The Old Guesthouse

Seven Stars and Seven Stones and One White Tree.
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Cadil on a quest

Cadil found that the kitchen was getting quite busy indeed, and the space might soon be lacking if any more questers were sent here. The young man could not help wondering whether the King would indeed manage to eat all this food himself, or perhaps he would share it with his family and guests?

"Right, ladies," he said after finishing his cleanup and glancing at the food the others were about to make. "I will leave you to it. Good luck!"

Grabbing the food he had made, he hastened out of the kitchen, not forgetting to thank the innkeep for the opportunity to use the amenities for the cooking quest. Cadil figured it would be important to make his way back to the seventh circle before the food got cold and lost some of the goodness. Taking extra care not to step into any pies and such on the floor, off he went.
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Lôkhî Axantur
‘Xan smiled slowly at the faintest lightening of Durien’s stoic features. “I would gladly learn from you,” he said simply as she explained about the steps behind the final lovely product sold in the market. He had a good eye and memory for places, though his specialty had always been cities and buildings. A necessity in his former occupation. Getting to the city – that was usually easy enough and he could read a map. Remembering the layout of a city, the narrow alleys and hidden gardens…that was something that could rarely be found on a map, but so very crucial for him. A tic started in his jaw and he forced his thoughts away from that, back to Durien’s continued words.

“When could I leave,” he mused aloud. “Right now, really, though I’d rather not unless it’s urgent. I’d really rather get a new pair of boots if I’m to be traveling far. I’ve worn this pair nearly through, and they’re useless for riding.” He tilted his head in an old habit, studying her from his pale eyes. “Do you still ride that black, the silky fellow that moved like the wind?” The memory teased him, solidified then drifted away like sand at high tide.

“I mean…” he blinked, the rubbed at his head and glanced at his mug. “The ale must be stronger than I remembered. I can see you, clear as day, but I’m probably imagining it.” But the image remained. A dark, lithe figure, swathed in greys and blacks, riding into the blackest night carrying away a child stolen from the master’s hall. ‘Xan cleared his throat, his hand unsteady as he pushed the mug away from him.

“Uhm, what was I saying? I’d need new boots, and some traveling gear. I’ve a pack and bedroll with me, but nothing for a long journey. I’ve no money for a horse, but I prefer walking anyway. And I’ve no preference for direction, as long as it isn’t further south than the Anduin, or past the Ephel Dúath.” He met her eyes for a moment, then the tiniest hint of red stained his dark cheeks. “I have no desire to see Nurn, or Khand, or Harad again. I’ve only been to the North once, past the eastern edge of Mirkwood to the fortress in the Ered Mithrim, but I do not remember much of the journey.”

He shifted a little, smiled. “I suppose if I had to choose, I’d say north and west.” He brought the image of a map into his mind, as clear as if it lay on the table before him. “I’d like to see the Havens someday,” he finally murmured softly “and sail on a ship not darkened with the blood of slaves.”
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Once a Rider, always a Rider

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


*he needed a drink. It was that simple. He delivered letters. That was his job. Packages too. Simple. Sometimes less simple. But he'd delivered everything from kittens, to rotten cabbage. Those were somewhat more adventurous. There had been somewhat painful moments. A letter from a commander, outside of the official chains of command to tell a woman who had recently become a widow about the last fight her husband had ever waged, and the last words spoken. He'd had to read it to her, two times, because she had not been able to stop the tears long enough, even as she kept exclaiming how proud she was. That.. had been hard. And he'd stopped for a drink on the way home as well that night. Most deliveries were well.. routine. He had no idea why some people used the Fangorn mailing tree for recipes, love letters to their own husbands or the latest news on the grand kids, but many of the recipients knew him.
A cup off tea. A chat. And then on to the next customer. Some were nice, some boring, and some weird or unpleasant. Like the cabbage. He still wasn't fully over the cabbage.

But these last few deliveries had unsettled him. A new recipient wasn't anything new. But the reaction to the first missive had.. stuck with him. She'd let him read missive and somehow.. it had felt like a test. He did not know what she had gained by it, what she had wanted to know. The anger had.. seemed real that first time. The accusation black on white had been an uneasy thing to see. He'd been glad to be gone and had hoped not to see her again. And for a few weeks it had seemed that had been the case. He might run in on her perhaps in the city. And they'd nod a greeting and then go away. But there had been the second letter. And now a third to be delivered tomorrow. He had not read the third one. Nor even the second but he'd glimpsed the reaction.

He moved to find a table and ordered an ale by the simple expedience of signalling barkeep, Haldecar. A few moments later it was delivered by his daughter. He'd normally strike up a chat, easily. Not today. He was on edge.

Was it true? It couldn't be true. It was nonsense of course. It had to be. Had to be. But what if it was. Should he report it? To whom? And what? Gossip? From a letter, without knowing the one who had written? Or why? Or what even had been meant by it?
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Éowyn
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Lothar

The news had hit him hard. All of a sudden, he wasn't a soldier anymore? All of a sudden, he was out of work?

Sure, the army quartermaster had informed him, along with a dozen or so others at the time, that pay would continue for a fortnight - but what in Middle-Earth was he supposed to do afterward?
As he understood it, there were only so many positions available within the Minas Tirith City Watch. And competition would be fierce. Soldiering was all he knew, but he never amounted to anything special within the army.

Just another pawn to be used. Just another man who'd lost his family and all his friends in the Third Age, until he'd decided to simply not make friends anymore. His chiselled bone structure and his striking green eyes, combined with his rugged appearance and fit, broad-shouldered physique would have long drawn a woman to him, perhaps, if he hadn't adopted a sullen outlook on life and had drawn layers of unattractive personality traits around himself. It had been intentional. He'd seen firsthand how many soldiers couldn't deny love when they happened upon it. Yet Lothar was a firm believer that it was too dangerous for a soldier to love and be loved in return. When the soldier died - for it was not a matter of if, only of when - his or her death would leave their partner's life in ruins. And he, for one, never wanted to be responsible for destroying another person - especially not someone he loved. So it was safer to be unsympathetic in the first place, and avoid interest altogether.

He was just as brooding as ever now, choosing the table next to one where another man was sitting who didn't seem intent on striking up conversation (Adleg). Lothar had come to wallow, and to drink. Figuring out his life could wait until the morrow.
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense



It seems most of the people at the inn were of a mind. While at other times there was socializing aplenty, today was a day to sit and drink. Adleg did not drink much, not in general. He was a responsible man, a father, though his children were now mostly grown. Sure there was the occasional wedding where you had too much. Or that one night where you gathered with friends and there were songs and you lost count of the tankards or the rounds but he wasn't known as a drunk. The letter that had been in the package he usually got and then distributed, amidst others that offered no worries. One package which he was sure was dried mushrooms, a few letters of which he well knew the recipients, some pipe weed, a few more letters. And then he'd come up against that name again. It shouldn't worry him. It wasn't his business. He just delivered the letters.
Yet without thinking he'd ordered a second tankard of the darker ale.

The thing is.. it was a vile accusation. But what if it was true. She clearly didn't like getting the letters. Well who would, really. But she had known.. somehow she'd known something. Which meant there WAS something TO know. But what? Had she stolen? A childhood crime that no came back to haunt her? But was that.. the same? Would that not be long settled? It would not disturb him half so much if she wasn't WHO she was. Rangers were supposed to be honorable. Right? What.. if it was written by a fellow ranger? Who else would know?
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Kill-Stealing Skirt Wench
When others ride out to win renown, let me chosen to tend the house.

Éowyn
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Lothar ordered a regular ale and stared at his hands on the table as he waited for it to arrive. Strong hands, calloused from endless training with the sword. He drew a slow, deep breath through his nose, held it for a few seconds, and released it the same way.

What would he be? What could he be? An apprentice? At his age? He almost huffed. Apprentices usually started in their teens, not their thirties. And even if he were to learn a trade still, whatever trade would it be? The city already had its fair share of smiths, which was at least somewhat related to soldiering still. Lothar was at a loss.

It was at times like these that he could really use a friend, even though he had worked so hard not to have any.

When his ale arrived, his green eyes had a deadpan look to them as he muttered his thanks. The coin was already on the table.
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


*The inn was quiet at the moment and he rather appreciated it. The man sitting at a table close by was nursing his beer much like himself. Adleg had friends. But at this point he didn't want to talk with friends. He could not breach the confidentiality of his position. He couldn't tell people about the letters. But on the other hand, the accusation stuck with him, as well as the sheer responsibility of it. Was he single handedly holding back knowledge of a betrayal? A plot against the very fundaments of the Rangers? He did not know why the thought stuck with him, but it seemed as if everything... in his life centered around these thoughts of late. He was on edge, constantly. As if things were out to get him. People were out go get him. Which made no sense. Perhaps another ale would take the edge off.

Haldecar! Another one. *this time he raised his voice to be heard by the barkeep.* And one more for my friend over there.. *He pointed at Lothar. Not that he knew the man brooding, but he looked like Adleg felt, which at this point was good enough. He didn't want companionship, not really. But .. he could sincerely sympathize with the mood. His mind wandered, as the ale was placed before him and another one on Lothar's table, his thoughts now halfway audible in a restless muttering, where words like* "kittens".. "letters".. "and rotten rangers being worse than rotting cabbages" might be caught amidst a stream of others thoughts.*
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Cadil

And here he was wandering in again, not to cook, nor to participate in food fights. The young man merely wanted something to drink, and so he got a tankard of dark ale at the counter and then set about observing the other patrons.

Cadil could not help but smile slightly, when he noticed Lothar. The man had not been very kind to him when he had caused trouble as a recruit, and he still seemed just as sour. He would have wanted to join him and chat a bit - if only that was a possibility. More likely than not Lothar would just growl at him and send him on his way. And yet...

He took his tankard and moved closer to Lothar, though not daring to join him just yet. Instead he turned to Adleg who was sitting alone nearby.

"May I join you, mate?" he asked. The man did not look like he had the best of days either, which was totally a pity. It definitely seemed that Cadil had come here on some sort of a sour day.
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Lothar

When the man sitting at the table next to him called out for another drink, and included him in his order, Lothar looked up with a frown. He didn't know the man (Adleg). Lothar scowled mentally: he didn't want to socialize. Yet, he was pleasantly surprised when he gauged Adleg that the man didn't look like he wanted company, either. The drink had been ordered in acknowledgment of their mutual need to drink alone, then. Lothar could respect that.

It made him more attentive of his neighbor, however. Lothar's frown grew increasingly deeper as he caught the man's mutterings. Rotten Rangers were worse than rotting cabbages? The stray sentence caught his interest, despite himself. Lothar hadn't been invited to these newly formed King's Rangers, after all, and hearing about how some of those who had been chosen were bad candidates, both pleased and displeased him, of course. It was good to hear rumor that the King's chosen weren't really all that - then it could mean his being overlooked was remiss, after all. However, it could also mean that if the King'd had more research done for his "chosen few", and had left out the alleged 'rotten' ones, Lothar might have been chosen instead. And then he wouldn't have had this freaking job crisis.

And then, of all people, CADIL entered. The foolish, young recruit, who Lothar had thought of as entirely unfit for duty. To his mind, the lad had done more harm than good during his time in the armed forces of Gondor - and Lothar had never done anything to hide his feelings. Shockingly, the lad was still approaching him. Why?!
At the last minute, Cadil turned away and addressed the man at the table next to him (Adleg). Lothar was relieved at this - but he also felt some pity for the other man. Cadil might just annoy him as much as he would annoy Lothar.
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


*He was barely aware when the door opened. Somewhat on the periphery of his vision he noticed Cadil walking towards Lothar as he started on his third -or was it his fourth- ale. He wasn't fully aware anymore that his thoughts had formed into words, or half formed sentences at best, and when Cadil all of a sudden appeared at his table he slightly startled. Did he mind if the man joined him?
When Adleg looked up, his eyes were.. very bright, even though he squinted as if trying to see if he recognized him.Hmm.. nope. Did not.. recognize. Recognnizzze*

Sure.. sure... the more the merrier..

*Though merry is not exactly how he looked, or sounded. Yet he made a gesture inviting you to the table none the less. * Ale? I can get you one. *Though getting you an ale would mean standing up, which he somehow.. didn't feel like.*

You one of them rangers?

*the question was aimed at Cadil, almost as if he was taking one for the team and sparing Lothar. Rangers. They were supposed to be an honorable lot. So what was the deal about losing their honor, right? What if that was true? If it was true then.. then.. well that wasn't good now was it? He'd rather be carrying a sack full of clawing kittens again than to deliver the next letter. What would it say? It would be a bad thing to open it of course. He' never opened anything he was supposed to deliver. Not even the cabbagessss and boy did he have reason then.*
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Kill-Stealing Skirt Wench
When others ride out to win renown, let me chosen to tend the house.

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Cadil

"I got ale, not to worry,"
the youngster responded, as he lifted his tankard a bit before setting it down on the table, and then slid into the seat opposite the tipsy looking man. Cadil felt slightly amused that the man had seemingly had one too many ales, but perhaps the underlying reason was not that amusing; though that was none of his business anyway.

"I am called Cadil," he introduced himself, though he was not sure his new table mate would even care to know or remember his name anyway. "And nah, not a Ranger. I squandered my opportunity to become one," he admitted with a sidelong glance at Lothar. He wasn't sure whether the conversation carried over, but he was certainly sure that Lothar would have much to say about his uselessness, if he ever had been a man of many words.

"Perhaps a pity,"
Cadil noted with a slight shrug, though there was not much weight behind his words. He had enjoyed wearing the uniform and all that, but he had struggled so much with discipline and obedience... Roaming the inns and enjoying all sorts of leisurely pastimes seemed more fun, though he was very confident that his dad whose savings he was using up was not happy about it. The young man took a sip from his tankard and shrugged off any guilty feelings that tried to wake up his conscience.
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Lothar

The conversation carried over just fine. When the man who'd bought him his second drink (Adleg) asked Cadil if the latter was one of the Rangers, Lothar almost snorted out some of his ale. In his attempt not to, he breathed some of the liquid down with his air, and fell prone to repeated attempts at trying to cough it back out - rather unsuccessfully. Lothar shifted in his seat, away from the other table and toward the wall, until the coughing would subside.
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


No.. No... Not a pity...*he reached over the table to pat the younger man's hand in reassurance.* It's a good thing. No rangers! OH I am sure there are good rangers. *He added with a decisive nod, even as he took a sip of his tankard. Was it his third? Or his fourth? While he wasn't a drunk by far it would usually take more than a three to make him loose track of his words. Or his good sense possibly*

There are good rangers. *he added it with emphasis and a nod, lifting a finger in the air as he started to pontificate* In my days they were allllll good rangers. You had to be, you see. Or you were kicked out. Boom. Out. None of that dishonorable business in my days. Mind you, I wasn't a ranger myself but when I had the age for it, you couldn't be in the rangers and loose your honor. Noooo Sir. Kicked out! *he nodded once more for emphasis*

Have you considered delivering letters? It's a good career. Mostly. *he added it to Cadil who admitted he had 'squandered' the opportunity to become a ranger, and considering where he was right now, he might be in need of a different choice* And there are messenger riders too. THey go far places. I stay in the city. Got a family you see. Well.. my children have grown, still the wife wouldn't like it if I traveled too much. Wouldn't like me here at the inn either at this hour.
*His left hand moved, nervously, to the large satchel that he'd placed on the bench beside him, even as his right reached for the tankard again*
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Kill-Stealing Skirt Wench
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Cadil

"What? How? Good not to be a Ranger?" the young man wondered, and then glanced at Lothar who had been overcome by a coughing fit. He couldn't say he was too happy about having dropped out just like this, though it seemed that the whole defence system had been reorganised, and now he was sure he would not find his way back in. Not as a Ranger anyway.

When the man began speaking of dishonourable Rangers, Cadil shook his head vigorously. "No, sir, it is not acceptable to be dishonourable now as well. I don't know of any who would fit in this category, I assure you!" Of course, some could be silly, though with him out that contingent might be severely diminished. And then he remembered the note the same man had delivered to Kaylin. When he realised that he must be still wondering about it, the young man vigorously shook his head. "There are no dishonourable Rangers, no matter what the note might have said!"

He shifted in his chair a bit uncomfortably at the mention of delivering letters. "Oh, I don't think I would fit this job, more likely than not I would lose half of the letters somewhere and sneakily read the other half," he chuckled. "I'm no good with precision work..." Then he nodded to the tankard the man still sipped from: "Perhaps you should be going home? What if your wife came after you with a rolling pin if she isn't fond of you sitting here?" A small grin played on Cadil's lips at the picture this conjured in his mind.
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Lothar

When he finally managed to end the coughing, he caught something about dishonorable rangers and Cadil saying there were none, 'no matter what the note might have said'. The note? Lothar's curiosity was definitely fuelled by what he'd caught of the conversation, although he was reluctant to admit it (mostly to himself).

It seemed that his silent drinking companion (Adleg) was a messenger. Lothar frowned as he pieced things together. So that meant he had delivered a note to someone that claimed some ranger was dishonorable? And Cadil had seen it, or it least had knowledge of it? That did it.

Lothar scowled and rose from his seat. It only took two steps for him to reach Adleg and Cadil's table. "Greetings," he grumbled. "Mind if I join you two? I could hear the conversation from my table, and even though I came to drink alone, I'd rather sit here so I don't appear like some sneak of an eavesdropper."
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Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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Many years had passed since his weary legs had carried him through the winding paved streets of the White City. In the distant past he had once called this place home, but that was now a faint distant memory, the streets and tall stone buildings it now appeared cold and foreign to him. His time travelling and living in the wilds had erased those memories from him, or so he hoped.

Udan’s journey through the great city gates and along Rath Celerdain was interrupted by the sounds of merriment and cheer, coming from a well-kept building on his left. He pulled the hood back from his head and inspected the sign swinging from above the dark, well maintained wooden door. The Old Guesthouse – the sign read. He shrugged to himself, pushed the door open with his gloved hand, and stepped inside.

Stooping to get his broad shoulders and six-foot-tall frame through the door, Udan’s ears were somewhat assaulted by the unfamiliar yet cheerful sounds of chatter and laughter that filled his ears as he entered. He shook off his small pack and travel worn cloak, throwing them onto a nearby vacant table close to the fire.

Scanning the room for any danger, he moved cautiously towards the bar. He caught the eye of the busy barman. “A mug of ale barman.” He said in a quite yet deep rumbling voice, as he slid coin across the bar. Before his ale was poured, Udan made his way slowly back to his chosen table, waiting for his drink to be served. He drew two small Axes from his belt and placed them on the table. Udan then removed a larger double bearded axe from where it hung strapped to his back, placing it against his table, within reach, before settling into his chair with a deep sigh.

He placed his large booted feet on a nearby seat, looked into the fire and murmured. “Home? We’ll see.”

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Cadil

When Lothar approached their table, Cadil wondered for a moment whether he had done something to be in trouble with the man. While he had mostly gotten frowns and scowls from the man, he wasn't sure he wouldn't get a proper thrashing if he deserved it - now that they were not bound by Ranger rules of conduct. However, he could not think of anything absolutely ridiculous and out of bounds that he had done, or at least nothing that would be known to Lothar.

Relief washed over him, when Lothar only requested to sit with them and was not about to box his ears. "Sure!" Cadil waved at one of the empty seats and beamed a smile at Lothar, "I doubt anyone would think you a sneak, though." The last statement was quite true; he had never known the quiet man to be sneaky. Besides eavesdropping could happen to anyone... and Cadil was actively pursuing that often.

As a small breeze entered the room, Cadil devoted a moment to glance over the tall unfamiliar man with axes (Udan), and then turned back to the conversation.

"Tell him, Lothar!" the young man insisted. "None of the Rangers are dishonourable!"
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Lothar

He sat down slowly, somewhat surprised by Cadil's eager gesturing and his broad smile. The boy couldn't possibly like him, not after the way he'd treated Cadil in the past. Granted, it was how he treated everyone... Lothar snorted at Cadil's plee. "Please," he said, and he would have rolled his eyes if his personality had been more extravert. "I hardly know 'em all, so can't claim anything of the sort."

"I know some, though," he allowed, strangely wanting to give Cadil at least some kind of concession. "And those I do know are definitely not dishonorable." He sipped his ale. "As far as I know of."
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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


*he looked up, with eyes just a shade too bright, and the gaze a hint unfocused. It seemed too much, too drunk for someone who had three tankards. Or was it four? A man should be able to have that much without changing into a blithering fool. He wasn't a fool. He'd read the missive himself, hadn't he? And despite Cadil's vehement denial over the last weeks doubt had started to creep in for him. See something, say something? Should he alert the commander? But of what? A note? She seemed to know about it though. Or at least.. she had an idea. Had she? Or was that just shock? She'd asked questions that first time. Got rid of him as soon as possible the second time. Now there's a third note and he would have to deliver it. It looked the same. It even smelled the same. Hearing another voice, he looked up and gestured widely as Lothar asked to come sit with them, slightly too wide, but he didn't bump anything off the table.*

Come and join! I was drinking alone too but well.. man's gotta share his thoughts, right? That is.. two know better than one. Three know better than two.

*The reply though, much more measured than Cadil's had him nod empathically*

That's the thing, right? We don't know! And if we don't know what can we do? Maybe we should ask the questions, right?

What do you think?

*That last had been aimed at a third man (Udan) who had entered the inn but had not so far joined a group of companions. He'd come here to brood, to think, but Adleg felt like sharing his trouble all of a sudden. Couldn't bring all that brooding home to the wife. No, she would not like that at all.*


@Arnynl @Pele Alarion, @Udan
((OOC: sorry about the delay. One more week of this insanity and then I should get back to a normal schedule.))
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Cadil

The lad was not overly happy with Lothar's support of his case, and yet it seemed to be quite a bit, knowing the man, his unwillingness to speak, and the sour behaviour. Cadil snorted in a bit of dismay and took to sipping his own ale, as he tried to figure out a way to distract the messenger from being so focused on that one small note. Apparently it had bothered him all this time!

"What do you mean - we don't know?" he grumbled loudly at Adleg. "There cannot be anything of the sort in this case. And I don't even understand why it bothers you so much. I figure someone is just being jealous, or downright nasty by sending such a note. If I get my hands on that someone..." Well, neither of them really knew who had written the note, and it would be very difficult to find the guilty party. Besides, Cadil was not much of a fighter, but he imagined that he'd be capable enough to land a good punch to the offender's nose.
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Lothar

He was frowning openly at the stranger (Adleg), who seemed not too well practiced at downing a few ales, and was now involving anyone close enough to their table (Udan). Cadil, on the other hand, was uncharacteristically grumpy. Lothar thought it was an improvement on the lad's overly positive demeanor from a few years back, but wasn't sure if it was only the topic at hand or an actual change in Cadil's character. The more Cadil spoke, however, the more Lothar wanted to ask questions.

"This case? Then this is about a specific occurence." Lothar leaned forward toward Cadil, his forearms on the table, the fingers of his right hand still around his pint of ale. "And a specific person. Who? Do I know them as well?"
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Annabel Warren, a currently-unemployed tavern wench

The ride up from the coast had been dusty and hot, and frankly she was dead on her feet. The horse, who looked barely better than she did, was being taken care of by the two young stablehands she'd given a silver penny each. At least, she hoped they were stablehands, or she'd just paid people to steal her horse.

Trusting in the genuine goodness of the Men of Gondor, she didn't rush off after them the moment that thought occurred to her, and she continued into the tavern. The door made no ominous squeaking, which was nice, if strange for an old building. As she glanced around, she saw a few folk were inside chatting and drinking, but there was plenty of space. She hoped they'd have a room for the night. In fact, she hoped they'd have quarters for new employees, if she was brutally honest, but she was prepared to look around the towering city and see what was on offer in the way of work or kindness to a visitor.

There was a large man, clearly with a love for axes, sitting alone at the fireside who might like a little company if the job fell through, but she headed for the bar, hoping to speak to the landlord about a room and a job. It would be very nice to have one less thing to worry about.

She dropped her bag on the floor by the bar and called to the girl behind the bar, "I'd like a beer an' a room, if you 'ave 'em available. I'd also like a job, if yer boss is looking for strong 'ands! I can do anything from wenching to doing the books. Used to do it for me Da, back 'ome!"

The girl said nothing until she'd poured the beer, and then answered, "My Father will let you know about a job. He won't be back until later now, but I can give you a room."

Annabel smiled. "Thassa best news I've 'ad all day!" she said cheerfully, lifting the beer. "I'll take this by the fire, I reckon, and you can tell me if'n your Da comes back, yer?"

The girl nodded.

Annabel lifted her beer and made to walk off, completely forgetting that her giant bag was by her feet. Her beer splattered across the floor in a generous arc and she fell, her arms flailing as she shrieked, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Her fall was arrested by a side table stacked with fancy crockery, but as she went down hard her left forearm was cut to ribbons by the breaking plates. As blood dripped down her arm, she clutched it with her other hand and cried out for help.

"Oh please. I can't bear the sight of blood - won't someone help me, please!"

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


*he lifted the letter from his pocket and waved it before Cadil, and Lothar who had joined* That's the third one. These don't come easy, you know. Travel all the way from Fangorn. If someone was being nasty... *he took another sip* wouldn't it be much easier to just put something under her door? Maybe we should say something, right? Like have an INQUEST. I mean if she's not done a thing, then she's not done a thing and it can't hurt, right?

*He half turned to Lothar who at least had the sense to agree with the fact that sometimes you didn't know*
When you don't know, you don't know, right? And that's the thing exactly. Am I being negligent by not telling on her. That is.. I mean it's not my business, but now that I know.. if something happens, it would be my fault for not telling, right?
*He nodded to the question asked, firmly* A specific case. That is.. she's a specific ranger. It's not about all rangers. I ain't saying that all rangers have lost their honor. I ain't even saying she has. But it's possible, right? As you say.. we don't know.

*it was somehow easy to get lost in his thoughts. He hadn't drunk that much. Had he? But it seemed harder to focus on anything, so he kept his mind trained on the topic that they were speaking of. Both of the men weren't rangers. And they might have insight, because he kept turning things over and over in his brain ever since he'd seen the third letter in his bag. Third time that name was written in flowing script. And the third delivery that he really did not look forward to.*
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Cadil

Cadil knew that Lothar was not a chatterbox, and yet he found it hard to speak to him about this thing, though now it seemed apparent that Adleg would not just let it go and might even disclose it to anyone and everyone he happened upon. While he hesitated, the messenger spoke on and almost slapped him with the letter he had retrieved from his bag.

"Third!" he gasped in surprise. Someone was obviously after Kaylin, and it was fast becoming serious. He glared at Adleg some more and then lowered his voice almost to whisper as he explained the circumstances to Lothar: "Well, it is Kaylin. Apparently someone has been sending her notes and telling her that she has dishonoured herself. I saw the first note."

For a moment he thought, and then continued: "I would not be so concerned about what she has or has not done; I'd want to know who it is that is sending her these... things and is trying to intimidate or blackmail her or something. I figure those people whoever they are should rather be investigated." Besides, he could not imagine that Kaylin would have really done something that horrible that would require condemnation if brought to light.

"You know, we..." he was about to share some possible ideas of what he thought should be done, when there was a noise of someone falling, shrieking, and of plates breaking. Lad ducked his head instinctively, and then turned to see the woman (Annabel) on the ground with a bleeding arm. Feeling that he should at least be gentlemanly enough, he stood reluctantly and made his way over to her, extending his hand for her to grasp. "I ain't got bandages, else could wrapped your arm up if it has no shards in it," he said. "But at least can help you up first."
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Annabel Warren, a currently-unemployed tavern wench, bleeding profusely from cuts to her arm

Annabel had been sat on the floor of the tavern, picking shards of crockery from her arm with yelps of pain and copious bloodletting, which generously trickled down onto her skirt and the sleeve of her blouse, when one of the men from one of the tables (Cadil) offered her a hand up.

She waved one blood-covered hand at him, and then promptly took it back to cradle her other forearm. "Thank you, kind sir," she said tremulously, eyes suspiciously bright with what might be unshed tears, but which she would vehemently deny if it were mentioned. "I am so sorry to disturb you, and I don't want to cover you in blood, if you could hold my elbow, maybe while I get up? I am afraid I have some shards still in the wound, but it's bleeding so much more now I've taken some out." She visibly swallowed a retch. "If you could help me patch this up, I'd be grateful. Is there anyone here trained in healing or somewhere I could go - an apothecary, maybe?"

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Lothar

"You should differentiate between 'nasty' and 'mischievous'. Pushing something under someone's door to mess with them is mischief - like a prank. Sending letters with grave accusations sounds less like a prank and more like an intended take-down." Lothar sipped his ale. He was being extremely talkative at the moment, and he wasn't sure whether or not he liked it.

Her. This was about a female Ranger. And then Cadil finally lifted two corners of the veil: notes that keep saying the Ranger has dishonored herself, and the Ranger in question... was Kaylin.

A heavy frown drew down Lothar's brow. It made sense that Cadil vehemently opposed the idea that the redhead had lost her honor. After all, hadn't she saved Cadil's butt in battle a few years ago? Other than being a genuinely nice woman to the lad.

In fact, Kaylin tended to be genuinely nice to everyone. He forgot to sip his ale for a bit as he stared at Adleg. Lothar couldn't really see how Kaylin would have lost her honor either. And now this man was thinking about passing along such damaging rumors to the Ranger Command? That could either spell immediate trouble for her, or quite possibly trouble down the road - people in charge tended to fight for those they commanded, but you couldn't hear an accusation like that and not take a special interest in the accused. Kaylin would be watched much more closely. Not that it would do her much harm if she was innocent... Lothar's frown got a bit confused. Unless she still liked to roll the dice the way she used to and got herself involved in the same multitude of drinking games, perhaps. It could be that these newly formed Rangers were stricter concerning off-duty behavior than the Army used to be?

Either way, Lothar was sure of one thing. He didn't like the idea of this man (Adleg) spreading rumors about Kaylin. If Lothar would have wanted friends, Kaylin would be one of them for sure. A grimace crossed his features. Lothar was sure that Kaylin considered herself a friend of his, and - though he didn't want to admit it - somehow he'd actually ended up being a friend of hers as well... despite his best efforts to push her away.

Lothar agreed with Cadil.

By the Valar. That almost made him wince. He - agreed - with - Cadil.

Someone falling down (loudly, accompanied by the sound of things breaking)) pulled him from his musings. Cadil was quick to his feet to help the girl. Lothar remained seated. He knew he could offer little in the way of assistance; he was no healer, and one person helping the lass to her feet would do. She didn't need two.

"What's your name?" he asked Adleg. He hadn't caught it earlier, he realized. "And how are these letters reaching you from.. Fangorn, you say?" He shrugged. "How do you even know they carry any true weight?"
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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Annabel Warren, a currently-unemployed tavern wench, bleeding profusely from cuts to her arm

The person [Cadil] mutely helped her to her feet, but that was it. Annabel would have been horrified, but she'd been around men in bars her whole life. They weren't interested in much except ale and - well, suffice to say helping an injured person didn't fit the bill. "Thanks," she said shortly, embarrassed to be interrupting his meeting; aware of his clear wish to get back to ignoring her, she didn't press the issue regarding needing medical attention. Perhaps it she went out and bled in the street someone might actually take her to a sawbones before she actually fainted?

Disgusted with the lot of them, she stumbled back to the bar where her own bag lay innocently upon the floor like it hadn't caused her a world of hurt and embarrassment, and risking a small moment without pressing on the wound, she hefted it uncomfortably onto her back and grasped her forearm again, now freshly wet with blood since she'd let it flow again.

"Forget about the room," she said to the girl behind the bar quietly. "And the job. I won't be back. Except for my horse."

She stumbled out of the pub into the open air, looking for someone, anyone, who might help a stranger in need.

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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense



*He was.. confused. Waving the letter had seemed to make his point. And then it hadn't. The two men were convinced the accusations could not be true. The clattering sound of someone falling down penetrated only slowly. It seemed that the world moved differently as if through a haze and yet he felt blood pumping through his veins as if he had just been in a fight or ran a race. Cadil stood up. Lothar remained. His voice booming, and yet somehow he had become harder to see.

I am Adleg.. *What is your name was an easy question. He knew his name. But why did it take a moment for it to roll off his tongue? Though he nodded eagerly at the second question, his hand tightening on the letter, unconsciously crumpling it. He shouldn't do that. That was not how he treated the mail entrusted to him, though he nodded at Lothar a second time, even as he turned the letter offer and started smoothing it on the table.*
Fangorn. That's where they come from, ya see. The letters. That's my job. To deliver the letters. That come from Fangorn.

*Wait. Where was Cadil? He had been there and then.. oh yes.. he'd stood up. Adleg looked around to see where he was. Oh he was helping the woman (Lirimaer) up. Wait.. that must mean she'd fallen down. Or that she was hurt. Had someone stabbed her? Had it been Kaylin? His mind whirled and as he came to his feet to try and help he had to grasp the border of the table to avoid falling.*

Was she stabbed?
*the question was generic, and too loud.* Did Kaylin stab her? *No. No wait. Kaylin was not even here. What was.. who was? Oh yes.. the letter. He needed to go and deliver the letter. That was his job.*



@Arnyn @Pellaadarion @Lirimaer
Last edited by Eldrith on Thu Nov 05, 2020 9:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Cadil

The youngster did his best to help Annabel to her feet, and then scratched his head at a loss of how to help with the bleeding. He was supposed to learn at least some basic skills of dealing with bleeding while still in the army, and yet he had almost learned nothing. Currently he had to admit that it was rather a pity that he had been a careless learner as it now became apparent that such things could come in handy in everyday situations.

"Uh..." he faltered in finding any good idea of what he should recommend to the woman except for going all the way up to the Houses of Healing. But would that even be a good idea when her arm was bleeding so much? While usually not the one to be lost for words, he now stood and blinked as an owl in the daylight, until Annabel was already gone. Cadil felt somewhat sorry that he had not been able to help any more, but then shrugged the whole situation off and returned to the table.

"Stabbed? Who? Where? And whom did Kaylin stab?" he questioned, standing before Adleg and somewhat automatically reaching out to grab his arm and steady him before he fell. "I figure any letters, packages and such might have to wait..." he provided a piece of advice that seemed almost too serious coming from him. "You look like you might not get too far..."

Then he glanced at Lothar to see what the man thought of the whole situation, and the possible troubles that might come from spreading rumours and such.
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Lothar

Adleg was his name, and his job was delivering letters that came from Fangorn. Lothar still had questions. Did Adleg travel back and forth between Fangorn and Minas Tirith? For some reason, he doubted that. Then how did they reach the White City? And why would they even come from Fangorn? Who would live thereabouts that would want to mess with Kaylin, or even know Kaylin? It made no sense to him.

The man asked about the woman who'd fallen before. Lothar frowned at the questions. "I don't think he's still got all his marbles in a row," he mumbled at Cadil. Kaylin wasn't even here, and Adleg was asking if she had stabbed the poor woman who'd fallen and hurt herself? Lothar remained in his seat as he stared at Adleg. "Do you have trouble holding your ale? Or are you feeling unwell?"
Arnyn ~ Honor & Valor
Kaylin ~ Joy & Strength

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Vorinde

It had been a long time since she'd set foot in Minas Tirith - quite a long time. The last time she had been here, she had left the city with a bad taste in her mouth and determined that she wouldn't come back unless need drove her. Today, need had indeed driven her right to the city's mouth. She was tired, hungry, and in need of company. Traveling the road alone with no one to speak to was almost as bad for Vorinde as going without food. The woman delighted in the telling of tales, the spread of information. She was not a gossip so much as a storyteller, someone who delighted in the sound of her voice rising as she wove a story for eagerly listening ears.

So she stood before the gates glimmering playfully in the sunlight, the delicate sparkles thrown by mithril and steel belying their strength. With a small shake of her blonde head, she passed into the city and made her way to Rath Celerdain. An old pub had once been housed there, and she was hoping to find it still running. To her relief, there she saw it: the sign for the Old Guesthouse hanging over a stout wooden door. She approached, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

A small crowd was gathered - much smaller than the crowds she so loved to entertain - but no doubt there was good conversation to be had. Vorinde slid into a vacant seat at an empty table and set her bag aside, taking in the room. Two men (Cadil and Lothar) sat nearby, in conversation with a third. The barkeep and his daughter rushed about, tending to orders and pouring drinks; she flagged down the daughter once she was free. "Red wine if you've got it, and ale if not," she said to Ioraen, smiled gently at the girl. "And whatever your stew of the day might be."

While she waited, she removed a small book from her bag, opening it to a page marked with a dog-eared corner and fixing deep blue eyes onto the page. Short of telling stories, Vorinde liked reading them best. Perhaps she'd meet someone with whom to exchange tales today.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Xiqtax, the Daddy Long Legs

Her tangle of invisible thread thrummed to life and Xiqtex opened her eyes. She had been sleeping, or in a state so near to sleep that humans might call it that. She was only vaguely aware of the world as it revolved below her. She sat crouched comfortably in her corner and watched as a tiny little mayfly buzzed and struggled, exhausting and tangling itself into immobility. Her pedipalps wisped back and forth, testing the air. Soon the insect would be too tired to move and escape her final attack. If she could have, Xiqtax would have smiled. She darted across her silk strands as fast as the eye could move, each leg wrapped around the silk with a tiny claw. She knew her structure well and moved with the grace of moonlight on the water, not making the tiniest bit of reverberation. She could taste the mayfly already. Faster and faster she moved until…

A breeze, a happenstance, an ill-fated gust of air blew in through the cracks in the stone and knocked the spider from her web. She was falling before she knew it, sailing down into the wide expanse of empty air below. She panicked, unable to stop herself from falling ever downward. She watched as her web, her sanctuary blurred away and disappeared. Her eight gangly, articulated legs flailed uselessly as she floundered. Down, down, down she drifted. The ground, a place she had not been in aeons, flew up to meet her. She shot out a string of silk, a desperate attempt to slow her descent. She was too far from anything for the silk to catch but theoretically it would slow her done enough to land and not injure herself.

She landed, finally, after what felt like ages falling through the void. She landed on a sheet of parchment. Many sheets of parchment. Her pedipalps tested the air, tasting it. There were strange markings on the parchment, odd occultic designs Xiqtax could not understand or comprehend. She tried to skitter but the more she tried to move, the more she became subject to the parchment’s sheer size. She slipped and fell into a massive crease that nearly crushed her tiny body. Her legs, splayed out in eight different directions were completely useless to her as she stared straight into the face of a human, hoping it hadn’t seen her.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Cadil

Surely enough Cadil had hoped for some enjoyment and for something interesting when he came to the pub, but there were quite a few confusing things all happening at once, and he was not sure how to react to it all. He wasn't sure that Adleg had drunk that many ales, and Lothar's question of whether he was not feeling well seemed more reasonable. Was someone trying to poison the messenger? But why and how? Though... perhaps the man really had too much to drink?

"What should even be done?"
he asked of Lothar quietly. hoping that the man would be wiser than him in such matters. If news of these messages went out into the wide world... That might definitely bring even more trouble on Kaylin's head than simple messages by themselves. But he had only read the first one, so the lad wondered whether the others were along the same lines.

He looked towards the counter, thinking of fetching another ale for himself, but then again... he didn't want to end up in a state the messenger was currently in. Cadil's eyes landed on Vorinde, who had chosen a seat at a nearby table and seemed to be engrossed in a book.

The young man's eyes narrowed, as he observed her. She had apparently come recently, so perhaps had missed the whole hullabaloo that had taken place. Surely she was not a part of any of it, or was she? Unwittingly, he kept staring at her, as his mind wandered thinking of all the recent events.
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Vorinde

The words on the page jumped to life in her mind’s eye as she read. Her drink having been brought to her, she sipped as she sat, enthralled, by a tale of pirates in the south, boarding enemy ships to do their risky and profitable work. She rested her chin on her hands, her face the picture of engrossed focus.

She looked up when her stew arrived. “It looks incredible. Thank you,” she said, making brief eye contact with the innkeeper as he nodded and moved off.

When she glanced back at the page, she found it alive with movement. Long, spindly legs were spread over the parchment, attempting fruitlessly to escape the crease of the book into which the spider (Xiqtax) had fallen. Many women would have screamed and run at the sight of such a guest. Vorinde had seen many, many worse things than tiny spiders in her life. And so she calmly reached out a finger with which to help it out of its current predicament. It scuttled up her hand, long thin legs supporting a supporting a rather bulbous abdomen. Vorinde smiled. “This is not where you belong,” she said. She rose from her seat, taking her bag with her, and deposited the spider at the pub’s door. “Farewell!” she said. “I wish you good hunting and good fortune.” And may you come to a better fate than your ancient forebears, she thought to herself.

She returned to her table and her food, and as she did so she saw a young man (Cadil) staring at her with suspicion. Never one to hold back, she addressed his concern head-on. “A fine evening, is it not? What troubles you so? Have I offended you in some way?”
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Hathaldir
The door of the Guesthouse swung open as the man approached and spied a glimpse of a woman in the doorway. In the past, he might have strained to listen to her murmured words but these days, Hathaldir only cared about one thing. And that was what brought him to the White City.

Before the door closed behind her, he slid inside. Tall and lean, he wore muted tones of greys and browns fit for travelling and melting into his surroundings. For going unnoticed. Light brown hair framed an angular face and if one looked very close, they might see dark shadows beneath brown eyes. He marched straight toward the bar, a man with purpose, and did not heed the others gathered there nor the tension brewing between any of them.

“Just a drink for me,” he told the barkeep in a rough undertone. “The strongest one you have.” A glass full of rich dark liquid appeared before him. He downed it in a single swallow then nodded a stubbled chin at the glass. Clever man that he was, the barkeep understood the gesture. Full glass in hand, Hathaldir turned to find himself a table. It was only then he took any notice of the other pub-goers.

At the moment, he had no real interest in them so he sat at a table close enough to listen but far enough to convey he was not looking for company. At least not right now. But it paid to stay within earshot. You never knew when you might overhear an important conversation. Hathaldir swung his booted feet up onto the chair opposite and leaned back to enjoy his drink. Though he appeared relaxed, he watched the others through half-lidded eyes. On another night, in earlier years, he might have been interested in approaching the woman (Vorinde) who sat by herself. But not this night. For now he would watch and wait.

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Cadil

Quite uncontrolled, his thoughts had moved on to another subject, making Cadil forget himself and his surroundings. And so he was taken quite by surprise when Vorinde spoke to him; it took him a moment or two to realize that she was actually addressing him, as he pulled himself out of his wandering thoughts.

"Uhh... The evening is interesting," he responded, blinking a couple of times like an owl that has just awoken. "And you have by no way offended me." He rose from his seat and took a step towards her. "I was just lost in thoughts and didn't mean to stare at you so. And I am named Cadil."

He looked over at Adleg with concern to see how the man was faring and whether he would need some assistance. "It's just that the evening has been quite eventful, and the guy here seems to have taken too many ales or something..." he briefly explained his reasons for his thoughtfulness to Vorinde. And then he wondered whether he or Lothar, or both of them would have to assist the poor soul home, as he was clearly not fit to continue carrying out his messenger duties.
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NPC post
- Messenger/ Adleg - who really doesn't know what to do with all of this nonsense


*Lost his marbles perhaps. Or too many ales. The very least that could be said of Adleg was that he did not exactly have all his wits about him. He moved slowly, almost dreamlike. He could see the people of course, and the tables. But they seemed to move. No. He was moving. But all of a sudden they were close by.. and then far away as if his eyes werent' working exactly right. With some effort... he managed to turn towards Lothar who had asked a question. What was the question. He HAD asked one. It was.. oh.. it was.. if he had trouble holding his ale. Or if he was unwell. Sick.. Was he sick? He didn't feel as if he was about to cast up his accounts... he stood there, thinking over the answer. It felt like just a moment to think but he stood waiting for the thought to come to him for at least ten if not more seconds.*
I don't feel good.

*He gave a nod to emphasize that. Nope. Did NOT feel good.*

I think I should go home. 'm making a fool of myself.. * he muttered, reaching out a hand for the table to steady himself.*

((@Pele Alarion @Arnyn OOC I know this has taken forever. If it feels weird to pick it up right here, just have him walk out. Plenty of chances to pick up the story. Covid, quarantine and work has derailed stuff for so many of us, but I am back. Slow.. but back.))
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Afird Splitaxe

Afird stomped his boots to dislodge the mud that had caked on them and opened the door to the ale house. He was in search of food, but mostly ale. For he had a thirst - a thirst that he felt he may never be able to quench yet, he was determined to give it his best try. As he stepped up to enter the doorway, his heavy pack dragged at his already sore neck like a mean dog on a tight leash. He groaned quietly to himself and looked around the room.
There were folks about (mostly tall, was he surprised, not at all) but it was not too crowded. He spotted a table by the back wall and made his way towards it. Dropping his pack on the floor, he murmured to himself as he cracked his neck and stretched it. 'Ai, that feels good!' It seemed like he had been carrying his pack on his back for years, but actually it had only been a few months. He had arrived at his destination and hopeful he would not be putting the pack on his back for sometime. Not that he was not use to hard labour and heavy loads. He was a sturdy and strong dwarf after all. But mean dogs always pull at the leash and he was just glad to have gotten rid of it. Ale was what he needed to lubricate the muscles and joints, and to ease the pain.

Spotting a barmaid with a tray of mugs , Afird raised his hand and his voice, calling out to her before he sat himself down. "Greetings! I will have bread and cheese and ale! I have the coin so bring a tray full of ale, if you don't mind! Thank you!"

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Cadil

The young man's attention seemed ever so flexible, as he turned from Vorinde to notice the entrance of the Dwarf (Afird), and then back to Adleg yet again. He did not want to miss anything of importance, even if it did not mean a thing this very moment; it just might prove to be of some significance later. Cadil liked putting together information as if it was a puzzle, though sometimes he ended up with the strangest combinations that did not make sense at all and did not reflect the truthful nature of things.

"Well..." he gave a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. "Do you need a bit of help to get home or something, Adleg? I can always return later for another mug..."

Not that he really liked to drag drunk men home across the whole city, but... perhaps the man really did not feel that well in addition to the ales he had drunk. And then again - perhaps he could pry more information out of him, or even get him to let Cadil take a peek at that note.

@Eldrith
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Reinor Crand
The Old Guesthouse:
Out for a Drink

It had been a long week for old Reinor Crand. Work had been unusually busy for him. His crew of masons had been summoned to the third level to repair a building when nearly midway through they were contracted for two other jobs. He assured them he could do the work alone on the third level, so the others ventured off to a farm in the Pelennor Fields and up to the sixth level to take the other jobs. For six days he labored from sunrise to sunset, four of them on his own. His hands were practiced and steady, and his work was always satisfactory, but his pace had slowed in his later years. The younger men could move twice as quick as him and oftentimes they did, though it did not always assure them the same results.

It brought him some small comfort to know that he could still outlift one or two of them, simply from years of learning the right and wrong ways to move heavy stone without hurting oneself. It had caused quite the scene when one day on the job a young apprentice boasted that he was stronger than any there. Reinor and his friend Roston, who was nearly as old as he was, took the young man's challenge. They went out to the yard and arranged various stone blocks of increasing increments and each man took his turn. The boy had made it to the fourth stone but dropped it, Roston making it to the six, and Reinor ending his turn on the seventh. It was a happy memory and one that had earned him the respect of the younger men amongst their crew. And so it was that when he told them he could do this job alone, they believed him. So he toiled alone in the shade and began to repair the cracks and reshape much of the building's outer wall, taking his time and ensuring that no stone was ignored. But it wearied him.

He was in his fifties now and time was taking its toll. His muscles ached before the day was over and he had to fight to make it through to the evening. But the evenings were what he lived for. Returning home to his wife and children and grandchildren, asking them all about their days and playing with the youngest of his grandchildren until he tired. He would stay up late speaking with his sons-in-law, drinking, and learning about the news from the land. And finally, he would retire to his bed, holding his wife close until the morning came. He would always wake before her, by some half an hour, but always found it difficult to wake her up. During the day she ran to and fro all over Minas Tirith, helping their daughters in the marketplace, caring for the grandchildren, teaching other children in the school on their level. And she would return home in the evening and still lead their home, running herself ragged. She was at peace when she slept and he always hated disturbing that peace. But he would always wake her, eventually, as the earful, he would get for letting her oversleep was far worse than the dislike he had for waking her. Yes, evenings were what he had always looked forward to, for over thirty years now. Until, that is, that his wife Laerdil died.

When Minas Tirith was besieged by the armies of Sauron, their family had fled to the upper levels along with most of the city. Laerdil had remained behind, along with a few other citizens, doing what they could to aid the guardsmen of the city. She had some knowledge of medicine, of a basic kind, and had taken much of the bedding and cloth in their home and used it to fashion bandages and tourniquets for the wounded. Before their family left, they had a great fight, all of them shouting at each other in the main room of their home. Their daughters and sons-in-law pleaded with her to come with them, but she steadfastly refused. Reinor did not beg her though, he knew that if she had made up her mind he could not change it. She was not one to shy away from danger if she believed she could help in some way. He did ask her to come, saying, "Laerdil, I love you. I need you, as do our children, and our grandchildren. If you stay there is no guarantee that you won't be harmed. Please come with us."

"Reinor, I can't go with you. The guard will need all the help they can get. And I'm not the only one staying. There are a dozen of us that I know of who've promised to give aid to the injured. I can't leave them to suffer in the streets."

And that was it. There were protests from their children but Reinor silenced them. He commanded them and their families to go, gathering what supplies and belongings they could take with them, and make their way to the higher levels. But he stayed behind, for a time. The walls and gate had not yet been breached, so they sat together on their bed, Laerdil held in his arms as he sang to her, as he had done long ago when first they met.

"The trees in the Pelennor Fields so tall,
Their boughs, heavy with fruit.
Beneath them I sit, and I watch the sun,
Go down while it summons the moon.
The others may sleep, while I dance in the light,
A faint and shimmering crown.
My heart feels free, from the bounds of the earth,
And nothing, can make me, come down.


It seemed like an eternity at the time, yet looking back seemed to last mere seconds. She bid him go, kissing him one last time, and turned away to the battle. He made his way through the city streets in a daze, hardly recognizing where he was going. When he was reunited with his family they all asked him where she was, as they felt assured he could convince her to come. The look in their eyes when he shook his head broke his heart, not for the first nor the last time that day. They huddled together in fear as the battle raged, for well over a day. When it subsided and the guards of the city had cleared much of the streets, they made their way back down to their home. It had been damaged in the battle, an entire room crushed and destroyed by a projectile of the enemy. His daughters and grandchildren began to clear away what rubble they could, aided by one of his sons-in-law. The other, Barhador, he asked to come with him, as he searched for his wife.

Guard after guard they asked, but none had seen a woman matching her description. For hours they wandered the city, asking everyone they met if any had seen Laerdil, to no avail. It was not until after the sunset that they chanced upon a Captain of the Guard who had seen her, patching up soldiers when they were pushed back to the second level. He had not seen what had become of her but advised that they start their search anew there. When they arrived on that level, soldiers moved back and forth gathering bodies together. The orcs and servants of Sauron were being taken away, out of the city, to be burned in great pyres, far better than they deserved. The bodies of citizens and soldiers though were gathered together, as others attempted to identify who they were. It was there that they found her. Pierced with arrows, a leg crushed, and unrecognizable as the woman that he wed so long ago. If not for her clothing and hair he might have not known it was her.

Barhador held him as he collapsed to the ground, weeping and half-crawling towards her. As a guard went to stop them, Barhador explained that she was his mother-in-law, and this man's wife. The guard let them pass and they found their way there, Reinor grabbing her and bringing her close. He cradled her head and wept until there were no tears left in him, and all he could do was heave and moan. Not once did his son-in-law abandon him though. He sat beside him and wept as well, holding Reinorr as he himself held his wife. For many hours did they sit here, before Reinor had the strength to stand. He told his son-in-law that he wished to carry her back to their home, but Barhador begged him to allow him to do it, knowing that Reinor had not the strength in him at this moment. He relented, and together they returned to their home, Laerdil held aloft in her son-in-law's arms.

There was great sorrow upon their return. New tears found their way to Reinor's eyes and together, he and his family, lamented the loss of their matriarch. Days began to pass and Reinor was silent. He spoke not to his children or grandchildren, nor to their neighbors and his friends who survived. It was over two weeks after the siege that he first spoke, and for a time they believed he had returned to normal, or as normal as one could be. He went back to work with his crew of masons, who were busy repairing much of the city. He helped his family prepare meals, he played with his grandchildren, but there was no joy left in his eyes. The gleam that could once be seen in them was gone, they were shallow and hollow, a shell more than anything. And then one night he did not return home. The men went out to search for him and found him at The Old Guesthouse, deep within a tankard of ale. They encouraged him to return but he pushed them away, demanding they leave him alone. And leave they did. It was not uncommon for one to drown their sorrows in an inn, and they did not discourage him from it, though perhaps they should have. For here was Reinor's new home, where he would dwell each day after work for hours on end, stumbling home at the end of the night into a home of sleeping family.

For three years now this had been their life, often waking late into the evening by him knocking something off a table or grumbling loudly to himself. He was never cruel, never lashed out at any of them. When he did not return home, and Barhador and Dernion went to fetch him, he did not fight them for he was a broken man now. He would wake each morning hungover and drag himself to work, driving all thought from his mind and feverously working so that he could go to the inn and drive away his troubles once more. And so it was on this night that he found himself once again in The Old Guesthouse, empty tankards and half-eaten bread crowding his table, his head hung low as he called out for more ale.

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