(Archive) Barad Nimothan

Barad Nimothan - Great Hall

The entire breadth of the tower at this level is devoted to a great hall, decorated with many tapestries and paintings dipicting the past Lords and prominent figures among the Nimothan. A large table, suitable either for feasting or casual occupancy occupies the center of the room, and chairs and various tables line the walls. A stairway leading into the upper reaches of the tower, occupies most of the Southern face of this room, and near the foot of the stairs, double doors, each inlaid in guilded bronze and silver depicting a white ram atop a mountain peak offer entrance to the private audience chamber used by the house Lords and other officials for conducting that part of house business which must take place behind closed doors. To the right of the guilded doors is what would appear to be a dressing table, complete with mirror.

Contents:

Gweneth

Tamran

Faengor

Kalenar

Durandir

Obvious exits:

Guilded Doors and Gate

Faengor can be found in the grand hall of Barad Nimothan, wich even during the evening is lit brightly, with torches adorning the richly ornated walls, and strategicly placed candles can be found on the tables, both warming the people present and lighting the fortress and although there is no official estival going on, the tables are littered with wine and snacks, ready for taking, for such is the hospitality of the Nimothans -- Lobster thermadore! -- If one were to look for Faengor, they would find him neart the eastern wall, absentmindedly gazing at a single lit torch, his eyes following the dancing flames, a wineglass held in his both hands, casually sipping from it.

If your eyes wandered, you would see many different colours and textures. Knights and Lords, Soldiers in their finest, captured by the greatest weavers and artists in the realm -- and of course, the heroes of the house. However, against one of the tapestries, something stands out. Something that does not belong -- looking too much like reality to be the work of any hand, skilled as they might be. The figure is dressed in brilliant mail and winged helm -- keeping to himself.

It is a dreary night outside a dark sky thick with droves of ugly clouds that weep rain like torrents of tears that spatter sadly on the tall glass panes of the windows a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder far distant, but, ever closer, nearer. Surely, both ear and heart decieve:

Booming in the rafters, now like a drum, the thunder beats on the gilded doors! But wait. Why, if it isn\'t someone calling A servant goes quickly to the portal, turns the ornate handle -the door creaks menacingly on its hinges as it rolls open a crack- then flings the tall door open.

A thunderclap! For a moment, a tall figure stands on the portal, dark and dreary and wreathed in eerie blue light flashing through the windows, running with rainwater. A menacing hand comes out from under the cloak, reaching out toward the hapless servant, water dripping from the clammy fingers. He stands, stricken in terror as they tighten on his robe and pull him close a rasping voice speaks into the young mans\' ear, then

The young man stands away from the dank caller. \"My lords! An unexpected honour! Here is Anborn Dunadan of the company of Ithilien, who stopped here off the road.\" And the ladies catch their breaths, and quailing men sigh in their relief for it is but a sodden Ranger on the doorstep, wringing water out of his clothes.

Kalenar looks up to the cold. \"You are a ranger? Have you heard anything of the orks one thought he saw heading hither? I have made use of my time here, but my oath and loyalty are in Minis Tirith, and to that great city I should return shortly.

Faengor remains staring at the torch with saddened eyes for several moments after the quite breahttaking entrance of the Ranger, idly toying with his wineglas as he does so, remaining to keep it in his both hands, occasionaly taking a sip from it. Finally then he turns to the door, his eyes gazing at the new arrival with the same emptyness and drearyness in them, quietly staring at the stranger from a distance.

Suddenly, the mailed man walks forth. He brings one palm to breast, saluting the worn and muddy man like his own. \"Thou art Anborn of Ithilien? I am Durandir of Amroth. Tell me, \'ranger\' what hast brought thee here, and why does Anborn of Ithilien demand the services of the Nimothan? Where are your badges, sirrah? The proof man?\" The Knight stands too, observing every movement of the figure, and listening for his response...

*Drip* A puddle begins to form on the stone at the Rangers feet as he wrings his cloak and tunic dry \"Fie,\" *Drip* \"sir!\" He cries, \"What greeting is this for a wanderer blown in off the road? I see the warm hospitality of Barad Nimothan was very much exaggerated to me.\"

He points a cold, water-wrinkled finger out the tall window, \"Have you no eyes to see the weather with? That brought me here For I, a man walking the road -on such errands as I am not wont to tell- being a good friend of the lord nimothan, who in times long past did serve with me in the south campaigns thought perhaps to impose on him the luxury of a roof under which to warm myself. I say fie! Have you no common courtesy?\" He shakes his head woefully that all men might feel shame, \"Shame on you.\" He says, with a *Drip* \"Proof! Proof he asks?\"

Then the tall Ranger casts back his cloak the glint of steel beneath the ragged garb, his hand is to his hip, the other to the bow about his shoulder. One to the other, arrow to string he aims full at the table and the feast on its top. The wet string creaks as it is drawn, then sings as it is released! An apple rolls, split full in twain by the green-fletched arrow, now shuddering where it protudes from the upholstery of an empty chair. Anborn winces. \"Ah,\" Says he, \"It seems that re-imbersement for the chair might be necessary. But there is your proof, good sir. If there be none better!\"

Faengor stands befudled for a second, as he sees the ranger bring forth a bow, daring to fire it into a crowd and waste good food. Faengor continues to gaze at the stranger for several long moments, before finally taking a step forward, placing his wineglas on the table near him. With gracious steps does he then move forth to the ranger, as he clears his throat and speaks with a pure and clear voice, \"Let noone tell that the house of Nimothan is unhospitable, for we will gladly offer you a warm room and a roof to sleep under Ranger of Ithillien,\" The lord halts his words for a second to continue with a slightly darker and accusing tone, \"Yet I would like to request that you no longer try to proof your identity ranger, for such reckless acts are not enjoyed within the house of Nimothan.\"

The Knight eyes the display with cold eyes. As the arrow pierces the chair, he walks towards Anborn. His hands lower -- slowly to his belt, as if to draw. He extends his other hand... ...and brings it about in an embrace! \"Hail Anborn ranger of Gondor! The chair does not matter -- I am not truly of this house yet. I must recant -- I have wronged you, to see your skill shown, as I knew you would do when challenged. Come -- and of that you are wrong -- as I have said, I am not truly of this house, yet am welcome here. Eat!\"

\"Very good,\" Quoth the Ranger, if to none but himself peeling off his sodden cloak, he hands it to the door-ward, saying \"Mind it well, lad. That rag\'s been with me boy and man. Why, I wore it as I crawled through the sewers of Umbar and I wore it at the fords of Osgiliath when the dark horsemen came. Guard it as well as any treasure!\" Sooth, the cloak seems quite as fragrant as the tall mans\' boast, and the servant seems quite anxious to keep it at arms length as he walks it out toward the cloakroom adjacent. Quite courtly otherwise might seem Anborns\' garb he too, like his Knightly comrade has the benefit of mail upon him, and a sword is on his heavy belt he leaves his bow by the door, perhaps thinking that prudent. \"Indeed,\" Says Anborn, as he walks toward the laden table, \"It is by happenstance alone that I come by. I was travelling back into the south when the storm drove me off the road,\" He pulls up a chair, careful to pluck the protuding arrow shaft out of it before he seats himself. \"I might not tell you of the errand that I journeyed with but news,\" He rolls the gaze of his sea-grey eyes toward Kalenar, (using it to devestating effect on a few of the women folk en-route) \"News I have aplenty!\" That said, he takes a cup into his hand and drinks of it, before continuing. \"Though it be not recent, for I am quite some time abroad in Anorien.\"

It is at this precise moment that the guilded double doors open to reveal a tall figure garbed in black from head to toe, save where his tabbard leaves exposed links of brightly shining mail to gleam in the light of the torches scattered about the room. Large feet make their progress forward in boots of shining black, silent save the faint jingling of the metal rings as he moves out into the great hall, at home, for it is his in the mein, the Steward of Barad Nimothan, Rantaur, son of Urumir and Captain in the Minas Tirith Guard most often simply called \'Rorgan.\' Brightly shining blue eyes sweep the room for familiar faces, and spying the Ranger, Anborn, he shifts his path to move him in that man\'s general direction, yet he speaks not, nor makes any announcement of his presence beyond the solid \'thud\' of the doors closing behind him as he comes forward.

Durandir turns to watch the ragged cloak. \"Aye, your cloth, however dark and ruined, should be secure.\" He looks lovingly at the stranger\'s robes. \"I have never kept any keepsakes through the years -- I too have entered Harad, and pierced their Towers of power. I too, have been rode down by the Dark Rider and tortured by his hand. I do not have anything like yours -- to anchor myself to my past. Perhaps it is better, this way.\" The Knight swivels about at the sudden clap of doors, nodding to the man who enters. \"Hello Ro... father.\" He stands back, content to observe the coming parlay. Kalenar seeing the door close, he looks. \"Ah, captain. Good of you to join us. Sir Anborn here comes, and may have some news for us.\" He smiles, his young face bold, yet still feeling the scar from so long past. He looks from Anborn to Rorgan, and Laughs.

\"Two very different soldiers of Gondor are we, *Lord* Anborn and myself,\" smiles the Captain to Kalenar. \"But make no mistake: Anborn here is one of the best men I have ever had the pleasure of fighting along side. You could learn much from one such as this.\" Then he smiles a bit broader toward the knight, \"Good evening, son. Have you been keeping our guests well while I was correlating the progress made today upon the hills?\"

Durandir coughs slightly. \"Of course father. Nothing out of the ordinary. That chair was my fault.\" He smiles slightly. \"I persua... cohersed Lord Anborn to show his mastery of the bow. I should not have -- but I knew of his reputation, and desired to see it. I never knew a man could wield a bow so well -- if only the Enemy had more of this skill, armor would be a lesser burden on the smiths.\" He examines the seat with the arrow -- it has gone through four inches of solid oak. \"None would want it.\"

\"I don\'t know,\" Anborn laughs, \"there is a fine line between hygiene and romanticism and nostalgia. One day I shall get rid of the rag, or have it cleaned. I know not which.\" He stands as Rorgan enters it being rather expected of a guest to pay regards to the host, \"I see it is now *Lord* \'Rorgan\'.\" He smirks at some irony, private between the two. \"Where is Erinhaim?\" He quests, \"In some recluse? I have no word of him in some time now...\" \"Now, as for news...\" He seems to shrug, gesture expansively. \"However my good host may compliment me, I am but a poor soldier.\" Still women swoon, despite his modesty. \"Although, there is some truth in what the good captain says, I most likely do hold a small acerage of land somewhere that was bestowed on me.\" He waves a dismissive hand, \"But, I digress... I can say there is fighting in the north of Ithilien, and even with the southrons in the south. At least, that is how it was when last I walked beneath the eaves of the forests of the land of the moon.\"

Eyes cast toward the chair, Rorgan shakes his head, \"Say you that none would want it, so say I that you have earned it, my son.\" He smiles again now listening to the words of the Ranger. Questions first answered, Rorgan replies, \"Nay, my brother is here. Sleeping next to a fire, no doubt. But recently returned from a hunting trip of some notoriety out past the Nor\'eastern boundaries of our lands.\" Then a nod toward the Ranger as he speaks of the figting, \"Aye, word of such things as this have reached even my lowly ears. It was unclear for a time whether the Steward would have us out to the Crossroads in your succor or not, but all seems to be well enough now, else it would be Yrch heads and not apples your bow was smiting.\"

Says Anborn to Kalenar \"Such tales of darkness and woe I have as might rend your bones to water and wither your skin to ashes, friend\" But he offers a reassuring glance to those ladies present, each in turn. \"Rest assured I shall not further darken this drear\' eve with such stories.\" Some of the womenfolk seem quite dissapointed, others relieved. \"But,\" the Ranger sighs, \"I tire now. It is a cold night, and I was chilled to the core on the road.\" He stands, \"Excuse me, please.\" He says to Rorgan, \"I shall retire, if I may.\"

Kalenar Nods. \"I understand, My lord. I ask simply because I so hate that land, and there orks, so much. WHen war breaks, I will be ready, and die in that battle if need be.\"

With a chuckle, Rorgan responds to Anborn\'s request in soft tones, so that his words carry not to the others spread about the room, \"Of course you may retire, friend, and merrier company than this lot of dour nobles come from out of the woodwork would you have been even without your rest.\" Then he smiles a bit more brightly, \"As if you needs ask my leave. Make yourself at home, friend.\"

Durandir watches \'Lord\' Anborn woo both the ladies and the men. He rolls his eyes as the ranger begins an exit fit for a king. \"Excuse me father, I too, must leave -- I too tire, although in a different manner.\" He smiles, giving an extravagant bow to Anborn. \"Farewell ranger. May we meet again -- and thank you for boasting your talent so well.\" On his way out, the Knight plucks the arrow out of the seat, and puts it in his jerkin.