Elendor
The Pretender Chronicles: To Tirith Annun
Ranger Amrundirn orders Master Scout Ceredir to march south with him to Tirith Annun to settle the Ranger's suspicions
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Minas Tirith
Game Date: January 13, 3047
Description: [Minas Tirith City ZMO(#81)->Ceredir]
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Weather: Cloudy
Time: Mid Afternoon <16:12:51 >
Season: Winter
Date: Oraearon - January 13, 3047
Real Time: Wed May 27 11:04:17 2009
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Card Failin
The building opens into one long room with a high ceiling. The walls are whitewashed with black beams bracing all. Two large alcoves open in the center, with wooden pillars sitting before the open space. This is where the men are meant to sleep, for many beds are arrayed in orderly rows, a chest sitting at the foot of each.
At the ends of the hall, beyond the long table that stretches along its center, the two wings of the building stand open. At its Easternmost is where the Captain dwells, his only privacy afforded by a drawn curtain. The Western end is empty. A trapdoor stands leading to the kitchen, victuals and the armoury.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
Rain hammers mercilessly upon the high arched windows, the sound of which likens pebbles more than drops of water, as if sent to shatter them. The gusts of wind that, lessened by walls and windows and doors fly light through the halls of the Company of Ithilien cause curtains to waver lightly, and flames to stir and flutter, and that door creaks upon its hinges in its effort to withstand the weather. Thunder cracks overloud now and again, bathing the Card Failin in sudden brightness.
Gondor has seldom seen such a storm.
Amrundirn Carmayar sits shrouded in the faint gloom of candle-light over yonder, bent over parchments that lie still, weighed down here by a knife, there by a candle-stick, there by a green gauntlet and there again by his own hand, presently scribbling precise notes.
The halls seem otherwise still. Men rest -- such as they can find -- in this late hour.
The door slams open, caught by the wind and driven into the wall as a figure darkens the doorway. Shrouded and hooded in an oilcloth cloak, the man steps inside, black gauntleted hands losing their initial grasp on the door but then finding it and closing it firmly shut against wind and rain once more--too late to stop a gust of icy rain from being driven inside by an icier wind.
The man stamps his feet once the door is secured, shivering for a moment before first pulling off his gauntlets. One hand, the left, missing the ring finger, pushes back his hood, revealing dark hair, damp from the rain despite the hood.
"Sir." Ceredir nods his acknowledgement of the Ranger, then shrugs off the cloak and hangs it on a peg on the wall to drip.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Hm."
The Ranger's brow furrows, and his work shivers in the cold air. But not he. The quill is set aside, in the inkpot thither that holds one parchment in place and Amrundirn reaches into the bowl stood beside it retrieving a pinch of sand which is strewn over his newly finished work. "I have been expecting you."
His voice is raised somewhat but the tone is not unkind all the same. Nor is it kind neither, for that matter. The parchment is shaken once, 'ere returned to the tabletop. He grasps another, rolling it tightly and reaching for a ring -- his seal -- even as he continues: "Have a seat. We have a grave matter to dicscuss." And through all this, he does not lend Ceredir so much as a glance though his eyes have grown hard and cold.
That is, until this moment his gaze level and firm on the Master Scout's face: "Much depends upon the outcome of it."
"Sir...?" Ceredir turns from hanging his cloak on the peg, the gauntlets also set out likewise to dry as he then begins to unbuckle his sword belt. His expression in return is a frown, a crease of worry that lines his forehead, but he nods dutifully and approaches the Ranger, kicking out a stool, upon which he sits. The weapons belt is laid upon an open area of the table.
"I am ready to answer questions, Sir."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
The Ranger's left eyebrow arcs upward, even as his voice lowers considerably, and he pauses his movements simply staring at the other:
"Here? That would be foolish, even for you."
'Ere a moment, he shakes his head very lightly scarce notable save for the swaying of the raven black tresses that curtain his weathered face, and his glance shifts to the nearest candle its wax dripped over the rolled parchment and sealed. Again, his brow furrows. "T'is said you were caught by the corsairs."
And as Amrundirn's glance settles on Ceredir once more, he concludes: "Again."
"Foolish?" Ceredir's expression of concern does not shift over this assessment, but he nods slowly after a moment, in agreement. "Likely so, sir, yes."
"North of the Poros, a party of Southrons brazenly logging in Ithilien." His mouth settles into a straight line. "They tracked us northward and trapped us in open ground."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Hm."
"Peculiar. It reminds me of..." A sigh, and another parchment is grasp, rolled, and sealed in like manner but with a different seal. Again Amrundirn shakes his head. "What was their purpose?"
The Master Scout clears his throat. Nervously? Or a cough from the work of roaming the lands in the rainy winter weather?
"That they did not say, sir, though I can speculate. They questioned me or tried to, on the strength of our fortifications in the Poros. And when I did not answer, their leader--a woman named Eruphel--was going to sacrifice me to her gods."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Sacrifice, eh?"
The work of sealing parchments goes on hastily. There are only two left. It seems Amrundirn's focus is turned on this for the moment, but though he does not look at the man, his tone remains firm and acute. "Very well, Ceredir. Speculate."
"This woman, Eruphel...she knows me by sight. And I believe that she led a party to specifically track me down because of that--knowing that I am a junior officer and might know of our Company's plans," Ceredir replies after a small pause. His words, though, are spoken slowly, as if he is just now considering why he might have been so targeted. And spoken in a low tone, as well, so as not to carry through the barracks.
"Perhaps also...perhaps she thought I was not lying when we last infiltrated their camp and posed as supporters of this Alphros."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
The ranger's hands pause and his gaze lifts from the seal that is pressed against the last missive. His gaze is a mirrage of the storm without cold, ruthless and harsh, and yet... There is a strange calm about it. For a long while that gaze lingers.
But at length, Amrundirn Ranger stirs. "Say no more," He answers, in a voice that brooks no challenge one that is accustomed to command and being obeyed. "Settle whatever business you have here tonight."
"We leave for Tirith Annun in the eleventh hour tomorrow. There, you will tell me all."
"Tirith Annun, sir? Why there in particular? And I _have_ told you all. Everything. There is nothing that you do not know, sir."
Ceredir's voice is plain, his expression open and sincere.
"You are the only one who knows about..." his head tilts slightly to the arm that is branded.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"You have not!"
The Carmayar's voice flares hot for the duration of these three words and in the nearest cot a man stirs, roused by the Ranger's sudden ire. A crack of thunder fills the void that follows his outburst, and his glance flickers down to the side. A breath drawn through the nose, and released. And on a much quieter note, he says: "It is not for you to question your orders. Eleventh hour, by the great gates with supplies to last you a fortnight. Understood?"
"Master Scout Ithilmir!"
A man over yonder looks up, and approaches slowly.
"Aye sir, the 11th hour." The words are said flatly, but in the brief flash of light that follows the thunder, it can be seen both that Ceredir's jaw is set in a hard line--and his face has gone pale. He stands stiffly at attention, not turning to the approaching Master Scout.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
Ithilimir's approach is then brought to a halt, whereupon he asks with an inquiring albeit brief glance at Ceredir, "How can I be of assistance?"
"Take these," Amrundirn says upon rising, with a gesture of his hand toward the missives now arrayed upon the tabletop. "The two on the left are for the Chapterhouse of the Swan, to be delivered into Arathis Isilrim's hands alone. He will find criteria under the seal of the Carmayar. The seal of the Mormegil must not be broken until these are met. Likewise with the two on the right, but deliver these to Lord Endaerion Cuthalion. Understood?"
"Yes Sir," Says the scout, and bowing, retrieves all four.
"Go now," Says the Carmayar, and so Ithilmir does.
His glance turns then to Ceredir, eyebrow raised. "Was there anything else, Ceredir?"
"No sir," Ceredir answers, resigned and a touch relieved as Ithilmir's errand is revealed. "The 11th hour. Dismissed?"
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Correct," The Ranger answers cooly. "Dismissed."
No other word uttered, Ceredir turns and wends his way into the darkness of the barracks.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Cloudy
Time: Mid Afternoon <16:12:51 >
Season: Winter
Date: Oraearon - January 13, 3047
Real Time: Wed May 27 11:04:17 2009
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Card Failin
The building opens into one long room with a high ceiling. The walls are whitewashed with black beams bracing all. Two large alcoves open in the center, with wooden pillars sitting before the open space. This is where the men are meant to sleep, for many beds are arrayed in orderly rows, a chest sitting at the foot of each.
At the ends of the hall, beyond the long table that stretches along its center, the two wings of the building stand open. At its Easternmost is where the Captain dwells, his only privacy afforded by a drawn curtain. The Western end is empty. A trapdoor stands leading to the kitchen, victuals and the armoury.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
Rain hammers mercilessly upon the high arched windows, the sound of which likens pebbles more than drops of water, as if sent to shatter them. The gusts of wind that, lessened by walls and windows and doors fly light through the halls of the Company of Ithilien cause curtains to waver lightly, and flames to stir and flutter, and that door creaks upon its hinges in its effort to withstand the weather. Thunder cracks overloud now and again, bathing the Card Failin in sudden brightness.
Gondor has seldom seen such a storm.
Amrundirn Carmayar sits shrouded in the faint gloom of candle-light over yonder, bent over parchments that lie still, weighed down here by a knife, there by a candle-stick, there by a green gauntlet and there again by his own hand, presently scribbling precise notes.
The halls seem otherwise still. Men rest -- such as they can find -- in this late hour.
The door slams open, caught by the wind and driven into the wall as a figure darkens the doorway. Shrouded and hooded in an oilcloth cloak, the man steps inside, black gauntleted hands losing their initial grasp on the door but then finding it and closing it firmly shut against wind and rain once more--too late to stop a gust of icy rain from being driven inside by an icier wind.
The man stamps his feet once the door is secured, shivering for a moment before first pulling off his gauntlets. One hand, the left, missing the ring finger, pushes back his hood, revealing dark hair, damp from the rain despite the hood.
"Sir." Ceredir nods his acknowledgement of the Ranger, then shrugs off the cloak and hangs it on a peg on the wall to drip.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Hm."
The Ranger's brow furrows, and his work shivers in the cold air. But not he. The quill is set aside, in the inkpot thither that holds one parchment in place and Amrundirn reaches into the bowl stood beside it retrieving a pinch of sand which is strewn over his newly finished work. "I have been expecting you."
His voice is raised somewhat but the tone is not unkind all the same. Nor is it kind neither, for that matter. The parchment is shaken once, 'ere returned to the tabletop. He grasps another, rolling it tightly and reaching for a ring -- his seal -- even as he continues: "Have a seat. We have a grave matter to dicscuss." And through all this, he does not lend Ceredir so much as a glance though his eyes have grown hard and cold.
That is, until this moment his gaze level and firm on the Master Scout's face: "Much depends upon the outcome of it."
"Sir...?" Ceredir turns from hanging his cloak on the peg, the gauntlets also set out likewise to dry as he then begins to unbuckle his sword belt. His expression in return is a frown, a crease of worry that lines his forehead, but he nods dutifully and approaches the Ranger, kicking out a stool, upon which he sits. The weapons belt is laid upon an open area of the table.
"I am ready to answer questions, Sir."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
The Ranger's left eyebrow arcs upward, even as his voice lowers considerably, and he pauses his movements simply staring at the other:
"Here? That would be foolish, even for you."
'Ere a moment, he shakes his head very lightly scarce notable save for the swaying of the raven black tresses that curtain his weathered face, and his glance shifts to the nearest candle its wax dripped over the rolled parchment and sealed. Again, his brow furrows. "T'is said you were caught by the corsairs."
And as Amrundirn's glance settles on Ceredir once more, he concludes: "Again."
"Foolish?" Ceredir's expression of concern does not shift over this assessment, but he nods slowly after a moment, in agreement. "Likely so, sir, yes."
"North of the Poros, a party of Southrons brazenly logging in Ithilien." His mouth settles into a straight line. "They tracked us northward and trapped us in open ground."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Hm."
"Peculiar. It reminds me of..." A sigh, and another parchment is grasp, rolled, and sealed in like manner but with a different seal. Again Amrundirn shakes his head. "What was their purpose?"
The Master Scout clears his throat. Nervously? Or a cough from the work of roaming the lands in the rainy winter weather?
"That they did not say, sir, though I can speculate. They questioned me or tried to, on the strength of our fortifications in the Poros. And when I did not answer, their leader--a woman named Eruphel--was going to sacrifice me to her gods."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Sacrifice, eh?"
The work of sealing parchments goes on hastily. There are only two left. It seems Amrundirn's focus is turned on this for the moment, but though he does not look at the man, his tone remains firm and acute. "Very well, Ceredir. Speculate."
"This woman, Eruphel...she knows me by sight. And I believe that she led a party to specifically track me down because of that--knowing that I am a junior officer and might know of our Company's plans," Ceredir replies after a small pause. His words, though, are spoken slowly, as if he is just now considering why he might have been so targeted. And spoken in a low tone, as well, so as not to carry through the barracks.
"Perhaps also...perhaps she thought I was not lying when we last infiltrated their camp and posed as supporters of this Alphros."
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
The ranger's hands pause and his gaze lifts from the seal that is pressed against the last missive. His gaze is a mirrage of the storm without cold, ruthless and harsh, and yet... There is a strange calm about it. For a long while that gaze lingers.
But at length, Amrundirn Ranger stirs. "Say no more," He answers, in a voice that brooks no challenge one that is accustomed to command and being obeyed. "Settle whatever business you have here tonight."
"We leave for Tirith Annun in the eleventh hour tomorrow. There, you will tell me all."
"Tirith Annun, sir? Why there in particular? And I _have_ told you all. Everything. There is nothing that you do not know, sir."
Ceredir's voice is plain, his expression open and sincere.
"You are the only one who knows about..." his head tilts slightly to the arm that is branded.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"You have not!"
The Carmayar's voice flares hot for the duration of these three words and in the nearest cot a man stirs, roused by the Ranger's sudden ire. A crack of thunder fills the void that follows his outburst, and his glance flickers down to the side. A breath drawn through the nose, and released. And on a much quieter note, he says: "It is not for you to question your orders. Eleventh hour, by the great gates with supplies to last you a fortnight. Understood?"
"Master Scout Ithilmir!"
A man over yonder looks up, and approaches slowly.
"Aye sir, the 11th hour." The words are said flatly, but in the brief flash of light that follows the thunder, it can be seen both that Ceredir's jaw is set in a hard line--and his face has gone pale. He stands stiffly at attention, not turning to the approaching Master Scout.
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
Ithilimir's approach is then brought to a halt, whereupon he asks with an inquiring albeit brief glance at Ceredir, "How can I be of assistance?"
"Take these," Amrundirn says upon rising, with a gesture of his hand toward the missives now arrayed upon the tabletop. "The two on the left are for the Chapterhouse of the Swan, to be delivered into Arathis Isilrim's hands alone. He will find criteria under the seal of the Carmayar. The seal of the Mormegil must not be broken until these are met. Likewise with the two on the right, but deliver these to Lord Endaerion Cuthalion. Understood?"
"Yes Sir," Says the scout, and bowing, retrieves all four.
"Go now," Says the Carmayar, and so Ithilmir does.
His glance turns then to Ceredir, eyebrow raised. "Was there anything else, Ceredir?"
"No sir," Ceredir answers, resigned and a touch relieved as Ithilmir's errand is revealed. "The 11th hour. Dismissed?"
[Amrundirn(#29212)]
"Correct," The Ranger answers cooly. "Dismissed."
No other word uttered, Ceredir turns and wends his way into the darkness of the barracks.
Players: Amrundirn,Ceredir
