LOCATION

Nardu Batan: At the Tavern

The Soldier Street ends here - or begins, depending upon your disposition - in a small tidy square, flanked on the south by the great Watchtower of the Numenoreans, that is a part of the city walls beyond it. A goodly two hundred feet in height, it dwarfs the whole landscape around it and serves as a link in the chain of warnings against an assault from sea or land. Much would you learn about the surrounding lands from its mist-veiled top, - if you are allowed up there. And, well, if not - there is always an answer, for the doors of the Seaward Tavern are flung wide open, and the sounds of merriment abound inside. Should you not be in the mood for this either, there is always the way back to where you came from. The Soldier Street stretches to the north from here, leading to the city centre.

Obvious exits:

* Tavern Doors leads to Azulada Tavern.

* South leads to Nardu Batan: Watchtower.

* Northwest leads to Nardu Batan: Eagle Square.

[Barzag:] It is morning, and the clear skies above hold the promise of a fine day. The September sun shining down on the small, neat Azulada Square is pleasantly warm, without the scorching heat of summer. To the east, the barrier of the city wall rears up, and the occasional tramp of feet can be heard as guards march to and fro along the parapet. On a morning such as this, there would seem little to guard against, but this is a city whose vigilance never relaxes.

Down at the base of the wall are two piles of stone blocks; some freshly hewn and rough cut, others ready-dressed. A hunched figure, with his back to the square so that a dark head and a scruffy-looking brown tunic are all that can be seen of him, is busy squaring off one block right now, and the sounds of hammer and chisel ring out through the square, doubtless disturbing the denizens of the nearby tavern.

[Aloric:]

The door to the tavern opens slowly. A grey-clad resident emerges still yawning an stretching. The look of displeasure upon his face could make one think that this man is not a morning person. Running his fingers through his hair, and pausing to try and keep his temper in check, he approaches the busy laborer.

"Ho there, could you not wait until later in the morn for such loud tasks? Have you nothing quieter to do which you could occupy your time with?"

[Barzag:] The labourer turns to view the speaker; golden eyes regard the man unblinkingly from a brown-skinned face. One side of his twisted mouth lifts in a lop-sided smile. Then he gives a small shrug. "I follow orders, only. These," - he indicates the pile of rough stones - "are to be made ready before the sun reaches noon." He squints at the sky, clearly measuring how much time he has left. "You do not wish the walls repaired?" he wonders aloud, with perhaps just a hint of sarcasm.

[Aloric:] Aloric takes pause, eyes widened, though only for the briefest moment as he regards the laborer's face. His eyebrow cocks curiously and an odd grin spreads slowly across his face. "I care little if the wall is repaired or not friend. You are one of those Hillmen, are you not?"

[Barzag:] The labourer nods briefly. "Yes, I am of the ones you call Hillmen." He in turn regards the other man curiously, but, seeing that the fellow shows no signs of leaving, sets down his chisel and rises to his feet to stretch his muscles. The Hillman is at least the equal in height of the one he faces, though somewhat heavier in build. He looks towards the stranger again, a quick, almost furtive glance. "I can stop for a few moments, stop this noise for a short time, if you wish?" he half-states, half-queries.

[Aloric:] Aloric shakes his head negatively. "It matters not now, I am already awake." Still eyeing the man curiously, but with no obvious scorn or animosity, he continues "I am wondering though, if I may ask, how did you come to be a worker here in Umbar?" Even as he asks, he props himself against the wall too curious to go about his own daily tasks.

[Barzag:] The Hillman does not answer for a moment, preoccupied with other matters. He balls one hand into a fist, extends the fingers fully, then shakes his wrist with a small sigh. When he raises his head again, however, his eyes are wide, and he looks the other man full in the face for the first time. ''That you ask, is - odd.'' He shakes his head as if dissatisfied with his choice of words, but ploughs on, ''I come here from the hill lands west of the Great River. I, together with many other men, are sent to this place as - '' There is a long pause, and he eventually substitutes a word in his own tongue, "<Mannish_H> tribute" . ''I do not know your word.'' His lips twitch once more, and his eyes slide sideways as he asks the curious stranger, ''Why do you talk to a Hillman? This good men of Umbar do not do.'' He laughs softly, somewhat bitterly, darting a quick glance back at the man as he awaits a reply.

[Aloric:] Aloric laughs softly and smiles warmly. "I ask out of curiosity, nothing more. As for why I would speak to a Hillman? You stand before me. Should I pretend you do not exist simply because you are not born of Numenor? I would'st dare to say that any man who treats his fellow man as a lesser being, simply because of the place of his birth, is no good man."

[Barzag:] The Hillman cannot hide the look of pure surprise that flits across his face at this stranger's words, eyes wide in astonishment, split lip parting. "Then you are not of Umbar," he states with certainty. "I hear what they say about me, Barzag, and about others like me. I know the Men of the Sea think us only animals, beasts to be worked like ox or horse." At the mention of work, his head jerks round as he scans the area to see if his temporary break has been noticed. Satisfied it has not, he grins and adds, "And where come you from, Man not of Umbar?"

[Aloric:]

"No, I am not of Umbar, I am from Pelargir in Numenor proper. Perhaps we are raised to be more elightened, or simply less closed minded there. I do indeed know a taste of how you feel though, Barzag. As I am merely a teacher of the blade, and not some rich nobleman, I too am looked down upon by these "good men" of Umbar." Extending his hand to you he finishes, "I am called Aloric. Though noisy, you do fine work."

[Barzag:] Barzag looks a little puzzled as he listens to the first part of Aloric's speech. Perhaps some of the words are unfamiliar, or perhaps merely the sentiments they express. He regards the extended hand as if uncertain what to do. However, Aloric's final words are definitely understood, for the right side of his mouth lifts in a pleased smile. "I thank you," he answers. "For the words, and for your speaking ..." His brows crease in a slight frown, then he tries to sound the man's name, "Aal-owric". He wipes one work-worn hand on his smudged tunic before extending it in turn, though he does not make so bold as to grasp Aloric's proffered hand.

[Aloric:] Aloric chuckles softly and grasps the man's hand and shakes it firmly. "Well met Barzag. Think not of the pettiness of these folk. Could they do such masonry? If they could, why would they seek out indentured servants with such skills? Nay Barzag, whatever they may say or do, remind yourself this. High born or low, every man has worth."

[Barzag:] Barzag frowns now. "I do not know 'indentured'," he admits. "But your other words I understand. And it is not 'can not', but 'wish not', I think." He shrugs, grins again briefly. "And so it is that I find work here." At the mention of work, he gives a guilty start and stoops to retrieve the discarded chisel. "But I remember your words." He emphasizes this with a nod. "You work also? What is that work?" He glances back at Aloric, once more the faintly puzzled look on his face.

[Aloric:] Aloric smiles and gestures towards the Tulwar hanging from his belt, "I teach men how to use a sword, battle axe, basically any weapon with a blade. I also sell rare weapons to the wealthy. Where you work with stone, I teach men to work with steel."

[Barzag:] The puzzlement lifts from Barzag's features, though the slight frown remains. "You teach - weapons?" He nods in understanding. "The hard metal is scarce in the hill lands, weapons more so; if we must fight, we often use - hands." His left hand, the one not holding the chisel, flexes unconsciously at this. "We have no such teachers as you," Barzag states. "But where the hard metal is common, there men fight often." His thumb rubs up and down the blade of the chisel. "It brings riches - yet also death." He shakes his head, as if wondering how one could choose to devote an entire life to the art of fighting.

[Aloric:] Aloric nods solemnly, perhaps grasping the unsaid as well as what was spoken. "T'is a hard and cruel world where "hard metal" is a reality. In my experience, it is better to be skilled with it, than victim of it. Perhaps though, there is much my people could learn from your people. For now, I shall let you get back to work, as I've things I must attend to. Be well Barzag."

[Barzag:] Barzag sighs. "Maybe I should accept such things," he admits, lips pressing tightly together as he pauses. At Aloric's final sentence, he nods. "I must work again," - his lips twist in a brief smile - "with noise. I thank you for your speaking, Al-owric. Perhaps I see you again?" Without waiting for an answer to that, he returns to shaping the part-finished block, and soon chips of stone are flying.

[Aloric:]

As Aloric slowly walks away, he says merely, "Perhaps."

Participants:

BARZAG

At first glance this man appears a normal specimen of the Hill-Folk. He is tall for his kind, perhaps about six feet in height, and his shoulders are slightly hunched in the manner of one who spends much of the time looking downward. His skin is swarthy, weather-beaten from long days spent outdoors, his build rugged. From the man's slightly stooped posture, you deduce that he is used to carrying heavy loads. His feet are encased in crude leather moccasins, worn and scuffed. He wears trousers of some coarse greyish material, although it is hard to tell whether this is the cloth's original colour or the result of fading. Several tears in the material have been painstakingly if inexpertly mended. A mass of unruly dark hair hangs to just above his shoulders, loose strands brushing the top of his tunic; the soft brown cloth must have been of good quality when new, although now there are various marks on it and it is becoming threadbare in places.

Your gaze wanders upwards, towards this man's face - and halts, for therein lies the reason for the distrust and fear he inspires in many. His chin is hidden by a short, dark beard, carefully trimmed. But his upper lip, upon which only a few sparse bristles grow, is cloven in the manner of a beast, and twisted slightly so that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this, his nose is long and straight; amber eyes generally regard the observer coolly from beneath lowering black brows. Were it not for the wrongness of his mouth, he might even be considered handsome, but his disfigurement prevents this.

ALORIC

The man before you stands just under six feet, and posessed of a slim yet very athletic build. His eyes are an deep and stormy grey, filled with a look of intensity. His hair is black as night, long, and neatly tied back into a ponytail halfway down his back, and a neatly trimmed beard adorns his face. His skin is deeply tanned from spending many hours outdoors practicing his craft.

The man is dressed rather plainly, a simple, sleeveless tunic of a dark grey color overwhich he wears a black vest of studded leather. His pants, likewise are black and are tucked into knee-height boots of a soft black leather. He walks with an aura of quiet confidence, by no means does the man appear arrogant, but certainly he does not appear to be meak either.

Carrying:

* Al's Duffel

* Malwar