..." He glances back at the Southerner, "...or a punch, for that matter.
"GIVE IT TO ME," Tathar shouts. If there was anyone in the room who hasn't been looking, they are now. The serving maids are gawking, the kitchen help crowds in the doorway...
And at Menelglir's refusal, she storms up and snatches at the hilt.
"Precisely," Daerthor mutters. "But if you were to go up against him, a trained warrior, at this very moment, would you last? The Hosts will give you proper training. With enough effort..." his voice trails off at Tathar's shouts. Watching the dramatic scene unfolding before him, he stretches his legs from the tall stool, his hand on his own sword's hilt, ready to interfere should he be forced to.
"No!" Menelglir's voice squeaks in surprise as he tries to twist out of the way of the woman grabbing at his sword. His hands go to try to grab at her wrists to stop her, but he hesitates, uncertain about how to handle the situation. At the last second he decides to twist out of her way the hesitation may cost himthe sword.
"This fury? It would do you well to harness it. Imagine her on a battlefield," Yildirim casually comments as Tathar lunges for the weapon. "A fleet of them, all wide-eyed and craving the blood of their enemies. A powerful force."
The big man looks at the Southerner darkly, thinking that he is very capable of knocking the man's teeth into the other corner of the room... But then looks back at Daerthor. " And is there any...test required to join the host? What would I have to do?"
Anything Menelglir might say is entirely lost on Tathar. The sword slides into her hands as the young squire tries to twist away, and she turns, lifting it with both hands over her head to bring it down at the Haradrim (poor defenseless man, alas, alas) with all her might. She isn't all that big, so perhaps all her might isn't so much, but she is angry past thinking.
"Not that I know of--" but Daerthor's words are cut off as he takes the few steps needed to reach Tathar. His sword is forgotten he should have drawn it earlier, there is no time now. Lunging at her, he tries to grab hold of anything - her arm, her torso - but the raging woman's momentum is so strong that she slips past him...
Momentarily stunned into doing nothing as the womaon actually draws his sword, Menelglir suddenly springs forward, likewise lunging to try to grab for Tathar. He collides with Daerthor instead, momentum carrying him the opposite direction of Tathar and into Yildirim.
Surprisingly, the Haradrim seems little phased as the woman takes the sword and swings it down on him. Perhaps he expected the Gondorians to pile in front of him, the first missing but his favorite Squire succeeding well enough to save his life by bumping him backwards. The blade slices into the meat and bone of his shoulder, but no deeper. He winces and opens his mouth to speak, but before words can come, the Guards are there, lifting him from the ground and carrying him out of the tavern wordlessly.
Only a half empty glass and a bloodied sword are proof he was even there.
The sword cuts into flesh, blood spilling out... and Tathar drops the sword. It falls clattering to the floor, while the woman claps both hands to her mouth, looking sick. "I..." she tries to say, then sits boneless down - whether there is a chair behind her or not - and covers her face with her hands.
Off-balance since his failed attempt at stopping the angry woman, Daerthor completely loses his footing when Menelglir collides into him. He lands on the floor with a loud, painful thump, and looks up, just in time to see the sword sink into the Haradrim's shoulder. Oh dear... but he recovers from his shock and stretches for a stool, shoving it in Tathar's general direction as she sits, hoping that his aim wasn't too far off this time.
The large man heaves himself up, drawing to his full of height of a formidable sixe feet and five inches as he watches the Southerner flee. With that, he approaches the woman who had attacked him at a steady gait, his eyes darting over her company warily.
" Ma'am...Are you alright?" A curious question to ask an attempted murderer, but he seems more concerned about the woman's health than the wounded southerner.
"You FOOL!" Menelglir shouts at the woman, too late to stop her sword from cutting into the Southron. "NOW look what you've done!" he continues, stepping toward Yildrim, only to be brushed aside by the Southron's guards. Menelglir has to content himself with watching the guards carry Yildirim off he stoops and picks up his bloodied sword, looking about for something to clean it with. "I suppose I'll get the blame for it, too," he complains in a bitter tone, then steps to Daerthor to offer him a hand up if he'll take it.
The stool has indeed made it to the right place at the right time, and Tathar is sitting on it, while people shout around her and at her. At last, she lets her hands drop from her face and stands up memories still darkening her eyes with sick horrors. Squaring her shoulders, she says to Menelglir, "You will not be blamed. I - I will make certain of it." Amdil's inquiry is ignored - her health is of no consequence.
Daerthor takes Menelglir's hand, grateful for the help as he clambers to his feet. "Thank you," he says, somewhat breathlessly, as he heaves in huge gulps of air to fill his lungs. Finding a large cloth lying on a nearby table, he offers it to Menelglir for his sword, but says nothing else as he watches the woman carefully.
Taking up the cloth, with a nod to Daerthor for it, Menelglir cleans his sword. His voice is sullen as he answers the woman, not once looking up at her. "It is -my- sword, -my- weapon, -my- responsibility. It's up to -me- to stop you or an enemy or anyone else from taking my weapon by force. The only mitigating factor is that you are a woman." Not lady, of note. "If you had been a man, your face would have met my fist and then some. What kind of behavior is this to show to one that has our word of honor that we will protect him? Enemy or not."
Tathar says nothing. There is nothing she can say. She bows her head beneath Menelglir's ire and is silent.
The big man watches the scene with wary eyes. He doesn't know any of the woman's company, yet he doesn't seem to take kindly to her scalding. Frowning, he remains silent as the scene around him unfolds.
Sighing, Daerthor irritably signals the still-gawking barmaids to bring some drinks over, in an effort to sort things out civilly.
Seeing Tathar's reaction, Menelglir sighs, relenting some. "Nothing will happen, Lady," he offers, sheathing his now-clean sword and still awkwardly hanging onto the bloodied rag. "Nothing will happen. Perhaps the Southron will say nothing. He -did- provoke you. As he once did me. I punched him. In the face. got in trouble for it."
"I am sorry," Tathar says, hopelessly, hearing how inadequate the words are even as she says them. But what else is there to say? "I didn't .. I never intended ... I ... I don't know what came over me." She stops and shivers slightly, as if she is cold, though the room is warm and the afternoon sunny. "Besides," she adds with a spark of indignation, "Why didn't he move? I am not so wondrous a swordswoman as all that. He didn't need to just sit there and let.. and let me..." Once again words fail her, though not for anger this time, and her face is desolate.
Bursting into the tavern is the large Lieutenant Aearon, the door is opened with such force that it slams against the wall making his entrance loud. As he enters he shouts in a very angry irritated voice "What happened in hear, I have one of the ambassadors guards run up to me and tell me he was attacked, the guard was covered in blood."
Walking strait into the room towards the group he says in a loud voice again "Lady Tathar explain yourself!"
A barmaid now comes with tea for Tathar, and ale for the rest - timidly, she offers one to the angry Lieutenant...
"I did it. It was my sword, I did it," Menelglir says, stepping directly into Aearon's path. "The Southron insulted the lady, she lost her temper and tried to take my sword but she is not responsible for what happened."
Waving off the barmaid and walking directly up to Menelglir to the point where his face is only inches from his. Aearon says in a voice that is almost a growl "SIT DOWN, I will get to you.." and pointing to a chair.
Looking to the lady once more he says in a volatile tone "Speak, why did you attack a foreign ambassador?"
Amdil watches the entire scene unfold, and realises that it really isn't eny of his business. Turnign around, he returns to his seat by the bar, where another tankard of ale has been set down. With a grunt of thanks to the bar maid,he picks it up and begins to gulp. His fourth so far.
It seems as if Tathar doesn't even hear the Lieutenant she is lost in some other world of memory and shame. But Menelglir's words bring a spark of life back to her face and she looks up. "He did not," she says firmly. "I took his sword, though he tried to stop me." Aearon's roughly barked question brings a look of bewilderment to her expressive face. "I ... I didn't intend to," is all she can say. "He said a woman could not use a sword, that I lied when I said I could. I meant to show him he was wrong. I ... I didn't mean to hit him at all. I don't..." She stops, shaking her head helplessly. And very quietly, "I have broken my family's honor..."
Not protesting, Menelglir does sit, staying quiet. That is, until Tathar speaks, then he, too, speaks up. "No...he..the Ambassador, purposefully incited her. As he once did to me, provoking me to punch him. He insulted all of our women, said that we keep them as kitchen slaves."
.
In a very irritated voice Aearon says to the woman "If you want to spar, you go to the sparing grounds and you use wooden swords when there is no armor.."
Looking to Menelglir he shouts "I did not tell you to speak, shut your mouth."
Looking back to Tathar he says "Just because someone says something you dislike does not mean you can attack them with a sword, you do not see me running squire Menelglir through the middle do YOU."
Back to Menelglir he says with his hand out "Your sword.."
Tathar mutters underneath her breath, "I am NOT a kitchen slave." Hopefully, it was quiet enough to not be heard... But she says nothing aloud, only nodding her head in seeming meekness and acquiescence to the scolding.
"Sir," Menelglir says dutifully--despite having been just told to shut up. Except this is in response to the order for his sword he says it as he unbuckles his sword belt with a heavy sigh and hands it to the Lieutenant.
But, unable to keep himself from speaking, seemingly, Menelglir adds in protest, "But I didn't want to break her nose!"
Standing behind Tathar and Menelglir, Daerthor nearly chokes on his mouthful of ale. He rolls his eyes, inwardly.
Taking the sword Aearon looks back to the woman and says "What was that.." pausing "never mind, get up you are coming with me mlady."
Glaring at Menelglir he says "If you want this sword back please tell your Knight Lord Gwendion that he can come get it from me personally, once you explain what happened to him." pausing to scan the room he continues with "A Soldier, anger, or Knight should NEVER let his sword be TAKEN from him, EVER"
Looking to the woman he says "Are you ready"
"You can't take her!" Menelglir protests, jumping to his feet. "She didn't do anything wrong! Yildirim -told- her to hit him with the sword!" He looks wildly about the room, searching faces for some support int his.
Ignoring the words of Tathar Aearons eyes shoot to Menelglir when he speaks and says "Excuse me squire.. One more word from you and I will throw you in a cell and you will stay their until your Knight comes to get you"
Looking about the tavern he says in a loud voice "What happened here makes us no better than the southron himself, an inability to control ourselves when words were spoken..we are not animals here in Gondor!"
Finally looking back to Tathar he says "You are coming with me"
Someone in the back of the room - not a member of the guards - says, "That's true.. he did tell the lad to give the lady his sword and let her hit him." It's hard to tell if this is a helpful endorsement or not.
Tathar herself says nothing, only lifts her chin and steps towards the Lieutenant.
Annoyed with the situation, with his gluteus maximuses bruised, Daerthor loses the battle to keep his temper in check and takes a step forward, placing him right behind Menelglir. "No disrespect, sir," he hisses, "but please, shut up. You're just digging a deeper hole for yourself and the woman!"
"But..." Menelglir starts in protests, then abruptly shuts up, warned both by the Lieutenant and now Daerthor behind him. He sits.
Hearing the words of the man in the back Aearon shouts "Were you asked a question good sir? If you dont mind please keep your thoughts to yourself."
Looking back to the group before him he shakes his head and says "This is a mess.. What have you gotten yourselves into.."
"A moment if you will, Lieutenant Aearon," comes a voice, measured and calm.
Slipping through the crowd, unseen until the final moment, comes the young Lady Bragollach, apparently here through the whole ordeal. She glides to Aearon's side, dipping herself in a curtsey, "Lieutenant Aearon, it is well to see you again. I could not but overhear your situation here."
"I would ask you give me but a single moment of your time. Clearly you wish this situation to be dealt with in the most expeditious of ways."
Hearing the words of the lady Aearon turns to see her and bows his head says "Mlady, it is good to see you as well, although I wish it were better circumstances" pausing for a moment he says "Yes this is a ugly situation we have here."
At Gweneth's arrival, Menelglir hastily gets to his feet, at least recognizing this relation of his Knight.
"I believe no crime has been committed unless the Ambassador pushes his right for the crime to be prosecuted. This woman clearly is at her wits end and a cell would do little to that end. House Bragollach will take custody of the Lady Draudagnir," Gweneth says, pronouncing her family's name perhaps a bit too loudly, "And care for her. Should the Haradrim press his claim, she will be found there. If not, then she and her family will suffer no more from this."
She steps a bit closer to the Telpekhor, her voice lowering, "House Bragollach requests this officially from the Hosts of Gondor this boon. And I personally would be indebted if you granted to us as I believe House Draudagnir and," she adds with some surprise maybe to some, "House Nimothan would also appreciate the least public way in dealing with this situation. Standing here and debating her fate further is certainly only more embarrassment for those involved."
She eyes Menelglir, "As to the Squire. His participation will be noted to his Knight. Enough punishment is in that."
"Do these terms suit you, Lieutenant Telpekhor?"
Hearing the words of the Lady Aearon says "Yes Mlady. I had no intentions of putting Lady Tathar in jail, I as simply going to take her away from the situation and to the Ambassador so that she could express her apology and hopefully make the ambassador forget the situation." Bowing his head to the lady he says "No one will speak of this event Mlady"
Tathar looks up, surprised, as the door opens and Gweneth comes in. She is still silent, but as the girl speaks, a dangerous sparkle lights her grey eyes. "I would be most grateful for the opportunity to make my apologies to the ambassador," she says, a tiny edge to her voice, though words and expression both are most proper and lady-like.
"And my sword?" Menelglir asks quietly, looking from Gweneth to Aearon. "Certainly Sir Gwendion will know of my role here. I never intended not to tell him."
"Perhaps now is not the best time for another meeting. Perhaps he seeks not to see her for the time."
A gentle hand is placed on the Hosts shoulder, as Gweneth smiles, "Let me take her to a comfortable place and a night cap. You may do your duty and check on the health of our visitor and if he is inclined to see the lady to offer her apology."
"Please? It is not outside of protocol and is quite proper. Just some time for everyone to gather their wits. It is the best response."
With a nod of his head Aearon says "You are right Mlady" Tossing Menelglir his sword he says "The lady is right, I am sure you will be in enough trouble as it."
With a nod and waiting for nothing further from the Hostsman, Gweneth offers her hand to Tathar, "Come dear, let us find you some rest away from here."
Tathar pretends that she doesn't see Gweneth's hand, but she smiles at the girl and says sweetly, "Thank you, my dear. It is most thoughtful of you." And makes her way towards the door.
Before the Lieutenant can say more, Gweneth too makes her way to the door leaving him with a confused crowd and a forlorn Squire.
Madeleine finally appears from behind the bar, "So who's cleaning this up?"
Watching the ladies leave Aearon then hears the words of Madeleine and points to the squire saying "HE will take care of this for you mlady" and with that he leaves.
A little while later:
The door creaks softly on its hinges, the sudden breath of wind that rises from the yawning entrance stirs the common room of the Steward's Hearth freshness driving out the stale air easily gathered by many bodies and voices in close spaces. Yet, none enters yet, save for the large hand -- made larger by its trappings -- that holds that door ajar.
"After you, Sir," A voice says.
There is silence in the room inside - the breathless sort of silence that comes after a natural disaster, when everyone is too busy surveying the wreckage to speak. The door opens and every eye turns towards it and then they all break out talking at once excited voices a babble of confusion.
A laugh and then Sir Gwendion steps into the room, "Why thank you, good Sir. I wonder if anything is afoot this night..." the odd silence followed by the cacophony of sound gives the Knight a pause. Regardless he enters and takes his time making his way to the bar.
"Can you believe..."
"Did he really hit..."
"Blood /everywhere/!"
"I've never seen such a ..."
"He deserved it, he did!"
"... ambassador..."
Pausing upon the threshold, likewise titled, Findon's glance fleets over the here gathered, delaying momentarily on Gwendion's back. Drily he mutters: "Uncanny." And then he too enters, following the Herald's wise course -- t'ward yon bar.
The ensuing diarrhea of the mouth that has so suddenly stricken the 'Hearth does draw his eye ever and annon. "Any guesses as to what that might be, Gwendion?" He says voice raised.
"I haven't the faintest," Gwendion replies, sniffing at the air. He finds a seat at the bar and calls over the keep, "Maybe a wife caught a wandering husband with a mistress? I heard something about blood I think."
Madeleine has been as shell-shocked as the others - though with a greedy light in her eyes that tokens her busy brain storing all this up to dribble out later. But she is jolted out of her gawking when the two men come in, and hurries over to them. "What can I get for you?" she asks, and unable to resist, lowers her voice, "Did you /hear/ what happened? Is that what you came for? I think..." She raises her head to look over the crowd. "I think he's already gone," she says, sounding disappointed.
"Blood, eh? Not what I heard. Some deserving ambassador or other..." That trail of thought is broken off at Madeleine"No, miss," Says Findon as he leans against the bar, turned to face the pair. "Well, not I, in any case. I came for the ale."
"Blood, eh? Not what I heard. Some deserving ambassador or other..." That trail of thought is broken off at Madeleine's approach.
"No, miss," Says Findon as he leans against the bar, turned to face the pair, his glance settled on the barmaid. "Well, not I, in any case. I came for the ale." A soft sigh, and an eyebrow perched an unspoken query in its own right. But he says nothing more for the nonce.
"And I for ale and Madeleine's scrumptious madeleines," Gwendion replies in kind.
"For what reason should we have come?"
"Oh." Madeleine sounds disappointed, but she gives Findon a very friendly smile. "Ale then, right you are."
But this sounds more promising! Turning her attention to Gwendion, she says, "Why, it was your squire! That was why I thought you had come you had heard of it!"
A clearing of the throat, "My squire?" Gwenedion replies, his mood turning dour.
The other eyebrow arches as well, lending Findon a stark, if brief, look of surprise.
"Ho boy..." He murmurs.
"Well," Madeleine says, leaning forward (and showing a bit of cleavage), an eager light in her eyes. "They were all in here, just talking and drinking, when that man came in. The one they called the ambassador. That's when the trouble started." She nods sagely. "People started shouting and then that nice Lieutenant got them all quieted down, when she just snatched out his sword and /hit/ him! Cut him all in pieces!" she adds, with relish. "There was blood /every/where! They carried him out and the Lieutenant came back and just started shouting. That young Lady Bragollach came and took her away, and everyone else left too. I declare, I was nearly fainting!" She puts her hand delicately on her bosom, and sighs dramatically.
"Wait.. the Haradrim is dead?!" the Knight-Herald asks in complete disbelief. "Who killed him? Who's sword? Who... do..do you know any of the people involved? Where are the Hosts? When was this?"
He looks to Findon, "This... this is a problem."
Averting his eyes in favor of the crowds only a moment too late, Findon raises a gloved hand to his mouth, the clearing of his throat somewhat muffled. A shallow frown settles on his face, the averted gaze turned distant.
It fixes a moment later on Gwendion: "Indeed," He returns gravely. "If he is dead... Has it all been for naught?" The rigid, but not unkind grey gaze levels on Madeleine -- levelly -- expectantly. "Much rides on this. Please, tell us all you know, lady."
"Your squire's, of course," Madeleine answers, surprised. "That's what I said." She pauses. "I don't /think/ he was dead," she says slowly. "She was saying she would apologize, and you can't apologize to a dead man, can you?" A triumphant smile accompanies this bit of sterling logic.
"This makes quite a tale," Findon tells the barmaid now. "And, to be frank, it is all somewhat confusing."
"Why not start over from the beginng?"
"A moment dear lady before you start that tale. Find me a drink stiffer than this before you begin it. If none are dead, then drink before words," Gwendion says, then points to Findon's drink, "Make that two."
"Well!" Madeleine is all ready to recite her tale again - and quite pleased to do so - when she is stopped. "Oh. Well." A flashing smile. "Yes, of course, I'll be right back!" She hurries away.
Menelglir had the joyous task of cleaning the bloodied rag that he wiped his sword blade with. And then the other wonderful task of cleaning up the blood on the floor and then helping in the back of the inn to wash bloodied rags and mops. Sword restored to him and buckled at his waist, he now re-emerges from the back, a rather sodden, sullen version of a Blue Squire, looking as if he is ready to head to what he calls home in Minas Tirith.
Or perhaps not, as he jolts to a sudden stop on seeing the two Knights. And groans.
"I defer to your wisdom, Sir," Findon answers, a twitch about the corners of his mouth the quickest of fleeting smiles.
He offers Madeleine a subtle nod in acknowledgement. His glance once again passes over the vibrant customers, and it happens to pass Menelglir, and swing back, and halt. He lifts a hand pat Gwendion's shoulder lightly, head inclined in the Squire's direction. "A light in the darkness. Your Squire."
"Perhaps a shadow to darken my day," Gwendion replies.
"Squire come and tell me of this adventure. And why, again, the Haradrim bleeds due to your influence?"
In response, Findon's brows rise and fall. But he offers no vocal reply, sparse attention lent to his mild beverage, though his glance is chiefly held on the Telpekhor.
"Sir Knights," Menelglir says, the words a resigned sigh. With all the joy of a doomed man stepping to his execution, he walks over to where the two sit, then stands, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back.
"She took my sword."
A look to Findon and then back to the Squire, his hands lifting in question, "What does that mean? She took your sword? Why did she take it? Who is she?"
"Findon, has your squire had any Haradrim diplomats speared this week? I feel like you are missing out on the fun."
"Well, sirs...what do you know of the incident? The Lady Tathar was here with others, having some tea. And the Ambassador arrived. Words were exchanged and..." Menelglir pauses and clears his throat, reddening at Gwendion's question to Findon. "And the Haradrim, as he is wont to do, stated his very explicit opinions about our women. In this case, clearly implying that women of Gondor are kitchen slaves to the men of Gondor and should instead take up arms against the Southrons. The Lady took offense."
He grimaces.
"Great offense."
"Why, no, Gwendion. I have no squire to call my own the very reason for which I borrow yours time and time again -- for practise, of course. Sadly I am deprived of such jovial amusements."
"Ah," Findon comments then, as Menelglir finishes, "Curious." He looks askance at the other knight: "Is it too far fetched to assume this precisely the southron's design?"
"Design or no, we are better than he is. I ask a favor, to take my Squire again until we leave for Pelargir."
Gwendion frowns and little else, "I am too poor a teacher to keep you out of such trouble. Perhaps Findon will fair better."
"I am certain it was his design," Menelglir nods eagerly to Findon, opening his mouth to continue, then gaping. "But...but Sir Gwendion! I...I tried to stop her, but my instinct was to punch her when she grabbed for my sword. And then I checked because Ic ouldn't do that to a lady, and in that moment, she had taken it. And oen of the Scouts and I both tried to tackle her at once and got tangled up, and thus she hit Yildirim!!"
The words are a rush of protest. "It's not to do with your teachings!" Menelglir says, increasingly upset at this prospect.
"I shall try, if you wish. Pray do not expect overmuch, however."
Findon adresses Menelglir next: "There is a section in the book I gave you that covers the matter of keeping hold of your weaponry, Squire. Extensively. Page five through one-hundred and thirty."
"Do go on."
"There's not much more. The Southron's guards took him away, Lieutenant Aearaon came in and would have taken Lady Tathar and my sword, but Lady BRagollach intervened. Took Tathar into her custody and the Lieutenant gave me my sword back. Saying my Knight's reaction would be punishment. Alas."
Findon extends a hand:
"Your sword."
Gwendion watches the interaction between the pair, commenting, "I cannot say if it is bad luck, poor training or poor judgement. I do not think you meant harm, but I need some day to be able to entrust without hesitation as many lives as needed under your protection, Menelglir. You will not always be a squire, nor will you always have the excuse of youth. You are not the only one accountable for -all- of your actions. Every Knight is held accountable for his and the actions of his brothers."
"Too much is at stake now. I want....," a sigh, "You need to be better than you are. Spend some time with Sir Findon and learn his words well. When we reunite as Knight and Squire, we will speak more." He stands from his seat, looking to Findon, "I am sorry, brother, I have lost my thirst."
It's slowly and with sadness that Menelglir nods to Gwendion and then unbuckles his sword belt and hands it toward Findon.
"How long?" he asks both men. "And...never mind. Just how long."
A dry smile, and likewise dry tone answers Gwendion: "I find mine has grown worse. Alas! Madeleine will be displeased, though less so than I to be sure."
"When you have the heart for it, I'll keep the tab."
Wrapping then the belt about the surrendered scabbard, Findon turns an eye toward the Squire. "I will keep this. To the yards, half an hour. Bring the book." But the question remains unanswered.
The Herald is offered a nod. And Findon turns to the doorway.
"The sword will be returned when Findon returns it."
"As for myself, I will take responsibility for you once more ere we leave for Pelargir," Gwendion says, another long sigh.
"Be well, Squire." With that, slow and heavy steps take the Knight-Herald from the tavern and out into the night.
Menelglir swallows hard, watches wendion go, but speaks nothing else, the look on his face enough. With difficulty he turns back to Findon, then just nods. He's out the door as fast as he can, cuffing at something on his face. Possibly streaks of tears
The door opens and a woman comes in she is not in her first youth, but is still young, and her clothing, while plain, is finely made. She pauses and looks around, letting the door swing shut behind her.
At a small table near the middle of the room sits a man. A young man, actually, as his smooth skin reveals. He drinks from a large wooden mug, like many others in the room a maid bustles over to serve him another mug - and just then, he catches sight of the woman who has just arrived.
Standing at the bar is the large Lieutenant Aearon, talking with one of the other patrons, he is dressed in his usual military uniform with his helm sitting upon the bar next to him, in his hand is a large tankard and he takes a large drink. Upon hearing the door close he looks over to see who has entered the establishment. Recognizing the woman he bows his head towards her slightly.
The room seems dark at first, after the brightness of the outdoors, and so it is a minute before Tathar moves into the room. She moves purposefully, her face determined, until the nod of a head catches her attention and she turns to see the lieutenant. A bit of surprise crosses her face and she hesitates uncertainly, pausing near the table the young man sits at.
The young man solves her dilemma he stands up, motioning towards the bar. "My lady, I am Daerthor," he greets, smiling, while grabbing his mug and moving from the table. "Let me not keep you from familiar company." As he nears the Lieutenant, he salutes. "Sir."
Upon seeing the two approach Aearon returns the salute to the scout and bowing his head to Tathar he says "Nice to see you again Mlady" taking another drink from his tankard he then looks back to the scout and says "Lieutenant Aearon Telpekhor"
There is a look of ... can it be consternation? ... on Tathar's face. But she covers it swiftly with a smile. "Daerthor. I'm pleased to meet you." And following the scout, she comes near to the bar, dipping a slight curtsey to Aearon. "I didn't expect to see you here," she says, then smiles again. "Though I cannot say why."
"Scout Daerthor Carmayar, sir," the young man says. He then looks at the woman, unsure of his words... but he decides to keep silent. Interrupting a superior's conversation is certainly not a good idea.
Aearon nods his head and says "Well met Daerthor Carmayar" looking to Tathar he says "A drink perhaps mlady?" then to Daerthor "A refill?" with that said he takes another drink from his tankard.
In walks...of all things, another Telpekhor, this one being the Blue Squire Menelglir Telpekhor. He's making his way through the tavern and happens to be close enough when Aearon introduces himself, so the Squire heads that way, coming to stand behind where Aearon and Daerthor are seated.
Tathar hesitates again, looking behind the bar, then straightening. "Thank you," she says. "What is available here?" She glances at Daerthor again, and her small nose wrinkles up slightly as he says all of his name. Behind her, someone else is coming in, but she doesn't turn to see who it is.
Hearing the young squire walk up behind him Aearon turns about and says "Menelglir, nice to see you again." turning back he says to lady Tathar "Just about anything you could want mlady, ales, tea, and the food isnt half bad" Setting his tankard upon the bar he says " should we move to a table perhaps?"
"Thank you, sir," Daerthor says, as his mug is refilled. At Aearon's greeting, he turns around, only to find Menelglir. Again, he gives a quick salute, and grabs his mug in anticipation of moving.
Entering into the common room is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a trimmed beard and dark hair. Glancing around the room, he keeps his head down humbly as he heads over in the direction of the bar. he wears common clothes- a cream-coloured sack cloth shirt, with dull green leggings and brown boots, and he doesn't look to be the epitmoy of hygeine- he has several dark smudges on his face, and his hands seem filthy. The hands of a craftsman.
Spotting the gathering by the bar, the large man leaves keeps a respectful distance as he goes to order.
"Tea, then, if you please," Tathar says. "I'm not hungry..." She turns to look for a table at his suggestion and her eyes land on Menelglir. "Hello there," she says to him, grinning. "I hope I didn't make you late the other night!"
A large man moves past her, and her eyes follow him curiously.
Seeing the large man walk past Aearon nods his head to the man, turning about to the bar he says "Could you bring the lady a cup of tea and myself another ale to" pointing to an empty table "that table" leaving his empty tankard he makes his way to the table.
Meanwhile, as they move, Daerthor's gaze follows Tathar's towards the large newcomer.
The big man nods politely to those he passes, but he seems to be frowning somewhat. Making his way to the bar, he takes a seat. He orders a pint of ale in a quiet tone and, receiving it, takes a long darught, before plonking it down on the bar and falling into a brooding silence. If one looked cloesly, they could see a slight bruising around his knuckles- as if he has recently hit something.
Tathar hesitates by the table, then turns quietly and goes back to the bar where the big man is sitting, while the others are finding their chairs. "Excuse me," she says. "But .. is everything all right?"
Reaching the table Aearon pulls out a chair and takes a seat, setting his helm upon the table he leans back and looks back as Tathar approaches the large man.
The sun sets as the day draws to an end, leaving the night sky dark save but the twinkling of stars.
Daerthor also takes a seat next to Aearon, his gaze still on the man and now, Tathar.
The big man looks up at the dark-haired woman, and sighs, giving her a weary nod. " Aye, everything is fine, ma'am. As it always is, I suppose." He grunts as he lifts the tankard to his lips and takes another plentiful swig, before slamming it back down on the bar and giving a little burp. He wipes a hand over his beard, which still has traces of white froth in it, and sighs again.
Moments after taking his seat Aearon is handed another tankard of ale "with a nod to the bartender" he points to an empty seat at the table to set the tea down at. Handing him a few coins Aearon says "thank you my good man". Turning back to the table he takes a drink of ale and says " So what brings you to this fine establishment Daerthor"
"It's him!"
A shout comes from the corner of the room, followed by the sound of a particularly noisy bit of spitting. The crowd parts for a moment as a man grab the hood of another and pulls it back revealing long hair and the olive colored skin of a Southern. A pair of Hostmen nearby quickly intercede between him and the other, but it is too late, his presence is known to all the Haradrim is here.
Oddly, he but smiles and wipes his face with the back of his hand. He turns from the man of rough manners, leaving his drink behind, and begins to walk in the direction of the table of the oddball group sitting and chatting, his guards following behind with an eye for trouble.
Tathar nods, and smiles. "I am glad to hear it," she tells the man. "I am sorry for interrupting your drink. You looked - worried." She turns away to go back to her waiting drink, when a commotion starts up nearby, and she stops, staring.
Hearing the commotion Aearon jumps to his feet and in a load voice he shouts at the rowdy patron "I suggest you sit down and shut your mouth, or you will be escorted from this establishment" Looking to the Haradrim and his guards he says "I apologize for that man, I am sure he has simply just had one to many drinks"
"I am here after a morning session of training, sir," replies Daerthor, drinking his ale. "Ithilien has seen orcs, orcs and more orcs, and my company was sent here to rest, but also because--" Just then, the shout echoes throughout the room, and Daerthor jerks his head around to look. A grimace crosses his face for a brief moment. "--and, yes..." he trails off. The rest can be understood without explanation.
The large man grunts moodily as she speaks, but as she moves to leave and the commotion begins, he turns, his brow furrowing as he watches whatever is about to unfold. His bruised hand coils into a fist as he spots the Southerner.
The Haradrim pauses at Aearon's support. He offers a bow, deep and formal, "Your gracious words are welcome and your apologies accepted. I am sure it must only be the drink speaking."
"I have but a few coins, but I offer to refill your drink with them, if you would accept my thanks for your words?" As he speaks, his eyes quickly run over the rest of his group, taking stock of them as a whole.
Bowing his head to the Haradrim Aearon says "I would accept your offer, but this drink has just been refilled moements ago. I thank you." Looking to those about the bar Aearon takes a deep breath and looks to the Haradrims guards and gives them both a nod of his head.
The woman is frozen behind the Haradrim, a few steps away from the table where her tea is getting cold. She says nothing, does nothing seemingly unable (or unwilling) to move. But when Aearon speaks, her gaze goes to him with a jerk, and something kindles in their depths.
The big man by the bar realises that the tension in the room is undwinding, and unclenches his fist, moving to turn back around when he glances up at the woman by his side. He notices her frozen posture, and keeps a curious eye on her, wondering what would inhibit such a reaction.
As the Southron's eyes sweep across the room, Daerthor refuses to let his gaze wander.
"I see. Of course. Peace and good day to you, man of Gondor."
A casual pause and then he continues on his way towards the door.
Hearing the words of the Hardrim Aearon says "Have a good day.. Ambassador," then to his guards "Try to keep a closer eye on those around him, not just him"
Looking to Tathar he says "Please come join us, your tea is getting cold."
But Tathar waits until the man from Harad is a good way from the table before she comes up to it and sits down, and even then, though she takes her tea and sips at it, her eyes remain on his back, and her shoulders and neck are stiff.
The presence of Tathar causes Daerthor to turn his attention back to the big man his instinctive reactions have not gone unnoticed.
"Yildirim..." Menelglir is near the door, having entered previously but not taken a seat, and now he spots the Haradrim and moves his way. "Unexpected to see you here."
The big man relaxes, turning back to his pint and taking another swig. And then, peering into the contents of the tankard and realising that it's almost empty, finishes it off with a sigh of content. A frown still fixed to hs face, he orders another pint from the barmaid. She asks fr coin, and he mutters to himself as he searches through all of his pockets, flicking whatever coins he can find on to the bar.
The woman shake her head, still holding out her hand for more.
Looking as Menelglir approaches the Haradrim Aearon takes his seat and takes a large drink from his tankard of ale. Breathing a sigh of relief, obviously happy the way events unfolded. Looking to those at the table he says "I apologize for that, some men do not know when to keep their mouth shut."
"Ah, my favorite of the Stone Lands People. I hope you and your mother are well," Yildirim replies with a grin. "It has been long since you last visited me. I miss our conversations. So much more interesting than the sort I find in places such as these," he says with a motion towards the tavern.
"Excuse me, sir, for a short while," says Daerthor to Aearon. He gets up from his seat and swiftly strides to the bar, sitting down on a stool and slapping some coins towards the barmaid. "A refill for my drink, and for his', too," he says, gesturing towards the big man.
Then he offers a nervous smile. "I saw you from the table," he says. "I am Daerthor. We seem to share the same opinion of"- here he lowers his voice, but with equal emphasis, continues-"him. Them."
Giving a nod to Daerthor as he leaves, Aearon takes another long drink and looks back to the Haradrim and Menelglir, setting his now empty tankard upon the table he breathes deep and leans back in his chair.
"My mother passed when I was but 7 years old and I'd appreciate your not mentioning her, Ambassador," Menelglir says, his lips pressing to a thin line of distaste at the Haradrim's seemingly benign greeting of him. A glance about the room has the Blue Squire settling his gaze on Daerthor and Aearon, and he watches them for a moment before again addressing Yildirim.
"I see you have made friends of my countrymen," he notes dryly.
The big man in his work-stained clothing peers at the young man in a curious manner, as the bar maid bustles off for the drinks. Grunting a greeting, he pushes all the coin he had scavenged from his pockets in the man's direction.
" I have no love of Southerner's..." He says,not even bothering to keep his voice down, his tone rough and heavily accented, " Especially those who don't have the balls do admit what they are."
Muttering, he looks up as the barmaid returns with two, frothing pints.
Daerthor pushes the coins back. "Take them. As my thanks to you for protecting the woman. None of us were near her save you, and had /he/ tried to do anything..." He grips his mug handle tightly, meaning to take a drink, but stops himself after the big man's statements, waiting for any sign of trouble from the Haradrim ambassador.
Slowly Aearon sits up in his chair and looks to the barmaid, ordering another tankard of ale. Looking back to the Haradrim for a moment and then to the bar at the two men talking.
With his grin widening and a nod towards Amdil's voice, Yildirim replies, "No friends but the barkeep for I keep his hands filled with gold to keep my thirst at bay. Though the odd brew you drink here is a bitter one. Much could be done for the mood of your people with better alcohol, say I."
"It is an amusing situation though. The fear I see when I am revealed is so interesting. Clearly I am at a disadvantage, one man under guard. And yet, many cower or brace for attack as if I will strike at any time and take their lives. None I know in Umbar feel in such a way towards a Gondorian, quite the opposite. It is vastly amusing though. This must be what it is like to have power in your land and yet... I have none."
"Better to be cautious than to be caught unawares," mutters Daerthor. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to let go of the mug handle, reminding himself that they are at a state of tentative peace, however volatile and unstable it may be.
Listening to the words of the Haradrim Aearon says "It is not fear ambassador, but simply no knowledge of how to act in the presence of our longtime enemy." pausing to retrieve a small flask from his side he holds it up and says "As for drink, try this and tell me that our drink needs to be stronger" tossing the flask to the Haradrim with a smile. Looking to Daerthor he gives him a look of calm down.
The big man grunts again, reluctantly accepting the coins back and slipping them into his pocket. Lifting his tankard, he takes another large swig, downing a quarter of the pint in one go. Eventually, he loooks back at Daerthor and grunts again.
" So, can I help you with something, friend?"
"Then tell me, Yildirim," Menelglir addresses the man, his smile, if any, forced, "how would your people treat a Stone Lander, as you call us, given leave to wander your city streets wtihout escort? I should like to know. Have you any Stonelanders wandering free?"
Aearon addressing him causes the Haradrim to turn, "If you say it is so, then perhaps it is. It is but strange for me."
He takes the flask and sniffs from it, then sips, "Ah... yes... as expected. The drink of Gondor is often about strength. A drink that burns, that tests your ability to withstand it. There is little in the way of subtly, a smooth taste that can be enjoyed rather than suffered as a test."
He hands the flask back to Aearon, "My thanks for the sharing of your drink. It is appreciated."
Then to Menelglir, "As to that, we would not allow such. But I think we would treat you as any prisoner or slave. A non-person, unfit of our recognition until there is reason for there to be. Really, it is the attention that is so odd for me. But perhaps, as the other said, it has long been since a man from the South has walked these streets without malice to be done to or from him."
Tathar has said nothing at all all this time. She has drunk at her tea, sip by tiny sip, until it is gone, and now she sits with the cup between her hands - the fingers pressed white against it. Her dark grey eyes are angry as they move between Aearon and Menelglir - and attempt to avoid looking at the Haradrim at all.
Catching the look from Aearon, Daerthor takes a deep breath, and rolls his shoulders to relax them. He grabs the mug again, taking a drink to calm himself. "I only wish to know who you are," says Daerthor, his tone rather casual, given the tense encounter just moments before.
Taking the flask and taking a long drink, Aearon says "It is all about personal taste"
Looking to Tathar he says "Another cup of tea mlady?"
" My name is Amdil," The man says, his voice deep and throaty. He takes another swig of the tankard, which is now half empty, " And I have no titles or ranks to speak off."
He mutters something darkly, before looking back at the young man with the dark hair. " And who might you be?"
"Come to your faire in Pelarglir and sample from the Haradrim traders. Then you will find taste," Yildirim replies with smile. Then a glance towards Tathar and a nod, "For tea, as well as spirits, milady."
"I am Daerthor. I am but a lowly Scout in the ranks of Ithilien." Here Daerthor smiles lightly, and calls for another round of ale, before deciding to go straight to the point. "Were you hitting something before you came here?"
"And yet, you say that you are treated here better than a man of Gondor would be treated in Umbar, yes? And still nothing here is as good as Umbar. Not our mothers..." Menelglir says with a sly half grin, "nor our tea or spirits. Yet we freely give you our hospitality as well. And this, Ambassador, is not even the best of our hospitality. Our Prince Imrahil would show you more. Know you of him?"
"No, thank you," Tathar all but snaps. The Haradrim has the gall to speak to her, and she turns her angry glare on him, opening her mouth, and then shutting it again firmly and looking away pointedly.
Amdil nods to the man. " An honour. Ithilien you say? Interesting. I have never been there..." He finishes his tankard with a generous swig, and glances up at the bar maid as another round is ordered, before looking back at Daerthor.
He raises his eyebrow as the young man poses his question. " What makes you say that?"
Daerthor barks a short laugh. "If you had been there before, you would probably not be here now." Drinking up his ale, he raises his eyebrows, still smiling. "Your knuckles, Amdil..."
Another nod to Tathar but then a raised brow is given by Yildirim to the Squire, "You are getting better as this, Menelglir."
"I then humbly offer a correction, for it is true, in Gondor there are items of note that I prefer over Umbar. Your buildings here are grand and breathtaking. Your streets, clean of filth and debris, human or otherwise. As to hospitality, well, perhaps there is still room for debate there."
"As to your Prince, I know him well, or at least, his order. He is the leader of your Swans, yes? And yet, he does not fight as you do, on the seas against my people and worse. Why is this?"
Slowly Aearon gets to his feet, looking Tathar he bows his head and says "Thank you for company mlady" Looking to Daerthor he nods his head and starts towards the door, reaching the Haradrim and Menelglir he says to the Haradrim "Once again, I apologize for the actions of a drunk man, I hope you have no more encounters of that kind. Have a good day"
To Menelglir he says with a nod of his head "Have a good day Menelglir"
Putting his helm upon his head he makes for the door, and opens it shutting it filmy behind him.
Glancing down at his bruised knuckles, the big man gives a snort. " His jaw was harder than i thought it would be..." He takes a swig of the new pint, devouring a third of the tankard and showing no intentions of slowing down. With a sigh of contentment, he looks back at Daerthor and frowns, thinking back. " The bastard thought he could talk to me like a piece of filth, just because I'm of common stock. Well, I thought I would show him that doing that is a very bad idea..." He lets out a low growl, shaking his head before taking another swig.
" Anyways, I am now unemployed."
The "compliment" of sorts from the Haradrim only serves to make Menelglir color red. "Well, you yourself just said that a man of Gondor would not be allowed to walk your streets. And we permit you this privilege.." He shrugs.
"Yes, Prince Imrahil leads our swans. And he does sail the seas at times. But it seems that your folk do not know this?" the Blue Squire asks, head tilting. A glance is given to Aearon's departure, the word "cousin" mouthed in a farewell, but the man leaves too quickly.
Daerthor shakes his head, a crease furrowing his brow, a curse on his lips. "Have you thought of joining the Hosts?" he asks, rather suddenly. "You look strong. And combat is a great frustration-reliever."
A glance up towards the tavern entrance shows that the young Scout is still following every word of the debacle between the Southron Ambassador and Menelglir.
Tathar nods her head. Once. She watches Aearon leave, and as he actually /apologizes/, her angry glare grows in intensity. It is just as well the lieutenant is gone his shoulderblades might have gotten scorched.
Amdil looks thoughtful. " The hosts, you say? Do they accept people like me?" He takes a swig of the tankard and then peering in, takes another swig, finishing his third pint.
He seems to have completely lost interest in the Southerner.
"Perhaps when he was young, this was true. But the Haradrim have had no tales of Imrahil for years. It is...," Yildirim clears his throat, "Unbefitting a warrior king to not have tales. Perhaps it is time for his children to take his throne?"
Then a light of idea appears in his eyes, "Woman! Certainly, we treat our women better than in Gondor. They are like slaves here. Cook, clean. Certainly there are some that would prefer to take up a blade and serve their nation as something useful? It would aid your countries defenses as well to take their skill."
"They do," says Daerthor. "Every man who wants to serve in the defence of the White City, unless physically unfit, will not be denied. What was your profession before today?" Flicking his eyes up, he raises his brows at the Haradrim's words. He is, quite obviously, taunting the woman whose glare even he can feel, though it is not directed at him.
That is enough. Tathar is on her feet. "I'll have you know that I can use a sword perfectly well, and I have! On /your/ people!" So it was a dagger - a blade is a blade, right? And she can use a sword. Her gaze switches to Menelglir, equally furious. "How can you sit here and talk to him? Murdering, lying, dishonorable...." She sputters to a stop, unable still to think of words bad enough.
A motion towards Tathar is made by Yildirim, "See? I am correct."
The big man still has that thoughtful expression. " I was a blacksmith...Skilled enough at my work, but that wasn't enough for that bastard of a gaffer..."
But as he hears a woman's outburst behind him, he looks over his shoulder, frowning.
"Now.." Menelglir's eyes are fixed on the Haradrim, "what would make you suggest that? That his children take over?" He seems intent on the answer, at least until the Southron opens his mouth about women.
"Yildirim!" the Blue Squire snaps angrily, hands balling into fists, but he checks, taking a deep breath--in which space, Tathar snaps her angry words.
"M'lady! I don't condone his words nor the behavior of his people, but he is here as an ambassador and we have given our word not to harm the man!" Though Menelglir certainly sounds angry enough as it is.
Confused by Menelglir's anger, Yildirim asks, "I do not understand. Is this," his voice lowers to a whisper, "Is this something you try and hide from them? The women?"
Assuming the case, he turns back to Tathar, "My apologies, milady. It is well for you to cook and to clean. It is a great thing for you to be doing. Better than the sword by far! They are so... so very heavy."
With a hushed voice, Daerthor murmurs so that only Amdil can hear him. "I would bring the woman some tea, but I would only get porcelain shards in my face for my efforts. Still, the Southron is intolerable." He pauses for a moment, comtemplative. "Your blacksmithing skills could transfer to a number of weapons-work. Are you trained in any? Even to the most basic level?"
"You had better not!" Tathar rages at the unfortunate squire.
Then she turns her ire back to Yildrim. "They are not either too heavy! You don't believe me!" Back to Menelglir, "Give me your sword! I will show him!"
Smiling now, Yildirim nods to the Squire, "Do so! I am eager to see it!"
"No! I mean..." Beset on both sides, by raging Gondorian woman and clueless or serpent-like Haradrim, Menelglir looks aghast first at one, then the other. "Our women do not fight in battle like your who...women!" he objects, flushing red and changing his choice of words at thelast moment. "And I cannot give you my sword!"
Amdil shakes his head. " Nay, friend, I am nor yet. I made only trivial things...Horseshoes and the like. Yet, I bet I could swing a sword as hard as any of your boys..." He glances back at the Southerner, "...or a punch, for that matter.
"GIVE IT TO ME," Tathar shouts. If there was anyone in the room who hasn't been looking, they are now. The serving maids are gawking, the kitchen help crowds in the doorway...
And at Menelglir's refusal, she storms up and snatches at the hilt.
"Precisely," Daerthor mutters. "But if you were to go up against him, a trained warrior, at this very moment, would you last? The Hosts will give you proper training. With enough effort..." his voice trails off at Tathar's shouts. Watching the dramatic scene unfolding before him, he stretches his legs from the tall stool, his hand on his own sword's hilt, ready to interfere should he be forced to.
"No!" Menelglir's voice squeaks in surprise as he tries to twist out of the way of the woman grabbing at his sword. His hands go to try to grab at her wrists to stop her, but he hesitates, uncertain about how to handle the situation. At the last second he decides to twist out of her way the hesitation may cost himthe sword.
"This fury? It would do you well to harness it. Imagine her on a battlefield," Yildirim casually comments as Tathar lunges for the weapon. "A fleet of them, all wide-eyed and craving the blood of their enemies. A powerful force."
The big man looks at the Southerner darkly, thinking that he is very capable of knocking the man's teeth into the other corner of the room... But then looks back at Daerthor. " And is there any...test required to join the host? What would I have to do?"
Anything Menelglir might say is entirely lost on Tathar. The sword slides into her hands as the young squire tries to twist away, and she turns, lifting it with both hands over her head to bring it down at the Haradrim (poor defenseless man, alas, alas) with all her might. She isn't all that big, so perhaps all her might isn't so much, but she is angry past thinking.
"Not that I know of--" but Daerthor's words are cut off as he takes the few steps needed to reach Tathar. His sword is forgotten he should have drawn it earlier, there is no time now. Lunging at her, he tries to grab hold of anything - her arm, her torso - but the raging woman's momentum is so strong that she slips past him...
Momentarily stunned into doing nothing as the womaon actually draws his sword, Menelglir suddenly springs forward, likewise lunging to try to grab for Tathar. He collides with Daerthor instead, momentum carrying him the opposite direction of Tathar and into Yildirim.
Surprisingly, the Haradrim seems little phased as the woman takes the sword and swings it down on him. Perhaps he expected the Gondorians to pile in front of him, the first missing but his favorite Squire succeeding well enough to save his life by bumping him backwards. The blade slices into the meat and bone of his shoulder, but no deeper. He winces and opens his mouth to speak, but before words can come, the Guards are there, lifting him from the ground and carrying him out of the tavern wordlessly.
Only a half empty glass and a bloodied sword are proof he was even there.
The sword cuts into flesh, blood spilling out... and Tathar drops the sword. It falls clattering to the floor, while the woman claps both hands to her mouth, looking sick. "I..." she tries to say, then sits boneless down - whether there is a chair behind her or not - and covers her face with her hands.
Off-balance since his failed attempt at stopping the angry woman, Daerthor completely loses his footing when Menelglir collides into him. He lands on the floor with a loud, painful thump, and looks up, just in time to see the sword sink into the Haradrim's shoulder. Oh dear... but he recovers from his shock and stretches for a stool, shoving it in Tathar's general direction as she sits, hoping that his aim wasn't too far off this time.
The large man heaves himself up, drawing to his full of height of a formidable sixe feet and five inches as he watches the Southerner flee. With that, he approaches the woman who had attacked him at a steady gait, his eyes darting over her company warily.
" Ma'am...Are you alright?" A curious question to ask an attempted murderer, but he seems more concerned about the woman's health than the wounded southerner.
"You FOOL!" Menelglir shouts at the woman, too late to stop her sword from cutting into the Southron. "NOW look what you've done!" he continues, stepping toward Yildrim, only to be brushed aside by the Southron's guards. Menelglir has to content himself with watching the guards carry Yildirim off he stoops and picks up his bloodied sword, looking about for something to clean it with. "I suppose I'll get the blame for it, too," he complains in a bitter tone, then steps to Daerthor to offer him a hand up if he'll take it.
The stool has indeed made it to the right place at the right time, and Tathar is sitting on it, while people shout around her and at her. At last, she lets her hands drop from her face and stands up memories still darkening her eyes with sick horrors. Squaring her shoulders, she says to Menelglir, "You will not be blamed. I - I will make certain of it." Amdil's inquiry is ignored - her health is of no consequence.
Daerthor takes Menelglir's hand, grateful for the help as he clambers to his feet. "Thank you," he says, somewhat breathlessly, as he heaves in huge gulps of air to fill his lungs. Finding a large cloth lying on a nearby table, he offers it to Menelglir for his sword, but says nothing else as he watches the woman carefully.
Taking up the cloth, with a nod to Daerthor for it, Menelglir cleans his sword. His voice is sullen as he answers the woman, not once looking up at her. "It is -my- sword, -my- weapon, -my- responsibility. It's up to -me- to stop you or an enemy or anyone else from taking my weapon by force. The only mitigating factor is that you are a woman." Not lady, of note. "If you had been a man, your face would have met my fist and then some. What kind of behavior is this to show to one that has our word of honor that we will protect him? Enemy or not."
Tathar says nothing. There is nothing she can say. She bows her head beneath Menelglir's ire and is silent.
The big man watches the scene with wary eyes. He doesn't know any of the woman's company, yet he doesn't seem to take kindly to her scalding. Frowning, he remains silent as the scene around him unfolds.
Sighing, Daerthor irritably signals the still-gawking barmaids to bring some drinks over, in an effort to sort things out civilly.
Seeing Tathar's reaction, Menelglir sighs, relenting some. "Nothing will happen, Lady," he offers, sheathing his now-clean sword and still awkwardly hanging onto the bloodied rag. "Nothing will happen. Perhaps the Southron will say nothing. He -did- provoke you. As he once did me. I punched him. In the face. got in trouble for it."
"I am sorry," Tathar says, hopelessly, hearing how inadequate the words are even as she says them. But what else is there to say? "I didn't .. I never intended ... I ... I don't know what came over me." She stops and shivers slightly, as if she is cold, though the room is warm and the afternoon sunny. "Besides," she adds with a spark of indignation, "Why didn't he move? I am not so wondrous a swordswoman as all that. He didn't need to just sit there and let.. and let me..." Once again words fail her, though not for anger this time, and her face is desolate.
Bursting into the tavern is the large Lieutenant Aearon, the door is opened with such force that it slams against the wall making his entrance loud. As he enters he shouts in a very angry irritated voice "What happened in hear, I have one of the ambassadors guards run up to me and tell me he was attacked, the guard was covered in blood."
Walking strait into the room towards the group he says in a loud voice again "Lady Tathar explain yourself!"
A barmaid now comes with tea for Tathar, and ale for the rest - timidly, she offers one to the angry Lieutenant...
"I did it. It was my sword, I did it," Menelglir says, stepping directly into Aearon's path. "The Southron insulted the lady, she lost her temper and tried to take my sword but she is not responsible for what happened."
Waving off the barmaid and walking directly up to Menelglir to the point where his face is only inches from his. Aearon says in a voice that is almost a growl "SIT DOWN, I will get to you.." and pointing to a chair.
Looking to the lady once more he says in a volatile tone "Speak, why did you attack a foreign ambassador?"
Amdil watches the entire scene unfold, and realises that it really isn't eny of his business. Turnign around, he returns to his seat by the bar, where another tankard of ale has been set down. With a grunt of thanks to the bar maid,he picks it up and begins to gulp. His fourth so far.
It seems as if Tathar doesn't even hear the Lieutenant she is lost in some other world of memory and shame. But Menelglir's words bring a spark of life back to her face and she looks up. "He did not," she says firmly. "I took his sword, though he tried to stop me." Aearon's roughly barked question brings a look of bewilderment to her expressive face. "I ... I didn't intend to," is all she can say. "He said a woman could not use a sword, that I lied when I said I could. I meant to show him he was wrong. I ... I didn't mean to hit him at all. I don't..." She stops, shaking her head helplessly. And very quietly, "I have broken my family's honor..."
Not protesting, Menelglir does sit, staying quiet. That is, until Tathar speaks, then he, too, speaks up. "No...he..the Ambassador, purposefully incited her. As he once did to me, provoking me to punch him. He insulted all of our women, said that we keep them as kitchen slaves."
.
In a very irritated voice Aearon says to the woman "If you want to spar, you go to the sparing grounds and you use wooden swords when there is no armor.."
Looking to Menelglir he shouts "I did not tell you to speak, shut your mouth."
Looking back to Tathar he says "Just because someone says something you dislike does not mean you can attack them with a sword, you do not see me running squire Menelglir through the middle do YOU."
Back to Menelglir he says with his hand out "Your sword.."
Tathar mutters underneath her breath, "I am NOT a kitchen slave." Hopefully, it was quiet enough to not be heard... But she says nothing aloud, only nodding her head in seeming meekness and acquiescence to the scolding.
"Sir," Menelglir says dutifully--despite having been just told to shut up. Except this is in response to the order for his sword he says it as he unbuckles his sword belt with a heavy sigh and hands it to the Lieutenant.
But, unable to keep himself from speaking, seemingly, Menelglir adds in protest, "But I didn't want to break her nose!"
Standing behind Tathar and Menelglir, Daerthor nearly chokes on his mouthful of ale. He rolls his eyes, inwardly.
Taking the sword Aearon looks back to the woman and says "What was that.." pausing "never mind, get up you are coming with me mlady."
Glaring at Menelglir he says "If you want this sword back please tell your Knight Lord Gwendion that he can come get it from me personally, once you explain what happened to him." pausing to scan the room he continues with "A Soldier, anger, or Knight should NEVER let his sword be TAKEN from him, EVER"
Looking to the woman he says "Are you ready"
"You can't take her!" Menelglir protests, jumping to his feet. "She didn't do anything wrong! Yildirim -told- her to hit him with the sword!" He looks wildly about the room, searching faces for some support int his.
Ignoring the words of Tathar Aearons eyes shoot to Menelglir when he speaks and says "Excuse me squire.. One more word from you and I will throw you in a cell and you will stay their until your Knight comes to get you"
Looking about the tavern he says in a loud voice "What happened here makes us no better than the southron himself, an inability to control ourselves when words were spoken..we are not animals here in Gondor!"
Finally looking back to Tathar he says "You are coming with me"
Someone in the back of the room - not a member of the guards - says, "That's true.. he did tell the lad to give the lady his sword and let her hit him." It's hard to tell if this is a helpful endorsement or not.
Tathar herself says nothing, only lifts her chin and steps towards the Lieutenant.
Annoyed with the situation, with his gluteus maximuses bruised, Daerthor loses the battle to keep his temper in check and takes a step forward, placing him right behind Menelglir. "No disrespect, sir," he hisses, "but please, shut up. You're just digging a deeper hole for yourself and the woman!"
"But..." Menelglir starts in protests, then abruptly shuts up, warned both by the Lieutenant and now Daerthor behind him. He sits.
Hearing the words of the man in the back Aearon shouts "Were you asked a question good sir? If you dont mind please keep your thoughts to yourself."
Looking back to the group before him he shakes his head and says "This is a mess.. What have you gotten yourselves into.."
"A moment if you will, Lieutenant Aearon," comes a voice, measured and calm.
Slipping through the crowd, unseen until the final moment, comes the young Lady Bragollach, apparently here through the whole ordeal. She glides to Aearon's side, dipping herself in a curtsey, "Lieutenant Aearon, it is well to see you again. I could not but overhear your situation here."
"I would ask you give me but a single moment of your time. Clearly you wish this situation to be dealt with in the most expeditious of ways."
Hearing the words of the lady Aearon turns to see her and bows his head says "Mlady, it is good to see you as well, although I wish it were better circumstances" pausing for a moment he says "Yes this is a ugly situation we have here."
At Gweneth's arrival, Menelglir hastily gets to his feet, at least recognizing this relation of his Knight.
"I believe no crime has been committed unless the Ambassador pushes his right for the crime to be prosecuted. This woman clearly is at her wits end and a cell would do little to that end. House Bragollach will take custody of the Lady Draudagnir," Gweneth says, pronouncing her family's name perhaps a bit too loudly, "And care for her. Should the Haradrim press his claim, she will be found there. If not, then she and her family will suffer no more from this."
She steps a bit closer to the Telpekhor, her voice lowering, "House Bragollach requests this officially from the Hosts of Gondor this boon. And I personally would be indebted if you granted to us as I believe House Draudagnir and," she adds with some surprise maybe to some, "House Nimothan would also appreciate the least public way in dealing with this situation. Standing here and debating her fate further is certainly only more embarrassment for those involved."
She eyes Menelglir, "As to the Squire. His participation will be noted to his Knight. Enough punishment is in that."
"Do these terms suit you, Lieutenant Telpekhor?"
Hearing the words of the Lady Aearon says "Yes Mlady. I had no intentions of putting Lady Tathar in jail, I as simply going to take her away from the situation and to the Ambassador so that she could express her apology and hopefully make the ambassador forget the situation." Bowing his head to the lady he says "No one will speak of this event Mlady"
Tathar looks up, surprised, as the door opens and Gweneth comes in. She is still silent, but as the girl speaks, a dangerous sparkle lights her grey eyes. "I would be most grateful for the opportunity to make my apologies to the ambassador," she says, a tiny edge to her voice, though words and expression both are most proper and lady-like.
"And my sword?" Menelglir asks quietly, looking from Gweneth to Aearon. "Certainly Sir Gwendion will know of my role here. I never intended not to tell him."
"Perhaps now is not the best time for another meeting. Perhaps he seeks not to see her for the time."
A gentle hand is placed on the Hosts shoulder, as Gweneth smiles, "Let me take her to a comfortable place and a night cap. You may do your duty and check on the health of our visitor and if he is inclined to see the lady to offer her apology."
"Please? It is not outside of protocol and is quite proper. Just some time for everyone to gather their wits. It is the best response."
With a nod of his head Aearon says "You are right Mlady" Tossing Menelglir his sword he says "The lady is right, I am sure you will be in enough trouble as it."
With a nod and waiting for nothing further from the Hostsman, Gweneth offers her hand to Tathar, "Come dear, let us find you some rest away from here."
Tathar pretends that she doesn't see Gweneth's hand, but she smiles at the girl and says sweetly, "Thank you, my dear. It is most thoughtful of you." And makes her way towards the door.
Before the Lieutenant can say more, Gweneth too makes her way to the door leaving him with a confused crowd and a forlorn Squire.
Madeleine finally appears from behind the bar, "So who's cleaning this up?"
Watching the ladies leave Aearon then hears the words of Madeleine and points to the squire saying "HE will take care of this for you mlady" and with that he leaves.
A little while later:
The door creaks softly on its hinges, the sudden breath of wind that rises from the yawning entrance stirs the common room of the Steward's Hearth freshness driving out the stale air easily gathered by many bodies and voices in close spaces. Yet, none enters yet, save for the large hand -- made larger by its trappings -- that holds that door ajar.
"After you, Sir," A voice says.
There is silence in the room inside - the breathless sort of silence that comes after a natural disaster, when everyone is too busy surveying the wreckage to speak. The door opens and every eye turns towards it and then they all break out talking at once excited voices a babble of confusion.
A laugh and then Sir Gwendion steps into the room, "Why thank you, good Sir. I wonder if anything is afoot this night..." the odd silence followed by the cacophony of sound gives the Knight a pause. Regardless he enters and takes his time making his way to the bar.
"Can you believe..."
"Did he really hit..."
"Blood /everywhere/!"
"I've never seen such a ..."
"He deserved it, he did!"
"... ambassador..."
Pausing upon the threshold, likewise titled, Findon's glance fleets over the here gathered, delaying momentarily on Gwendion's back. Drily he mutters: "Uncanny." And then he too enters, following the Herald's wise course -- t'ward yon bar.
The ensuing diarrhea of the mouth that has so suddenly stricken the 'Hearth does draw his eye ever and annon. "Any guesses as to what that might be, Gwendion?" He says voice raised.
"I haven't the faintest," Gwendion replies, sniffing at the air. He finds a seat at the bar and calls over the keep, "Maybe a wife caught a wandering husband with a mistress? I heard something about blood I think."
Madeleine has been as shell-shocked as the others - though with a greedy light in her eyes that tokens her busy brain storing all this up to dribble out later. But she is jolted out of her gawking when the two men come in, and hurries over to them. "What can I get for you?" she asks, and unable to resist, lowers her voice, "Did you /hear/ what happened? Is that what you came for? I think..." She raises her head to look over the crowd. "I think he's already gone," she says, sounding disappointed.
"Blood, eh? Not what I heard. Some deserving ambassador or other..." That trail of thought is broken off at Madeleine"No, miss," Says Findon as he leans against the bar, turned to face the pair. "Well, not I, in any case. I came for the ale."
"Blood, eh? Not what I heard. Some deserving ambassador or other..." That trail of thought is broken off at Madeleine's approach.
"No, miss," Says Findon as he leans against the bar, turned to face the pair, his glance settled on the barmaid. "Well, not I, in any case. I came for the ale." A soft sigh, and an eyebrow perched an unspoken query in its own right. But he says nothing more for the nonce.
"And I for ale and Madeleine's scrumptious madeleines," Gwendion replies in kind.
"For what reason should we have come?"
"Oh." Madeleine sounds disappointed, but she gives Findon a very friendly smile. "Ale then, right you are."
But this sounds more promising! Turning her attention to Gwendion, she says, "Why, it was your squire! That was why I thought you had come you had heard of it!"
A clearing of the throat, "My squire?" Gwenedion replies, his mood turning dour.
The other eyebrow arches as well, lending Findon a stark, if brief, look of surprise.
"Ho boy..." He murmurs.
"Well," Madeleine says, leaning forward (and showing a bit of cleavage), an eager light in her eyes. "They were all in here, just talking and drinking, when that man came in. The one they called the ambassador. That's when the trouble started." She nods sagely. "People started shouting and then that nice Lieutenant got them all quieted down, when she just snatched out his sword and /hit/ him! Cut him all in pieces!" she adds, with relish. "There was blood /every/where! They carried him out and the Lieutenant came back and just started shouting. That young Lady Bragollach came and took her away, and everyone else left too. I declare, I was nearly fainting!" She puts her hand delicately on her bosom, and sighs dramatically.
"Wait.. the Haradrim is dead?!" the Knight-Herald asks in complete disbelief. "Who killed him? Who's sword? Who... do..do you know any of the people involved? Where are the Hosts? When was this?"
He looks to Findon, "This... this is a problem."
Averting his eyes in favor of the crowds only a moment too late, Findon raises a gloved hand to his mouth, the clearing of his throat somewhat muffled. A shallow frown settles on his face, the averted gaze turned distant.
It fixes a moment later on Gwendion: "Indeed," He returns gravely. "If he is dead... Has it all been for naught?" The rigid, but not unkind grey gaze levels on Madeleine -- levelly -- expectantly. "Much rides on this. Please, tell us all you know, lady."
"Your squire's, of course," Madeleine answers, surprised. "That's what I said." She pauses. "I don't /think/ he was dead," she says slowly. "She was saying she would apologize, and you can't apologize to a dead man, can you?" A triumphant smile accompanies this bit of sterling logic.
"This makes quite a tale," Findon tells the barmaid now. "And, to be frank, it is all somewhat confusing."
"Why not start over from the beginng?"
"A moment dear lady before you start that tale. Find me a drink stiffer than this before you begin it. If none are dead, then drink before words," Gwendion says, then points to Findon's drink, "Make that two."
"Well!" Madeleine is all ready to recite her tale again - and quite pleased to do so - when she is stopped. "Oh. Well." A flashing smile. "Yes, of course, I'll be right back!" She hurries away.
Menelglir had the joyous task of cleaning the bloodied rag that he wiped his sword blade with. And then the other wonderful task of cleaning up the blood on the floor and then helping in the back of the inn to wash bloodied rags and mops. Sword restored to him and buckled at his waist, he now re-emerges from the back, a rather sodden, sullen version of a Blue Squire, looking as if he is ready to head to what he calls home in Minas Tirith.
Or perhaps not, as he jolts to a sudden stop on seeing the two Knights. And groans.
"I defer to your wisdom, Sir," Findon answers, a twitch about the corners of his mouth the quickest of fleeting smiles.
He offers Madeleine a subtle nod in acknowledgement. His glance once again passes over the vibrant customers, and it happens to pass Menelglir, and swing back, and halt. He lifts a hand pat Gwendion's shoulder lightly, head inclined in the Squire's direction. "A light in the darkness. Your Squire."
"Perhaps a shadow to darken my day," Gwendion replies.
"Squire come and tell me of this adventure. And why, again, the Haradrim bleeds due to your influence?"
In response, Findon's brows rise and fall. But he offers no vocal reply, sparse attention lent to his mild beverage, though his glance is chiefly held on the Telpekhor.
"Sir Knights," Menelglir says, the words a resigned sigh. With all the joy of a doomed man stepping to his execution, he walks over to where the two sit, then stands, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back.
"She took my sword."
A look to Findon and then back to the Squire, his hands lifting in question, "What does that mean? She took your sword? Why did she take it? Who is she?"
"Findon, has your squire had any Haradrim diplomats speared this week? I feel like you are missing out on the fun."
"Well, sirs...what do you know of the incident? The Lady Tathar was here with others, having some tea. And the Ambassador arrived. Words were exchanged and..." Menelglir pauses and clears his throat, reddening at Gwendion's question to Findon. "And the Haradrim, as he is wont to do, stated his very explicit opinions about our women. In this case, clearly implying that women of Gondor are kitchen slaves to the men of Gondor and should instead take up arms against the Southrons. The Lady took offense."
He grimaces.
"Great offense."
"Why, no, Gwendion. I have no squire to call my own the very reason for which I borrow yours time and time again -- for practise, of course. Sadly I am deprived of such jovial amusements."
"Ah," Findon comments then, as Menelglir finishes, "Curious." He looks askance at the other knight: "Is it too far fetched to assume this precisely the southron's design?"
"Design or no, we are better than he is. I ask a favor, to take my Squire again until we leave for Pelargir."
Gwendion frowns and little else, "I am too poor a teacher to keep you out of such trouble. Perhaps Findon will fair better."
"I am certain it was his design," Menelglir nods eagerly to Findon, opening his mouth to continue, then gaping. "But...but Sir Gwendion! I...I tried to stop her, but my instinct was to punch her when she grabbed for my sword. And then I checked because Ic ouldn't do that to a lady, and in that moment, she had taken it. And oen of the Scouts and I both tried to tackle her at once and got tangled up, and thus she hit Yildirim!!"
The words are a rush of protest. "It's not to do with your teachings!" Menelglir says, increasingly upset at this prospect.
"I shall try, if you wish. Pray do not expect overmuch, however."
Findon adresses Menelglir next: "There is a section in the book I gave you that covers the matter of keeping hold of your weaponry, Squire. Extensively. Page five through one-hundred and thirty."
"Do go on."
"There's not much more. The Southron's guards took him away, Lieutenant Aearaon came in and would have taken Lady Tathar and my sword, but Lady BRagollach intervened. Took Tathar into her custody and the Lieutenant gave me my sword back. Saying my Knight's reaction would be punishment. Alas."
Findon extends a hand:
"Your sword."
Gwendion watches the interaction between the pair, commenting, "I cannot say if it is bad luck, poor training or poor judgement. I do not think you meant harm, but I need some day to be able to entrust without hesitation as many lives as needed under your protection, Menelglir. You will not always be a squire, nor will you always have the excuse of youth. You are not the only one accountable for -all- of your actions. Every Knight is held accountable for his and the actions of his brothers."
"Too much is at stake now. I want....," a sigh, "You need to be better than you are. Spend some time with Sir Findon and learn his words well. When we reunite as Knight and Squire, we will speak more." He stands from his seat, looking to Findon, "I am sorry, brother, I have lost my thirst."
It's slowly and with sadness that Menelglir nods to Gwendion and then unbuckles his sword belt and hands it toward Findon.
"How long?" he asks both men. "And...never mind. Just how long."
A dry smile, and likewise dry tone answers Gwendion: "I find mine has grown worse. Alas! Madeleine will be displeased, though less so than I to be sure."
"When you have the heart for it, I'll keep the tab."
Wrapping then the belt about the surrendered scabbard, Findon turns an eye toward the Squire. "I will keep this. To the yards, half an hour. Bring the book." But the question remains unanswered.
The Herald is offered a nod. And Findon turns to the doorway.
"The sword will be returned when Findon returns it."
"As for myself, I will take responsibility for you once more ere we leave for Pelargir," Gwendion says, another long sigh.
"Be well, Squire." With that, slow and heavy steps take the Knight-Herald from the tavern and out into the night.
Menelglir swallows hard, watches wendion go, but speaks nothing else, the look on his face enough. With difficulty he turns back to Findon, then just nods. He's out the door as fast as he can, cuffing at something on his face. Possibly streaks of tears
