Elendor
Ceredir meets the brother
The brother of the captured Ranger Amrundirn has some choice words.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Minas Tirith
Game Date: November 15 3049
IC Time: noon
Description: Minas Tirith: Before the Great Gate
Long ago, the Kings of the Sea came and established the city before you, naming it Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. Since that time long ago, it had been renamed to Minas Tirith, the City of Stone, yet in shape it remains as it was wrought in the ancient world.
For the fashion of Minas Tirith is such that it is cut from the hard horn of Mindolluin and it has been built on seven levels, each delved into the hill, and about each is set a wall, and in each wall is a gate. Yet the gates are not set in a line and only by going back and forth through the levels with their walls of glistening black stone, cutting through the vast pier of rock whose huge out-thrust bulk divides the city can one achieve the High Court and the Place of the Fountain before the White Tower.
The light of day shines bright and you can clearly see the black clad soldiers marching upon the battlements, ever on the watch against the foes of Gondor.
Contents:
Ceredir
Cpt. Gurtir's Tent
Obvious exits:
South leads to Festival Grounds.
Stables leads to Stables.
East leads to Pelennor Fields: Crossroads.
North leads to Anorien: North of Mount Mindolluin.
Gate leads to Minas Tirith: Inside the Great Gate.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Clear
Time: Late Morning <11:14:39 >
Season: Autumn
Date: Orithil - November 15, 3049
Real Time: Fri May 07 20:04:53 2010
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
[Fin]
Bells toll high above, striking the hour of noon.
To the east: shadow upon shadow. It seems nearer now, more so than oft of late as it may seem to the folk who pass to and fro 'neath the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. The horizon thither is wreathed in vast plumes of smoke and cloud, as if the shadowy mountains were inept for the task of darkening the world of Men. But indeed, both are insufficient, shafts of light smite the walls and turrets and Mindolluin the Great the white city glimmers, its banners snapping in the northern breeze.
Men and women, huddled in their cloaks, hurry in and out of the city, under sentries' watchful eyes.
Yet, there is a veritable island of stillness in this sea of coming and going. Three men clad in black, with crimson dragons on their breasts and coats, one ahorse, coverse just a stone's throw from the stables.
"Aye," Says the one to the rider, "Sad to say I know little else. If not for this missive-..." Likely the half-curled parchment under the strain of that rider's gaze, just then, "...-that by rights should have gone to the Lord Cuthalion... I cannot make sense of it, Hildur."
"What use are you then?" Snarls the rider, lifting his weathered face to cast a glare at the speaker. Furrows sit on his brow, and foul temper in his eyes. "Go back to your fancy city and find me this scout Ceredir and if you cannot do even that, leave me in peace!"
"Begone!"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Master Scout Ceredir?" says a passing Scout who by the sheer luck of plot viability has managed to pass within earshot just when the name was pronounced. "You seek him? To deliver a letter perhaps?" the Scout, young, asks, grey eyes alighting on the three men, each in turn and coming to rest on the parchment. "Likely the Master Scout is in the barracks and can be summoned if you seek him?" he offers.
[Fin]
The two men afoot, Mormegil and Carmayar by their colors, bow their suddenly ashen brows and turn about with great swiftness venturing into the city. They pay the youth no heed in their haste.
Hildur however... His blackened gaze turns to this scout. "Ah, too young to remember the folly of Rithluzar's compatriots," He mutters after a brief weighing look as if to himself. And, slightly louder, on a tone wholly bereft of kindness, with a slight emphasis on the first word, he says: "Master, is it?"
"Very well, son, fetch him. Tell him Iarthol's son desires word."
He grates, ere a breath's pause as if the words come at a cost: "If you please."
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Too young and low ranked to protest, the young Scout simply nods his assent. "Iarthol's son...yes sir...Rithluzar..." He shrugs at that name and runs off.
It would of course, be several long minutes or more for Ceredir's arrival, for though the youth runs to the task, the Master Scout that now comes this way walks at a sedate pace. Not too slow, not too hasty, but steadily, seeking through the soldiers for Iarthol as described by the young Scout, who does not return. Still, the description must be enough: "Sir?" Ceredir approaches, with thus greeting stated.
[Fin]
And indeed, there is uncanny resemblance there. A face much reminiscent of one Ranger lost to the distant south but older, and wholly different. His eyes are cold and fey, slightly narrowed.
Yet, Hildur's tone is lithe as he answers, unsmiling: "You may dispense with the pleasantries, Master Scout. I do not hold rank in the Company of Ithilien any longer: I am not your sir." A measuring glance, quick and suspicious, pause by swordbelt and hands, shoulders, and when it halts at the eyes, it remains there, unflagging. "I will cut right to the chase."
And, though it is scarce conceivable, his mien darkens considerably and so too his tone:
"What have you done to my little brother?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Shock registers clear in Ceredir's eyes but he pushes the reaction down quickly to compose himself to calmness. "Amurindirn," he answers slowly, moments ticking by, was taken by the Southrons. "I have done no wrong and the Rangers, I may say, agree. Your brother...I have deep regrets that he was taken. I have offered myself in turn for him, but the Rangers will not have such an exchange. More...I cannot do."
[Fin]
A frown grows slowly on Hildur's face, dour and wry, even with Ceredir's response.
"How noble," he retorts then, with a changed tone approaching amiable, yet... dry.
The parchment, yet remaining in the Carmayar's grasp, crackles lightly in his tightening grip as it is waved lightly at the scout: "How is it then, that he -- woodcrafty, and a master of subterfuge -- was taken, and that you a mere scout, was not?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"I cannot say. The Southrons are crafty and cunning in their own way and we stumbled across two on the shores of the river. I do blame myself for his capture. You wish my death for it, too?" Ceredir answers, matching the dry tone. "If you wish, I will tell Captain Faramir to throw me off the Mount for neglect of my duty to protect my Brother Scout. Or I give you leave to do so yourself. If there is further I can do than offer you my life..." He shrugs, starting to turn back toward the city, half a moment's pause only for the man's reply.
[Fin]
A derisive snort.
"Heed, liar!" Hildur barks to the retreating master scout the volume of his voice stark and sudden in it's wrath, a sentiment that draws many an eye from the passing folk. Some frown and look away with disinterest yet others slow their pace to listen 'ere going past. All save a handful who stare at the Carmayar for a moment ere turning away frowning. "I know that one," Some say and spit, albeit quietly. "Oathbreaker."
But Hildur does not return the attention, gaze bent soley on Ceredir. "My brother knew something of yours, and I think you rather he did not. And you betrayed him for it. Pray I find no more than scant suspicion in his notes Master Scout Ceredir."
"Death is not enough. I will destroy you and yours, and whatever schemes you hide will be known to all."
The crumpled parchment is flung aside, and Hildur turns his mount and sets it afoot hoofbeats scattering dust in his wake as he, oddly, moves afield away from the city.
Long ago, the Kings of the Sea came and established the city before you, naming it Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. Since that time long ago, it had been renamed to Minas Tirith, the City of Stone, yet in shape it remains as it was wrought in the ancient world.
For the fashion of Minas Tirith is such that it is cut from the hard horn of Mindolluin and it has been built on seven levels, each delved into the hill, and about each is set a wall, and in each wall is a gate. Yet the gates are not set in a line and only by going back and forth through the levels with their walls of glistening black stone, cutting through the vast pier of rock whose huge out-thrust bulk divides the city can one achieve the High Court and the Place of the Fountain before the White Tower.
The light of day shines bright and you can clearly see the black clad soldiers marching upon the battlements, ever on the watch against the foes of Gondor.
Contents:
Ceredir
Cpt. Gurtir's Tent
Obvious exits:
South leads to Festival Grounds.
Stables leads to Stables.
East leads to Pelennor Fields: Crossroads.
North leads to Anorien: North of Mount Mindolluin.
Gate leads to Minas Tirith: Inside the Great Gate.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Clear
Time: Late Morning <11:14:39 >
Season: Autumn
Date: Orithil - November 15, 3049
Real Time: Fri May 07 20:04:53 2010
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
[Fin]
Bells toll high above, striking the hour of noon.
To the east: shadow upon shadow. It seems nearer now, more so than oft of late as it may seem to the folk who pass to and fro 'neath the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. The horizon thither is wreathed in vast plumes of smoke and cloud, as if the shadowy mountains were inept for the task of darkening the world of Men. But indeed, both are insufficient, shafts of light smite the walls and turrets and Mindolluin the Great the white city glimmers, its banners snapping in the northern breeze.
Men and women, huddled in their cloaks, hurry in and out of the city, under sentries' watchful eyes.
Yet, there is a veritable island of stillness in this sea of coming and going. Three men clad in black, with crimson dragons on their breasts and coats, one ahorse, coverse just a stone's throw from the stables.
"Aye," Says the one to the rider, "Sad to say I know little else. If not for this missive-..." Likely the half-curled parchment under the strain of that rider's gaze, just then, "...-that by rights should have gone to the Lord Cuthalion... I cannot make sense of it, Hildur."
"What use are you then?" Snarls the rider, lifting his weathered face to cast a glare at the speaker. Furrows sit on his brow, and foul temper in his eyes. "Go back to your fancy city and find me this scout Ceredir and if you cannot do even that, leave me in peace!"
"Begone!"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Master Scout Ceredir?" says a passing Scout who by the sheer luck of plot viability has managed to pass within earshot just when the name was pronounced. "You seek him? To deliver a letter perhaps?" the Scout, young, asks, grey eyes alighting on the three men, each in turn and coming to rest on the parchment. "Likely the Master Scout is in the barracks and can be summoned if you seek him?" he offers.
[Fin]
The two men afoot, Mormegil and Carmayar by their colors, bow their suddenly ashen brows and turn about with great swiftness venturing into the city. They pay the youth no heed in their haste.
Hildur however... His blackened gaze turns to this scout. "Ah, too young to remember the folly of Rithluzar's compatriots," He mutters after a brief weighing look as if to himself. And, slightly louder, on a tone wholly bereft of kindness, with a slight emphasis on the first word, he says: "Master, is it?"
"Very well, son, fetch him. Tell him Iarthol's son desires word."
He grates, ere a breath's pause as if the words come at a cost: "If you please."
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Too young and low ranked to protest, the young Scout simply nods his assent. "Iarthol's son...yes sir...Rithluzar..." He shrugs at that name and runs off.
It would of course, be several long minutes or more for Ceredir's arrival, for though the youth runs to the task, the Master Scout that now comes this way walks at a sedate pace. Not too slow, not too hasty, but steadily, seeking through the soldiers for Iarthol as described by the young Scout, who does not return. Still, the description must be enough: "Sir?" Ceredir approaches, with thus greeting stated.
[Fin]
And indeed, there is uncanny resemblance there. A face much reminiscent of one Ranger lost to the distant south but older, and wholly different. His eyes are cold and fey, slightly narrowed.
Yet, Hildur's tone is lithe as he answers, unsmiling: "You may dispense with the pleasantries, Master Scout. I do not hold rank in the Company of Ithilien any longer: I am not your sir." A measuring glance, quick and suspicious, pause by swordbelt and hands, shoulders, and when it halts at the eyes, it remains there, unflagging. "I will cut right to the chase."
And, though it is scarce conceivable, his mien darkens considerably and so too his tone:
"What have you done to my little brother?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Shock registers clear in Ceredir's eyes but he pushes the reaction down quickly to compose himself to calmness. "Amurindirn," he answers slowly, moments ticking by, was taken by the Southrons. "I have done no wrong and the Rangers, I may say, agree. Your brother...I have deep regrets that he was taken. I have offered myself in turn for him, but the Rangers will not have such an exchange. More...I cannot do."
[Fin]
A frown grows slowly on Hildur's face, dour and wry, even with Ceredir's response.
"How noble," he retorts then, with a changed tone approaching amiable, yet... dry.
The parchment, yet remaining in the Carmayar's grasp, crackles lightly in his tightening grip as it is waved lightly at the scout: "How is it then, that he -- woodcrafty, and a master of subterfuge -- was taken, and that you a mere scout, was not?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"I cannot say. The Southrons are crafty and cunning in their own way and we stumbled across two on the shores of the river. I do blame myself for his capture. You wish my death for it, too?" Ceredir answers, matching the dry tone. "If you wish, I will tell Captain Faramir to throw me off the Mount for neglect of my duty to protect my Brother Scout. Or I give you leave to do so yourself. If there is further I can do than offer you my life..." He shrugs, starting to turn back toward the city, half a moment's pause only for the man's reply.
[Fin]
A derisive snort.
"Heed, liar!" Hildur barks to the retreating master scout the volume of his voice stark and sudden in it's wrath, a sentiment that draws many an eye from the passing folk. Some frown and look away with disinterest yet others slow their pace to listen 'ere going past. All save a handful who stare at the Carmayar for a moment ere turning away frowning. "I know that one," Some say and spit, albeit quietly. "Oathbreaker."
But Hildur does not return the attention, gaze bent soley on Ceredir. "My brother knew something of yours, and I think you rather he did not. And you betrayed him for it. Pray I find no more than scant suspicion in his notes Master Scout Ceredir."
"Death is not enough. I will destroy you and yours, and whatever schemes you hide will be known to all."
The crumpled parchment is flung aside, and Hildur turns his mount and sets it afoot hoofbeats scattering dust in his wake as he, oddly, moves afield away from the city.
Players: Amrundirn,Findon,Ceredir
