The air in the common room is quite warm tonight, warm enough to border on uncomfortable. Conversation lifts and falls in a regular cadance from the people sitting around tables and at the bar, and it flickers like the light from the hearth and candles. The tang of something savory cooking lingers, though it is difficult to say if it is from this meal or the ghost of past ones. No voices are raised in anger in this room tonight.
A maid sits alone at a table near the hearth, the light caressing pale skin and falling back into shadows in ripples. She sits at the very edge of her chair with her short legs stretched stiffly before her and crossed at the ankles. A half-empty goblet of dark wine is on the table, and her fingertip runs despondently along the rim. She watches this.
And alone at a table near the corner of the common room sits another figure, hooded and cloaked in a color somewhere between brown and green-- little of the flickering firelight falls upon him, making the true color of his raiment difficult to guess. Arms ending in leather gauntlets are folded before him on the heavy wood of the table, and he sits hunched forward towards them, head half-hung. Perhaps he would prove tall, if only he would sit up straight. He seems little inclined to such things though, as a leather-clad finger reaches out to one of the three tankards arranged before him, idly noting the texture and make of the ceramic with a sort of slow, idling interest.
Then slowly Angmir sits back in his chair, raising one of the empty tankards and calling out to no one in particular. "Barmaid! Another ale if you please."
Bustling happily around the room, her skirts swirling, the barmaid's eyes flick from table to table. An occasional dimple peeps out as she catches glances from different patrons. Spying a half-empty glass, she snatches a tray from the bar and hurries across the room, dodging stray hands and legs.
"M'lady," she says with an engaging smile. "May I get you some more to drink? Or would you like something to eat instead?" Her voice bubbles out merrily, sounding as though she is permanently on the brink of laughter. At the sound of a voice calling behind her, she turns around and waves one hand, her smile deepening. "I'll be there in half a second, good sir," she calls in return. With a wink, she turns her attention back to the table and waits for a response.
Maenadaneth's eyes draw from her wineglass to the maid before her, and she lifts her glass to swiftly gulp the crimson liquid until it is gone. She holds out her goblet to Tathar and speaks low, "More wine, if you will." Her eye is suddenly drawn to the shout across the room, and she begins to laugh loudly. Her gaze returns to the barmaid with a wry smile as she adds louder, "And when you serve that one, please tell him that I am his weakness." She chuckles a bit at her joke, then looks down as her smile falls.
Angmir nods slowly at this acknowledgment, shifting further back into his chair. His arms cross loosely over the studded leather that covers his chest as he watches the barmaid talk to a woman seated by the fire, his posture speaking of a sort of inattentive, listless interest. If he recognizes the one the serving woman speaks to, he shows it not.
A delighted giggle escapes Tathar and she peeks back over her shoulder at the man slouching in the corner. Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she says, "Of course, m'lady!" Her eyes sparkle mischievously. She picks up the glass, and hurries back to the bar. Leaning across, she whispers something to the bartender, glancing back across the room. Putting the newly filled glass back onto her tray, as well as a pitcher of ale, she returns the glass to Maena and then crosses the room. She pours the ale out carefully, filling his mug nearly to the brim and then bends down and says softly, "The lady yonder says she is your only weakness." She nods in Maena's direction and straightens up, her cheeks red with the effort of not laughing.
The Scout watches a little too carefully as the ale fills his tankard, grey eyes fixed for the moment on the foam crackling against the tall mug's rim. Suddenly his hood seems to him a stifling nuisance and he throws it back from his head, revealing a mass of medium-short, unkempt hair above thick, furrowed brows and the remains of a large bruise and cut on his left cheek. As the barmaid speaks, Angmir looks at first nothing more than bleary-eyed and confused, then snarls suddenly as he recognizes the small woman to whom she was talking.
"My only weakness? Ha! Tell her then that I am no weakling, but that the maker of her dresses must be of low skill indeed, for they are of a lowly fabric that sticks easily to the face!" Angmir's lip curls at what he thinks a solid retort, then takes a long draught of the ale poured for him.
A nod and murmered thanks Maenadaneth gives to the barmaid as she is served again. Her fingers reach greedily for the goblet and soon cup the bowl between them. Both hands together bring it to her mouth, and she drinks thirstily without lowering it. Red wine laps at rose lips, and shrewd silvery eyes peer at Angmir as her faces is lit and darkened by flame. Nigh half of the glass is drained already.
Tathar smirks knowingly as Angmir growls at her. She whisks away, stopping to fill a mug that is thrust in front of her, and ends leaning back over the bar. Reaching for a pitcher of red wine, she swipes her towel across a puddle of ale on the counter, before winding through the tables back to Maena. "He says he is no weakling. And indeed, I must agree." She gives Angmir an appreciative look before continuing. "He looks /very/ strong. Oh, and your dressmaker is not very skilled." She winks and giggles again. "He must be smitten with you, m'lady. Did you see the look in his eyes?" Her eyes take in the already nearly-emptied cup. "Do you need another refill?" She holds out the pitcher inquiringly.
Again Maenadaneth drains the remains in her cup before holding it out for more. She blinks a few times, staring blankly before her, before looking up to Tathar. "Oh? Indeed, I know he is quite strong. He has held me up for quite a long time before." Another long moment passes before she suddenly turns to where Angmir is sitting and calls, "Insulting my dressmaker, are you? Petty." She looks hopefully back to her wineglass, and her feet uncross with a thunk.
Several faces turn at the woman's shout, and most turn soon back with smiles and lowered whispers.
Angmir's mug lowers with a satisfying rap upon the wood of the table, and after a wipe of his mouth with a dirtied gauntlet, he raises the ale to his lips again, tired, grey eyes fixed on Maenadaneth and the barmaid who speaks to her. He smirks a little as he lowers the ale again-- then black brows lower over his eyes as he hears the woman reply.
"Yea, so I am!" he calls back to Maenadaneth, "For I hold those... those gaudy beast-fells you wear of less quality even than these trousers." And here he rests a hand firmly upon his right thigh, but winces shortly after. "It took a sharp scissors to cut them, too, if you remember, lady."
Tathar's eyes widen. "Held you? Oh, my lady..." her voice trails off dreamily. She stands frozen for a moment, the pitcher of wine forgotten, until Maena's voice recalls her with a start. She hastily fills the wineglass, then gives an ecstatic shiver. "His mighty arms clasped about you!" As Angmir replies, she turns to listen and then looks back, her face thrilled. "See," she whispers. "Did I not say it? He is enamoured of you. Men do not notice women's clothing for any less of a reason." She nods her head firmly, curls bouncing about her face. A sudden shout from the bar sends her rushing back to grab a platter of steaming meat, which she sets in front of another man, giggling as he winks at her.
Maenadaneth's small mouth grows slack as the barmaid speaks, and a confused expression paints her features. She brings her wineglass close to her and murmers to herself.
The lady stands awkwardly then, her stiff right leg not helping to steady her swaying much. She then limps unsteadily towards Angmir as red wine sloshes from the side of her cup to trickle down her knuckles, "Beast-fells?" she cries ere she is close enough to speak quieter. She stops and sways a bit before his table before setting her wineglass and both hands on the boards. She speaks quieter, but still louder than she perhaps intends, "These beast-fells undoubtedly cost more coin than your entire family will gain in a year, sir!" Her long braid falls over her shoulder to dip into an ale tankard. "And if you are enamored with me, you show it quite poorly." Her eyes close for a long while before opening to trail idly on his face.
"Remove your tresses from my ale, lady, and have a care when you speak of my family!" A gloved fist crosses Angmir's mouth to wipe at a stray drop of ale, then returns to the wooden table as tankards clatter from the heavy impact. "I would have you know, Lady Maenadaneth," and her name he enunciates more loudly and clearly than perhaps is necessary, "that the proud House Amarthorn brooks no lowbrow ridicule! My great-grandfather it was who strangled a Southron with his bare hands, single-handedly saving an ungrateful woman even such as you! Save, I remember not were his name Amarthorn..." A pause, before brows again furrow. "Nay, it matters not! The Doom-Driven shall save ever those who cannot save themselves, whether they are enamoured of them or not!"
Tathar's yellow skirts swish around her legs as she darts between two tables calling a laughing rejoinder back to the man she has just served. Noticing a table clearing as several men shove their chairs back and disappear through the doors, she dashes over and swipes the table clean. She stops at the next table, and then the next, wiping them clean and exchanging comments with their occupants. Several moments later, she is busily polishing the furnishings only a few paces from the table Angmir sits at. Her eyes sparkle with interest and she rubs more and more slowly. Her mouth moves soundlessly as she mouths the name of the Lady Maenadaneth several times in order to remember it, and a sharp intake of breath betrays her excitement as the Scout practically admits his love for the fair lady.
A sullen Maenadaneth draws a char from one side to behind her, and there she sits herself roughly. Her braid trails across the table, the tip painting a line of ale behind it. "Oooh, tell me Angmir," she says mockingly. "Did this Amarthorn trail behind the woman like a puppy as well? Did she find him ever behind her and near when she might need him?" In a flash, the woman's mood turns from spiteful to meloncholy, and she sighs mournfully while she reaches for her cup. The cup only makes it halfway toward her before she espies the red stain on her fingers, which she brings to her mouth and licks.
"You would be dead if I had not 'trailed' you, lady!" Angmir retorts as several nearby patrons turn to stare. A fiery glance from the Scout perhaps suggests to them a more congenial direction to look to, as they soon turn away again. With another draught of ale he lowers his voice, continuing. "I would assume then, Maenadaneth, that your family has no concept of common kindness and charity. A turn of good fortune for you that mine does! Otherwise, I would expect you would be hewn to trifling pieces by now and left on a trail to rot."
As he pauses, a scowl at his ale mug heralds the fact that he finds now the amount of drink left in the tankard offensively inadequate. "Barmaid!" he calls with a raise of his hand, perhaps not realizing that she is only a few paces away, "I am sorely in need of more ale!"
Maenadaneth's lips draw together in a pout, and she slouches back sulkily. "And a poor gentleman you ever are to remind me of it." The foot of the goblet is roughly slid across the table, another drop or two spilling, and takes it up to cover her pouting mouth. Several gulps not suited for wine she takes before she lowers it, a red drop shining on a lip still. A fine brow quirks over narrowed eyes, and she leans over the table to him, "Aye, and mayhap I did not need you that day? Two of them I did fight off, while your count is only one. Mayhap if you had not come, I would have yet been safe." She lifts her right leg to try to bend it forgetfully, but as it remains unbending she lets her heel crash again to the floor. Her tongue licks her lip.
"Angmir, Maenadaneth." Tathar mutters under her breath. Her mouth drops open in fascination and she stops even pretending to work as she listens agog to the lover's quarrel going on right in her own bar! Her eyes close blissfully as she pictures the heroic scene: the exalted knight rushing to the aid and rescue of the stricken lady. A second later, she jumps yet again as she is unexpectedly hailed. Leaving her towel draped across a chair, she rushes back to the bar, grabs the ale pitcher and hurries back to the table. Still listening breathlessly, she fills Angmir's mug up as slowly as possible.
Momentarily distracted from Maenadaneth, Angmir blinks slowly with rapt interest as his mug is refilled by the serving-woman. "The ale pours so... slowly... does it not, barmaid?" Then, not seeming particularly keen on awaiting an answer, he looks again to the lady across from him-- and then away, towards the table between them, with a sigh and a lowering of his shoulders as he rests his weight upon an elbow. "Speak not of it..."
A long finger trails through a small puddle of ale and wine on the table before him, sloppily attempting to form the bit of spilled drink into an attempt at some unknown word in Tengwar script before the liquid soaks into Angmir's gauntlet. He looks up once, dejectedly, then slowly resumes his 'work.'
Looking up at Angmir's face through her long, dark lashes, Tathar giggles at his accusation. Pertly, she says, "Ale pours as it will pour. I don't wish to ruin your drink by forcing it from the pitcher too quickly." Both her dimples peek out again as she smiles, before finally topping off the mug and turning to Maena. "And you, my lady? Is there anything more I can get for you?" She looks pointedly at the other's glass.
"Nay," Maenadaneth mumbles with an uncertain look at the barmaid. "Oh...oh, and here." She fumbles beneath the split in her skirt near her waist to come up with a handful of uncounted coins, which she drops to clatter on the table.
The Lady blinks a few times before her eyes shut a long while and her head bobs forward. She sits there, head tilted forward before suddenly lifting it up with wide, wild eyes and looking to Angmir. She studies the table and braces her hands firmly there as she stands in an uncertain manner, nearly falling and successfully knocking her wine glass over to have the dredges spill on the floor and her skirt.
A brave step she takes away from the table and it looks that she will indeed fall this time, but saves herself by grasping the first thing near - Angmir's shoulder. She looks at him a moment as though startled by his presence. Bleary-eyed, she leans over to drop a quick kiss on his forehead. She straightens and turns away, mumbling, "Fare you well, Angmir," before making her way from the room, bracing herself on furniture, walls and complaining patrons as she goes.
Angmir seems to take little heed of either Maenadaneth or the barmaid, so concentrated is he on completing what no one but himself would recognize to be the first few letters of "Amarthorn" in Elvish script. Even the rude intrusion of several coins clattering to the table distracts him little, though just enough for him to take a quick gulp of ale before returning, bleary-eyed, to what is apparently a fascinating and challenging task. The room starts to lose focus as the third letter nears completion...
And then for the moment the Scout snaps into a state of wider wakefulness as a familiar hand falls upon his shoulder. Before he has a chance to react any further than the instinctive yet ale-slowed tensing of his muscles, he feels Maenadaneth's soft lips upon his forehead, though too soon she is gone, giving him no time to protest in her immediate presence.
Though, protest he does, as she stumbles away. "What is-- I demand to know the meaning of this!" the Scout calls across the room, rising from his chair with a racket of protest from several empty mugs, as well as the chair itself as it falls to the floor. "What right have your lips to... to..." He shakes then his head, takes a shaky step back, and catches himself against the wall as his right leg threatens to give way beneath him.
"Oooh," Tathar sighs in disbelief as her quick eyes add up the change almost as soon it falls to the table. A huge grin lights up her face and she slips the money rapidly into her pocket. She gazes at the Lady almost reverently, then reaches over to the towel hanging nearby. Kneeling down, she mops up the spilled wine, still looking up. Her eyes shine with romantic fervor as Maena kisses Angmir and leaves. A moment later, she jumps up, grabbing futilely at the falling chair. Too late, however, and it slams to the floor with an ear-splitting crash.
The entire room goes silent as everyone still there turns as one person to stare at the corner table. Tath's cheeks turn red and she snatches the chair up. She sneaks one more starry-eyed glance at the Scout, and seeing him stagger, turns furiously on the gaping patrons. "Well?" she says sharply. "What are you all staring at? Someone give him a hand before he falls all the way over." With an abashed mutter, a nearby man pushes away from his table and stumbles towards Angmir, reaching out to help him. Tath surpresses a snicker as the helper is nearly as unsteady as the one he attempts to aid, and sighs in exasperation. "Honestly!" she scolds as she hurries over herself. "You men can't do anything right!"
"Thank you, sir, but I... assure you, I can walk on my own." With a nod the Scout acknowledges the other man's attempt to help, but reaches not for his hand, instead producing a few coins from somewhere within his cloak and dropping them carelessly onto the table. "And to you, barmaid," he continues, balancing himself rather well against the wall and seeming not to notice the many pairs of eyes falling upon him, "I say this: were you in the position of that Maenadaneth, you would have died without the help of this man." A gauntleted fist meets Angmir's leather-clad chest to enforce the point. "And had she died-- one less customer for you!" Seemingly proud of what he considers a clever way to bring Tathar, too, into his debt, Angmir grins crookedly, taking a final drink of the ale on the table before making his way past the barmaid and towards the exit to the front hall of the Guesthouse. If he displays any last vestiges of a limp, they are unseen beneath the stagger of his gait.
Tathar stops a few paces away. She sighs deeply at the further proof of this valient man's great love for the Lady who had just left. She curtseys reverently, her eyes aglow, before snaking one swift hand out to snatch the coins from the tabletop. "As you say, my lord," she murmurs as he leaves. But the sentimental sigh she gives makes it clear she has not believed a word he says. With a final glance after him, she turns back to her work.