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Three Horses and An Ass TP: A Fine Summer Whine

Tags: Findon,  Menelglir

Short Summary: Findon works up a sweat; Menelglir whines. Younger squire convinces older to ask Arathis that age-old question: Are we there yet?
Date (real-life): 2009-11-13
Scene Location: Bree
Date (in-game): June 9 2048
Time of Day: Midday
An open air inn-yard is enclosed in the center of the Prancing Pony's compound. The yard is ringed in by the north and south wing of the Pony, and the eastern section of the building, which is set back into Bree-hill. On the fourth side bordering this yard is an archway, beyond which lies the Great East Road. The stables, which comprise the lower level of the south wing, are accessed through a set of large double doors.

Real time: Fri Nov 13 19:04:29 2009
Bree time: Midday <13:13:27> on Mersday of Summer - June 9,1448
Moon Phase: First Quarter Moon
[Bree Function Object(#106)->Menelglir]
                              Breelands Weather                               
The midday summer air is very hot and dry around you. The day sky is clear with only slight wisps of clouds overhead.

From the light cast by the midday sun, dimmed only by vaporising waters off of rooftops and soil, and beasts and men, here there is some respite. There is a stillness to the air, perhaps the faintest gust of a breeze rises now and then, but those are few and far in between. And the town life is apparant all around, here the distant call of some man, there the selling arguments of another, the braying of beasts of burden, or slaughter, or what have you. All these things and more stir the still air. But little wind, and so it is quite warm.

This place, the yard behind the Prancing Pony, is sparingly populated.

Sweat beads the creased brow of the young man that pauses thither, the hand that grips the sword lowering to the side, so that the point scrapes against the cobbles. His shirt clings to his chest. And aye, he is lightly clad; shirt and breeches, boots and belt. That is all.

As he exhales a sigh, Findon's glance drifts from the thin air before him, regarding the courtyard.

"Findon, when are we going to leeee--eave?" Almost the question that comes across this courtyard is a whine, the syllables of the last word drawn out in question born of increasing frustration. From where he sits against the wheels of a small cart, the young man asking picks up a handful of pebbles and starts throwing them, one by one, toward the opposite wall. Though the white tunic he wears and his hair are equally damp with sweat from the sparring practice he quit not 10 minutes before, the recent exertion has not seemed to ease Menelglir's increasing irritability and frustration, which has been growing as the days grow hotter.

"We struggled onward through snow and ice and enemy in Dunland, we near froze and near froze our mounts as well....and here it is...spring has come and gone. Summer is upon us. And we sit, with no explanation or word. Stuck as a wagon wheel in the mud after a spring storm."

"Have a care," Findon responds with deepening creases, glance flitting past a thrown rock by chance. "I do not believe mister Butterbur would appreciate broken windows."

A sigh at that, sword returned to the sheath with a rasping hiss. The giant of a man, though there is less of him now than ere the exercise started to be sure, turns to the shade, intent upon the leather flagon of water that lies opon a barrel there. After a mouthful, he sighs once again. "Yes, well," He levies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand:

"If you must know, how come you do not ask someone who knows?"

Accompanied by a sigh, the remaining pebbles are tossed to one side and then a palm, sweaty from heat and dusty from pebbles, is wiped on the white tunic, leaving a grey streak of dirt.

"Think you," Menelglir says, "that Sir Arathis would answer an impudent and irrtiating question from a White Squire? When do we leave, Sir Arathis? Why the delay? No..." he shakes his head. "He will swat me away like a fly bothering his horse."

The other's laugh is quickly over, and quiet besides, but genuine for all that.

Indeed a smile lingers on his face as the water is wedded to his lips again, threating to spill... and does so, but with moderation. The driplets can not further wetten his shirt much at any rate. "I dare say he would," Findon manages, even on the exhale. "So you want me to ask for you, is that the way of it?"

The edge of the level gaze is dulled somewhat by the grin that holds its company.

"You could say that, yes," Menelglir replies, looking more embarrassed than anything else despite the grin from the Blue Squire.

"How did it come to be that you became his Squire?" he bursts out, though, unable to contain the question. "What did you do or how did you prove yourself? Every time...every time I turn around..." his tone falls glum, "it seems I am stepping into another fine mess that has him angry at me."

The grin widens somewhat at the outburst, to lessen somewhat in shape and mirth; but remain a smile, "Is that... It cannot be jealousy I hear, can it, sweet brother?"

Findon's free hand lifts, gesturing vaguely toward the other as if to stave off any reply, as he has another drink of the water; and proceeds to offer it to Menelglir when done, even as he answers: "I do not rightly know, I fear. Ere this trek began he, ah..." A brow quirks, and his glance is felled to the side, "Insisted, to put diplomatic words to it. You know him."

Regard reverting to the other squire, Findon ammends: "Do not think me privy to any special favors however! He teaches when he sees fit, but racks me for it with exercise; also when he sees fit; the former less often than the latter, to be sure."

"Jealousy..." Menelglir sighs, then gets to his knees to lean forward and take the offered water. "All right. I -am- jealous. I know I just started...swore my oath to Lord Imrakhor last summer."

He pauses, looking up in surprise. "He still does? Designs tests of all sorts which you are bound to fail?" He hands the waterskin back toward Findon.

The water is taken, and discarded on the nearest handy upraised shaded spot. Which happens to be the nearby windowsill; flat and broad.

"No, not often," Findon admits, "Although such tests are to be learned from; both by student and instructor, I find." His glance turns to the wall; as if the thought of leaning on it had occurred to him, and is much tempting -- but instead he moves out from the shrinking shade, into the sunlight, speaking whilst walking. "It is more often the physical sort. Horsemanship. Swordsmanship."

And on that note, he draws.

Moving slowly and reluctantly in the heat, Menelglir gets to his feet. He walks past the window sill, grabbing at the water again and taking a sip, then he, too, heads into the sun to draw his sword.

"Little practice do I get riding here."

The grin dawns anew on Findon's mien as he turns, backing the last two steps, "Fear not, I'll ask him when the opportunity presents itself. Though as to practise, 'tis said," He quips, "You have been seen more frequently in the common room than I of late."

He lunges forward at that, a testing swing against Menelglir's middle.

"I have not!" Menelglir protests, jumping back a half step so that the blade only barely manages to touch at his middle, rustling his white tunic. Down he brings his own weapon toward the hilt of Findon's as if trying to knock it out of the Blue Squire's hand.

"I've horses to exercise and tend to and tack to oil and see to and sword practice and armor oiling....and on top of that reading what tomes we have brought and puzzling out queries from two Knights! Of course I am going to work up an appetite from that!"

The thump is noiseless, the clamor of iron on the stone is not.

Findon draws back a step, swordarm retracted and gripped about the wrist, fingers flexing. Despite the frown, he offers ere a moment, not unkindly: "Well done."

"Like as not Lord Arathis will swat me just so for the query!" The frown subsides, ableit slowly, eyeing the struck wrist for a time.

"Gauntlets. Even in this heat we should wear gauntlets and get well used to it," Menelglir sighs, looking worried. "Hazel the cook likely has some remedies for that...or there is a house of healing here in town?" He holds his sword, still, defensively, though distractedly, too.

"Aye, and shields."

The blue shakes his head lightly. But he winces as his fingers curl about the fallen hilt, all the same. Rising, he bends a level look on the other, "No matter. The hand functions, no harm done. Though I'll feel it for a fortnight, for sure."

Findon's lips curl slightly upward with the last sally, assuming a defensive posture: "Remind me to not taunt you unless I am armored, eh? It was a deft move, though. Indeed, well done. Let us have at it again."

"At least be forewarned never to taunt me about doing nothing but sitting and dreaming up ways to annoy our Knight Commander. Not while I have sword in hand," Menelglir grins. "It cuts too close to the truth." This, a joke, by the grin on his face, then he nods.

"As you wish." The White Squire circles right, blade held at waist level, seeking an opening at which to lunge forward.

So too Findon assumes a circling pattern of footfalls. But to the left, obviously.

"Strangely," He offers, swept from his tone of a sudden are all manners of mirth and the opposite, leveled as it were, but conversational all the same; at odds with the work they now practice, "I am reminded of that woman, Muirgheal was it?" For all that, his posture remains guarded, but he makes no move to attack either.

"I have not seen her for a long while, and I should rue the missed opportunity should I not meet this husband of hers. And I should rue the promised meal at that."

"Muirgheal!" Mention of the name so startles Menelglir that he feet tangle up underneath him and his sword drops slightly out of position. There's an opening there if Findon wants to take it, but Menelglir, preoccupied, hasn't noticed yet.

"Two warnings I have had about the woman's trustworthiness. One from the Ranger Hare, but only a silently given shake of his head. And a second from Sir Arathis, who told me he does not trust her. But I have not seen her recently, nor had word of her husband, who she said was ill. I could...we could go to her house. I know how to find it, though it is a few hours' walk or a short ride..."

"She greeted us kindly, to be sure. Though that is no cause for trust, off itself. Had they any more to say?"

But indeed, he takes it.

Breaking the circle thus, Findon goes from speech to silent charge as he bullrushes forward, hewing overhanded at an angle that would -- should it connect with the edge -- cut the man before him from left shoulder to right hip. But other than his own, not much weight is laid behind the blow, surely...

"The Ranger and Knight are much alike in their grim countenance and lack of words when they do not wish to reveal their thoughts. Surely they must be kin," Menelglir starts to grin--the expression changing into a shout of surprise at the sudden charge.

The White Squire is tall but lean, no match for Findon's weight. Agility he has, though, and this he now uses to cut to his right, so that the flat of Findon's sword swats loudly on his shoulder, drawing an exclamation of pain from the younger squire. A terribly wounding blow it would be if the edge had been used, but even so, the squire's shoulder is likely to be hues of blue this week and next.

"Now we had better not leave soon, for that will keep me from using the full weight in a real fight!" he gripes, even while furiously swinging the flat of his blade to Findon's hip.

The swordsmen positioned just so, the parry is ripe for plucking.

Even as the clang withers in the air, Findon, with a lingering wince -- near enough a frown -- on his face, voices on a tone soured perhaps by the other most recent blow dealt: "We are unfit for this." Shifting the blade to his left, the fingers of the right curling and stretching under a brief surveying glance.

He nods towards the kitchens: "Half a pint of peace?"

"Half a pint of peace," Menelglir replies, only too glad to sheathe his sword and use his hand to rub at the sore shoulder. "That and the bruises to prove to the Knights we have not been lazing like cats in the summer sun." He draws an arm across his forehead, wiping dripping sweat from his brow. "I think we have enough proof for now, in fact." Grinning, he heads toward the inn door, gesturing for the other squire to follow.

"Heh," Findon offers in turn, awkwardly sheathing his weapon with the wrong hand before he follows. "More than enough, and a valuable lesson learned at that." His tone turns dry at the last:

"Never go warring afield without your armor!"

"So, about that woman..."

Date added: 2009-11-15 08:19:01    Hits: 60
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