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Post by khrys on Nov 29, 2009 23:34:08 GMT -5
((Intended for Berenloth to meet LondT. There's no huge epic tale to be told and no limits on who I'd like to meet. I'm just looking for a few posts that I hope will develop from an in-game note from Deveon to an eventual guild invite.))
Berenloth sat down on the bed's end and tugged at the ties and buckles on his jerkin. The Prancing Pony was busy tonight and he considered himself lucky to find a room. Gripping the leather heel he slithered the boot off and let it fall to the floor where the muddy sole left a wet mark.
The mainroom would be his next stop. Despite a promise to himself to tame his urges and focus on his music, he was unable to stop thinking about the faces he had scanned while negotiating this room. Striking eyes from a whittler sitting at the stairs. Long soft hair crowning one at the bar. Strong back and shoulders on a guest enjoying a mug of something strong. Yes, it was entirely possible to spend an hour in front of the fire enjoying a pipe and eventually guarantee some unpaid company for the evening. The urge to hunt swelled and he quelled it with a promise: they'd go have supper and enjoy the view around the tables (but do nothing about it he scolded the voice) and perhaps find a tailor or merchant. Tonight was a night to sleep alone. Tonight was a night to decide what to do next.
He slipped out of his travelling leathers and into a clean shirt and simple shoes. His clothing was plain fare and one of the first things on his list to change. He transferred the folded note from his jacket to his shirt pocket. Before visiting this woman and her home, he would get some comfortable and fancy clothing. If this went the direction he hoped then he couldn't afford to come off as charity in front of ..of...blastings, what was her name? Had she even said? Well, regardless, some dress attire was in order.
The prettiest ones like the shiniest things said the voice in approval. He ignored it.
He headed out of his room and down the hall to the noise of voices and music, flute in hand, coinpurse around his waist and his pipe in his waistbelt. Ten minutes later he found a free chair near the performing poet and sipped a drink while waiting for his roast platter. The room was noisy and his smile involuntary at the thought of so many to meet.
So many to choose from.
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Post by Tallaith on Nov 30, 2009 12:52:19 GMT -5
Ceallian and Leasung slipped into the Prancing Pony, giggling between themselves and whispering as they shrugged off their rain-soaked cloaks and found pegs for them just inside the doorway.
Leasung helped her older cousin with her traveling bag; the girl said she was fully recovered from having the baby, but sometimes Leasung thought Ceallian lied. She got tired more quickly than before and sometimes she spoke in her sleep, though Leasung was such a heavy sleeper herself she barely made out what her bedmate said before rolling back over and dozing right back off.
"Right over here," Ceallian said, taking Leasung by the elbow and steering her through the crowded common room. "There are enough players near the front door. Coin is likely better in the quieter spots."
Leasung allowed herself to be led to the back of the room, mimicking her cousin's demure, mincing steps and casting her eyes to the floor as well. She wasn't sure what Braeme taught his daughter about the proper bearing of a lady, but where she grew up, in the greatest Houses of the Riddermark, a lady was not always so meek. But Ceallian seemed to get along quite well with the rougher types that lived in the towns and villages she frequented, so Leasung adopted some of her habits to make her own travels smoother and less noticable.
The younger girl helped the minstrel lay out her things on an empty table near the rear-most hearth. She found a nook by the fire to sit and watch Ceallian take up her miniature harp and tune it so quietly only the player's ear picked up the notes, then stroke the strings into life.
Leasung scanned the room from her shadowed corner. Only her sparkling eyes betrayed that she wasn't a statue carved into the decorations embellishing the stonework around the fireplace. The regular sort of patrons went about their sorry business; an assortment of every sampling of society to be found in Bree-Town and flocking in from the roads surrounding it gathered here for terrible food and greasy ale.
She nearly dozed off as her cousin played. Once in a great while, someone dropped a coin at Ceallian's feet. The lass wasn't wanting for money in any way, but Leasung suspected that she liked to think she could still care for herself, even without her husband's huge fortune at her disposal.
The rainy night wore on, the same as the last score of evenings the cousins spent together here. Finally, Leasung's chin dropped to her chest as she nodded off.
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Post by khrys on Nov 30, 2009 14:21:35 GMT -5
When the food arrived he ate slowly. The fatty trim of meat was not so much delicious as it was hot but it surpassed the hard bread. He declined to bleed his gums on that and filled the holes in his appetite with more drink.
The poet was wrapping up her tale and Berenloth made a note in his head of it. A direct plagerism set to someone's music and he'd have another song for his repetoire. Originally he justified this as taking residential art that might be lost forever and distributing it to a world audience so it would live on. But that fib was decades old by now and he'd long since walked past any concern of using another's art as his own. Now all he needed was a tune to set the words to.
His eyes fell on the champion at the same time that his ears picked up the harp. The dark haired man must have impulsively wandered in, for he arrived in the firelit room still dressed in half-chain. Berenloth stared at the dark blue eyes set in a square face and the head decorated with a raven ponytail. (Very pretty) Unable to catch the man's attention with a glance, he noticed then that the middle-aged armsman had purposefully come to the rear of the inn to listen to the music. Berenloth turned his attention to the harpist, letting his ears drink the sound for a minute before he rose and left his table.
He put on his most attractive smile and moved through the chairs until he was within speaking distance of her. Lifting his flute from his belt he puckered and slid the instrument across his bottom lip. The sensation set him to a mood that his eyes reflected and he began blowing softly, a whispering windy echo of her tune. Shadowing by a quarter octave he followed the harpist, always keeping in the background, always letting the strings sing louder than his flute. After a couple mintes he was guessing that she neared the tune's end and so slipped in segments of a Man-song he learned in Archet, "Old Grey Nag". The comedic piece contained crowd sing-along segments and could almost guarantee a boisterousness tavernfolk if enough mead had gone around the floor. If she picked up the song in a duet, they (you) would most certainly be noticed by the crowd (captaintoy said the voice, giggling).
He turned his eyes away from the prize and toward the musician, trying to read her body language.
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Post by Tallaith on Nov 30, 2009 17:33:13 GMT -5
Ceallian smiled with delight as the flutist began weaving his subtle magic into her song. Truthfully, tonight's audience was nearly boring her, consisting mostly of the sort of people who paused to look her over rather than to listen to her harp.
She fell into a sort of dream as they played together, her eyes almost slipping closed. When the song concluded and he took over, she lowered her harp unobtrusively and stepped back, watching him play.
She instinctively looked for Leasung. The girl had fallen asleep near the fire. So much for a devoted audience. Ceallian smiled fondly, stepping closer to her young cousin to yeild the "stage" to the other player. Not everyone had a great appreciation for music.
Ceallian folded her arms and watched the stranger play. She couldn't resist smiling to him as she murmured, "You are very talented, eie leord."
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Post by brendur on Nov 30, 2009 19:58:37 GMT -5
“Can I ask somat oh ye little Raven?”
“Pray tell Ratter, what do ye charge oh me?”
“S’been a long couple oh weeks wouldn’t ye agree?”
“Long in the tooth? Or in the ear? Or some other part? Ew.”
“No no. Long as in tryin. I’ve had a very tryin past few weeks, n’I move to put it all behind me. S’what tonight tis all about eh? Goin to the Pony, and havin a good time. N’what does that mean?”
“Beer and sausage fer everyone?”
“Close, but no. It means, no cursin folk.”
“Mayhaps.”
“Mayhaps what?”
“Mayhaps iffin there’s jam.”
Brendur tried to fix his sister with a glare, but without eyes, it just seemed that much easier for her to ignore glares. Sighing he extended his arm to her, and she threaded hers through his, and into the Pony the siblings walked. Fortunately for everyone at the Pony, the cook did indeed have jam.
While Syfe scuttled about the kitchen on her quest at the horror of the tiny hobbit cook, Brendur stepped into the hall of the tavern, inhaling the smells of sweat, ale, and pipe smoke with relish. He really did aim to have a good time tonight, going through all the motions to look his best, a new kerchief about his neck, his shock grey hair oiled back, and most importantly a fresh deck of playing cards. He’d entice out Lady Luck tonight, and together they’d have a grand old time.
He took it as an especially good sign of luck to hear one of his favorite’s playing, recalling some of the bawdier lyrics to the “Old Grey Nag”. Luckier still, two of his kinmates were close, Ceallian and Leasung, well, perhaps the latter wasn’t so lucky. Still for bad luck she was easy on the eyes, very easy on the eyes. He shook his head to clear it of that thought, that had been then and there, and exactly the reason why he was out to live tonight. Elbowing his way to the bar, he flashed his set of pearly whites at Barliman, who in turn eyed the Filcher warily.
“Hmph. Suspect you’ll want the usual then master Holst?”
“Not tonight, m’dear swill seller. Somat with a bit oh oomf to it iffin ye please. Want my apples to have bite tonight.”
“Swill eh? Well I don’t know anything about that, but I’ve got some fine Krinshaw’s 86 Cider in the back though.”
“Splendid! No doupt ye thought oh me when ye obtained it.”
“Hardly, when I think oh ye I clutch my wallet a bit tighter.”
The inn keeper chuckled at Brendur’s sour look and went in the back to fetch the drink. When he came back a very content looking Syfe sat next to her brother, sucking blackberry jam off her fingertips. Barliman knew better than to question the sight, just handing the drink to Brendur and smiling nervously to the girl.
“Anything fer the …pretty miss then? S’all sorts oh things better than jam back here.”
Syfe smiled back amiably offering suggestions. “ Fen Devil Gizzard? Oxen blood clots? Toasted Ratsie?”
To which Barliman blanched. “F-fraid we’re fresh outta all that miss…”
“Oh…” Syfe wilted slightly, the picture of disappointment. “Jam’s fine then.” She punctuated the sentence by jamming her jammy hand, back in her mouth. Brendur couldn’t help but smirk at his sister’s antics and nudged her.
“C’mon then little Raven, let’s go make life interestin fer our Kin.” “Mph” she replied. Which was more than enough answer for him. Thus did the siblings sweep up to the stage, shouting out all the bawdy bits to the song as they went.
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Post by khrys on Nov 30, 2009 23:17:40 GMT -5
The noise level was increasing, partly because the inn was now almost full and partly because the crowd had begun to sing along to the chorus of the song. As the harpist stepped back to give him stage, he nodded and increased his volume until it became almost as loud as the lumbering, drunken voices.
"She sayid nay, Ta Mary Mae My Old Grey Nag was sore done"
He tried not to smile but instead tapped his foot and encouraged the crowd to continue while checking to see if he had captured the attention of the raven hair near the front row.
"She sayid no, I weren't ta go My Old Grey Nag was sore done"
"But aye did stray With Mary Mae My Old Grey Nag was sore done"
There was a cluster now of slurred singers, banging their mugs on the tables each time the word "Nag" was sung. He egged the crowd to the finale and let them bring it home. As the room chorused in with
"So meh life'll be a tad less full With th' Old Grey Nag, life's back ta dull!"
He was astounded to hear a single voice cut through the words with it's own lyrics:
"She'll ride meh like-a buckin' bull Mae'll grab meh nose an' pull!"
The crowd roared and laughed and Berenloth gave a deep bow, first to the crowd then next to the harpist. As he turned he was disappointed to find the captain's attention was firmly on the harpist. The coin flipped from the armored hand and fell in to clink among her previous tips. Berenloth kept his sigh to himself and bowed once more as the crowd turned their back and went back to their conversations, smiles on their faces.
He raised a hand to order another drink and glanced around trying to find the owner of the bawdy lyrics. Unable to figure who it was he waited for his drink to be delivered to the table and turned to his fellow musician. "Very gracious of you to let me ride on the energy you built. May I offer you a drink?" He gestured to a chair at her table and put his flute in his belt, exchanging it for his pipe.
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Post by Tallaith on Dec 1, 2009 12:21:38 GMT -5
((Very good work! I'll try to add in my two cents later tonight. ))
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Post by Tallaith on Dec 1, 2009 21:29:33 GMT -5
Ceallian smiled demurely to the Elf, sparing only a moment to glance sideways to where Leasung still slept in complete oblivion. She took the offered seat and folded her hands in her lap.
"Many thanks, eie leord. A small beer, perhaps, or cider. I have no head for spirits." She busied herself with straightening her skirts, taking the time to covertly look him over from the boots up. "You are a very talented player. Where did you learn?"
She presented an interested half-smile to him, the perfect picture of a pleasant, politely shy, young girl set before him solely to entertain and engage.
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Post by brendur on Dec 1, 2009 22:51:33 GMT -5
"So meh life'll be a tad less full With th' Old Grey Nag, life's back ta dull!"
Brendur sung out with little care for tone and meter as he pulled out a seat for himself at the table. Smiling to Ceallian and the flute playing elf he raised his tankard of cider in toast to them before drinking and seating himself.
"Now that was one oh the finest pipin's oh Old Grey Nag, I've ever heard, and I've heard quite a few."
Syfe didn't bother with a chair, setting the clay jam jar on the table and cocking her head at her fellows, and leaning far over the table to sniff the air about them.
"One smells old, the other smells new, which tis which...ah there tis. This one's still got the fat oh a closed eyed bawler on her, I KNOW that un, she hights Ceallian mother to one, then many, and yet none at all. N'the other...oh, the urge jest rolls off that un... "
She took a step back, snatching her earthen jar and skittering towards the fire, crouching down next to the hearth and hugging the jar to her as it it were a new born. Sighing her brother shook his head, and dug about in his jacket for his pipe, turning to the two at the table.
"Sorry about that, tends to ramble when she's got a mouth full oh sugar. Eve on ye both though, who's yer friend lassie?"
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Post by Tallaith on Dec 2, 2009 11:30:36 GMT -5
Cay approached Syfe as she had for the last half of her pregnancy; the girl was her midwife and most frequent companion, especially in the last two weeks before Aedan's birth, when she was bedridden. She simply ignored the oddness of Syfe's behavior and focused on the aspects she could identify as commonly human.
"Ah, lovely, Lady Holst, the jam here is delicious." She turned to Brendur and nodded to him with a genuinely warm smile. "Sir. I do not yet know the name of my new friend. Though he is a very clever player, aye?"
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Post by khrys on Dec 2, 2009 15:59:42 GMT -5
Berenloth signalled toward the keeper that a drink should be brought for her, then took the chair beside the harpist. His mouth smiled and he thanked her for her compliment, "Your sound was smooth and leant easily to my flute joining in." His eyes ran analytically over her instrument, taking in it's high quality compared to his own. Pointing at her harping hand, he reached out to trace the air just above it's structure. The bone structure and muscle tone were there - her hands were not an amateur's. He conceeded that she was being generous with her words. "You've no stiffness - as if you've been playing since birth."
As the two new arrivals joined the table, his eyes went immediately to Brendur. The inner voice expressed it's hunger again and Berenloth was its puppet for the next minute. He looked at the tanned healthy body and brown hair (strands of grey, delicious! You should consider him) before drifting to the man's face. In that moment, the voice's control was broken. While the gritty stubble gave him a dirty attraction, Brendur's brown eyes were shielded with the same superficial smile that mirrored the one Berenloth used on women. He could almost swear the man mocked him with mimicry and the discomfort sent his eyes to look at someone else.
As his attention turned back to the harpist, Syf made a remark that was cryptic enough that Berenloth didn't register it until she had stepped away. It startled him and as he prepared his own pipe, he made a mental note to stay out of range of the girl's senses.
Quickly he went through a list of names he had heard of late, trying to pick one to use. Covering the pause, he took his leather weed pouch from his belt and offered it up on the centre of the table. As the strong, spicy fragrance of fresh Dragonsbreath blossomed from the elegantly stitched bag, he decided that his needs might best be served by being himself tonight.
"It's my pleasure and my luck to have company tonight, after just arriving. I am Berenloth of Lorien and I am hoping that when you offer your own names, they will be followed by titles such as 'Needle Master' or 'Seamstress to the Lords of Bree'".
With no prey available, the voice had gone still inside and he began to relax. He smiled with his eyes this time while using a pale, slender thumb to plug his pipe. He nodded to Brendur, inviting the Man to take some.
"I'd trade almost any amount of weed or coin in exchange for more elegant attire than what I've had to ride in."
It was at this moment that he realised there was another at the table - a youngling girl dressed in the corner's shadows.
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Post by Tallaith on Dec 2, 2009 22:58:58 GMT -5
Ceallian laughed softly, measuring the Elf from the concealment of polite interest. "My name is Ceallian oir Edanadar, eie leord. This is my friend, Master Brendur, and his sister, Syfe. Thank you for the pretty compliments, but I have only played the harp for a year or so. I started out with a lute."
She tilted her head to the side once again, glancing over the finely-made pouch of pipeweed he produced. "You do not have any good clothes, sir? I like as not have plenty of extra things from my husband and his companions, if you are not offended by the offer of cast-offs! I could sew you some new things, if you like, but I am rather slow with a needle."
She blushed delicately, trying to keep him engaged and his attention away from her sleeping cousin. She'd noticed the direction his eyes traveled, and Leasung was not the sort of lass to be able to defend herself from such a fair smile or flattering pleasantries.
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Post by khrys on Dec 3, 2009 11:42:24 GMT -5
His green eyes twinkled as he chuckled, "A year's skill in your hands is double my knowledge and enough for you to tutor me." then continued, "I expect to be here for a while and if you will be as well, then it's our duty to bring more nightly noise to this place."
He put his pipe down and tugged once on his sleeve.
"I appreciate your offer of clothing. I need something well tailored to my height though."
Standing up from his chair once more, he spread his hands apart as if in surrender. At almost 183 centimeters in height, it was obvious his current clothing wasn't suited to his solid frame. His linen shirt cuffs were an inch short and although his moss green pants fit well enough, they were becoming piebald around the inner thighs.
"I've been paupering my clothing for travel and it's high time I was redraped in green and gold."
He sat back down and picked up his pipe to relight it.
"I'd commission your work, if you can attire me? Something suited for a king's court that can be either guest or minstrel with just a change of vest."
Their drinks arrived at that moment and as he pulled open his coinpurse he added, "I'd most certainly pay you well." He slid a few silver to the server and tipped his chin to Leasung's dozing form. "How about a bit more to eat at the table? To enjoy the evening and make each other's acquaintance."
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Post by Tallaith on Dec 3, 2009 13:51:34 GMT -5
Ceallian smiled sweetly to his suggestion, but shook her head. "I am sorry, but I would be a poor seamstress for you! I only sew a little when I am able to rest at home, but now, you catch me on a rare day when I am able to stop here for a night away from my travels. Perhaps you could visit some of the tailors here in Bree-Town. I have seen some pretty work come from their tables."
She glanced again at Leasung, who still hadn't stirred. The girl looked three years younger, barely more than a child, when her face was slackened with sleep. She was a very pretty creature, but a fair face did not always mean fair ways, too.
"That is my cousin, eie leord, Leasung. She has lately come to stay with me. I can wake her, if you would like to meet her, but she has had little rest of late."
Before Ceallian could get an answer from the Elf, her younger cousin stirred on her own, responding to the sound of her name. She blinked, yawned hugely, and flitted her golden eyelashes. She childishly rubbed at her eyes and turned to Ceallian, mumbling.
"Did you need something?
Cay shook her head and smiled gently. "No, but we have a new friend, it seems. This is Master Berenloth, and he has invited us to have supper with him."
Where Ceallian was all demure sweetness, and shaded with coppers and greens, Leasung was cool politeness, her pale but perfect manners outwardly reflected in her white-blonde hair and fairer complexion. She appraised the Elf with glittering eyes, but nodded to him after barely a moment with a practiced smile.
"A pleasure, Lord." She stood and smoothed down her plain cotton gown. At home, she'd seen better sacks holding feed than this rag, but she tried to bear it as regally as a true Lady. She stepped to the bench beside her cousin, noticing Brendur with barely-veiled surprise for the first time. "Hello, sir. Are you well?"
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Post by brendur on Dec 3, 2009 23:38:40 GMT -5
Professionals, as a matter of course, admire process more than they admire result. A painter will see the stroke of the brush before they notice the painting. An archer will be awed by the trajectory, rather than the arrow piercing the target. So when Berenloth lied to the world, Brendur really didn't care much for the lie, but rather how he spun it. It was awe inspiring work truth be told, daring and on the knifes edge. The enticing smile, the gentle movements of the hands expressing confidence while leaving room for vulnerability, all the while the eyes that sought the something that you could possibly possess, if you were lucky. This elf made himself like that of a dream to others, and you didn't dare believe otherwise, else the dream might end. The eyes of course gave him away, he sought a little too deep, and in that moment of searching he and Brendur recognized the other for what they were. Had it been just the two of them, Brendur would have shook his hand in congratulations, for here was an elf he could only learn from. Common courtesy among liars however dictated that he smiled, and accepted the man's pipeweed in a small pinch.
"Thank ye kindly, and I'm afraid ye'll find no seamstresses and needlemasters among the Holsts, jest as plain oh company as ye could ask fer. Well...Syfe might break that mold a little...but she brews such a fine Peach Brandy as to make ye ferget aaaaalllll about it."
Finally fishing the corn cob pipe that he held so dear out of one of the many pockets on his otterskin coat, which he also held dear, he stuffed the bowl of the pipe to the brim. Producing a match he popped the head of it to light under his thumbnail, and with the care of years behind the habit, he held the flame to the bowl and puffed. With a sharp inhalation, and then a slow release of the smoke through the teeth, he grinned widely at his company.
" A fine smoke fer a fine evenin, Wizard's Fire tis it? Starts bitter, then afore ye know it, flares in the back oh the throat...subtle, but strong. Should all the night's encounters be so fine. However, as to the topic oh seamstresses, ye'll find no finer than those in the Shire. The halflins have an attention to detail to satisfy even the most fastidious oh dressers, n'they'll ask a fair price fer the fair minded."
Leaning back into his chair Brendur let the conversation of the inn wash over him, here he was at ease, with no thought for the next morning or what it brought, life by the second, straight from the tap. Again he smiled from teeth to eyes at the offer of supper, allowing himself to be cordial.
"Greatly appreciated Master Berenloth, n'I'll accept on the condition that ye allow me to purchase the next round fer the table."
It was a prod, and a shameless one at that, but Brendur couldn't help tweaking at their host for curiositie's sake. Then came Leasung, and he found his attention split. Personally he had hoped she would stay sleeping for the night, however he supposed that was simply too much to ask for, thus did her waking pull him off guard slightly. His smile faltered, and the tankard that he was about to drink from found it's way back to the table, before he quickly caught himself and resumed to be merry.
"Leasung, eve on ye lassie, saw ye oer there chasin Ole Gaffer Forty Winks, figured I shouldn't wake ye. How fare ye this night?"
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