[Archive] Alphros, King-Claimant of Gondor

The sun reaches its high zenith in the midday sky, reflected in bright swathes upon the flowing waters of the Poros. In the months of summer such radiance would be punishing to bear, but in winter\'s midst its touch is much kinder, deprived as it is of the burning touch of the midyear.

North of the Poros lie the reaches of Ithilien, where Gondor\'s strength is marshaled. South lie the open lands of Harondor, and -- in the distance -- the war camps of the Haradrim and their Umbarean allies, where many campfires and pyres burn.

It is from that direction that they come. A great shadow is seen first, far taller than any horsman, and soon it can be marked as that of a great mumak -- perhaps a battle-beast loaned to this host by the Desert Tower of Umbar. Around it is an entourage of riders, but as the mumak comes to a halt in the distance, so too does it entourage. Only a much smaller group of riders detaches, approaching the south bank of the Poros.

A horn sounds from the group, but it is no instrument of war but rather tuned to an ancient mode of converse and assembly. Pennants fly, and though the Raven of Farside is chief among them, so are the white flags of parley and truce.

At the fore of the group of riders is Alphros, mounted upon a warsteed. His bandaged wounds are concealed by the ceremonial mail he wears, and a long white cloak flies from his shoulders. With him write the trusted and the great of the Farside Tower -- Corsairs and other nobleborn veterans -- along with a handful of the Haradrim\'s chieftains, and a few others.

To Alphros\' right rides a woman clad in red-dyed armor. Several beaded braids fall down her front on either side. Kohl-lined eyes, narrowed in the bright light, study the far bank of the River Poros. In her left hand Azradi carries a furled banner.

Su\'ad rides next to Alphros, newly washed and wearing a new, clean cloak and Khamis of Farside, though the same armor she wore in the battle peeks through the gaps under the arms and at the hip. Her hair is neatly done, but pulled back hard against her head, giving her face a severe look. At the back it is twisted and knotted into an almost flower shape. The cloak flaps lazily about the rump of her brown horse, and at her side is a very ornately decorated sword, seemingly unfitting in comparison to the rest.

And upon the north bank fly many more banners, foremost amongst them that of the Ship and the Swan. Yet it is not the lone heraldry of the men of Gondor, for there whip the liveries of the Houses of Belfalas alongside it and those of the Hosts of Minas Tirith and their nobles too. On horse they ride, bearing too the white flag of peace, to the last vestige of shore before the Poros.

Nestled between the banners of Ship and Swan and House Bragollach is the Knight-Captain Bor, his eyes affixed firmly south. The crimsons of his livery catch the sun as he raises a hand to halt the company formed around him.

So far away as to be little more then a shadow within the construct of this most northern of arid Harad, or southern Gondor. Daerien watches with waning interest the approach of the strangers. A pebble lodged beneath his tongue to encourage saliva, his hand resting upon the pommel of a utilitarian blade of no remarkable quality. His body clothed in loose billowing brown fabric that swirls and clings to his ankles around the feet, clad in boots designed more for distant, cooler lands. The armor, if any were visible to view is most simple, secondhand with obvious rents indicating the previous occupant fared badly in some combat. The free hand raised to shield his grey eyes, though loathe to touch pale flesh badly burnt from being outside, even the scalp, with that minimal sprouting of freshly grown hairs resembles the hindquarters of a tomato. He is not here to take part in discussion, too far away to hear a voice spoken in anything less then a bellow, but perhaps just within reach should battle be joined and sustained long enough for him to venture from his distant riser.

Thingalad hangs around, watching the proceedings from the main party and keeping an eye out at these strange Southrons.

As the company of Southrons reaches the shores, Alphros stares ahead, scarcely blinking. For all the warriors and Corsairs and others at his side, his gaze seems locked upon the lands of Ithilien -- the lands of Gondor -- before him.

As the Umbareans and Haradrim reach the southern shore, there comes a final call from the chieftain who bears that horn of parley, and then the party begins to mount the crossings. Their destination lies in the Poros\' midst a low isle, almost entirely covered by water, at the heart of the flowing river.

Indeed, the Ship and the Swan are not the lone heraldry of Gondor embroidered in silver, the White Tree of Gondor stands against a black background, marking thus the presence of the Hosts of Gondor. Left of this, comes the standard of the Seven Stones Company, under which rides Gurtir, its Captain.

The man\'s visage is weakened and his left arm is in splint and bandage still, he sits straight upon his horse, and his eyes gleam undefeated. A lordly figure of unlordly fate in battle.

Side by side with the group led by Bor, his goes, coming to a halt nigh simultaneously. They watch.

Riding in amongst the various nobles, Midhwen\'s face reveals no emotion, although those who know her would detect a touch of unusual paleness to it. Garbed in the simple grey of the Healers, the one mark of nobility that this young woman wears is a heavy silver medallion around her neck: featuring the heraldry of House Cuthalion.

As Su\'ad\'s horse reaches the river, it balks for a few moments, unwilling to step into the flowing stream without several harsh kicks from the woman atop his back. But at last, once he\'s up to his knees, he settles down and continues with a trudging gait till the island shallows lift him out, which incline he takes with more enthusiasm. But Su\'ad will not let him step completely out of the water. Instead she sits the horse, her face impassive and grim.

Slowly Azradi\'s roan wades through the muddy waters of the Poros, rising up to her knees. The banner is kept rigid the pole resting in a cradle near her stirrup similar to the one\'s the Knight\'s use for their lances. Her gray eyes are kept on the Gondorians, her expression wary.

At Gurtir\'s side rides another, his horse larger than that of the man next to him, as his frame is no doubt more to bear. The visible layers of his mail shine brightly in the mid-day\'s sun, the silver embroidered upon his tabard hardly less so. Only his beard is visible beneath the visor of his helm, his face hidden well beneath. Unmarred by the effects of battle is he, and with a quit spur to the sides of his horse, does his pace quicken and lead him to the front of the Gondorian forces-- though not so far that he leaves them behind.

Upon reaching the water, his horse enters with no hesitation, and so does Phazganun, Lieutenant-General of the Hosts of Gondor, approach the isle.

Thingalad rides along and looks over at his fellow scouts, giving them a look urging patience and prudence as if to say, \'don\'t give them a reason.\'

From his hillock, the ant like forms of humanity draw closer. Daerien shifts the pebble to his cheek and swallows. Pulling up the hood of his cloak to let it lay low over his face, casting his features into shadow, resembling now some overgrown desert scrap dealer. He doesn\'t move much further, either from lethargy, or a desire not to attract undue attention. Lips part to hum an ancient nursery rhyme from his childhood: \"bird in the fire, mouthful of sand. king of the briar, mouthful of sand. the scale and feather, the lock and key. the lord of weather, the beast at peace. shed not a tear for humanity, go fetch my stars. shed not a tear for humanity, go fetch my stars.\"

Climbing from the Poros, Yildirim brings his steed parallel to Azradi\'s. He scans the Gondorian contingent, his eyes passing over each face in turn, \" I do not see the ones we faced before. I wonder if their wounds were fatal?\" He nods towards Phazganun, \" That one there. I think I heard the men speak of him. To face him alone they say, is to hand your life to the northerners.\"

\"DOOOOOOOOM!\" bellows a horn.

And following behind the Lieutenant-General comes the rest of the Gondorian party, their banners fluttering in the desert winds.

Reaching the low isle, the party of Southron captains and chiefs and mounts its southern flanks, remaining there upon the threshold. Above, among the pennants of parley and the Raven of Farside, flutter a dozen or more other banners. Those of Corsair captains, and desert tribes, and the noble houses of the Great City of Umbar.

As the Haradrim and Umbareans spread out in file along the south of the isle, Alphros urges his horse a few extra paces forward, so that he is at the fore of the wedge-shaped entourage of riders.

\"Who among count themselves to be the chiefs of the Land of Stone?\" he calls to the approaching party of Gondorians.

The Corsair woman does not look to the boy when he speaks to her, rather her gray eyes shift to the large man riding in the fore of the Gondorian party. She looks him up and down in appraisal, her expression curious. \"Truly?\" Azradi comments in accented Westron.

She falls silent then, when Alphros speaks her gaze shifts to him. Her banner remains furled.

Despite the words of the Haradrim Lord, there is no immediate reply from the forces of Gondor, and Phazganun simply continues to charge across the water. He slows his steed as they arrive at the island, turning quickly in a circle to gather a quick survey of the forces behind him. Satisfied, his horse is once again directed forward, and as he approaches the form of Alphros, so does he speak.

\"A leader of Gondor you seek, and a leader of Gondor you have found... and you would be he who has come to relinquish my lands?\"

As his speech is ended, he brings the beast he rides to a halt, allowing time for both a reply and the forces at his back to end their approach.

A mute crossing of the river. Water is the only speaker.

Taking his position by Phazganun\'s side, Gurtir\'s lips remain sealed as he regards the southrons in the best of his dignity.

Mounted and riding beside Midhwen is her cousin, Lord Mormegil\'s young daughter, Morwen. She sits her horse tall and straight, her garments as clean as the long journey here has allowed, and her head held upright as any queen\'s. Only her hair, and her horse\'s mane, moves as she watches the proceedings, bearing witness.

The Haradrim boy offers a shrug to the corsair, continuing even as Azradi focuses on the proceedings, \" I cannot say if it is true, I have not faced the man myself.\" He continues to appraise Phazganun, \" But I would say that a man is a man and any blade can slip through his ribs regardless of who he is or how well he wields his own. Arrogance cannot stop steel.\"

Yildirim frowns as Gurtir takes his position, \" Do you think there is a chance they will betray the parlay?\"

Bor remains back a bit from the forward van of Phazganun and Gurtir. He merely watches the proceedings, hawk-eyed and utterly silent.

By the gathered Scouts here, Ceredir catches Thingalad\'s look and lowers his hand, moving it away from the hilt of his sword. Yet his eyes are ever on the enemy.

A slight breeze makes the hair not under his helm flutter in the wind.

Su\'ad turns her head sharply as Yildirim as he speaks, and her eyes narrow. \" We will not speak that word here...\'betray\'...just in case.\"

\" But skill can stop swords,\" she replies in a low voice to the boy Yildirim. Her gaze remains on the leader of Gondor, but no longer appraising. His demand for the return of \'his lands\' elicits a snort, but she turns once more to the boy, \" It is doubtful they will betray us, now hush, and allow the Steward to conduct his business.\"

The veiled leader of the Haradrim regards those who approach him with unseen eyes, though his lips do twist into a faint half-smile, and he laughs. Alphros says: \"/Your/ lands? Praytell,\" he asks of Phazganun, speaking in the manner of the highborn of the South, still laughing softly, \"Are you the one who is named Denethor of the House of Hurin, the Steward of the dead Kings of Gondor?\"

\"You must now be told that I am Alphros of the anAzulada, of the Salkathorim of Aglarrama, and these are my captains and my allies.\" The Southron Lord sweeps a hand backwards to those in his company, and one of them speaks first.

\"I am Melkizidek, Captain of the Crusaders of Farside,\" speaks one among the puissiant Umbarean warrior-lords gathered behind.

Pulling herself up proudly, Azradi says: \"I am Azradi anAzulada, sister to Lord Alphros, also of the Salkathorim Corsairs of Aglarrama.\"

At this pronouncement, there is a murmur among Haradrim ranks behind the Farside lord and his entourage.

Gurtir listens to Alphros\' words still in stately silence, only a narrowing of eyes at the laugh. And if thus emotion was already flaring within his stare, it only grows as his eyes focus heavily upon Melkizidek. His right hand instinctively touches the splintered left arm.

Midhwen remains silent, watching and listening to the assembled party of Haradrim, the standards of both Mormegil and Cuthalion fluttering close by.

As Su\'ad\'s knees squeeze her mount, he dances sideways and tries to edge up onto the island proper, but she holds him by the bit. In a decent version of the common tongue, she says, \"And I am Su\'ad, War Captain of the Haven Corsairs, Commander of the Twelve Raider Fleet, Corsair of the Gimilzain...and other things long past.\"

Though hidden from view, there is a sense of bemusement to the Lord Ephalkhir, as he tilts his helmed head to the side at the words of Alphros. It is when the Farside Captain speaks that he raises a hand, a simple mailed palm pointed in the direction of the one called Melkizidek, \"I care not who you are, you will be dead soon enough-- and you are not your leader.\"

At the words of Azradi, Phazganun offers no reply-- not even a motion to silence her, but rather acts as though he heard nothing at all. His words, now, directed to Alphros.

\"And I am Phazganun, Lord Ephalkhir, Lieutnenant-General of the Hosts of Gondor. I am the closest to our Steward you will ever come.\"

Motioning behind him, much as his Haradrim counterpart, he continues, \"And these are my fellow Lords and Soldiers of Gondor. However, we are not here for measures of titles and displays of strength. Tell me plainly, Alphros of the anAzulada, why do you come to us under such conditions of peace?\"

Yildirim does not introduce himself as the Gondorian Lord brings the proceedings to a head, but he does nudge his horse forward a step, that much closer to the White Tree and the man who Stewards it.

As Phazganun\'s gesture introduces him, Gurtir straightens his back, his right hand going to the reigns of his mount and his injured left one retreating and resting upon his thigh.

No word still, though the temper drawn in his eyes is somewhat appeased at the Lieutenant-General\'s riposte.

Daerien reaches down to drag two fingers through the dusty earth. Slowly drawing circles in the sane he drops his pale gaze from those conversing in words. A handful of dust gathered in the palm of his hand, small billows of reddish earth swirling away like the pennons of some ethereal army of six inch high warriors atop the crest of his hill. The winds have forced enough of the sand into the air since he attained his perch, that, combined with the brown cloak has turned the man into a mattock of dirt and stone wrapped around the middle with leather and steel.

Another from the troop of Gondor speaks:

\"The Steward of Gondor stands not alone. I am Bor Bragollach, and it is I who commands the cavalry of the Lord Imrazor.\"

The young Knight rides forward now.

\"In debatable lands

Surrounded by sands

Through which runs a muddy stream,

\"We watch from afar

With visors ajar

As the Southrons... something...\"

Thingalad works on his little verse in an undertone heard only by those close by as he tries to figure out a good rhyme.

It is with some difficulty that Ceredir keeps from laughing at Thingalad\'s sudden recitation of a verse, but, being near to the man, he looks up and suggests something quietly. \"\"

At Phazganun\'s response, Alphros\' demeanor takes on an air of superiority aimed specifically for the Lieutenant-General. \"It is a pity, then, that the Steward on his false chair sends as his emissary one so unschooled in the ancient ways of the Kings of Men. The ways that unite us across war and borderland, Phazganun of Ephalkhir. Whither have gone the noble if misguided Lords of Old Gondor, who would cross blades with we of the highborn South, yet still deal with us in the honourable manners of treaty accorded to us by our great ancestors from the Sunken Land? Whither is the heraldry and pride of Gondor, to be so commanded by a crude-tongued?\"

Alphros\' veiled gaze sweeps across those gathered behind the Lieutenant-General, taking in the faces of both man and woman one by one. They stop upon the second man who rides forward to greet him: Bor. \"Ah,\" adds the Captain and Lord of the South. \"The Great Lord smiles on me, to have one among the chiefs of the Imrazori of the Shores here also. Then take heed,\" he speaks to both Phazganun and Bor, and all those gathered. \"For I have a treaty to offer you, and if you are wise, you will listen to what I speak carefully and consider what I offer, free from the shadow of thralldom that hangs over your Kingless realm.\"

He speaks also to those behind him, gesturing for Azradi, his sister, to join him at one side.

Thingalad nods. \"\" He shrugs and goes on watching.

Pressing her knees into the flanks of her roan, Azradi twitches the reins in her right hand and urges her horse forward and closer to her brother. Her gray eyes fall upon Phazganun and Bor her expression is proud and haughty.

\"\" Ceredir answers, voice carefully low as he speaks to Thingalad in the ranks of Gondor\'s men here. \"\"

\" Be ready, my sister,\" adds Alphros to Azradi by his side. \" Soon you shall understand what plans I have laid here, and what hopes I have for you and I and all those who would call us kin or ally.\"

Thingalad considers the words of Ceredir slowly and nods slowly as he looks at the women of the Haradrim. \"\"

Listening to the man\'s words, Phazganun offers little more than a shrug in physical reaction, \"Yes, Alphros of the anAzulada, you have demonstrated well your ability to use words as one who belongs in a great library rather than upon the field of battle. I am quite honored that you have deemed us worthy of such... speechcraft.\"

Again his hand is raised, and this time he uses it to make a dismissive gesture-- this one directed toward Alphros. Exhaling deeply, causing a few stray hairs of his beard to rustle, the Lieutenant-General\'s voice is heard again, \"Now, if you have sufficiently amused yourself, speak your terms so that we may be done here. I am not so amused by this sort of environment as you.\"

Tilting her midnight-tressed head, Azradi smiles slowly at her brother, her eyes shining. She grips the furled banner more tightly and turns her attention back to the men of Gondor.

Su\'ad\'s eyes shift toward Alphros as he speaks in her own native tongue. But if her expression changes, it is only toward curiosity. Then she eyes Phazganum carefully, noting his dress and bearing.

\"\" Ceredir speaks low still, but harshly, and he briefly glares in the direction of the Haradrim. He makes a motion as if to spit, but does not. \"\"

Thingalad shrugs again and waits. \"\"

Rubbing his dirty hands on his dirty knees, Daerien shifts slightly and then with an ease of motion he rises up to his feet, feeling the slightest of cooling touch from the breeze though the breeze stirs up more dirt, encasing his sunburnt face in enough dirt that he might walk the streets of Umbar with impunity, at least until he finds the baths. Eradicating a plant with the heel of his boot he starts to stalk across the ridgeline of the hillock. Keeping his distance still from the madding crowds he does manage a smile and returns to singing nursery rhymes to himself.

Yudas appears from the south, quickly slivering through the darkness in zig-zag motion, like a desert-snake seeking its prey. He uses a tall, black, staff to carry his weight forward, so that it gives his stride a certain inhumane eeriness under the moonlight. \"O men of Gondor\", he hisses hatefully, upon seeing the hordes of Gondorian fighters, \"How you feign bravery with the expertise of an actor, but then why does the stench of your fear flood my nose?\" He joins the ranks of his fellow Haradrim and leans against his staff, which now appears to have a BLACK EYE ornament on the tip. Consciously, Yudas points the eye at the Gondorians, and laughs softly, again speaking in a dark tongue to himself, or perhaps incanting some spell to an unseen accomplice.

\"I am certain they will,\" Ceredir grins again, answering Thingalad this time in the common language. But he does turn back now to listen to what he might of the negotiations, otherwise falling silent.

\"Having mastery in lore and speech does not deny one mastery of the blade also, Phazganun, thrall of Denethor,\" answers Alphros. \"Or do you weep behind the shadows of your helm, to see your strength cast back in tatters by the mighty of the South?\"

The southron lordling straightens then, and there is a potency to his mien, and to his voice a trueness of the blood of ancient Numenor, manifested here in one who can claim it to the equal of the highest born of Gondor. \"For know that the mighty of the South has come here indeed. Not only among the Corsairs and Lords of Umbar, and the chieftains and masters of the Haradwaith, but also we who call ourselves the children of ancient southernmost Aglarrama. Foremost we who are by right princes of the Salkathorim. We of the anAzulada, whom through the gift of old Queen Beruthiel were made great among the nobleborn of the South.\"

A fire burns in Alphros\' voice, though none can see his eyes or whatever mettle may quiver in them, or not at all. But something from the times before the Third Age rings thick in the air. \"I am Alphros anAzulada, heir of Tarannon Falastur the Ship-king, rightful heir to the vacant throne of Gondor. Rightful master of the realm and all its Lords and Stewards. From the exile of the South and the interregnum of centuries I have come to claim what is rightfully mine by descent from the Kings of Gondor of old, and so I claim the Throne of Gondor, the Winged Crown, and sovereignty over all its fiefs and reaches.\"

\"This choice I present to you,\" Alphros proclaims with finality. \"Ride forth and kneel before me in true oath, and I shall grant you reward beyond your compare, for I shall topple the Lords of Gondor who have wandered down their misbegotten path, and replace them with the faithful. Deny me, and perish and go to the fate of men unworthy. You,\" Alphros says to Phazganun. \"Ride to your old Steward and tell him of my coming or bring me my head and you and yours shall be raised to his mighty stead by my own hand. And you,\" to Bor, \"Tell the Prince of the Hill of my coming, and know that if he is true to his rightful King, and grants me the hand of his daughter in marriage, I shall made him a Lord beyond compare.\"

For a moment, Azradi stares at her brother in surprise - but it is swiftly gone and she raises her hand to pull on a cord about the furled banner. Cord and banner unravel. The sable cloth is caught by the desert winds and...

Behold! Revealed is the White Tree of Gondor! Instead of the Winged Crown and Seven Stars, however, there is a Raven with open wings perched in the heart of the tree!

Gurtir shifts on his saddle as he hears Alphros\' words, a yawn stifled by his right hand: though the Haradrim has the strong blood of Numenor in him, so has the Gondorian Captain, even if no Lord.

The final request, however, is met with cold silence...

Su\'ad\'s gaze turns to Alphros and she looks on him in amazement...like he\'s an alien foreigner...like he\'s crazy...then a smirk pulls at her lips, and unbidden a sudden laugh bursts from her lips, so short it can scarcely be thought of as a laugh. Suddenly her energy telegraphs to her horse, and he paces anxiously back and forth as she smiles.

The young woman\'s blank mask is shattered by Alphros\' statement, but the shocked expression is smothered quickly. Midhwen regains her composure, her eyes trained on the Lord Ephalkhir for his reaction.

To no one in particular, Thingalad remarks absently, \"\"

The terms are listened to, and they are met with silence. There is no nod, no shrug, there is but nothing-- not even the laugh one might expect at such a request. If there is a murmur that travels quickly through the Gondorian ranks, it is silenced as Phazganun raises his hands. It is then that he reaches over and removes his helm from his head, revealing his features for the first time. Cradling his helm at his side, and squeezing his horse tightly between his knees, he lifts his other hand from the reigns and points directly at Alphros.

\"Remember this face, you crazed speaker of filth and lies, for you will see it again when it is you who is made to kneel to me.\"

At that, he grasps the reigns of his horse and turns quickly around, riding back through the Gondorian ranks toward the encampment. Over his shoulder, a final word might be heard, \"Tomorrow.\"

With that, the Lieutenant-General is gone-- having disappeared easily amongst the Gondorians.

Thingalad turns his horse and spurs its flanks to get it moving back towards camp.

\"A pleasure,\" says Bor to Alphros, nodding.

\"Good day.\"

And reeling his horse about, the Knight-Captain retreats.

Su\'ad\'s horse splashes about in the water, and she keeps him in check for the most part, watching the enemy peel away from the parley one by one. \"Well, that went well, I think.\" she finally says in her own tongue.

With a final look toward the disfigured banner, Midhwen follows the retreat of her countrymen.

Yudas picks up a stone and flips it in his hand. He mutters to a Harad soldier to his left, \"Look at these pale-faced fools, kinsman. They appear to have spent more time grooming their hair, than preparing for war. What cowards we see see. What pitiful excuses for men of honor. Nay, these table scraps from Numenor are less impressive than I thought. But then, they know not what they do, nor who they are up against. With that, he throws the stone at the backs of the retreating Gondorians.

Daerien drops his hood, makes a rude gesture towards the Southrons. A smile on his lips as he stalks behind the crest of the hill back into the parched landscape to the north of the encampment.

The Southron Lord does not seem the slightest bit surprised by the Gondorian reaction, though there is an aura of disappointment about him. \"So the ravages of weakening blood truly have robbed Gondor of the power of speech, and of thought. So be it. We will write our treaty with blood upon the battlefield, and no book shall record the names of the fallen.\"

\"You speak the truth, Corsair,\" Alphros answers to Yudas as he spins his horse around. \"The mighty are more fallen beyond the pale. Let us ride, and prepare for war once more.\" He looks to Azradi and nods his confirmation, and his thanks. \"We shall take the land that is ours by right, as Corsairs and Lords and men and women of Umbar, and open its doors with a key wrought of the blood of the army that has denied us, and the blood of their cowardly people.\"

The royal claimant\'s sister wheels her horse around. She meets Alphros\' gaze and perhaps worry can be read there. But she smiles lightly and replies: \"As you say, brother.\"

Azradi does not question him. Not here. And as she rides, the new banner of the future King of Gondor flutters in the wind - the Raven taking flight.

Satisfied that all is done today, Su\'ad wheels her horse about and urges it back to the southern shore. As it climbs to the dry sand, she lets him have his head, and he charges off and back again, glad to be able to vent some energy. Finally she finds a good place, and dismounts, waiting for the Haradrim to return to their tents and fires.

Yudas nods a salute to Alphros, and lifts up his staff, waving the frightening Eye into the air with one last display of defiance against the Gondorians before turning back towards the south. He soon disappears into the darkness, with the rest of the Southron troop, leaving only his hissing curses and black incantations in his wake.

As the King of Gondor Claimant and his sibling pass, Yildirim falls in line behind, others following suit, as they head for shore and camp.

*** Scene location Change***

The entourage returns to the camps of Umbar from the north, and at their fore -- in his small company of Corsairs and other warrior-lords -- rides Alphros. The banner of the White Tree and the Raven still flutters above his head.

\"We are still of the anAzulada, and of the Salkathorim, and of Umbar and Farside,\" Alphros says to Azradi. And then to Su\'ad and Yildirim. \"We are all still of Umbar. But now we will ascend to what is rightfully ours. I will ascend to what is rightfully mine. And those who grant me their fealty shall be rewarded in the manner worthy of them.\"

Su\'ad is leading her horse now, her eyes trained on the ground as she walks. Clearly she is thinking, and the firing of the synapses seem to threaten to start a fire under her skull. She says nothing for a long time. Then she stops, and approaches Alphros and stands before him almost challengingly. \"I want to see you unveiled.\" she says simply.

Her eyes narrow, looking for something in his face...even through the veil, that she\'s maybe missed.

Slowing her horse as they reach the edge of the Farside encampment, Azradi turns her head towards her brother. \"I will be a long campaign, brother. Their numbers are dwindling but their land is large - it will take many to conquer and hold it and pacify\"

Her voice trails off as Su\'ud makes her demand and she glances between Alphros and the Corsair woman..

Alphros tilts his head slightly to look at Su\'ad. \"Why?\" he answers, equally simply.

\"There are some things that all men and women must keep to themselves. You have your secrets, Su\'ad.\" He says nothing more of why his veil would be accounted in this way, as he looks to his sister. \"And you are right, Azradi. But what is easily gained is worth little. And in the trials of seeking our birthright, we shall find greatness.\"

Su\'ad seems to like this reply from Alphros not at all. \"I would /like/ to think I know them all. Your secrets, I mean. I think that in revealing your face, you would either prove your claim true, or false. I cannot say which would make me willing to follow you more.\"

\"Doubt and fear have been our undoing in the past,\" Yildirim says, slipping off from his own steed. Brushing the dust from his hands, he continues, \"The Lord-Steward has made his motive clear before today, and you supported it then. What has changed?\"

\"What do you think you could see in his countenance that would prove his claim true or false?\" Azradi asks with nothing but curiosity in her voice. \"He is my brother we bear a likeness of sorts. What you see in mine, you find in his.\"

She shrugs and dismounts, carefully keeping the standard upright.

An just as the Harad army returns from battle yet another day, the Farside camp again buzzes with activity as servants get ready to receive their Masters, stable Masters the horses and the healers the wounded. Quite contrary to these, is a woman who stands by a tent and does absolutely nothing, other than sharpen a blade on a stone. \"Hey,\" she pulls a stable hand by his arm, \"What\'s happened today? What\'s the news? Did we defeat them, finally?\" And, to all these, she merely receives a shrug, before the lad jogs off to perform whatever task he was assigned. Scowling, Naureen spits on the ground and mutters a few pleasantries before she is about to leave, when... a certain voice catches her attention. She has heard this voice before. Dark eyes search for the face to whom the voice belongs and on noticing the Captain of the Corsair, she cants her head to the side and watches, for now.

Su\'ad turns to Yildirim now. \"I heard no intent spoken to ascend the throne of Gondor...as /their/ ruler,\" she says to him, then she looks at Azradi. \"\'Your brother\'...that is news as well. And I believe that if I but look...that I would...just /know/ its truth...if it is truth.\" She stares at Alphros again for a long time.

\"The truth of my lineage is writ in my blood, Su\'ad. In my voice. In my father\'s name and my sister\'s name. In the Curse of Beruthiel, that has weighed on my shoulders since the day of my birth. In the tale of the Queen who Tarranon Falastur cast off from Gondor, still heavy with a son whose blood ennobled our bloodline. If you doubt me, so be it. But I shall do nothing at your command.\" Alphros lifts a hand, touching the corner of his mouth lightly. \"If you wish to see my face, then I will ask a heavy price of you too. But such will only transpire in the shadows, where we are alone and the truth may ring clearly in the darkness.\"

The self-named Lord and now self-named King turns to look at the other Corsairs. \"For your faith, I praise you, Corsairs. Even should you care not for my claim and my intent, I have not lied to you. I have not lied about my wish to restore the righteous Lords of Umbar to their place. I have not lied about my ambitions, for I have no Imperial claims, merely the restoration of what once was. What was once right. Even if you should shirk my Kingship, you are still Corsairs, and I would make you all kings and queens of the seas.\"

As they near the camp, Alphros adds. \"We shall speak alone of this, Su\'ad. Later.\" The mounted troop nears Naureen, the new standard of the White Tree and Raven still flying high above them.

Su\'ad listens to Alphros\' explanation...his history...and as he makes his case, her face changes slightly...just a little softening of her countenance. Once he is done, she nods once. They /do/ need to speak alone. But first... \"I need to take a walk.\" she announces suddenly. But rather than doing so, she puts a foot in the stirrup and grabs the pommel of her saddle, and swings aloft with energy and ease, and wheels the horse about once, before spurring him off in some random direction. Apparently the horse needs to take a walk too.

\"And I must patrol. My Lord-Steward,\" Yildirim says, with a nod. \"Lady Azradi,\" with an accompanying nod, the boy takes to his horse once more and moves out to complete the rest of his day\'s duties.

\"We should talk alone, too,\" Azradi says, watching the other Corsair ride off. She turns back the lord-Steward. \"But not now you should rest.\"

\"She glances to his body where, beneath his ceremonial armor, are wrapped bandages. \"How are you feeling? Should I fetch a healer?\"

\"Good day, Yildirim,\" she says when the boy takes his leaves. Then she laughs lightly, \"Lady. I shall have to get used to the title once more.\"

\"But as I was saying...a healer, brother?\"

The words carry over to the woman by the tent easily enough, because Naureen is not too far away from the conversation. Brows are arched upon hearing the news, but otherwise there is no other reaction from the woman. The knife is still sharpened, even as her gaze wanders from the stone to the Lord of Farside and the Corsair Captain. However, upon hearing THE surprise of all surprises, Naureen\'s hand misses its mark as the blade slashes away from its course and runs along her hand. Of course, such injury cannot go without a good shout of pain when Naureen curses to no one in particular, \"OUCH! In the name of your fatherless children, you son of a... \" Oops! On realizing there were a few gazes cast in her direction, she quickly wraps the hand in the corner of her scarf as she tries to disappear behind the tent, hopefully, without drawing any more attention.

Alphros watches the others part from his company, and he nods thoughtfully to his sister. \"The wound aches a terrible rune has been writ upon my chest by the talon\'s marks. A healer must see it,\" he agrees, a little regretfully.

\"Can you fetch a healer, sister, and help me down from my steed?\" he asks of Azradi.

They are now in the heart of the Farside encampment where stand the tents of the commanders and the healers. Two young boys rush forward to take the lord and lady\'s steeds.

Azradi offers her reins to one of the boys and heads towards her brother. Espying the woman disappearing into her tent, she calls out to her, \"Is there a healer nearby?\"

The Corsair does not wait for an answer but comes close to her brother\'s side and reaches up, offering her arms to lean on.

Alphros accepts Azradi\'s arm as he lowers himself from his steed as best he can. Despite all his efforts he grits his teeth and lets out a load moan of pain. Once upon the ground, a pair of squires emerge to assist him out of his heavy ceremonial armour, and while this is occurring, he looks back to Azradi.

\"We must prepare for battle again soon. The Gondorians will strike at us, or we shall seek them out in their rotting forest lands.\"

A healer, a healer. No, there isn\'t a healer nearby. But--wait! What do we have here? As Naureen shyly comes forward, she dips low as she introduces herself to the new claimants to the Winged Crown of Gondor. \"My Lord, My Lady...\" she smiles sweetly and says, \"The healers of Farside were sent by My Lord\'s underling to see to the injuries of the Corsairs.\" And here she sighs long and hard. \"There was a lot of blood and there were many wounded. And the dead,\" She gasps and holds her words, while only shaking her head. As downturned eyes rise to see the veiled face of Alphros, Naureen adds, cautiously, \"If I may, however, assist...\" she offers, suddenly biting her lips dare she make an offer which surpasses her expertise. Black eyes flicker and gaze upon the faces of the Lord and his \'sister\'. \"Just until the healers are back to tend to you...\"

Azradi does not stray from her brother\'s side. She stays very close, hovering in case he has need of her assistance. \"See a healer today and rest, tomorrow call your commanders and plan - they maybe as eager to meet us in battle as we are them, but they are as hurt as we are too - if not more.\"

\"Let those of less wounded run sorties against them while we recover.\" She grins, \"That is if a future Princess of Gondor is allowed to ply her sword.\"

The anAzulada lady frowns at the woman and looks her up and down. \"If you can clean a wound, change a bandage and perhaps apply something to help him heal...you\'ll do.\"

Alphros nods in agreement with Azradi\'s latter statement now that he is back upon his feet, and pain flows freely through him in the absence of the adrenaline of the Poros, he seems eager to have his wound tended to. \"Stay with me, sister,\" he says to Azradi in simple entreaty as he looks to Naureen.

\"Whither we go, healer?\" he asks of her. \"You have my thanks.\"

Holding the almost bleeding hand behind her back, Naureen nods her head and says, \"My Lady allows me great indulgence to serve My Lord Farside,\" No, she does not use all his other titles especially not his brand new and shiny title of King of Gondor. Looking at a maid who is standing outside the healers\' tent, she waves a hand and mutters some quick directions, only to have the woman return with a box. \"If My Lord would want to rest inside a tent, then we can attend to the injuries there. The dryness in the air of the desert, My Lord,\" she looks around and sniffs the air, \"It would not help your wounds heal as quickly.\"

\"Forever,\" Azradi answers, smiling fondly at her brother. She listens to the woman and nods, but her reply is directed to Alphros. \"Your tent, Lord-Steward.\"

She leads the way.

*** Scene location change ***

Once inside the tent, Naureen sits down and opens the box. She removes a few bottles, a thick roll of bandages and one very smelly, very green looking paste of some kind. \"I have seen my mother do this,\" she smiles, \"She was a healer, you see. She worked in the house of,--\" and chuckling, she shakes her head. \"Ah well, he is dead now anyway, so names would be meaningless.\" Unwrapping the bandage, she looks to Alphros and says, \"If My Lord would be kind enough to remove his tunic, I could see the nature of his injuries...\" Hesitant fingers move towards Alphros\' body, but she doesn\'t get all touchy-feely just yet so as to allow the man the opportunity to undress himself, if he so chooses.

Thus guided, Alphros follows his sister and the healer into a tent and takes a seat upon a large chest the process of removing his tunic is slow and painful, and it reveals thickly-wrapped blood-soaked bandages that enshroud the great eagle-wound upon his chest.

\"What is your name?\" he asks of the healer absent-mindedly as he lets her go about her task.

Off to one side, Azradi unbuckles the straps of her helmet and pulls it carefully from her head. At the sight of Alphros\' wounded body, she inhales sharply. Tossing her helmet to the ground, she watches the healer\'s daughter keenly, wrinkling her nose as the aroma from the green paste reaches her.

Naureen is quite engrossed in examining the eagle-made wound on the Tower Lord\'s chest, and completely ignoring his question, she goes about removing the bloodied bandages. \"Tsk,\" she comments, \"Such poor work they did of binding your wounds, My Lord,\" And as her brow furrows with lines that etch deep into her skin, she shakes her head, \"They should have cleaned and dried your wounds before putting the slave. Now,\" she eyes Alphros, \"I will be surprised if your wounds don\'t fester. If I were you, My Lord, I would not allow this ill-treatment of my wounds to pass unpunished.\" Wiping the injuries with sheep\'s wool and gauze mildly soaked in alcohol, the girl continues to clean the gash until the area is dry.

\"Noted,\" Alphros mutters under his breath as Naureen attends to her week, gritting his teeth but never making to remove his veil. At one stage he asks again:

\"Your name, healer?\" perhaps he\'s insistent, or perhaps it\'s just something for him to focus on while he suffers through the pain of the treatment. \"If I know who I am to punish, I must know who I am to thank for that wisdom.\"

Frowning and looking dubious, Azradi watches the woman clean her brother\'s wounds. She sits on the edge of Alphros\' bed and begins unbuckling the cuisses on her legs. \"If the paste is wet also, what difference does it make if the wound was still damp but clean?\"

Her frown deepens, \"Must you use such a harsh cloth with which to clean him?\"

Now that the wound is clean, Naureen is finally able to put more notice to Alphros\' words. \"Oh,\" she blushes, \"My name, my Lord, is Naureen.\" She eyes him and dark eyes narrow with uncertainly, even as her hands steadily work on the injuries. \"I am known by other names in the city, though. Some call me Noor, Mistress of the Merchant quarters, while others call me Rina, Madam of the Dark Den.\" Picking up the platter of paste, she takes a huge heaping and says, \"This will prickle and burn,\" and slathering the gash with a huge helping of the green goo, the woman spreads it over the wound.

Alphros smiles slightly at his sister\'s protectiveness he does not complain, but nor intercede.

\"You have many names,\" he notes to the healer, \"For many different activities. Are you also a soldier of Old Umbar, to be here so near to the battlefront?\" he adds wryly, before wincing in preparation for the sting...

When it actually comes, a load, shuddering moan is Alphros\' response to the healer\'s ministrations, though he does his best not to clutch at his side.

Upon hearing the words of Azradi, Naureen holds back her hand. Her work on the wound is still not complete, and yet she stops. Smiling sweetly, she looks at the sister of the soon-to-be King. \"If My Lady would rather wait for the healers,\" she arches a shapely brow, \"Or better yet,\" she holds out the smelly paste towards Azradi. \"Perhaps I could learn a thing or two.\" As for being a soldier. Err--yeah, nothing about Naureen looks soldier-like, and yet one may never know.

With narrowed eyes, Azradi glowers at the women for several long moments. Then: \"Finish it! But gently!\"

She reaches for the buckles that fasten the ailettes and vambraces to her arms.

Alphros looks between the two women at the exchange, but says nothing-- he can\'t help but chuckle at his sister\'s glower, though that chuckle instantly turns into another moan as the pain returns in full force.

\"Aye, Naureen,\" he agrees in a faint voice. \"Finish it as quickly as you might and you will have my gratitude.\"

After applying the paste as neatly and quickly as possible and wrapping up the wounds with diligent care, Naureen the packs the box and its contents. Now, rising, she bows graciously to the Lord Farside. Her hand is extends towards him, and on his side she puts down what looks like tree bark. \"Chew it,\" she says, \"It won\'t taste well, but it will help with the pain.\" And with that, the woman takes her leave.

fini