Rocky Road to Friendship
A tale freshly told of the Gondorian
Words exchanged between Ceredir and Faelthelion, both of Gondor, switch from ugly to civil to tense. Two lovely ladies step in at just the right times.
Logfile from Elendor.
Starring: Midhwen! Gweneth! Ceredir! Faelthelion.
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Gweneth
The Young Lady Bragollach\'s svelte shape is matched by the curless, sable tresses spilling down her back, held back from her face by gilded combs. Even so, a few loose strands sneak their way across her proud forehead and slender nose, coming to end beneath her full lips, colored a deep crimson. Her eyes, rounder than her cousins\', sparkle with a mischievious wit and their stormy coloring.
Her form is that of a young woman, just coming into maturity. The line of her body moves down her long neck smoothly and flows into her shoulders- down across her proportional bosom and thin waist, only to fare out slightly over her hips. Her legs are taut and thin as well, and her petite feet finish the lady\'s svelte shape.
Gweneth\'s gown consists of a bodice of deep red velvet, with gold embroidery lining the edges. Her gown is sleeveless and hangs slightly off her shoulders. Her neckline is scooped, filled out by the help of her corset. Her satin skirt is woven from a shimmering gold thread with decorative piping on each panel. It flares out and about her, ending a few inches from the ground.
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Midhwen
While shorter in stature than most woman of Gondor, this young woman is undoubtedly a descendant of Numenor. She wears her thick black hair bound back from her heart-shaped face and covered with a caul of rich dark green silk. While her nose may be a trifle too thin for her to be considered a beauty, large deep-grey eyes framed by long, dark lashes ensure that she would not be overlooked in a crowd. Her full lips would also be considered a good feature, if they were perhaps to be curved into a smile more often.
Her slim, but womanly figure is shown to advantage by a tightly laced overdress of green velvet and silver embroidery, along with a kirtle of fine white linen. The embroidery pattern is echoed also upon her slippers, which match the dress.
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Ceredir
No beard yet shadows the strong jawline of this man of 18. A straight nose and pale grey eyes are offset by dark hair trimmed to shoulder length and carefully tucked behind his ears. Pale skin has long since been tanned to a golden hue by the sun. Both long limbed and thin, he might give the impression of being on the scrawny side except that his muscles are lean and compact, as if years of hard work are already behind him.
A leather jerkin protects his torso it is laced up and worn over a long sleeved tunic of forest green. Deerskin trousers are on his legs and are tucked into finely made leather boots, also brown. A longsword, dagger and pouch are worn at a belt about his waist. Over all this is hooded cloak of mottled green, the insignia of a Black Tree against a green backgrond on its lapel. His helm, if he is wearing it, is of leather and carries the same insignia.
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Faelthelion(#32265POenA+c)
Here is a man whose years in Middle Earth are not overly numerous, by his look. Short, neat hair, dark and regularly maintained, cover his head, and similar stuff appears to be just ready to make an appearance on his face. A noticeable, but well-shaped nose sits between and below his grey, intelligent eyes, and his jaw is often pressed shut, his lips pursed. The man\'s ears are not large, but the left one often catches the observer\'s attention, as a small piece, oddly, is missing out of the top.
He has a fine stature and a posture that displays a sense of confidence, with a gait to match.
His body is covered with a pair of fine, woolen trousers, with a linear brown and red design. A hide pouch, occasionally jingling as money, inside, is shifted here or there, dangles from the strap about his waist, which secures his clothing.
A tunic is worn on the upper body, the bottom of which, extending just past his waist, is tucked beneath his belt, but still remains above the trousers.
Boots adorn his feet, made of brown leather and tied up a little ways past his ankles.
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Minas Tirith: Houses of Healing: Entryway
The architecture of lost Numenor is evident here, as in many places in Minas Tirith. Fluted columns frame the massive oak doors outside the doors themselves are inlaid in bronze relief of healers giving succor to the ailing, both inside and out. Within, a large hall extends beyond the doors, paneled in warm golden oak and hung with tapestries depicting the healing arts, some of which have been lost to time. The same white fluted columns march in file from entry doors to sickroom, openings above casting the light of sun or star upon the aisle there.
The floors are white marble, set with groupings of cushioned chairs, but with no treacherous rugs to betray cane or crutch. At the doors to the sickrooms, an ancient table of carved oak sits with a ledger upon it, manned always by an apprentice who keeps the names of all who lie beyond. There is an air of solemnity about this place, a sense of waiting beneath the blazon motto over the sickroom door: MAINTAIN HOPE, PEOPLE OF GONDOR. HEREIN LIES HEALING.
Lamps hung from ornate iron hooks cast golden light upon every corner, calm and serene and casting few shadows.
Contents:
Ceredir
Obvious exits:
Garden
Sickroom
Out
Although it is several hours since the sun has gone down below the horizon, the heat of this early summer day still lingers so that the air is heavy and oppressive, even at night. This House of Healing, though crowded with an influx of men recently wounded in Osgiliath, is nevertheless peaceful and quiet this evening, with the only sounds coming from the buzzing of insects and, from the rooms where the sick and woudned lie, the rhythmic breathing of patients--mainly men at the moment.
One of the patients here, though, is not asleep. Dark haired is he, grey-eyed, and young, not yet even 20, from the looks of him. The young man wears no weapons, nor armor or cloak, yet his tunic is the green of the woods and marks him as a Scout of Ithilien. So, too, perhaps, does the sling he wears his left arm in, the arm bandaged tightly to his chest, a mark of a war injury, perhaps. He sits near the doorway on one of the chairs, eyes half closed, his face quite pale, as if he has been recently ill in addition to injured.
A grunt. The door opens, and a young man, perhaps a little older than the former, heaves a sigh of effort as he falls into the side of the door frame, leaning there for a couple of moments. A white hand grips his left shoulder, the right hangs stiffly. After allowing himself to catch his breath, he takes several steps inside, his boots clicking slowly on the floor as he moves. Silently, he walks past a few of the patients, his eyes moving from bed to bed. He stops in the middle of the room.
\"You might as well take a seat and rest,\" the Scout says, first one eye and then the other coming open. His voice is lethargic as he speaks, and he looks the new arrival over slowly. \"Unless you\'re sliced through from neck to groin, you\'ll be a while waiting here. They--the healers--are off having dinner and the one on duty is mixing up a potion for me.\" Speaking seems to cost Ceredir some effort, for he sighs when those words are out, leanign back in his chair and still looking the man over.
Faelthelion starts. He turns toward the source of the speaker, and lowers his hand quickly from his shoulder. \"Sliced? Nay,\" he replies quietly, in a low voice. \"I have enough sense to keep my hands free of sword and shield.\" A touch of strain can be heard in his voice, though he makes a good effort to conceal it. \"If the healers are busy,\" he says, moving toward a nearby chair, \"I shall do as you suggest.\" He reaches with his left arm for the chair and pulls it out to the middle of the floor before seating himself. He leans back, then, and turns his gaze away from the patient.
\"You\'ve not not been fighting,\" Ceredir notes, his eyes in particular resting on the other man\'s fine trousers and the money pouch at Faelthelion\'s waist. The Scout\'s lips curl as he speaks, his words are slow, but there is no menace in his tone. \"Tell me, sir, how it is that you are fortunate enough not to be pressed or drawn to the service of Gondor. You look to be only my age, and yet Gondor has not yet drawn her required blood sacrifice from your limbs.\"
Faelthelion aims a glare in Ceredir\'s direction for a moment, before turning again to look toward the opposite end of the room. He shifts in his seat so that his apparently wounded arm is elevated somewhat more than the other appendage. \"You\'ve been in that chair too long, sir,\" he says quietly, a scowl remaining on his face like a painting. \"You\'re interest in my affairs will not stave off your boredom, as I\'ve nothing to say. How long has your healer been at that potion of yours?\"
\"How should I know,\" Ceredir snarls back, glaring at the man. \"Get up and go find her yourself if it\'s that important. I suppose you hurt your arm lugging around too much money, is it?\" His lip curls again, this time in a sneer.
Faelthelion can\'t seem to help but smirk, or smile to himself, at Ceredir\'s comment. Did he take it as a compliment? He doesn\'t respond to it, however, and says, instead, \"And what brings you to this merry place? I suppose you fancy yourself quite a bit, eh? Tell me, how many fiends have you slain to end up in such a dire predicament?\" He chuckles a bit, \"Forgive me, I don\'t show enough respect for such a warrior so strong as you, who can fight off such a terrible wound in a hard chair, rather than a soft bed.\"
\"Shut up!\" Ceredir snaps at the man, the Scout rising to the bait and jumping out of his chair as if he intends to cross the distance to the other man and teach him a lesson with his fists. Only intentions are one thing, and broken bones and an infection another, and Ceredir immediately sways as he gets to his feet, pain from the hasty movement and a week of fever weakening him to the point where the Scout\'s face goes ghastly white. He clutches for the chair and misses, then slumps to the ground, right hand breaking his fall. Head down, he breathes hard and says nothing.
OOC NOTE -- Ceredir returned, RP continued.
Faelthelion clutches his shoulder as he jerks in his chair, preparing to move out of the way. He purses his lips, then, as Ceredir finds the floor. He relaxes somewhat, and rests his good hand on his knee, looking down at the injured man. After a few moments, Faelthelion raises his voice, \"Do you want a hand? I think I can manage to help you up, provided my purse doesn\'t hinder my strength.\"
\"Please.\" The word is said through teeth gritted from pain or anger or both, though Ceredir\'s hair hangs down, covering the expression on his face. \"We were...\" he continues, trying to catch his breath between words. \"Fighting a troll in Osgiliath. They are trying to take the bridge..\"
Faelthelion shrugs to nobody in particular, rising to his feet. He moves over to Ceredir\'s location and, pressing his bad arm against his body, braces himself as he holds his good hand down before Ceredir\'s face. \"That will most certainly do it,\" he says. \"Indeed, I\'ve heard tell of this battle. To answer your question, I serve Gondor monetarily wars cannot be fought without supplies, eh? Take my hand--up you go, then!\"
Midhwen comes in from the courtyard, seeking the peace of this House.
Midhwen has arrived.
\"Wars can\'t be fought without supplies....yes...\" Ceredir\'s brow creases in thought, and he repeats Faelthelion\'s words slowly, thinking them over. \"You are one of the lucky ones, though--you don\'t have to give your lifeblood to a losing battle,\" he mutters, though it\'s very quietly. Then he looks up to the offered hand, and takes it, slowly struggling to his knees, and then to stand, but it\'s shakily.
Another light grunt escapes the merchant\'s throat as he helps Ceredir to his feet, supporting himself awkwardly on his right leg, his left arm pressed tightly against his body. He lets out a held breath, once the task is complete, and he brushes off the man\'s shoulders. \"Fine--none the worse for wear, my friend.\" He deals Ceredir a pat on the back before returning to his chair in the center of the room. Clutching his shoulder, he lowers himself down again, and sighs. \"Luck has nothing to do with it, I say. It\'s the life I chose for myself when I was young. I\'ve no desire for such glory.\"
Holding a basket of herbs with both hands, Midhwen makes her way slowly from the garden. The young woman\'s usual attire is absent, she is instead wearing the garb of a healer, the lack of any colour accenting the grey and white marking her as a novice.
The friendly pat on the back, though it was meant as a gesture of good will, elicits a shout of pain from the Scout, followed by a string of curses, muttered low. As Ceredir turns to stagger back to the chair, face pale with pain, his eyes fall on the novice healer. \"Your pardon, m\'lady,\" he gasps, falling into the chair.
\"Aye...choice...if you have the luxury of it,\" Ceredir then mutters once he catches his breath as he sits.
Faelthelion turns to see the new arrival, and the fairness of her sex causes him to rise slowly from his seat. \"Good evening, m\'lady,\" he says, casting Ceredir a sidelong glance as the shout hits his eardrum.
There is a flash of recognition as she looks over Ceredir, who still sits, attempting to catch his breath. \"If I am not mistaken Scout, you should still be a resident of the sickroom.\"
\"Yes, ma\'am,\" Ceredir answers, thoroughly cowed by the woman. \"Only, I will need help getting there, it seems.\" He looks up and the pleading and apologetic expression on his face quickly changes to shock of recognition, his mouth dropping open.
\"You again, Miss?! You cannot now claim that I waylaid you for ill intent. Yet, we keep meeting and I do not even know your name. I am Ceredir of Bragollach.\" The sight of the lovely young woman apparently eases the Scout\'s pain enough to allow the flowery words and a small smile, too, though his face is too thin and pale at the moment for a smile to look other than sickly.
Faelthelion winces a bit, turning his attention to Ceredir. The expression on his face suggests a desire to convey his apologies, but his intentions are cut short when Ceredir addresses him. He laughs a bit and lowers himself back into his seat. \"Luxury! Now, there\'s a word I understand--it is my glory, as triumph on the field is, perhaps, yours. I--\" but he trails off as the recognition of the lady fills up inside Ceredir. He cocks an eyebrow, and watches the exchange, echoing quietly to himself, \"Waylaid?\"
\"I am afraid that Scout Ceredir\'s wits must have been scrambled some during the combat in Osgiliath, since he does not remember our meeting in the library, since I distinctly remember introducing myself then.\" She ignores Faelthelion\'s question as she talks to him, before turning her attention once more to the injured man.
\"Since you have forgotten, my name is Midhwen Cuthalion. Should I fetch another healer or can your friend assist you back to your bed?\" The last is accompanied by a questioning look toward Faethelion.
Faelthelion laughs good-naturedly, \"Good lady, should any man come out of a skirmish with a monster unscathed in such a way, why, I\'d most certainly seek to hire him as my personal accountant--such a memory is golden, eh? Though, I tend to believe the trouble with a Scout\'s memory of a lady\'s name lies moreso in the number of ladies he ventures to become acquainted with!\" He chuckles once again, even closing his eyes, apparently feeling rather merry, now. \"Many of my friendships with men of combat have started out in a similar way as ours,\" he says with a wink toward Ceredir. \"I\'d be quite willing to offer my assistance, though I\'d guess the good scout would prefer a fairer hand than mine beneath his arm.\"
Some color now returns to Ceredir\'s face, despite his sickly visage as first his cheeks redden at the lady\'s mild reproof of him, and then they redeen more as Faelthelion apparently exposes the Scout\'s true reason for a poor memory. \"Forgive me. Of course I remember you,\" he says to the novice healer. \"You were kind enough to help me in the library, but alas, I have found no record of my mother yet. I will have more time now, though,\" he grimaces slightly. \"As soon as my fever passes, I will have all the time in the world to heal and many hours to spend doing so in the library. They would, of course...\" his eyes dart briefly to Faelthelion, \"pass more quickly if you were there to help me, Miss Midhwen. Since you are so adept at research and I myself am such a novice...\"
\"Sir..\" the Scout then continues to Faelthelion, \"I would gladly accept your help except that it is obvious you seek aid here, too. And for certain I do not know your name. Though we started out, perhaps on a rough note, I would remedy that now and call you a friend if I may.\"
She makes for the sickroom, turning once to look back at Faelthelion. \"I can fetch a Healer for you if necessary, I am afraid, as a novice, I cannot help you myself.\"
Gweneth comes in from the courtyard, seeking the peace of this House.
Gweneth has arrived.
Somewhat eccentrically, Faelthelion returns to his feet once again, and bows slightly before Ceredir, his right hand clutched to his left shoulder all the while. \"Faelthelion Rovacil, a merchant seeking entrance to the Guild of Trade. Well met, sir, indeed!\" He then smiles at Midhwen and waves her on, \"Go on, dear lady--my new friend here requires aid which I can never administer. Send a healer when one is available, and no second sooner, eh? I find this chair somewhat comfortable.\" He laughs once again, and one might question his sobriety, were he slurring his words in any way.
With a sigh, Ceredir slowly eases to the edge of his chair. \"Got out here, so I suppose I can make it back in on my own....\" He stops, though, eyes narrowing at Faelthelion. \"Rovacil? the House that used to control the trade with Rohan?\" he blurts out.
The Scout does, perhaps, catch Midwhen\'s flushed cheeks, for he smiles at her gently and speaks in a low tone. \"Truly, I mean it, m\'lady. I would most appreciate your help...\"
Holding the basket with one hand, Midhwen walks back and offers Ceredir her other arm. \"I would be happy to help you, but the majority of my time is taken up with my own studies. Also, be glad it was not one of the more senior healers that caught you lingering here.\"
Faelthelion\'s mirth turns to indifference and he returns casually to his seat in the center of the entrance room. \"Again, my friend,\" he says with emphasis, \"you\'ve become overly interested in affairs which have no bearing on the present situation. Let\'s say simply that I make a living for myself, and leave it at that, eh? Any more words of this nature may require the same assistance I provided not half an hour ago,\" he says candidly, \"and the strength of my good arm shall soon fail if we keep that up.\"
The Scout reaches for the novice healer\'s offered arm, granting her another smile. \"I thank you for your help and advice, m\'lady. I\'d much rather hear a scolding from you than from any of those ol...erm...senior healers,\" Ceredir corrects himself at the last minute.
He stands easily enough, but then drops the woman\'s arm to turn to Faelthelion, brow furrowed in some confusion. \"I believe you mistake me...and I believe also that you ought not to shut off all discourse with me on this matter. But I leave that to you.\"
Faelthelion smiles purposefully, and bows once again. \"As the noble scout wishes.\" He clears his throat as he watches Midhwen leave, and he turns to look at Ceredir with eyebrows wide. His former mood seems to have returned, in a way, though he is more smiles now. \"It seems you will be requiring my aid to your room, after all?\"
\"Making friends well as ever I see, Scout of Ithilien,\" the words coming light and even as Gweneth of the House Bragollach slips under the archways of the Houses of Healing. Her steps are slow, measured, nearly an idle pace as two fingers, pale from shade rather than sickness, run along the oaken columns, \"I am glad to see that the more things change, the more they stay the same.\"
She pauses, catching sight of the Rovacil, her tone and manner becoming more formal, \"And good evening to you, m\'lord, as well.\"
Almost a sneer comes to Ceredir\'s lips, but the Scout curbs the impluse and smiles coldly instead. \"Yes, sir, I do require your assistance. And if you are so concerned about matters of your House\'s trade, you might want my assistance, as well,\" he replies, eyes narrowing. \"It seems that I have some...\"
Ceredir does not finish his sentence, his cold expression now turned toward Gweneth. \"Cousin,\" he says, boldly using the term. \"I trust you are not ill? Or perhaps you seek a healer for my dear father?\"
Faelthelion, though possibly intrigued by Ceredir\'s new words, also turns away from the present conversation. Addressing Gweneth, he says, \"Profound words, m\'lady,\" and bows politely, though his left arm remains straightened as before. \"And, a better evening to you.\"
A warm smile greets Ceredir\'s words, \"Cousins of mankind I suppose we are in that, as it seems my words are thus far less profound than this man of war\'s. Though a strange greeting, I will accept it and answer that I am well and have come only for a small tonic for myself. I cannot say what health is that of your father for I know him not by name or person,\" she replies, her lips curling wider, eyes sparkling with pleasantness and welcoming, \"But I wish him well all the same.\"
\"Though I have come for a minor malady, it seems your luck runs the poorer since we last spoke,\" Gweneth pauses, her hand resting still against the wall, \"I hope this is the exception and not the rule of your fortunes since that last date?\"
Faelthelion smiles and, holding his shoulder, stands aside as the two speak.
\"Whether or not he wishes to admit it,\" Ceredir answers Gweneth, his jaw set in a stubborn expression, \"I am the natural born son of Elenur of Bragollach. And you know my father well, Lady, and as such, we are cousins.\"
The Scout then moves toward the sick rooms, leaning onto the doorway with his good arm for support. \"I am glad to hear that you are in good health, cousin,\" he continues. \"And you may tell Elenur of Bragollach that I wish him good health, despite his rejection of me. And that if he will not tell me of my heritage, then I will seek for it among the Carmayrs, of whom many say I resemble.\" Ceredir\'s words and tone are polite enough, but he can\'t keep the hatred from burning in his eyes. The expression only eases some when he turns to Faelthelion. \"I think it would be wise for you to seek me out again, sir. But I bid you good evening now. And you too, Cousin Gweneth.\"
As Ceredir takes his leave, Gweneth turns her smile on Faelthelion, \"It seems the trials of Osgiliath have not done well for the young scout\'s mind. A shame. Good day to you, m\'lord Rovacil. Be well,\" she says as she too seeks an audience with one of the healers deeper within the Halls.
Faelthelion nods his head in Ceredir\'s direction, \"A pleasant evening, sir. And may our next meeting be in a more... healthful setting.\" He winces as he hears someone cough uncontrollably from a nearby room. \"Yes, indeed.\" And, as Ceredir departs the entryway, the merchant smiles pleasantly to Gweneth, \"What happened at the bridge would try any man\'s good sense, I hold it not against him. After all, a friend is a friend, eh? Good evening, m\'lady.\" He returns to his chair.
FIN