The common room is silent and nearly empty at this hour of the morning. The tables are pushed together and most have chairs stacked on top of them. In one corner, near the curtained doorway, a few have been cleared off. At one of these, Tathar is sitting, eating a bowl of porridge heavily drizzled with honey. Even the kitchen area is quiet, although the smell of baking bread drifts out across the room. The innkeeper can be seen leaning on the bar and talking to a large, red-faced man who is munching on a piece of left-over bread.
In the opposing corner, half-hidden behind the stacked chairs, lies a single clear table, and at it sits a green-cloaked man, his black hair thick and unkempt, his left eyebrow severed by a single scar. He seems to sit crookedly in his chair of heavy wood, and it takes little observation to ascertain the cause-- his right leg looks entirely straight and stiff where it lies beneath the table, the foot not booted but wrapped in cloth and leather. Before him, a plate of day-old bread and a mug of ale; behind him, a wooden staff leans against the corner of the common room.
Angmir shifts slightly, pulling his cloak closer around his right side, then with his left hand raising the ale-mug to his lips for an unhurried sip. Something about the way he chews his bread seems almost thoughtful.
Near silent is the entrance of a small woman as she pushes her way through the curtained doorway. She pauses there, a flinty gaze lying cold on Tathar nearby, before making her way to the bar with soft, patting footfall. A good distance she places between herself and the red-faced man as she leans against the bar, wide skirts flattening. "Bread. And a bowl of what your barmaid is having," she speaks curtly to Bombalo as he speaks with the man, and she jerks her head toward Tathar.
The petite woman's entrance is not lost to the figure seated in the corner, nor are the messages made so clear by her movements and tone. Angmir's grey eyes watch from around the side of a stack of chairs as with effort he shifts his weight slightly for a better view. Still silent, he takes another bite of his bread, his teeth working for a moment to rip a piece from the small, half-stale loaf as he looks on intently.
The sound of Maen's entrance brings Tathar's head up curiously. Almost immediately, her eyes narrow furiously. Jaw clenched, she stands up and starts toward the bar, when she is distracted by the movement of the man in the corner. For a moment, she stands hesitantly, wondering who to confront first, and then with a final scowl in Maena's direction, she walks over to Angmir. "Good morning," she says pleasantly, although her eyes still sparkle angrily. "Have you regained more of your memory?"
"Certainly, my lady," Fat Bomalo says courteously. He bellows into the kitchen, "A bowl of porridge! And bread!"
Thick brows furrow as Angmir looks from the barmaid to Maenadaneth and back again, a bread-rind lying forgotten for the moment on his plate. "Perhaps," the Scout intones flatly, as if unsure the proper amount of information to divulge. He pauses then, stealing a brief glance towards the three tiny scars upon his left hand. "Though, one thing of which I can be certain," he continues with a slight raise of a cloven eyebrow and the barest hint of mirth, "is that there exist in this city other beasts that bite besides your 'needle-toothed bats.'"
Tathar's voice brings Maenadaneth to glance over her shoulder. Angmir's reply causes her to turn entirely, resting her back against the bar with her elbows on the boards behind her. Her head she tilts slightly to bring the pair into better view through the forest of chairs, and a brow quirks as Angmir finishes speaking. Openly she watches, though she is yet silent.
A figure with a white cloak enteres the common room. The look of rain is upon her as she eneters and bits of dark hair can be seen peaking out from the hod that covers her head and most of her face. She enters the common room quickly as though in a slight rush. Almost immediately she walks over to bar and orders a cup of hot tea.
Tathar's eyes widen, the anger leaving them for the moment. "Th-there are?" she falters, looking around the room a little nervously. "Not here?" Realization comes and she rolls her dark eyes, starting to laugh. "You're teasing me!" Her eyes stray to Angmir's hand. Eagerly, she asks, "You have remembered? What was it that bit you, then?" and looks back to his face for the answer.
Yet Angmir's mirth vanishes as Tathar's seems to grow, and quickly he draws his left hand beneath the table as a stray glance toward the bar reveals Maenadaneth's eyes upon him and the barmaid. "Not 'bit,' barmaid," he begins, voice lowered, "I should say rather 'scratched.' She said she had done such a thing to no other-- and she recounted for me the incident, though I could find it not in my memory. Though... I do believe her. She showed me. The three fingers of her hand fit the scars. Remember you any of this? Know you the one I speak of?"
Upon reaching the bar and getting her cup of tea Anokuil takes a sip from it though only takes one sip and places it back upon the table. With a sigh she then turns and looks around the room, though noticing some familiar faces she still sits there looking around the room as though watching or waiting for someone.
Maenadaneth nods quickly to Anokuil as the healer enters, her gaze still clinging to Angmir and Tathar. The words from the pair across the room drop lower, and here then do her eyes part from them to drift idly around the room. She shifts her weight and half turns before suddenly she snaps, "How long does it take to put porridge in a bowl and set it together with bread before me?" Now stormy eyes are pointed at Bomalo, and it seems these words are directed at him.
Bomalo look sup from his converstation with the red-faced man, "Sorry, sorry milady." Heavy footfall causes him to disappear into the kitchen, and a breath later he returns to place a bowl and a loaf before Maenadaneth. "Again, my apologies for being slow," he says before slipping back to his recently abandoned place.
"Someone scratched you? A lady??" Tathar's voice is shocked. "But why..?" She turns over in her mind all possible reasons why a lady would scratch so noble a man. "Perhaps she was crazed with grief," she finally says, then remembers his question. "Oh, no. No, I remember nothing of the sort. But wait, speaking of remembering..." Turning with a swish of her yellow skirts, she waves at the stout man standing near the innkeeper. "Here," she calls. "This is the man."
The man looks up in response to her summons and lumbers slowly across to stand by Tathar. He scrutinizes Angmir's face, chewing slowly. After a moment, he swallows. "Aye, Tathar, I do remember him. Was here the other day. Sat at this same table, even." He nods ponderously.
"Grief, yea, or so she told me. She said she was upset upon seeing a corpse, and spoke of a-- know you of a lady by the name of Selendriel? I remember nothing of the name--" Angmir pauses, then, interrupted by the eyes of the man Tathar calls to his table as they seem to take rude account of his every feature. The Scout's own grey eyes narrow at the newcomer, then turn to the barmaid, his voice tense with something like frustration. "He remembers me? What means this? Tell me not that he too was struck by a Troll, and seeks me now as some sort of memory device."
Returning the nod to Maenadaneth also Anokuil then looks back down to her cup of tea. The depression that seems to consume her still reflects in her eyes though not has strong as before, yet still there. Still looking into her cup of tea she sighs deeply and looks to the barkeep. "Ale please" she says hesitantly knowing that she promised herself she would never drink ale again she then handing him enough coins to pay for the ale and the tea.
The man snorts. "I need no aid to my memory. Nay, nor no troll either. Tathar said you had forgotten some things and wished to remember them. So I tell you again, I saw you sitting here in this very spot. Some weeks ago, it was. With that snippy lady over yonder." He jerks his head towards Maena, folding his arms across his chest. "Don't know her name, can't tell you if she's this Sendriar of yours."
At this the Scout grins crookedly, taking on almost a rakish air as he cocks his head and his left fingers plays idly with a few of the larger bread crumbs. "Nay, good sir, the 'snippy lady' of whom you speak is named Maenadaneth; this at least do I remember. So, tell me then--" Angmir continues, leaning forward over the table-- though he stops and winces as the right arm hidden beneath his cloak brushes against the wooden edge, and quickly pulls back. "What else remember you of that day?"
Maenadaneth leans over her bowl, spooning porridge into her mouth in a rushed manner. She glances now and again to Anokuil as she eats, and her bowl is more than half empty when her name is spoken across the room. Her spoon hovers a heartbeat over the bowl, then is dropped within even as she turns about. Hands brushing her skirt, she stalks to the small gathering, and no limp does she display this day. Back well from the others, she stands with arms folded before her and watches unabashedly. Her lips are in a tight line.
Looking down into her tankered of ale Anokuil sighs yet again as the though of drinking brings back bad memories. Though shrugging them off the raises the tankered to her lips and takes a sip. Then looking up to see Maenadaneth walk over to a table she raises an eyebrow for a moment though looks about to room again as though she is hoping for someone to enter the room.
"If you say so." The heavy man seems uninterested. His face creases into a frown as he thinks back. "You sat here. She sat across there. Near where the other lady is now." Absently, he unfolds his arms and reaches up to scratch his head. "Ye both had a bit to drink. Then she came over here and stood for a while, talking to you. Kissed you, too, right here in public." Disapproval is weighty in his voice. "Then she walked out. And you went after her. Nearly couldn't stand on your own feet, you couldn't." He shrugs and turns as if to return to the bar.
Standing silently nearby, Tathar listens in satisfaction. She nods firmly in affirmation of his words, and shoots a triumphant look over her shoulder at Maena. An audible sniff accompanies her look. Tossing her curls defiantly, she turns back to the ongoing conversation.
Dark brows lower over incredulous eyes as Angmir's mouth grows slack, his head turning quickly from the barmaid to the large man to Maenadaneth as if cornered and completely bereft of words. "What-- what means all of this?" he cries gruffly, voice rising in pitch with each word. "--And who now am I to believe?" A pause as the wounded man's eyes grow narrower, coldly, contemplatively.
And then, the tension erupts.
"LIES!" he snarls as his left fist comes down upon the table, sending a plate and mug clattering. "LIES! Which of you speaks truly, if indeed you all do not seek to ensnare me in your webs of untruth??"
Maenadaneth blurts out, "And this is me you speak of?" with an incredulous voice and expression. She eyes the heavy man before her attention is stolen by Angmir. Her arms drop to allow her hands to clench at her sides, and heated glares are given in equal measure to the heavy man, barmaid, and scout.
Her small mouth works furiously but soundlessly for a moment, but when words erupt, they are directed first to Angmir, "Aye, doubt me again!" she shrieks, "When the proof of my honesty is written on your flesh! And you!" she cries, a finger pointing at the heavy man, "How did this maid bring you to join her in her lies?" Her eyes of narrow silvery fire pierce then Tathar, "What gain does it bring you to besmirch my name?"
Looking up from her tankard at the loud voice she then turns and looks to the group with curiosity her own thoughts seem to disappear as she watches in confusion. Though as she watches like with her cup of tea she leaves the ale alone no not wanting it.
(Anokuil)
A dangerous light flickers in the big man's eyes. Both hands clench into fists and he takes a step towards the seated scout. "No man calls me a liar!" he growls menacingly, drawing one arm back and cocking his fist. As Maena's screeching echoes through the room, he looks back at her contemptuously. "Aye. And it seems I judged rightly the first time. No lady acts in such a manner. Disgraceful, it is. Did not your parents teach you how to behave in public?" He turns back to Angmir, only to find Tath hanging frantically onto his arm.
"You cannot hit him," she hisses. "He is injured. Look, see the sling? There, under his cloak?" The ugly look in the man's eyes doesn't fade, but he does lower his arm. "The pair of you deserve each other, both howling and screeching and insulting honest folk." He turns away scornfully, stomping back towards the bar where he leans glowering into the distance and completely ignoring them.
Listing to them Anokuil looks out the window for a moment. Now realizing the time she gets up from her seat and rushs out the door for she is late for her duties in the healing house.
"Nor does any man call me the same, nor does he insult before my face those who would name me friend!" Eyes ablaze, and both injury and his own previous accusation to Maenadaneth momentarily forgotten, the Scout begins to rise from his seat-- then falls back with a growling cry as his right arm collides again with the table-edge, falling back heavily to his chair as his eyes clench shut and his left arm holds his right where it lies in a sling beneath his cloak of dirty green.
The barmaid's words pass him by in his moment of pain, and when his eyes reopen the large man is no longer before him-- only Tathar and angry Maenadaneth. Angmir shifts in his chair and releases slowly his injured arm, his pupils embers of cold fire.
Maenadaneth's fists are white-knuckled where they lie buried in the thick skirts at her hips. Small rose lips press further together still, until the flesh around her mouth grows white. She is silent as she glowers at the heavy man, and a rebellious mien has settled over her. Her lips part briefly to release chopped words, "Honest folk indeed," before they snap shut once more.
Her head is turned by Angmir's cry, and quickly she darts to where he is. She leans over to him and murmers, "Are you well? Need you to return to the healers?" ere sending more heated glares to the man and Tathar. She calls, "Wretched people and gossip-mongers the both of you are."
Touching again his arm as if to test it, Angmir turns to Maenadaneth and speaks quickly a hushed reply. "Nay, lady, I am well enough." A moment then goes by, and the Scout ponders the turn of events, speaking then again to the lady beside him, tone still low and now unsure. "You... are certain they speak lies, then?"
Maenadaneth holds her breath, glancing to Angmir, then reaches for a chair and pulls it loudly near. There she sits, close to him, and leans even closer to murmer to him, stormy eyes troubled, "..., ... that ... ... ... ... .... ... ... ... ... ... evening when ... ... ... ..., ... ... ... ... .... ... ... ... said ... about my dressmaker, ... ... ... ... ... table ... ... ... ... it -- 'twas ... ... our argument ... ... ... of Healing. ... at ... ... ... ... ..., ......" and a darting glance is sent to Tathar, "... ... ... after ..., ... do ... ... ... ... ...." Her face grows crimson, and she hesitantly glances at his face.
"Nay, and that is the worst of it. I am recalled of an evening when we both were here, and well in our cups. I remember you said something about my dressmaker, and I came to your table to call you on it -- 'twas soon after our argument at the House of Healing. Here at your table I did sit, but..." and a darting glance is sent to Tathar, "I recall little after this, and do not remember how I left."
Tathar's eyes blaze with fury. "Some man you are," she says scornfully. "To act so to one who only wished to help you. No wonder she will not admit she kissed you." Her own small fists are white-knuckled, and out-raged virtue quivers in every line of her body. "As for you.."
"Enough." Bomalo's voice is quiet, but carries a great weight of authority, and Tath shuts her mouth in mid-sentance. The innkeeper pushes himself away from the bar and walks slowly over to the quarreling group. He looks from face to face, and then says, mildly, "I also saw what Seren yon has described. Perhaps you wish also to call me a liar?" One eyebrow lifts in calm inquiry as he surveys the two sitting at the table.
Angmir's dark brows furrow in confusion at Maenadaneth's whispered words, and grey eyes grow a troubled look at her flushed glance. "... kissed ...? ...... ..., ... we ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..., ... 'tis not such a ... ..., but... ... ... ... ... ...? If ... ... ... ..., who ... ... believe?" Hushed words, in a voice more lost than accusatory. But then once more his eyes narrow in scorn at Tathar's accusation-- only to be distracted from his venom by the voice of Bomalo. 'You saw her?' Clipped words, not quite curt. 'Who was she?'
("You kissed me? Why... Nay, if we had both had had our fill of liquor, maybe 'tis not such a strange thing, but... who now can I trust? If the barmaid lies not, who can I believe?")
"This lady, here, sitting beside you." Bomalo's deep voice answers. He jerks his head at Tath, and she obediently turns and disappears into the kitchen, although her face is still mutinous. "Is my word sufficient proof for such noble folk as yourselves?"
Maenadaneth's crimson face is turned still to Angmir. "... ... ..., ..., .... ... ... ... ... ... what ... is ... ... ... ... ... ..., ... perhaps ... ... ...." She moves her chair back suddenly, and her face is to the floor. 'I must go. Fare you well.' And without looking to the barkeep, she brushes past him and hurries through the curtained entrance.
(mayhap we did, then, kiss. And now I do know what it is to be stolen of a memory, and perhaps how you feel.)
The Scout sighs in frustration, eyes closing briefly. "Sufficient as it could be, I fear, for a man who trusts none," Angmir replies to Bomalo, then turns to Maenadaneth-- but she is gone before again he finds words to speak. Another sigh, and once-proud shoulders slump as he watches the three leave, left once more without links to his past, save only links to the moments before it all started in the common room that morning: a rind of bread, a mug of drink, right arm and right leg bound and bandaged. His left hand toys a moment with the bread before he takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. No comfort does it bring.