LOCATION:

Phazanbatan: Before the Inn

The inauspicious beginnings of the Prince Street are right here before you. Narrow and overrun with wagons, horses, people without clear purpose and those who prey on all the above - the mix it houses is quite rowdy and careless of courtesy. The main feature of this dead end is the large two-storied building that stands across the southern end of the street. The windows tremble occasionally with sounds from within, and shadows lurk along its walls - however spending the night inside is better than on the street. No other inns inside the city ever seem to have vacancies.

The door of the Inn creaks open, the space beyond lit with tongues of flame in the fireplace, and the raucous sounds are even louder. To the north, the narrow and constricted Prince Street runs towards the Market Square.

Obvious exits:

Inn Northwest

[Barzag:] It is late evening now, and the square before the Azruphazan Inn is quiet. The spring air is chill, and borne on it is the acrid tang of smoke. Only a few days since, fire ravaged the southernmost part of the city, and while this little dead-end has escaped the flames, it cannot escape more subtle reminders of the event. The windows of the Inn are brightly lit, but most of the other buildings in the street are shut up tight. In the doorway of one such building is an old blanket or something .. no, it stirs. A sleeper, perhaps?

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin emerges from the Azruphazan, sliding his cloak up about his shoulders and grimacing at the stale rank smell of smoke. He glances to the south, noting the wisps of black haze that still hang over the Refuse Quarter. Sighing, he takes a step down from the Inn and pauses, as the crowd surges past, heading home for the evening.

[Barzag:] And most of that crowd heads northwards - after all, where else is there to go? One or two stragglers slip between the buildings, perhaps intending to find their way home by hidden alleys, or perhaps just answering the call of nature. One soul, perhaps more clumsy than usual after a heavy meal at the Inn, no doubt with alcoholic accompaniment, stumbles against the cloak-wrapped form in the doorway in the other side of the street, receiving a muffled curse in response as the figure stirs again.

[Roziliel:] Not long after Inzilgadin emerges from the Azruphazan, Roziliel, too makes her way from the inn. Her steps delayed, perhaps, she scans the crowd until she catches sight of the attache and then sifts her way the few paces through the crowd until she reaches him. She clears her throat softly, lowering her head, though the grey eyes are no less watchful of the faces in the crowd.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin turns and smiles at her, waiting on the lower step. "The night is not so chill as I feared, lady. We will have good weather and a late moon, if we move quickly."

[Barzag:] The clumsy townsman heads on, but the cloak-wrapped figure, perhaps having given up on slumber for now, uncurls and levers himself to a sitting position to watch the square gradually empty of people. Amber eyes peer suspiciously at those who depart - and the pair who seem to linger.

[Roziliel:] Still eyeing the many faces of workers that make their way home from a long day of labour, Roziliel offers a faint smile to Inzilgadin upon his greeting. "Yes. It is a good thing, indeed. I shall follow your lead, Inzil," she says, glancing once more over her shoulder to the inn and drawing up the hood of her cloak to cover her head.

[Inzilgadin:] "Very good, then, we--" The attache pauses to scan the area one more time, as closely as possible. His eyes find those of the reclining ambereyed one and narrow. "A moment. Who is that?" He points at the fellow for Rozi's benefit.

[Barzag:] The pointing finger, and more importantly the commanding, high-class voice, do not go unnoticed by their target. The man stands now, cloak still wrapped tight around him to keep out the night chill, and stares at Inzilgadin and his companion for a long moment. He pushes the hood of the cloak back to see the woman more clearly, revealing a dark head of hair and a face half-hidden by beard, then shrugs and turns away from the pair, glancing instead round at the darkened buildings.

[Roziliel:] Looking in the direction that Inzilgadin points, Roziliel takes a step or two forward to move past an obstructing group of citizens who speak long and leisurely about the day. "I am not sure I know," Roziliel answers, though at that moment the very figure being talked about turns away with a shrug.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin frowns as the man turns away and steps down to approach him. He starts to bark out a reprimand and in inhaling to speak, takes in a measure of the gritty dust. It reminds him of what has just happened, and what ensued. "You there." he says, with a kindly tint to his voice. "You were harmed by that fire away by the wall?"

[Barzag:] The figure's shoulders tense - that much can be seen despite the concealing cloak - but for a long while there is little other response to Inzilgadin's question. Eventually the shoulders lift in a shrug, and the man answers simply, "Harmed? No. Only a few were harmed, they say. That much is good. But it affects us all, yes?" The voice is deep, accented, slightly nasal. The speaker does not bother to turn to face Inzilgadin and his companion directly, though one hand gestures southwards to the source of the acrid stench.

[Roziliel:] As Inzilagadin moves forward to speak with the man, Roziliel follows not far behind, though purposely does keep a step or two away from him, seeming more interested in the crowd surrounding them, but keeping her ear keenly tuned to the conversation.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin pauses at the man's response. "That is true," he says, slowly, "but here you are, sleeping in the street. Unless that is your chosen habit, it suggests having had your home taken away. We saw a bit of the destruction, and have heard rumours of more. Is it not a natural assumption to conclude you sleep rough from necessity and not choice?"

[Barzag:] The one Inzilgadin addresses turns, raises his head to look the Numenorean in the eye, perhaps no longer bothered whether he is recognized, for surely his face marks him out? "That is not 'harm'," he states contemptuously. "Can your people not sleep under the open sky? There is little space, now. To the south, near the walls, there is nothing left. All was wood, and all did burn. Further north the buildings still stand, but there many, many people try to shelter, there is much fighting. So, I choose to sleep elsewhere." Twisted lips press tightly together as he finishes the sentence, then he shrugs once more. "If I still work each day, no-one will care." The last statement is matter-of-fact, perhaps even a little condescending, as if he is pointing out the obvious.

[Roziliel:] One of the passersby stops to talk to Roziliel, and though the latter is polite and answers the other's question as best she can, her gaze flits between the woman she speaks to and the ongoing conversation between the man and Inzilgadin. Her own words are quiet and uttered below the buzz of the crowd.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin considers the man's response at length, but at length shrugs. "As you will it, then, friend. The summer comes and the nights will not be so inclement as they have been this past season. Fare you well in your works and ways." He turns to go, a vaguely troubled look on his face.

[Barzag:] The other man's face remains closed - bitterness, mistrust or something more. He as least seems to recognize Inzilgadin, for his parting remark is, "I see you found the one you did seek." He glances at Roziliel, and briefly his expression softens, as he adds, "I have not forgotten my debt to the lady Rozil-el. Tell her I will pay it in coin, for I could not pay it in knowledge." At this last statement, the bitterness returns. "But not now. Now I will go elsewhere, this place is too .. too many people," he substitutes. Indeed, the square that was previously so quiet seems once more to be the source of crowds - though what else can one expect from the location of an Inn? And without a further word, the cloaked man walks away.

Participants

INZILGADIN

A tall human, of highly noble birth but on first view of uncertain age. His light blue eyes are clear and a silver overtone makes them bright at all times, even when drawn close in anger. Dark hair frames an unlined face, drawn back into a silver thong thrust through a black leather catch to hang down between his shoulderblades in a single pony-tail. The face is well-marked, with a prominent, though somewhat sharp nose, echoed in a sharp chin. Upon a slim frame, his garb is tan, set off by a black leather belt and finished in black boots, well-shod.

BARZAG

For many, their first impression of Barzag is of a person of little importance in the world. His swarthy skin proclaims him a foreigner to Umbar, one of the race of Men known as Hillmen. At about six feet in height, he is taller than most of his kind, and this is complemented by a strong build; his well-muscled frame and calloused hands show that he is no stranger to hard work. Indeed, his shoulders are slightly stooped as if from carrying heavy loads. A mass of dark hair hangs to just above shoulder level, shadowing his face, and he wears a short beard, usually kept neatly trimmed. It cannot, however, hide this man's main distinguishing feature - a malformed lip, cloven and twisted so that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this, his features are evenly balanced - a long, straight nose, and a pair of amber eyes set beneath dark brows, bitterness all too often visible within their depths. Currently, the flesh round his right eye is slightly discoloured, and a faint smudge of fading bruising is visible on the left side of his face above the jawline.

His clothes are scruffy, nondescript: trousers of some dark material, fading in many places, and a tunic of brown cloth that was obviously of good quality when new but is now worn and threadbare. The sharp-eyed might notice some sort of mark on his upper right arm, half-hidden by the short sleeve of his tunic. On his feet are a pair of scuffed leather moccasins. And he has one more item of clothing - clearly a valued possession. A grey woolen cloak, old but still serviceable, protects his form in inclement weather, and is carried rolled up and slung across the back at other times.

ROZILIEL

Tall and fair of features and complexion, the maiden before you possesses a look of inquisitiveness not easily concealed in her grey-blue eyes, which sparkle as fields of ice touched by rays of the winter sun. Her long hair, lustrous and sable-dark, falls in natural waves to the small of her back, and is most often left unbound. There is little that is remarkable about the garb of this maiden, though by her bearing she seems kin of the higher-born in Umbar. Her dress is of plain light-blue muslin, trimmed at the collar and sleeves in a delicate, sheer and airy-white fabric. Simple shoes adorn her feet.