Pigs can fly - a comedy gone wrong

Out leads to Minas Tirith: Woodwright Street: The King\'s Common.

It is hotter and sunnier than usual outside, a large contrast to the fair and cloudy weather of a few days prior. Gondor\'s weather, it seems, is just as indecisive as its citizens are towards the Haradrim parley. The pubs and inns are more crowded than usual, with people seeking relief from the burning heat, and the Seven Stars is no different. Today there is a raucous comedy about a Swan Knight and his errant Squire - whether or not it has any relation to current events is mere speculation, but judging by the whispers, the patrons of the inn are certainly drawing connections.

In one of the soft, poufy couches sits Daerthor with his mug of beer. His spot, off to the left of the stage, is a rare empty oasis in a sea of faces. The boy onstage trips over his fake sword and lands painfully on his rear - and Daerthor lets out a hearty laugh along with everyone else.

Tathar has come, escorted by a cousin, and she slips in late then stands there looking about for a seat. Her eyes land on a familiar face and she moves towards the scout, bending down to ask him in a low voice, \"I fear I am late - is there room by you?\" A loud peal of laughter brings her attention to the stage, but she has missed whatever was so amusing, and she looks back at the man inquiringly.

\"Lady Tathar,\" says Daerthor, his smile broadening. \"The seats are empty - you are more than welcome to take them.\" Catching her inquiring look, he smirks briefly, and considers what to say even as the boy commits yet another faux pas on stage. Keeping his snorts in, he muses, \"I doubt you\'ll take long to catch the thread of this comedy. Watch and see! You have not missed much, for it seems like there is much more laughter yet to come.\"

\"Thank you,\" Tathar says, and seats herself. She waves her escort off. \"So... what is it about? I heard there was a play today, but I guess I got the wrong time.\" The knight, dressed in grey cloth armor, shouts something at the fallen boy, who scrambles to his feet, nodding his head up and down as fast as he can do so.

\"Have you not guessed? It is about a Swan Knight and his bumblingly errant Squire.\"

And just as he finishes this line, Daerthor bursts into laughter, so amused by the thinly-veiled premise. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down. \"So far, he has tripped over his sword and said the wrong things at the wrong time. I would wager a woman appearing on stage in the next few minutes.\"

He gives Tathar a meaningful look.

Tathar\'s gaze flies back to the stage, and she blushes. \"Oh. Erm.\" She looks around the room and squishes herself a bit farther back into the couch - maybe no one will see her! Then the boy does something else incredibly stupid, and despite herself, the lady laughs. \"They are good,\" she admits. \"Even if... well...\"

Still smiling, Daerthor nods. \"Yes. I know what you mean. Luckily the Squire himself or his Swan-Knight isn\'t here.\" And just then, there is a change of scene, and the barmaids rush to refill the mugs and take orders for new drinks. As the curtain lifts, the scene is all too familiar. A tavern. The boy. A woman. And a large, burly man with his skin tinted dark with some unknown concoction, dressed in an unmistakeable parody of Haradrim attire.

\"My lady, my prediction has turned out to be true,\" says Daerthor, his eyes crinkling. He takes a sip of his mug to hide his obvious mirth, but he can scarcely prevent his shoulders from shaking just so.

Tathar looks back at the stage, and her blush darkens. \"Oh dear,\" she says faintly. With a sort of horrified fascination, she stares at the actors.

A conversation of sorts is going on - escalating rapidly into shouting.

The scraping of a chair, and a muffled chiming, akin a sack of coins shifting hands, might appraise the merry pair of people taking seat behind them.

Too there is a slight scrape, a glass set down on the wood table. And too a sigh. But not laughter.

There too a knight -- and though he too dons cloth, there is iron also -- who now leans forward to grasp the scout lightly by the shoulder. If he turns, Daerthor might find a pair of gleaming eyes leveling with his own. \"Why, good scout, I cannot fathom whom you are referring to.\" Then, ere a heartbeat, that hand lifts off, and Findon Telumehtar leans back, offering his comrade a narriwed glance.

\"Seen enough?\"

\"More than enough,\" the grey-eyed Squire of Blue sighs, his eyes piercing as he gazes upon the stage. \"Is it a breach of my oath to seek out the author of this farce and give him a piece of my mind?\" That piece of mind now expressed with balled up fists by the Squire, Menelglir. \"Or is that just more fodder for their farce?\"

And thus comes the climax. \"Down with you, O beast of a man, infiltrator of our noble society!\" The woman stumbles towards the Squire, somehow obtaining his sword, and swings wildly at the dark-skinned man, hitting his shoulder. His clothes begin to stain with some reddish liquid.

Daerthor stares at the scene, fascinated and amazed, and then the hand touches his shoulder and he freezes at the question. He turns around, only to be pinned by the Knight\'s gaze, and his cheeks turn red. \"Er... I -- sir -- that --\" he stutters, before shutting his mouth abruptly as Menelglir speaks, for he knows not what to say.

To stay and watch oneself be mocked - be the butt of laughter, the object of pointing fingers and hissing whispers... or to leave, and let everyone think she is a coward, run off by over-much sensibility. Tathar shrinks further into the couch... then sits up straight, and lifts her chin, glaring at anyone who might look, or point.

A swift glance over her shoulder at the knight and his squire. And with perfect composure (gained at what cost?) she says, \"It is a lovely day for a play, is it not?\" Her eyes glitter and there are two spots of red burning on her cheeks now, but that is all.

A glance shifts to the playmakers, and the knight snorts -- whether in response to the grand finale or Daerthor, who can say?

A slight smile then.

\"Of the seven virtues, as we\'ve left the matter of Hope -- for now -- there is but one left and that is...\" Findon\'s glance returns to Menelglir at the last: \"...Humility. Best leave it be, Menel.\"

And then, to Tathar: \"Quite so, lady. A marvellously... a marvellous display, is it not?\"

And then he grates to Daerthor: \"What is your name, man?\"

\"I am Daerthor Carmayar, sir,\" the Scout says, no amusement in his face now, though the crowd is roaring with laughter at the continued antics behind him.

Again, the Swan-knight\'s gaze levels on Daerthor, and his smile fleets. \"Carmayar, you say. I might have known.\"

\"You know full well what you now ought to tell my Squire.\" He looks away, favoring his glass, and takes it and heeds neither laughter nor anything else indeed save the Belfalas Red. A sip. A sigh.

\"I am assured of this.\"

\"Not just your Squire, sir, but the Lady Tathar as well,\" Menelglir says through clenched teeth, his head tilting toward the red-faced woman. \"Tis one thing to insult me--I am well used to it. But quite another to insult a high born lady.\"

The Swan-Knight brings a gauntleted hand to his mouth: cough.

\"Yes, sir,\" says Daerthor dutifully, before turning to the Squire. \"Please accept my sincere apologies for my indiscretion, Squire Menelglir.\"

With a short nod at Menelglir\'s words, he faces Tathar next. \"My lady, I beg your forgiveness as well. Though the actors are very... accomplished... it does not absolve me of my lapse in judgement.\"

An eyebrow perches atop Findon\'s slightly widened glance, a glance that confers surprise: nay! stark amazement. \"This... this is... this...\" He attempts, and fails.

\"This is extraordinary. I have to tell Hir Gwendion.\"

He rises, leaving his glass behind. \"You are a credit to your house, Daerthor Carmayar. I had never thought to see the day when one of your kin... -apologized-, to anyone. Good man.\"

\"Apology accepted, though my anger is not abated. But honor dictates that I leave it be, Scout,\" Menelglir answers, still glaring at Daerthor.

\"I\'ve no taste for ale or amusement any more, though,\" he now turns to Findon, both brows arching in surprise at the Knight\'s response. \"May I walk with you? If not go to see Sir Gwendion with you? I...\" he frowns, remiss to admit the next, \"in truth, though you have been a fine teacher, I am eager to prove myself to Sir Gwendion again.\"

The Knight\'s remarks surprise Daerthor as well. \"Th-thank you, sir,\" he barely makes out, stunned in his seat. \"Did I violate some Carmayar family rule???\" he wonders, muttering under his breath.

The snort precedes Findon\'s dry tone, \"You are a bad liar, Squire.\"

\"Though, my thanks for the effort. I have set a poor example for you. But I have every faith he would accept you, as you are now, proudly.\" He coughs into his hand again. \"If you do not tell him -too- much of what I\'ve taught you, or how.\" He looks to the Carmayar then, and sports a fleeting grin -- has he heard?! -- before turning away. \"Be well, Daerthor.\"

Thence, to the door.

\"How and what...\" It\'s Menelglir\'s turn to cough and he does so, looking to the ground briefly. \"Of course, sir,\" he says, letting the Knight leave without following him.

\"And so, Carmayar,\" he turns to that man, \"tell me how it came to be that the events of my life and Lady Tathar\'s have made a play on the stage. Surely the good actors of this inn knew not -all- the details.\"

Staring at Menelglir now, Daerthor makes to speak - but holds himself back abruptly, taking a deep breath before he does anything more stupid. \"I had naught to do with the planning of this play, if that is what you are asking.\"

Now, the play has ended, and the crowd is starting to disperse.

\"Naught?\" Menelglir stares hard at the Scout, but at last relents with a sigh.

\"Your word on this?\"

\"My word as a Scout of Ithilien and as a son of one of Gondor\'s houses,\" says Daerthor firmly, keeping eye contact with the Squire. \"I am no spreader of gossip. Yet there were many others in the Hearth that day.\"

\"Indeed there were,\" Menelglir sighs. \"And my fear is that the next act will follow, thereby spreading just how I earned my sword back.\"

\"Still,\" he grins now, \"for a Carmayar you are remarkably calm.\"

Daerthor grits his teeth at that statement. \"I may come from a family of loud, rash people,\" he says, \"but I have learnt that survival skills include knowing when to shut up.\" He sighs, and smiles grimly. \"It was a hard lesson.\"

\"Indeed, I imagine that a Carmayar would find that lesson hard to learn,\" Menelglir says, his tone dry. \"But, well done, as my Knight has said. Now..can you tell me just who might be responsible for this little performance?\" He gestures toward the now-empty stage.

\"Would it surprise you to know that the lesson was learnt within the family?\" asks Daerthor. \"As for who put up this play - it was some group of ordinary citizens. Certainly not of the Bards. But I don\'t recall their names. Perhaps the innkeeper would know.\"

A look to the stage and yet another sigh, this with a shake of his head. \"Tis not worth it,\" Menelglir says, glumly. \"Besides I owe you an ale...and now I think that you owe me one as well.\" He looks to the door.

\"Indeed, I do,\" says Daerthor. \"I will see you again, soon, at the Arms. Good day, Squire Menelglir.\" And with a nod of his head, he moves to the door to leave.