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Grunts and Gas: Of Man and Elf (Three Horses and an Ass TP)

Tags: Brandebras,  Narthalion,  Tirloth,  Gwendion,  Arathis,  Menelglir

Short Summary: A pleasant story-telling at the Prancing Pony develops to threats between the First and Second born outside it.
Date (real-life): 2009-11-23
Scene Location: Bree

Common Room(#32029RM)
This large and rectangular room serves the purpose of Common Room for the Prancing Pony. Large windows along the western end of the room peek out over the Great East Road which runs outside the Inn. There are long tables with bench seats for the patrons in the centre of the room. Nestled into the wall is a large fireplace with several bundles of wood piled next to it. Overhead, lamps hang down from roof beams, but their light is dim and half-veiled in smoke. The corners of the room are wrapped in shadow.

Obvious exits:

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Mon Nov 23 14:28:11 2009
Bree time: Evening on Hevensday of Summer - July 4,1448
Moon Phase: First Quarter Moon

Breelands Weather
The summer air is very hot and dry around you. The sky is near black and studded with hundreds of stars.

It's a fine summer evening, the rain of a few days past now no more than a memory - and a few piles of sawdust out in the yard where that odd foreign fellow in the leather jerkin has been patching up the leaks in the stable buildings. The shutters of the Pony are open wide to let in as much air as possible to the stuffy Common Room, where a haze redolent of pipesmoke, ale, roast meat and, yes, sweating bodies hangs in the air. The residents are talkative as usual ...
"Did you know that Mrs Featherpenny is selling up her chickens?"
"I hear the strawberries are good over Staddle way this year"
"I heard tell that /someone/ was up on Bree Hill with a sword!"
This last draws a few dark glances and suspicious mutterings.

Young Brandebras Bywater is sitting on the window ledge, a part-drunk mug of apple cider beside him and a quill pen in one hand, which he sucks thoughtfully. He doesn't seem to have got quite as far as actually writing anything, though.

One of those troublemaking foreigners rumored to have a sword--even seen with a sword--now enters, his timing unfortunate. Several heads turn to stare accusingly at Menelglir, but the Gondorian youth does not wear his weapons or armor today, just the white tunic emblazoned with a swan. Taken aback by the stares he receives, he stops and blinks, then tries to quietly make his way to an empty seat, which happens to be near to the window where Brandebras sits.

Another comes with the setting sun, at a far remove from the gossipping men and hobbits. The hood of his cloak is raised despite the warmth, that nothing can be gained from his countenance. Rather it is his figure and way of moving, or of standing perfectly still, that may betray his kind. Tall is he, of upright posture and serene grace. His cloak conceals much of his clothing and accoutrements, though the cloak itself is noticible enough - red velvet of luxurious weave and sinous drape. From beneath it might be caught the twinkle of a bejewelled scabbard and the hilt of a sword.

Into the Common Room this stranger comes, and in the doorway halts. From lithe movement he passes into utter stillness, moveless from his head to his booted feet. Yet any who would look closely might guess that his eyes are turned upon Menelglir, or at least in his direction. And indeed, the youth might feel the weight of those eyes. To some in Bree he is known, Narthalion, one of the Elves that appears in the town at whiles.

Brandebras turns his head to see who's come in. At the sight of Menelglir he twitches and lets out a squeak, wriggling as though trying to push himself away. A moment later there is the clatter of wood against cobbles and an ominous cracking, followed by the sound of gurgling liquid. Well, he /did/ have a mug of apple cider ...

The young hobbit's face turns beet-red as he himself becomes the target of a few stares. "I .. uh, I didn't /mean/ to drop it," he utters plaintively, staring at his own furry feet and quite unaware that another stranger even more formidable than the first has entered.

One or two folk not too busily engaged in their own conversations glance in Narthalion's direction. And at least one of them has a pair of sharp eyes. "Sword!" Someone hisses, the murmur rippling through the room like the wind in the trees. "I'll bet it was him as caused the trouble."

The White Squire has not even made it to his seat before there is trouble, Brandebras's mug crashing to the floor. "I swear--I am not about to hurt you!" Menelglir protests, stepping forward to put out a hand to the hobbit. "Look I am not even armed today and..here, I'll pay for whatever that drink was." He fishes in a pouch at his belt, but pulls out only a few meager, dusty coins, and colors. "Erm..that is, I'll help clean up..."

Whether it is hair prickling on the back of his neck from being stared at, or the hiss of "sword," or embarrassment at not having money to cover his offer, Menelglir now turns, sea-grey eyes landing on the elf.

He stares, mouth opening a little in surprise or some mix of emotions. The Squire does not move a muscle.

The Elf raises a hand to his hood, revealing a gauntlet bearing the emblem of Finwe's house. Strong, that hand, though slender, slipping the hood from the Elf's head. Revealed to the room is a proud, fair face sharply featured. His skin is pale and faintly gleaming, as though imbued with starlight. About his shoulders fall waves of jet-black hair, sleek and unruffled.

But it is his eyes that might attract the most notice. They are grey, not unlike the hue of Menelglir's own. But in them is an ancient light, a gleam as sharp and clear as a lance under the Moon. That gaze is turned with aloof indifference to he who speaks of swords and trouble. And without a word Narthalion passes further into the room, slipping into a chair near Menelglir, placing the man and hobbit between himself and the rest of the room. With an air that might be taken for boredom he turns his head and looks out the window.

"I .. uh, I'd rather you didn't," the hobbit mumbles to Menelglir, shrinking back (it's a mercy he himself doesn't fall out of the open window!) The redness in his face does not abate; clearly something about the young Squire bothers him. He slides down from the window ledge with a thump (like all hobbits he's fond of his food, and could not really be described as 'lightweight'). "Can't we just .. leave it? Maybe Mister Nob won't realize it was me."

The words trail off into silence as Someone sits down nearby. He gazes, open-mouthed, then asks hopefully, "Are you - I mean ..." The words trail off into embarrassed silence; the poor little fellow seems destined to have features permanently as red as a tomato.

The 'sword' commenter coughs and looks away, hastily. "His eyes!" someone else murmurs. "Did you see his eyes?"
But then another voice cuts across him, "-twenty coppers, he did. So I says, Henry, a bet's a bet ..."
Normal conversation is resumed.

"Did what..?" Menelglir answers the hobbit, but he is hardly noticing Brandebras's discomfort, his grey eyes -still- on the elf that now has taken a seat nearby. The Gondorian youth, though, still stands. "What...I mean, forgive me sir," he addresses the elf. "You are new here? I mean..." Squire is now as tongue-tied as hobbit.

"You are..an elf?" he tries again.

Without waiting for further response, Menelglir turns to the door. "I have to go find someone," he announces as he leaves.

For a moment the Elf sits in silence, as though the words of the others fall upon deaf ears. But soon enough he raises his head, his eyes darting to the pair addressing him. Something relaxes in his haughty countenance, his whole demeanour warmed by a smile. "Am I new here?" He mirrors Menelglir, voice low and soft and full of music. "No, I am not new here. Yea, there are still some among the Elves that linger here to whom the Sun herself seems young and new. I am an Elf, as you observed."

The look of relief on Brandebras' round face when Menelglir leaves is all too palpable. Just what is it he's afraid of?

It is a moment before he attends fully to the Elf's words. His mouth is slightly open. "You /are/ an Elf," he breathes quietly, awe in every syllable. Then, after some nervous fidgeting, the young hobbit pulls himself together enough to speak at a normal level. "I'd- I'd heard that Elves tell wonderful tales. About days of yore, and magic, and dragons, and things like that." His round brown eyes are fixed on the wondrous personage, and while he's clearly still a little nervous, his scarlet cheeks are slowly returning to their proper hue.

The Elf just barely raises a brow as Menelglir slips out. "Have you, now?" Narthalion asks the Hobbit, returning his attention to him. "And what tale would you hear? Of days of yore and dragons? And yet I wonder, little one...have you ever seen a dragon?" Something piercing sharp enters the Elf's eyes and he leans forward slightly, tone dropping low. The effect this produces is not so much frightening as overtly mysterious, the manner of a storyteller about to introduce his chief villain.

The hobbit's eyes do not leave the Elven stranger, now that Menelglir is safely away. "I'd love to hear a tale of a dragon!" he exclaims eagerly, not one whit abashed. At the piercing gaze he blushes anew, then sighs and shakes his head. "No!" he bursts out. "I was visiting Ma back in Staddle when it all happened. I missed /everything/."

"I might have seen a troll once, though," he adds by way of replacement boast. (And judging by his lack of fear, it's rather unlikely he did).

Narthalion widens his eyes at this, briefly allowing amazement to overtake his countenance. "You speak as though you regret it. I will not deny that that is strange to me, unless dragons are no longer what they once were. You are little acquainted with fear, I see, and long may you remain so. But of dragons and trolls I will hear no boast. Such dragons as I have seen were no things to boast of, for where they went death and desolation followed them."

"Oh." Brandebras attempts to digest this - with not much success. His brows scrunch together in puzzlement and he blinks hard. But he is a hobbit, and young hobbits are ... well, irrepressible. "But you do know a story about a dragon?" he queries hopefully. "I'd so love to hear a tale about something like that. Something magical."

Narthalion laughs at this irrepressible hobbit, apparently recognizing a lost cause when he sees one. "I do not know what may be this 'magical' of which you speak, but if it is of a dragon you wish to hear, I can oblige. But do not hope for clever rhymes and subtle riddles, for the dragons that I have seen preferred fire to an outpouring of words, save one. And of him I will not speak." He settles back in his chair, about to leave his warning there, but something compels him to add, "And do not look for a happy ending. There were none or few of those, when I had to do with the fire-drakes."

"Oh." This time Brandebras' response is a little more subdued. "But good always wins in the end - doesn't it?" he asks, quite innocently.

"Does it?" Narthalion returns, lifting his brows. "Not having reached the end, I cannot say. Good wins in many a tale and many a hero has returned home to victorious peace. Less is heard of all those who fought in these battles or laboured in vain until the hero rescued them."

Wrinkles appear on Brandebras' youthful brow as he works his way through this. "Well, that's why they're heroes, isn't it?" he responds. "I don't think anyone would write a story about /me/." Then he recalls that he's supposed to be listening, and murmurs, "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet now and not interrupt. Really." He sends a timid, hopeful smile in the direction of Narthalion's knees.

The evening is still young, and the Pony bustling as always; so much so, in fact, that few heads turn to observe elf and hobbit. Most folk are far too busy with their own conversations - or food, or drink.



"Alright." Narthalion nods his head in approval, bemusedly watching the hobbit. "A long time ago, when the Sun and Moon were new and the land was ruled by the Elves, there was a King named Finrod. This King ruled many Elves, and he was wise and loved by all his people. The King wanted to keep his people safe, so he built a mighty city underground, that was named Nargothrond. That city had halls with pillars of mighty stone, built like groves in a forest..." the Elf pauses and glances at Brandebras. He drops the tone of epic grandeur he had adopted, and in quiet aside asks, "You don't really want to hear about what Nargothrond looked like, do you?"



A new moment, and again the Pony’s ale is stilled against oddity: two more figures, tall and warlike, appear at the room’s port. No gesture or word seems to pass between them, though the larger of the twain freely stalks his gaze across the gathered.


Only once conversation recovers does he stride towards the seeming elf; and when he halts, heavy footfall is replaced with a bass akin, accented with the tongue of the South: “<Sindarin> Finrod Felagund,” he begins, tone firm yet not unkind, “is said to have ruled more than Elf.


“Or so claims the lore of kin, that once my forefathers were sworn to him.”



The other Knight finds his compatriot's side and adds, "And his work is seen and lived by me and mine to this day. Though..." he hesitates then holds his words, opting for a strong nod of his head.


His hands take hold of his belt, a betrayal of his nerves, as he too takes an awkward moment to scan the common room.


[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras stands to attention and listens to Narthalion, quite rapt. Each time the Elf comes to one of those unfamiliar names he mouths it, silently, as though trying to commit it to memory. Whether he will succeed is an other matter. When Narthalion breaks off he looks quite disappointed. Almost without thought, his mouth pops open. "You mean they planted trees underground? But how-" He flushes, then, and looks down at his own furry toes. "That is - it doesn't really matter. What-"


The question, whatever it is to be, never comes, for the approach of the two newcomers, looking rather uncomfortably like Menelglir and from their garb somewhat more important, sets the hobbit all a-fluster. "I - uh, I've just remembered something I have to do," he gasps out, looking from one to the other and away again. "Maybe I could hear the rest of the story some other time? I'd really like to." Blushing furiously, he gives Narthalion a deep bob then darts off.


[Brandebras(#25187)] The Common Room, though not silent, is perhaps a little quieter as heads turn to watch the two Gondorians approach the elf. "Look!" someone whispers. "Them Furriners is all in league. It's a plot, I tell you!" Thus generating some interesting speculation for all of the next five minutes, by which time the talk has returned to the upcoming potato harvest.



Hard on the heels of the two Knights is the younger of the Gondorians, Menelglir following after them now and watching.




Narthalion proves more than a seeming Elf, for when Arathis speaks the other's eyes are turned upon him. Sharp are they, and filled with light and knowledge. His eyes are narrowed at Arathis, his head given a proud cant. Wordless he rises and gives a slight bow to the man, directed to a lesser extent at those who follow him.


"Are you then of the kindred of Beor? In love, perhaps, I have heard that they were sworn to Finrod. And not for naught was the Oath of Barahir sworn. And yet it seems to me that they dwelt rather in the lands of Angrod and Aegnor. But, forsooth, my mind was seldom turned to the cares of Men in those days, and where I dwelt they were of another sort than the Houses of Beor and Hador Lorindol."


[Gwendion] The other man lowers his voice and offers but a few hushed words for the Knight, "I have a bad feeling about this." He follows the group without hesitation, his eye mainly drawing towards the Breefolk and away from the Elf.


[Menelglir] Hesitating no longer, the Squire steps so that he is abreast of Gwendion and able to regain his view of the elf, head tilted slightly at the explanation given. He lowers his voice, speaking in a hushed whisper, expression a slight frown that lowers his brow. "... does ... ..., ... ... ... our ... ... ...? ... ... ... ... ...? ... why is ... bad?"



At the halfling’s departure, the tallest of the men bows in return, and speaks quietly: “<Sindarin> You would join the children of Beor elsewhere, perhaps, should these days prove less kind, and your mind now suffer the burdens of Men.


“For alas, where we dwell too, there have come men of another sort.”


An inviting gesture is cast first towards his twain of companions, and then to the exit of the common room.



Narthalion nods in acquiescence, moving toward the door. His only words are accompanied by a glance toward the other occupants of the room, many of whom are gazing at the strangers suspiciously, now that they are all standing and uttering foreign words. "Alas," Narthalion says in Sindarin to Arathis in passing, "They are lesser times we are come to, when the tongues of the Elves are heard so seldom, and by untrusting ears."




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.







Obvious exits:

 Kitchen leads to Kitchen.

 Downstairs Hallway leads to Short Passage.

 Double Doors leads to Stables.

 Archway leads to Under the Archway.



As twilight fades to night, a pale moon against clouds above, there wafts sundry smells of stews and cakes from the Prancing Pony, luring many to meals within the inn’s rooms. Its yard is thus left without visitor, allowed to be inhabited alone by the trio of Gondorians and the Elf, their names yet unshared.


At length, after settling himself with a breath deeper than wont, the tallest among the men states coolly, “<Sindarin> So, the distrust harbored by some Men for the Eldar is unshared, if you would follow us here armed, and with little warrant other than some inkling of lore.” Pausing, he nods once to Gwendion, as if to reassure him, ere adding: “And for this I am glad.


“Let then no doubt hold greeting, as proper between friends.” He gestures expectantly to his companions.



The youngest of the Men here, at only 16 summers, is the Squire clad in white who first fetched his two elders. Though he has voiced no words since he addressed his one hesitant query of Narthalion, Menelglir's attention has not wavered. Nor, does it seem, has his gaze, which is ever-present upon the elves, his grey eyes holding a mix of expressions. Wonder there is there, and some awe. But also something else, hinted at times, only to fade or be forced away: doubt or mistrust or at the very least, confusion.


And so the White Squire watches, not yet offering opinion or greeting or voice.


A single sidelong glance for Arathis is given before Gwendion speaks, bowing his head in greeting, "I am Gwendion Bragollach," this Knight begins, his voice even and measured hiding his emotions best he can from entering his words, "In service to Imrahil Imrazor." He brushes the back of his hand several times against the rough whiskers on his chin and then adds, "I will be plain and open and would have you know that the distrust Sir Arathis speaks of lies at the least within mine own heart. Know I expect little but betrayal from your kind, but if ever there was a time when I hoped to find my heart wrong in a matter, it is on this." His lips purse, unease creeping into his features as he gives a final nod, his peace spoken.



The shadows in the archway shift heavily: a green cloak is black in the sparse lamp-light, draped over a figure slender and female, tall beyond wont of hobbit or Bree-man. Her soft steps trace the steps towards the Pony, though a gloved hand rests hesitantly on the post of the archway: bright grey eyes search the inn-yard.



Narthalion stands tall and somewhat haughty among the Men, as might one who knows himself to be of a higher lineage and does not trouble to conceal that knowledge. Once out of doors his eyes are immediately to the stars, faint glimmers in the darkening sky. As Arathis speaks the Elda lowers his gaze to him. "Why should I fear to follow you? Long I have been in these lands, and long fought a battle that, maybe, will know defeat in the end. I do not fear you." A flicker of his eyes and Narthalion is looking at Gwendion. "Betrayal?" he repeats archly, "What twisted tales of my folk and yours have come down to you, Man of Gondor?"



A calm has taken to the voice of the head knight, flattening his accent against the melodious lilt of the Elvish tongue; he speaks then in song both mellow and warm, the same lifting a hand in ease:


“<Sindarin> War is common to us all; better then that we use words of peace, lest habits should capture us. Find no enemy in the honesty of Hir Gwendion, nor in any who serve Imrahil Prince, descended too from your peoples.”


A bidding gesture towards the boy: “And here is Menelglir Telpekhor, young Squire of similar Oath.”


The new figure, it seems, has avoided his detection.



Introduced as such, the Squire bends in a bow, but on straightening, his gaze darts to Gwendion and the young man bites at his lower lip. And then, emboldened, perhaps, by the Bragollach's words, he speaks up, looking between elf and Arathis.


"But...Lady Laeraelin...I am her ward," he offers in explanation to the elf, "says that the elves hide in their forests and in their dreams and songs and tales while Gondor fights the enemy, while Gondor keeps them safe--and dies. And that the elves have turned their backs on us."


The words, once out, cannot be retracted, and Menelglir colors and takes a step back into the shadows, as if trying to retreat and hold his tongue. For once.




A frown for the Squire, certainly, but no words of condemnation come from Gwendion. Instead he offers, "There is little that comes to us that is not born from a tale told thricehand at best. While, I would not place us as so foolish as to believe all, in most tales, in their origins, there is usually some fact. It is this that prejudices me. But if judged true to be false, they will not hinder our relations. And to that, Sir Arathis has much to speak about, I would say," he finishes with a nod to the other Knight.



Narthalion listens to all three speak with undivided attention, and showing no sign of interrupting even at the most accusatory point. He inclines his head at Gwendion before looking to Arathis. "Are these the charges you would lay against my people?" His tone is unhurried and untouched, the inquiry put forth with much the same air as might one enquire into a point of history thousands of years predating himself, or else guessing at a future to unfold a thousand years hence.



The newcomer, sensing perhaps a tension in the inn-yard, pauses at the threshold. Her hands lift to lower the hood from her head, revealing a well-made, solemn face, but little reaction is displayed thereupon to the comments of either the Men or the Elf.




Gwendion interrupts as Narthalion addresses Arathis, "Do not misunderstand. These are not accusations. Nor charges or claims of truth. They are but the color of upbringing." He holds up an open palm, "They are spoken in peace and in openness. If we seem untrusting at times, unswayed, perhaps it is so. But you know the why of it now. Too, know that these inclinations are not permanent and indeed, as I said, I hope...no, more than any hope I have had, I wish for them to change through the actions of yourself and others of your kind."



Displeasure is writ at the squire’s claims: the brows of the Dunadan deflate and his lips tighten, encumbering his head into a faint bow before the Elf. Such bearing remains even as his fellow knight speaks, submitting humility where his countrymen are bold:


“Nay, such charge is unfound; and this I say with the word of Prince Imrahil, whose servants ought not to be unawares of Man’s folly, to forget that some allies, beyond the failures of choice, have been determined long ago.


“For I am Arathis Alcarin, son of the late Lord Marshall Sirion Isilrim, Lord too of that House, descended by many years from the Edain of Dorthonion; and Herald by Oath to the Prince Imrahil, for whom I shall now speak.


“Know then that, among what has been said, it is true at least that Gondor fights and Gondor dies; and that it is the task of our Princedom, Dol Amroth, to serve as southern bastion for the Free Peoples; and, alas, that fate has been unkind to us of late.”


[Narthalion(#31143)] "I know what it is you would desire of me or of my people. On behalf of the Noldor I will say this to you: In your infancy, when your people were small and few and unlearned, it was the Noldor who gave you dwellings in Beleriand, and taught unto you all that could learn of the lore of the Valar. It was the Noldor that guarded your childhood and held the Shadow at bay, our swords that long stood between you and a Darkness the terror of which is but a memory to you, maybe. For a time thereafter we were matched and equal, and as allies made war together."


"But that time is ended. The Men of Gondor would laugh, I think, to see gathered the meager ranks of my kin that still dwell upon these shores. We are friends now, as ever, with the descendents of the Edain of old. Yet our friendship can longer come in strength of war. In counsel now is the strength of the Eldar to be found, in the memory of days fairer and nobler far than any now found in the fading world."


"Nay," he continues, turning pointedly to Gwendion, "You do not stand alone, no more than you have since you came into our lands out of darkness, of which you would not speak. It is we, now, who are to become the strangers here, shades of the might of the Elves of old. The armies of the Leaguer are scattered to the winds, but we who remain have not forgotten that ancient hate. Your enemy is ours also, and has been long ere the waking of Men. No, we cannot help you as you would wish, but neither will I, at least, abandon you until I or the Shadow has departed from Middle Earth."




"I think then you will be surprised at what truly we have come for," Gwendion replies simply, for once a simple smile curling upon his lips, "But I will allow the voice of my Prince, to speak of it."



The figure at the entrance speaks now, though her light voice is low and hesitant. "Yet we are not wholly estranged, and not so weakened that we might eternally hide in hidden crevices and dales. Hir Narthalion -- these Men are of the South? I have come on another errand, but perhaps one of my companions would want to know of this."



Many moments pass in silence; and then, with the rise of his head, the Dunadan lord speaks plainly, "<Sindarin> If you are far-seeing, then have us see, and we shall strike. Though we shall die, we ask no more, as children who would provide freely for those who have birthed them.


"And if you are not, take us to the Master of your Kind, if I speak his name true: Elrond, from whom my Prince has sought counsel before, -- whose dale then cannot be far, if the Eldar are frequent here though they have become scarce." He bows to the newly come Elf-maiden, looking at her long.


"It is with him, Hir Narthalion, we have been bid to have counsel."



"No, indeed," Narthalion -- which is apparently the Noldo's name -- replies to the Elf-maid, bowing his head to her and stepping aside somewhat to allow her entrance into their company. Thereafter his attention returns to Arathis. The words of the Dunadan sharpen the gaze of the Elf as a blade upon a whetstone, his countenance growing at once haughty and displeased.


"We are not your masters, nor do we wish to be. We will not say, 'go here or there', to life or death as seems good to us. Counsel you may receive, but neither orders nor certainty." There is a latent power in his voice, the subtle swelling of the waves of the sea that rise in a rebellion that cannot be controlled.


"If your Prince has sought counsel of Elrond ere now, then perhaps he would have done better to send servants that know where to find him. You shall not come to him through me. The place of his dwelling is not a secret for me to keep or betray as I see fit. The best I may offer you is to let it be known to others who may keep or break that secret that you wish to find Elrond. Do not speak dismissively to the lady," he tilts his chin at Tirloth, "For she may prove your boon more readily than I."




No words come from Gwendion now as Narthalion speaks, so rapt in his attentions. He offers the most brief of nods for the Elf-maid as she comes into view. Only as he addresses Tirloth directly does she find herself his focus and only briefly before Narthalion becomes his study once more.



There is no dismissal to which the lady might take offense, for she merely bows in return.


"This I cannot decide," she says calmly. "We have traveled through great danger to reach this town, and to lead a guest through ancient threats is folly. If you wish," Tirloth addresses the head knight, "our commander is here. He is the one who may give counsel, and perhaps lead you to the Herdir."



Humility is lost, and the knight grows suddenly grim: here stands Man defiant, taller and more terrible than before, what martial pride fused and airs of Empire flagged. He advances to match the Noldo, bass twined by gall and blood:


“Heed, Elf, those who offer their deaths for words. It is an unwelcome trade, and I have not made it lightly. Speak to me none of tales and fancies as if a Halfling, to hear you and change cakes for coin in an inn of Bree.


“Yea,” he grates, assessing Narthalion coldly, “if you would aid us, then find us upon the road, for our matter is greater than your life, as it is my own; and if you would hamper us, then we shall meet, and decide the greater between us.”


A sharp inhale of the nose, and he turns away from the Noldo, making to depart. But the Elf-maiden earns a pause; with forced calm, the Isilrim lord offers her another bow, and few words: “Forgive me, and farewell.”


The issue however decided, he bids his companions outward and departs.



Narthalion listens to all of this in moveless silence. In the end he laughs, a sound both lyrical and fell. "Ye who boast of kinship with Beor the Old? Mind your lying tongue, Man of Dol Amroth. Your own words betray the lowly state you have fallen into." His eyes are hard and cold, but have no more time for the Man. Turning to the maid he makes but one request, "Take me to him who leads you."



Tirloth reaches out a hand to the Noldo, attempting to separate Man and Elf should actions be taken. She waits, then, until the courtyard has descended into quiet once more -- if quiet can be said for the oblivious merriment that spills from the windows of the Pony.


"Do you send them, then, to a needless end?" she asks Narthalion, avoiding his gaze. "Come. I will lead you to Hir Glorfindel."



Narthalion follows Tirloth, saying only, "They may bring themselves to whatever end they please."

Date added: 2009-11-24 01:44:54    Hits: 247
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