Brethil's Roleplaying Logs

Tavern
A dimly lit tavern set back amid the birches. A few small tables dot the room, as well as a short bar in the back corner. The patrons are few, and the conversation quiet.

The smell of food carries into the room through a curtained door in the left wall. The food looks to be of good quality, and served out in large portions. It is delivered by a single barkeep, a large man wearing a clean tunic and breeches.

This early morning is a rainy, drizzling affair upon the hilltop village of Amon Obel. Sodden leaf-strewn streets and puddles of mud make travel awkward and tricky, and the carts pulled by hand or by animal along the softened ruts do not seem to help matters as they splash and churn the dirt deeper of the collecting water.

So perhaps it is not surprising to see the Tavern clustered with woodsmen, traders and others--especially since Brethil Hall across the way is all but full as well--and the smells of cooking meats and honeyed breads is a welcome and tantalising draw to the cozy room which hosts a hearth brim with warming flames and glowing embers. Sitting near that hearth, stifling a yawn and staring at a cup of warm cider and a plate of honeyed bread is Aldawin. She seems half-awake, or half-committed to thoughts, as she stares at the dark quantity of drink in the stoneware mug before her. With another yawn that might well be a sigh, and a glance to the crackling flames of the fire nearby, she picks up the mug and takes a long sip.

The cozy tavern's entryway is swung quickly inwards, and a chilly gust of the brisk morning winds blows noisily into the crowded chamber. Standing just beyond the entrance threshold is Istadris, his lean frame shrouded amidst the folds of his heavy cloak, which he has drawn tightly around him to keep out the autumn rain and chill. The Beor woodsman steps quickly within, grey eyes glancing excitedly across the gatherings and dipping his head in wordless greeting to a pair of Haladin men who turn to watch him near the door. One of the passing servers welcomes the tracker before hurrying back to attend the bar, and Istadris turns quickly to shut the door behind him as he slips out of his wet, sodden cloak.

As Istadris shuts the door, Finnabair is there pushing it open as she hurries in out of the wet weather. Arriving within, she stands at the door and gives her cloak a hearty shake, grey drops dripping down around her as she begins to step forward. Noticing Istadris there before her, she lifts her brows, "Istadris!", she says, surprised and adding, "Good morning.", as she tosses the cloak over a nearby chair.

With the blast of cold air as the two Beorian rangers enter, the firelight flickers in a shudder, only to gain a greater burst of flame as it continues to consume the sap-pocketed logs in the hearth, and Aldawin looks up upon hearing Finnabair's voice in greeting to the woodsman. Her pensive expression is quickly lifted to a smile--though still in its own way weary--and with a raise of her hand and half-standing from the wooden chair, the healer calls a "Good morn, Finnabair..Istadris," as she motions the others over to the table, pulling out one of the chairs beside her.

Istadris draws a pace back from the entrance as he notices someone pushing it from beyond. His clear grey eyes widen with further astonishment as Finnabair steps out of the drizzling rain and into the cozy warmth of the tavern. "Good morn." He greets simply, while turnsing aside to hang the cloak from a nearby peg upon the wall. "Did you hear of what happened outside the stockade?" He questions eagerly, once again turning eyes towards the gathering and at last noting Aldawin where she has stood near the hearth to call her greeting. With a quick wave and grateful smile to the young healer, he beckons for Finnabair to accompany him and starts slowly across the room. "There was fighting, Finnabair." The Beor woodsman explains over one shoulder and with a puzzled frown, "One of the men involved was injured, but not seriously."

Entering the tavern with another young woman, Geleviel begins to work the tables showing scraps of fabric and trying to intiating intrest. She notices the Beorans and and excuses herself from her company by pointing. Her manner is pleasant and she appears heathful, much improved from the pallor of the war camps and late demise. In spite of the weather, she seems contented and moves freely though the bar crowd to happily approach the three.

Finnabair rubs her hands together, cupping them and blowing a warm breath through in an attempt to chase the damp chill away as she first turns to the call of Aldawin. Returning the greeting with a quick wave and stepping across the room with Istadris, she shakes her head and frowns, troubled, "Who was fighting?", she asks confused, "Not trouble with the bandits.", she says as they join Aldawin's table and she sits down upon one of the offered seats and another worded greeting to the healer. Geleviel's movement about the room catches her glance and as the woman comes to join them too, she offers a quick word before Istadris can answer, "Good morrow, Geleviel. Trying to make some coin this early?"

Somewhat dampened, herself from the rain, the healer smiles all the more as she is noticed and approached of her Dorthonion kin, and though the woodsman's words are muffled and lost as he speaks over his shoulder to Finnabair, Aldawin's gaze is intently set upon him and the news he seems to be relaying--hearing snatches of the words. Her own brows furrowing in question as they approach, the healer sits at last and hurriedly moves her satchel from the other chair beside her. "What news is this?" she asks, her gaze flicking between woodsman and ranger. "Yet more of the bandits?" she wonders, hearing better Finnabair's response. Geleviel, too, is given notice and yet another spark of interest alights in Aldawin's eyes as she motions for the weaver to join at the table as well.

The Beor woodsman waves past a pair of crowded tables, crossing the room until he has reached Aldawin's side. "Good morn, Aldawin..." He greets, wide eyes seeking hers momentarily before he longingly towards the bright, crackling flames of the nearby hearth. Finding several empty seats around the healer's table, Istadris slides the nearest towards him and sinks heavily down upon it. He turns then to face Finnabair and Aldawin, though his attention is drawn by Geleviel's approach. "Aye, Geleviel." He offers simply in greeting, before folding his hands atop the table's edge and looking to the ranger in particular. "Two men demanded to be let in by the guards at the eastern gate, only to be denied and questioned." He explains, again frowning deeply, "One of them grew angry enough to start a fight with the guardsmen, but they both fled after stabbing the gatekeeper."

"Stabbing the gatekeeper?" Geleviel enjoins. "What manner of place is this we have come to for safety?" She smirks having seen the devilment of orc wounds and bloody paths. "I suppose you will be after that job right quick, mercenary brother of our tribe." Geleviel childs Istadris looking away. Hello, Aldawin. And Finnabair, She squeaks with glee. I am happy to see you as I've always thought you beyond death's grasp and find no less, fair ranger." She looks at her companion who is being distracted by two brawny men. "Just a moment, friends, I have charge here, believe it or not"> She departs a quickly as she came.

Sitting uneasily on the edge of her chair as Istadris delivers his news, Finnabair slouches once he has finished, "Why were they denied?", she asks, still frowning as she signals to the landlord to bring hot drink and food to the table. "You were you there?", she asks too as she turns back. "No, likely not, else you would be out there after them.", she says. The landlord is quick to arrive at the table, setting down full tankards from which swirls of steam rise and a wide plate laden with small, warm loaves, butter and cheese. Reaching for one of the drinks, Finnabair sets it before her and chuckles as Geleviel hurries off again.

Nudging the leather satchel further under her chair as Istadris sits down, Aldawin looks disbelieving of the incident, though quelled is any utterance as Finnabair voices her own questions, and instead the healer nods in turn, looking from the ranger back to the woodsman. The latter comment from the other woman draws a smile from Aldawin, who clears her throat quietly as she reaches again for the mug before her and takes another drink. Setting the mug down, her own question at last uttered is quiet--distracted as she is by the weaver's hasty departure. " And what would make them so bold...or foolish...to attack someone at the very gates?"

Istadris looks up to Geleviel with a somewhat amused confusion, and he quickly shakes his head at her words. "I hardly envy that man's job." He says with an uncertain scowl, "He was bloodied and quite shocked at what had happened, but I was told by one of his fellows that it was a only a shallow flesh wound." Finnabair's question produces another shake of his head, though her own words silence his momentarily, and he reaches for another of the drinks brought by the keeper before speaking again. "I know not why they were not let in, yet I'll wager it has to do with Reynulf." He adds with a glance towards the bar and the Haladin men who have gathered there, "He has instructed the guardsmen to keep a sharp eye and question all strangers trying to enter through the gates." With a light shrug of his shoulders, Istadris looks to Aldawin and speaks in reply to her own query, "The thug must have drawn the blade out of desperation. They likely did not wish to be caught and held here. It is not likely they will ever return now."

Finnabair sips and repeats the tale half to herself, "So two men arrive at the gates, are questioned, like not what they hear and draw a blade upon the gatekeeper and then are able to slip away." Shaking her head and setting down the tall mug to tear apart one of the small loaves, smothering it with butter, she goes on, "That does not sound like bandit work to me." Taking a bite and asking around a mouthful, "What would he be so desperate for?"

Geleviel moves confidently though the bar room craning her neck pursuant. She gains the three in conversation, the two men warm to her as a second to her rabbit eyed friend. The weaver speaks to the young woman avoiding an almost leering attention and faces objections from three sides as she pulls the girl away. After a minute of argument, Geleviel snatches a bit of cloth from the girl's hand and shoves her shouting, "Don't be a stupid girl". Angered and frustrated, Geleviel sends her away. The young woman leaves the tavern. Returning to her friends she throws up her arms. "They gave that one to me to watch but if she loses her way on the road to the wever's tent I suppose I shall account for it, then if no one here buys they will ask why. Well how are the rest of you doing? Much work; little pain I hope.' She smiles.

The healer's brows furrow deeper in concern, and she winces at the report of the guard bloodied and shocked. "'Tis good he was not seriously injured, for there is enough of wounds and sickness about that we need not ruffians to hinder the healers' work," Aldawin says quietly in addition to Finnabair's words, weariness harbored in voice and expression as she lifts her hand from the mug to sweep her long hair from her face. Geleviel's return garners a faint smile from Aldawin, though she looks next to the woodsman as she taps her fingers lightly upon the table. "Desperate not to be taken once recognised? If so, I supppose we could ask to what their previous offense had been," she offers absently of her own musings. Looking across the table, Aldawin speaks quickly to the weaver. "I've another request for you, Geleviel. A cloak," she utters softly. "Though I may speak to you of it later..."

The Beor woodsman's left eyebrow arches questioningly at Finnabair's observation, though he soon dips his head in agreement. "Aye, it sounds like the work of fools." He adds, before lifting the steaming tankard to his lips for a quick sip, "Who knows what they were up to." His words trail off as Geleviel approaches the table once more, and he leans back upon the sturdy wooden seat to glance up at the weaver. "I shall speak to the other guardsmen who were on duty at the time." He says at length, as he directs a look from Aldawin to Finnabair, "They shall provide a more satisfying explanation, surely. Reynulf has most likely already been informed of this." With a dismissive shrug, Istadris stoops against the edge of the smooth worn table once again and drinks quietly from his heavy tankard.

Finnabair continues to have her fill of the fare, brushing crumbs from her lap in between, "Little pain, I do hope!", she answers Geleviel with a laugh. Another sip from the mug, nodding to Aldawin's comments and then glancing back to Istadris, "I should like to hear that explanation.", she says emphatically, "Tis interesting! And surely they will have gone after them and they could not have gone far. But what of the bandits?", she asks, "Has Reynulf said anything of them? I had planned to go toward the southeast today and see if anything lies that way."

"A cloak? Geleviel responds quietly and with a look of appreciation. She props her knee on a stool "That reminds me. I have learned a new weave though it is only good for cloaks or tent fabric, as it tends to be stiff. The advantage is it is an elf weave and imbues much of the light and color of it's surrounding. Bad thing is it is an elf weave so it takes forever to craft an inch. We could make thousands of knots on that loom if they would work it like the elf master, but all I hear is the Haladim have tradition. I never mention I think we should do better. Don't tell them I said that. I like being welcome." The weaver rises and goes to the bar passing a folded black cloth to the barkeep in exchange for a plate of tankards. She returns to the table and puts the plate down. "It's early for much cider as this but he's particular, that barkeep." She looks up the portly Trefil. "We have an arrangement for beverages although hard cider is the only one he calls a beverage. Help yourself. That cloth I gave him I spun myself. He said it was for an apron. Who wants a black apron? I don't know."

Talk of the bandits raises Aldawin's contemplative grey gaze from the lowered level of cider in her mug--upon which she has settled in the past moments. "Aye, is there any news of these ruffians of late?" she wonders with a glance to the woodsman as well. Geleviel's answer draws the healer's gaze away, however, and talk of a new weave even entices Aldawin to raise a brow in further interest. "I would like very much to have a cloak that would withstand much wear," she whispers, pressing her lips together of a thought. "I have used a cloak of elven weave, and I would not hesitate to have one of my own."

Istadris looks with undisguised confusion upon Geleviel, but holds his silence in favour of quaffing deeply from his heavy tankard. "I have heard no recent news of the bandits." He replies to the others' questioning, though his thoughtful gaze lowers to the rim of his drinking vessel. "Perhaps this latest commotion has something to do with them, though it seems like such a foolish disturbance." The Beor woodsman looks to Finnabair next, however, and speaks out in question. "How far to the southeast did you plan to journey?" He wonders, at last reaching over to take one of the warm loaves from the tray set upon their table, "Near the hillside only, or did you plan to go as far as the crossings?"

From the door, there is a low cough, and a tall, stooped man finds his way to silhouette himself in the light. It is Reynulf, one of the Wardens of the Hill, stony, gruff and sometimes far too serious in these uncertain times. With another cough, and a low growl to clear his throat, the rangy man steps in through the doorway, soggy wet, and looking utterly miserable from the chilly rain outside.

Giving a great shiver, he removes his sopping cloak and hangs it with the rest of them on the pegs by the door, and then moves towards the interior fire for some mulled wine or any other sort of hot beverage.

Finnabair shares the same interest as Aldawin does regarding the weave Geleviel describes, "That does sound like a fine thing.", she agrees, nodding, "Make me one too, Geleviel, but be not long about it. Winter is coming!", she jests, her laughter quieting once she takes herself back to the drink and Istadris, "Further, if I can.", she tells him, resting the tall mug upon her knee, "I may spend several days out. It bothers me that we have not caught a one of them in all these weeks...", she trails off, seeing Reynulf enter and cross to the fire, "There is the Warden now. You can ask him about the trouble at the gates.", she says lowly, tipping her mug toward him.

Geleviel sees Istradis look of confusion and twists her mouth without response. She turns to Aldawin and giggles. "I am so proud. I said I could tie a elvan weave, yes I can, but that won't make an elvan cloth. I am human afterall, so what you remember as an elf cloak will only be the rudiments of great craftsmanship. Still the weave is strong and an effective blend with woodland foliage. I think the nature of it is that, though when the elf master ties the knots he sings, and there is something foreign to us in that song. The cloth is much improved by that singing to magic I think, but it is a song we wouldn't be tempted to sing, it is not human."

The Beor woodsman follows Finnabair's gaze towards where Reynulf crosses the room, and nods slightly. "I shall ask him now." He says, while rising quickly from his seat and taking up the tankard with him. With only a brief look to the ranger, he adds, "Let me know before you depart. I may wish to come a short ways with you." With quick steps, Istadris moves to approach the Warden of the hill, offering a slight dip of his head before calling out a greeting. "Good morn, Reynulf." He says, as he approaches the other man, "Heard you of what happened just outside the gates earlier today?"

Her attention caught between woodsman, ranger and weaver, Aldawin grins at Geleviel and is coaxed by Finnabair's forthright request, nodding and adding her own to it. "Aye, then I shall be glad for one as well, for I've no cloak of my own." She looks to Finnabair with a light chuckle. "And winter is assuredly coming, if today does not boast of it." The grey eyes raise as Reynulf approaches, and the healer smiles faintly seeing that all seem to be in as dreary a state coming out of the rain. "Aye'n a good morn," she greets the Warden, falling silent as Istadris questions the Haladin about the morning's happenings.

Another disgruntled growl, and Reynulf reaches the fire; Tugging at the end of his gloves, so he can warm his fingers by the fire, the Warden takes a moment to look around and see who might be in the room. Ah yes... Billton, over there, talkin' "Politics" with Old Man Withersby. And, Miss Mabeline? What's she doing in here. Must be gossiping with the serving maid...

The Warden's eyes gaze turns now to the Beorian table and he smiles evenly to them. As Istadris rises, however, Reynulf nods cordially and answers in thick Sindarin -- mutilated even further by a stuffed up nose -- "Good morn t' yerself as well, sir Istadris." He pauses, before continuing darkly, "Aye... I've heard. One of my 'boys' was knifed this mornin'."

Istadris paces to stand a short distance from the Beor's table and edges back to lean against an unoccupied chair as he looks to Reynulf. "Aye, I heard the same." He says, the words spoken in fairly fluent Halethian, "Though I was told it was no serious harm done to him." Still, the woodsman shakes his head with disapproval and speaks on. "Were some of your lads sent after the two ruffians?" He asks, again lifting the tankard to his lips to drink deeply of the warm liquid within.

Finnabair looks to Aldawin and then quickly at Geleviel, "I was only making a jest.", she says, leaning forward, "I need no cloak, Geleviel. I could not pay for it in any matter.", she grins, setting down her mug and glimpsing toward the fire where Istadris and Reynulf speak together, smiling back to the Warden when he turns toward their table. Idly reaching for a chunk of cheese, she sniffs at it and then looks back to the healer, "What of the sickness about the hill, Aldawin?"

Most of the Halethian speech is lost to the healer, and though Aldawin watches Istadris and Reynulf in mute interest, the ranger's question draws the grey gaze back, doubt evident in the healer's glance. "There is sickness, to be sure," she answers, lowering her voice and speaking so the words might be heard by those at the table alone. "I was up much of the night helping one of the Haladin healers." Her brows raise as she glances at Geleviel before speaking on to Finnabair. "You will remember the woman near the gates the other day? Her children are gravely ill now...the youngest the worst of all. And then my father complained of coughing, though he attributes that to the change of weather." Aldawin raises a hand in a dismissing wave, but then reaches for one of the tankards of hard cider that Geleviel has offered to all earlier. "Perhaps this shall help," she says with an undertoned grin to the ranger.

Ah... some of the weight upon Reynulf's face lifts as he hears his own speach from the Dorthonian woodsman. Clearing his throat, and reaching at his belt for a kerchief, the Warden nods. He even seems to smile in a bit more friendly manner now. "Aye," he says, in the quick speach of his native tounge, "We did... but, most of my boys were loathe to follow them out too far... they seemed to be heading south, but, who knows if they were going to backtrack around."

Reynulf shrugs and adds, "But... now, we've a good look. And their descriptions are spreading." Geleviel smiles happily at Aldawin who puts the tankard to a good end. She perhaps more interested in Aldawin's mission now that she has shown herself resourceful, she sits fully on the stool and leans towards the two conversing. At the mention of disease, she grasps her throat, or so her mortality. Then a morbid fascination becomes her, and she peers.

The Beorian tracker shifts the half-filled tankard from his right hand to his left and lifts it to his lips as Reynulf speaks. His grey eyes remain focused intently upon the Haladin's, and he holds his silence a moment longer to consider the words said. "I would like to speak with some of the guardsmen about them as well, if you mind not." He says, still in the Halethian tongue, "And see about their descriptions myself." The woodsman glances towards the Beorian women's table before rising from the seat against which he leans and turning fully to face Reynulf. "Finnabair and myself could chase after them as well." He adds then, "Or at least seek them out to see whether they have turned back towards the hill or fled south entirely."

The Warden nods, now, his smile fading somewhat. As well, he continues to gabble on in the speach of the Haladin: "Aye... you're welcome to it, Istadris." He pauses, " My lad, Finbar, is with the healer's talan. He's alive, and well, and he probably could tell you more about these fellows than myself, since he saw their faces really well. He's a bright one, he is, so there must have been something that tipped him off about them."

Her own drink empty, Finnabair sets it upon the table and draws out a few coins, laying them on the table too, "Perhaps, Aldawin.", she says, smiling at Geleviel's antic as she pushing her chair back, "But I think sleep would be better." The tavern has swelled in numbers and the rain still patters discouragingly upon the roof. "Despite the weather, I must be off.", she apologizes to both healer and weaver as she rises, "Tis no excuse to waste the day." Catching the mention of her name, she looks over to Istadris and Reynulf, silently signalling to the woodsman with a toss of head that she intends to be off.

Istadris listens closely to Reynulf's words, at times seemingly hard pressed to follow the other in his native tongue. "Finbar, you say?" He asks, though quickly dismisses the question with a shake of his head, "Aye, I shall go seek him out, and perhaps some of the others as well." It is then that he notes Finnabair rising from the table, and his hand lifts to beckon her to wait a moment longer. "Good day, then, Reynulf." He adds, before excusing himself and pacing to the ranger's side. "The thugs fled south, and in this weather we may be able to track them easily enough." He says simply as he nears the Beorian ranger, the words spoken this time in the tongue of Dorthonion, "I only wish to speak with the gatekepper who was injured, first."

Geleviel curiosity is crushed by self abborance as she realized the tragedy told before her. Disheartened by the account she looks apologetically to Aldawin. "Your work is so good. I don't know what came over me. I wish I could help. I could ask leave if there is a thing you require. I am afraid I am no more useful now with medicine then I was during the war. But I can boil water. I don't think they will want me back in the village if I bring a sickness though.

Finnabair turns as Istadris joins her, stepping across the room and grabbing up the cloak she left tossed upon a chair by the door. Dried now, she sweeps it around her shoulders, quickly clasping it with the silver brooch as she looks at the woodsman, "I did not mean to go chasing after the thugs, but if you wish...", she offers with a shrug, reaching for the door, "You go speak with the keeper and I will meet you at the gate within the hour."

Drinking deeply of the brew nonethless, Aldawin sets the tankard upon the table as Finnabair rises to leave. Seeing that the woodsman means to leave soon after as well, the healer counts change enough from her satchel to pay for her own meager meal, standing in readiness to go. "I should want the cloak as we spoke of Geleviel," Aldawin says in earnest, smiling to the weaver. "We may discuss barter for it later, though I can tell you know that there is salted meat in the payment if you are interested in that." The grey gaze lifts as Finnabair and Istadris ready to leave. "As for helping with those that are ill," she says quickly to the weaver, "I'd rather you keep distance from it all for now, until we may be sure it will not spread easily. But thank you all the same." With a final smile to the weaver, Aldawin sets the satchel's strap upon her shoulder and makes strides towards the other Beorians near the door. "And before you leave, Istadris," the healer calls after him. "A word?" Her glance goes quickly to the opening Tavern door, peering outside to see if the rain has lessened or increased.

The Beor woodsman dips his head in wordless acknowledgement to Finnabair and paces quickly towards the busy bar where even now a pair of newly arrived Haladin men order their own drinks. With a few quietly uttered words, he offers the barkeep several coins from the purse at his belt and turns back to the gathering. Istadris' attention is drawn towards Aldawin's table, where it seems the other Beors also prepare to depart. After retrieving his own cloak from one of the pegs near the entrance, he turns back to the young healer. "What is it, Aldawin?" He asks quietly in the Beorian tongue.

Finnabair cants her head to Istadris and leaves him as Aldawin has him stay behind a moment. Pulling open the door, she pauses to peers out into the downpour ahead of her with an unhappy look. Drawing up her hood she steps out to splash through puddles and and dance across slick mud that bars the way along the row.

Approaching the woodsman, Aldawin glances back to the Warden, brows furrowing, though she shakes her head of a nagging thought and returns the gaze to Istadris. Lowering her voice and speaking in the Beorian speech as well, her words, softly spoken, are indiscernable to any nearby, though segments of the utterance allude once again to the 'sickness,' staying upon the Hill, and most distinctly include the name of Emeldir.

Hesitance colors the tone of the speech somewhat, but the healer smiles faintly at its end and looks to the door, motioning the woodsman on. "Seek me out at the pavilions when you return, and I will say more of it," she adds at its end, raising a hand to bid the woodsman farewell.