LOCATION:

Umbar, The Harbours: Merchant Harbour

The Bay of Umbar spreads before your eyes - a wide expanse of water, roughly circular in shape and landlocked on three sides. From the north it is flanked by a long promontory, strangely white in color - the King's Cliff. On the western side, the grim outline of Castle Umbar blots out half the sky.

All along the southeastern shore, the Merchant Harbours leisurely spread. Ships without count, of all sizes and under a multitude of banners dock, cast off and maneuver in the eastern part of the bay, growing timid only when passing by the War Harbour to the west that controls the entrance to the Bay of Umbar. Most of the docks and shipyards are further to the east, where the walls come to the very shore and prevent all access to the harbours except from the sea. The Seagate that leads into the city is to the south of you.

Obvious exits:
* Out To Sea <Northwest> leads to Bay of Umbar: Off Harbours.
* West leads to Umbar, The Harbours: War Harbour.
* South leads to Azrubatan: At the Seagate.

[Minarak:] It is late afternoon, and calm, for a wonder, despite the season - the sky above is cloudless, and the westering sun slants across the waters of the Merchant's Harbour, bathing the docks in a golden glow. At one pier rests the mighty Adunabar, recently arrived from Lindon. The most important passengers have long since disembarked, and the final stragglers are stepping off the gangplank; now it is time to unload the cargo. Merchants stand waiting for their particular goods to be brought ashore and transported to their warehouses; nearby a customs official hovers, ready to take inventory of the items and collect the import taxes.

One of these merchants, already on shore and tapping his foot impatiently, is the proud Minarak. There is little sign now of the scuffle in which he was engaged only a couple of weeks ago - the bruising on his face has faded to a faint dark shadowing round the jawline, and the thin line of scarring from his torn lip is barely noticeable. He seems impatient to collect his goods, his glance darting between ship, where sailors are coiling ropes and swabbing decks, and docks, where a group of workers wait.

[Roziliel:] And while most of the passengers have left the ship, one has returned. Looking somewhat hurried in her steps, she is not carrying the usual hampering satchel or cloak, but steps in longer strides, and freely. Making her way from the Seagate upon boardwalk, Roziliel--in all her hurry--still manages to hold a pleasant demeanor and offers a nod of her head accompanied by a smile to the people who pass her by upon her way. Only when she is closer to the ship does the scribe slow in her steps, though the blush upon her cheeks are apt betrayal of her late afternoon exercise...

[Barzag:] Roziliel's passage is not yet noted by the proud Minarak, who is concentrating his attention on the ship. Someone else brushes past her, and mutters something that is probably an apology, barely looking up. The man is clearly not of Numenorean descent - shorter than most, swarthy-skinned and dark-haired, shabbily dressed ... He hurries on his way to come to an abrupt halt in front of the dock-workers' foreman.

"You need more workers?" the man asks, in an accented voice that is deep, yet slightly nasal. "I can lift and carry, in return for coin." The foreman turns to look at the man, noting that the fellow is sturdily built and strong-muscled, though marked by a deformed lip; then frowns as he notices a brand on the man's upper right arm, just visible beneath the sleeve of his tunic. The foreman looks then at the Adunabar - judging by the way she rides low in the water, there is much cargo to be shifted, and there is not much daylight left ... With a shrug, he tells the fellow, "Very well. Work hard, and you will be paid accordingly." His glance slides past Roziliel as he begins issuing instructions to his men.

[Roziliel:] As Roziliel nears the ship and feels the brush of a shoulder against her own, her gaze is naturally drawn towards the one who passes by. The other's muttered apology is caught, heeded, and brings a slight smile to the maiden, who gives it no further thought as she makes way to cross the planking from the boardwalk to the ship itself. She, too, does not take notice of Minarak, the earlier interruption having distracted her sufficiently to miss the figure of the merchant as he goes about his own business. "I do apologise for troubling you," she calls over the din of the deck-hands who diligently work to prepare the ship's cargo for removal. "I fear I have left something in my room, and would ask permission to return to retrieve it..."

[Minarak:] If Minarak did not notice Roziliel, he does now. At the sound of a familiar voice, his head lifts, and he stares towards the source, a discomfited expression on his face; his left hand goes unbidden to his jaw. By some chance the westerly wind carries the sailor's reply back: "Not now, ma'm. We're about to unload - the deck will be too busy, and you might fall and hurt yourself. You'll have to wait till we're finished, I'm afraid."

There is a rumbling behind him, followed by bouts of creaking, as the cargo hatch is forced open, and the dock-workers enter the hold to begin bringing the goods ashore.

Minarak leans forward as the first items are carried down the wide cargo plank, only to fall back with a sigh; the wooden crates with their carefully stamped identification are not his. Shifting position on the cobbled quayside, he leans against the wall of a building to wait.

[Roziliel:] Still offering a smile to the one whom she addresses, Roziliel at first starts to protest, looking anxiously to the hatch even as she takes an unconscious step towards it. "Really, it will take but a moment--" Though already the heavy creaking of wood and heaving of goods are in progress, and the scribe settles visibly to a more resigned demeanor. "I see my steps were not fast enough." She shrugs--only the thinnest veil of disappointment given to that expression as she stands a pace back. "I shall wait, then," she says amicably, her back still turned to the merchant Minarak, who by now has seen her. The unloading of the cargo, after all, is quite the spectacle to behold, and does keep Roziliel's attention as the first of the crates, barrels and boxes are unloaded.

[Barzag:] The presence of the waiting Roziliel - long sable tresses gleaming in the afternoon sun, cheeks aglow with exercise, does not go unnoticed by the dock-workers, and a few make appreciative comments to each other - one bold fellow even wolf-whistles. However, one at least pays little heed to the maiden. The swarthy-skinned man gives her one brief, incurious glance, before turning back to the crate he and a fellow are carrying. His entire attention seems to be fixed on the task, and his fellow labourers: proud ship, bustling docks, impatient merchants are all equally ignored or dismissed. The crate is brought safely down the gangplank, and to a waiting cart; beside it a customs official stands in conversation with the merchant, asking questions and taking notes. The swarthy-skinned man and his companion head back for another load.

[Roziliel:] Perhaps Roziliel is used to the more earthy mannerisms of the dockworkers who bustle about her. In any case, the glances and whistles are acknowledged only by the watchful darting of her glance and something that approaches a smirk--an unusal expression for the maiden. More compelling, however are is the hive of activity centered upon the hatch as the men--like milling insects--remove the hold's contents. At one point, eyeing the swarthy-skinned man, Roziliel breaches patience and steps forward, voicing a clear "Excuse me," to the other--just as he turns to go fetch another load.

[Minarak:] Minarak frowns as he sees that Roziliel shows no signs of moving. He even goes as far as to take a few steps towards the narrow passenger gangplank himself, his eyes unwontedly wistful. However, he clearly thinks better of the action, for he turns on his heel and walks away, going to check that the carts that will transport his own goods are ready.

[Barzag:] Meanwhile the man Roziliel has interrupted stops dead, unable to deny that he is the one being addressed. He raises his head to look at the woman, who is about the same height as he, revealing amber eyes, a neatly trimmed beard and a twisted lip. "Yes?" he queries, shoulders hunching slightly as if bracing himself for a reprimand.

[Roziliel:] But there is anything but reprimand upon the lady's lips, and in fact she is given more to apology as she addresses the man. "I know you are busy unloading the ship, but there is a particular item I left in my cabin. It is valuable to me and irreplaceable. And with all the people moving in and out....well. Please understand, I wish only to secure it for safety and not have it taken as left behind or unimportant." At this point, Roziliel stops--perhaps realising she is almost prattling. "Would you find it for me? Please? Fourth room to the right of the hatch. A small grey leather satchel..." The gaze in her eyes is hopeful and gentle.

[Barzag:] The woman's rapid delivery seems to confuse the man for a moment, for he hesitates, brows drawn down in confusion. Then his face clears. "I understand; you seek an object, a grey - something." He swallows, looks back at the docks, then at the commotion going on all about. "I cannot give the time," he ventures to state, "I am paid for each crate I carry."

[Roziliel:] The smile upon the scribe's face fades, though she nods in understanding and seems not to begrudge him his work. "Alright then," she says with a definative nod. "It is fine." She makes a motion for him to continue about his duties, though with an expression bent upon determination--even as she grabs a handful of the silken skirts in tandem with her decision--she follows after the other without a moment's hesitation towards the hatch.

[Minarak:] Minarak, watching the cargo-hatch in a hawk-like fashion, gives a start as he sees Roziliel marching swiftly towards it. He shakes his head in obvious puzzlement, but a moment later leans forward with an eager exclamation. A different cargo is now emerging from the hold - large bales wrapped in waxed linen. Juddging by the anticipation on his face, these are Minarak's own goods.

[Roziliel:] Following the other down the wide hatchway, Roziliel is hardly concerned for else other than retrieving her valued belongings. Where the other hatchway to the cabins seems to have been barred with crates, barrels and other goods, this one is left unblocked, the steps leading down to it a bit more shallow in their descent. And though the sight of a lady coming down these steps is a bit peculiar, she finds herself unhindered as she enters the hold, which is still packed with all sorts of things. Drawing to the one empty corner, the scribe spies a narrow space between the boxes which perhaps leads to a connecting doorway. Staying in the shadows, she waits patiently while watching as the burly dockworkers continue to unload the ship...

Sulome comes from the Seagate to the south, walking towards the Sea.

[Barzag:] The dockworkers are making rapid progress in clearing the hold. The swarthy fellow takes one side of a bale, only to drop it momentarily with a grunt of surprise. "It's heavier than the last one," he mutters to his companion. As the bale thuds back down again, a small dark shape scurries out, and the man aims a kick at its fleeing form, though he seems unsurprised that rats have infested at least some of the cargo. Gripping the bale more securely this time, the pair of labourers begin to ease it up the steps and on to the plank.

[Minarak:] Meanwhile, on the dock, the first of the merchant Minarak's bales have already been placed in the cart, and he is now answering the customs official's questions. "Furs - all sorts. Fox, ermine, beaver ... Some to sell here, others to send on ... How much? That's outrageous? You've raised the import duty by 5 per cent - are you trying to bankrupt me?" He gives the official a haughty glare.

[Sulome:] Stepping quietly onto the docks is a tall, pale figure, dressed all in grey and blue. A boy he seems, and yet not, a being at once familiar and strangely out of place. It is an elf, to be precise, the elf that was washed up on sore not many days ago. Indeed he seems yet a bit worse for ware: tired and a bit too thin. Yet his eyes are bright and filled with curiousity as he watches the Men about their work.

[Roziliel:] Having no success at finding another way through the hold by way of a connecting passage, Roziliel is all but resigned she must indeed await until the clutter of boxes, barrels, crates, and bales are moved from the ship in their entirety. She hears the comment about the dropped bale, and tilting her head in curiosity, decides to take a closer look and perhaps follow the carried goods back up to the main deck. Raising her skirts from the floor once more, she stiffens as something warm scurries over her shoe and snakes between her feet. A small gasp betrays her surprise, and a grimace follows as she utters, "Rat..." By this time, the bale is halfway up the stairs, and Roziliel needs no further prodding to hurry up the hatchway after it.

[Barzag:] The swarthy-skinned labourer and Dunadan coworker are unaware of the one following them, and continue to make their way down the cargo gangplank. They are more than half-way along, and the murky waters of Umbar harbour no longer churn below them, when the swarthy-skinned one raises his head to gaze at the docks, and his eye falls on the pale, somehow different-looking, figure who stands there, whose eyes gleam with an unearthly brightness. With a shout, the swarthy man lets go his end of the bale; left unbalanced, the other man staggers, and the whole bale topples off the gangplank and onto the dock below, the knotted cord that holds it shut bursting open with the force of the impact. The swarthy man does not spare the slightest glance for the dropped bale - backs slowly away up the gangplank, his whole face a mask of fear.

[Sulome:] The elf notices the commotion and the falling bale, but not knowing he is the cause for it he darts forward, to help if he might. For still weakened as he is he is strong and nimble, and willing to be of service. He looks up at the ship pensively, then at the dropped cargo.

[Roziliel:] Following closely behind the men carrying the heavy bale, Roziliel is not aware of the 'shock' the darker of the two men is about to have, and accordingly continues at the same pace--which causes her to all but collide with the coworker, who in his own agitation of the other's release of the cord, freely collides with her. As the bulky bale drops to docks below, Roziliel, too, takes a tumble upon the gangplank--none too ladylike as her skirts swirl like the frothy sea-swell and she lands squarely upon her backside--breaking her fall somewhat with her left arm in the process. Hardly a cry is uttered, so quickly is the mishap given, though the scribe at once draws her left wrist protectively into the clasp of her right hand as she peers to the dock below in question.

[Minarak:] The Elf is not the only one interested in the bale. The merchant Minarak steps swiftly past to see just what damage has been done. The contents of the bale now lie scattered across the dockside, and a few pelts bob up and down sluggishly on the water. An assortment of furs can be seen - most are reddish fox pelts, the remainder dark and silky-soft wolverine skins. And there, in the deepest part of the pile is something else - the glint of metal. With a frown Minarak reaches down to pick up a fur, unobtrusively kicking another pelt to hide the betraying gleam from prying eyes, such as those of the slender figure just behind him.

[Barzag:] The swarthy one continues to back away, until he stumbles over the fallen Roziliel. Oddly enough, he utters no apology this time, merely scrambles to his feet heedless of the fallen woman, eyes fixed on the Elven figure standing on the docks. "<Mannish_H> Demon," is the only word he utters.

[Sulome:] A pity that those pelts must go to waste. Without much hesitation, the elf strides to the edge of the dock and strips off his tunic and kicks off his shoes, then dives like a kingfisher into the murky waters, not seeming to care about the closeness of the ship above him. One moment, two, he is under, then climbing up to the docks again, the remainder of the fallen pelts in his hand.

[Roziliel:] Still somewhat shaken from her fall, Roziliel sees only Minarak's concern over his spilled bundle, not noticing the glint of metal before the merchant hurriedly seeks to cover it--though noticing the odd manner in which he bends over to replace the pelt. Just as the scribe is about to get to her feet--seemingly forgotten in the confusion--the lumbering Hillman trips over her, his feet narrowly missing her left leg. As it is, she is practically kicked as that same leg stops his foot, and cringing, watches as he tumbles as well before getting to his feet and scrambling to his feet and away. Surprise quickly turns to perplexity as Roziliel first looks to the retreating Hillman and then the elf who plunges into the water. Finally, amidst furrowed brows, the maiden looks to Minarak and utters in an almost plaintive, "What has gone amiss here...?"

[Barzag:] The Hillman, having reached the relative 'safety' of the ship's deck, halts there, oblivious to the shouts of the workers still on board demanding that he stop blocking the plank. Gradually his uncontrollable shaking subsides.

[Minarak:] The fallen bale has attracted quite a crowd now - dock-workers ready to clear the fallen furs, bored passers by seeking a spectacle, the customs official who had been speaking to Minarak. Oddly enough, the merchant Minarak does not seem eager for aid. "I can manage," he answers curtly to the foremost worker, and then turning to the slender figure who has retrieved the remaining pelts, "Thank you for your kindness, lad. Here's something for your pains." He fumbles in his belt pouch, and holds forth a gold coin.

It is at that moment he hears Roziliel's question. "The Lady Roziliel!" he exclaims, though he seems less than pleased to see the beautiful maiden. "I - ah, it appears the dock workers have been less than competent." His eyes narrow as he looks to the ship, trying to spot the perpetrator of the mishap.

[Sulome:] Pulling on his tunic, the elf shakes himself, his wet hair sticking to the sides of his head, to his brow. Yet as the merchant holds out the gold coin, he tilts his head, shaking it in bewilderment. "Ah, and what need have I of that, good sir?" he asks, his voice soft, musical. "Do we not trade craft for craft? Or are things so different here?" He frowns, and then folds his arms. "Nevertheless, I will not take gold for a service so simply rendered."

[Minarak:] Minarak is a little taken aback by the refusal of the proffered coin. Peering a little closer, and noting the swimmer's Elven features, he nevertheless asks, "And what craft would you have me trade you? Money /is/ my craft. However, if you wish no reward so be it." With a shrug and wave of his hand he dismisses the matter for the moment.

[Roziliel:] Quite in the way of all else, still sitting in a swirl of silken skirts, Roziliel at last gets to her feet, aided by one of the dockworkers--who seems only too eager to help a lady out. "My thanks," Roziliel utters, though once the thanks is given turns a questioning gaze to Minarak--noting a sense of displeasure at seeing her. She still massages her sore wrist as she makes he way across the gangplank to the docks. While waiting for the merchant and elf to finish speaking, the scribe peers once more at the ruined bale, stepping behind and around Minarak to stand only a few paces away. "Is any of it ruined?" she asks, leaving the rubbing of her sore wrist to kneel down and perhaps assist in making some sense of the rumpled goods.

[Sulome:] "I am a bard, a singer," answers the elf with a smile. 'Not one of the fisher-folk; I have learned to leave the passage of the sea to my better-able kinspeople." He chuckles, shaking his head. "Music is my trade, and I ply it well enough." He takes a step back as the lady approaches, bowing his head in defference.

[Minarak:] Minarak only spares a curt nod for the retreating Elf, for his eyes turn to fix on Roziliel. "Ruined? I do not know, but I hope it is not the case," he is swift to reply, kneeling himself beside the maiden. "But you should not concern yourself with such things." He reaches out with one long-fingered hand, not quite touching Roziliel's slim wrist. "Are you hurt?" he queries with apparently genuine concern.

[Roziliel:] Already having moved one pelt from where it drapes in precarious position at the edge of the dock, Roziliel reaches forward to move another of the pelts to the center. As she does, a dull, metallic *clank* sounds from under another of the pelts, the bundle shifting slightly. Minarak's query comes in tandem with the sound, and while Roziliel looks to the wrist which the merchant seeks to bring attention to but briefly, the scribe's grey eyes are widened with a question of her own as she lifts them to his. "What else lies in these bundles?" she all but whispers to him, that gaze flicking quickly to the elf in the interim of silence.

[Sulome:] The elf seems oblivious to the intrigue, for he is unfamiliar with humans, unfamiliar with their culture. And yet he frowns slightly, thinking that the lady might be injured, and her sighs. "Lady,. might you wish a healer fected for your wrist? I believe I knoe my way back..."

[Minarak:] "Come, my dear, do not ask such things," Minarak murmurs softly, and then even quieter, barely more than a whisper, "it is best that you do not know." Reaching out to Roziliel's right shoulder, he tries to urge the woman to her feet, but as he does so knocks another fur aside, revealing its contents to woman, concerned Elf hovering nearby ... and presumably many of the onlookers also. The gleam of metal resolves itself into the finely-crafted polished hilt of a weapon, and below that the edge of an ornate scabbard can be seen, bejewelled and etched in some intricate pattern, and a shred of torn cloth that had presumably once wrapped the valuable item.

[Roziliel:] "No, thank you," Roziliel begins in Sindarin to the elf that stands nearby, reverting to Adunaic upon the rest. "Really, it was little more than wrenched and not bad enough to require further attention--" she starts to say, when Minarak accidentally nudges another of the furs aside to reveal what had before been so carefully concealed.

If the scribe's grey eyes were wide before, they are fully disclosing of her amazement, staring first to the gleaming metal as comprehension and memory combine to coax her expression to disbelief. "That evening in your quarters," she whispers, looking in question to Minarak once more. "But...why conceal them?"

[Sulome:] The elf, too, looks with interest, his eyes gleaming. "Surely that is the craftwork of the Noldor," he says, his voice hushed. Indeed it is the work of the smiths of my lord Gil-galad; I recognize the devices. Fair indeed are their works..." He smiles, open admiration on his face. "Such even is the work of my own father, Curunaro..."

[Minarak:] For once, the proud Minarak seems at a loss for words. "I - ah, I must have dropped ..." he begins lamely, although anyone with intelligence would realize that a dropped weapon would not have ended up at the /bottom/ of a pile of furs. Shrugging, he kicks the protruding handle out of sight, but not before the Elf's innocent comments about the workmanship are heard. Minarak stares disbelievingly at the Elf, as if he were a half-wit, but then his shoulders heave in near-silent laughter and he replies, "Aye, some of the finest. And I remember not the name of the smiths, though Curunaro may in truth have been one."

Turning back to Roziliel, he hisses, "For profit, why else? Do not pretend you also know nothing of such matters. The import duties on weapons have long been unreasonable, let alone items of Elven make ..." He trails off, perhaps pondering the implications that will arise for him if his duplicity is made known to all.

[Roziliel:] "Indeed," the scribe whispers in reply, her expression yielding neither disapproval nor endorsement. "Import duties would be steep. And this is surely one way to get around them..." But the troubled look upon Roziliel's face continues, even after Minarak's snapped reply. And despite her better judgement, perhaps, she reaches towards the once-again concealed piece of Elven handiwork, though makes the attempt look as though she is merely adjusting the fine pelts of fur before her.

[Sulome:] "I...." The elf pauses, looking a bit embarrassed, not knowing quite what to say. Evidently he has said something wrong, and knows not how to right it. He steps back a few paces, shaking his head, and remains silent.

[Minarak:] If the weapon itself has been successfully reconcealed, Minarak's protective actions have not. Murmurings are beginning to circulate through the small crowd of onlookers, and now the customs official steps forward, signalling to two guards to back him up should it be necessary. "Trying to hide something, are you?" he questions Minarak suspiciously, and then stands, arms folded, listening to Minarak's convoluted explanation. For one brief moment, the remains of the bale are left to Roziliel and the unknown Elf.

[Roziliel:] Glancing up at the official, Roziliel yet remains near the pile of furs, though lowers from kneeling to sitting upon the ground. Turning slightly to half-listen to the explanation that stutters from the merchant, she still works with her left hand, wincing slightly as she does so, to work under the concealing pelts to find one of the weapons--closing her hand about the item as she does so, and drawing it back to be hidden under the sideward folds of her skirt.

[Barzag:] As if the Elf's few paces retreat were a signal, the swarthy man, the Hillman, once more sets foot on the gangplank. The dock-workers must continue their task heedless of the goings on here, and they bear an assortment of bales, crates, boxes to shore. The Hillman has apparently calmed his fear at least a little, for this time he does not drop his burden as he approaches the end of the plank, though he averts his eyes.

[Sulome:] Truly he must have said something wrong.... The elf shakes his head slowly, unclear as to what he has done to cause such a commotion. His troubled grey eyes fix upon the lady, wondering. "My lady... is there aught... that I can do... do youknow... to correct the damage my tongue has done? For i fear I have done some disservice.... knowing it not..."

[Minarak:] And commotion there is. The customs official, clearly unconvinced by what he hears, turns to the guards, ordering, "Hold this man - at least until we have searched his goods." Without waiting to hear Minarak's reply, he waves to a couple of dock-workers to clear the debris of the fallen bale, and he himself steps forward to join them, though casting a shrewd glance at woman and Elf.

[Roziliel:] The item snatched from under the bale and now hidden beneath the lady's skirt is kept there as Roziliel raises her left hand from the under the rumpled folds to rearrange her silk skirts absently--her gaze trained upon the Minarak and the officer. Even as the other men come to make quick work of removing the bale and its contents, Roziliel remains seated where she is, though looks up with a change of expression--more given to understanding than any other she has expressed since her mishap. "You have done nothing, of course," Roziliel speaks in the Sindarin to the elf, her Elendili allegiance more evident than ever as she crafts her words with a gentleness not given to the Firstborn by King's men. "What is your name, friend?" she asks now, her smile softening. "I am Roziliel, scribe to the Princess Miriel."

[Barzag:] As the torrent of unknown words pours forth from the Elf, to be answered in like vein by Roziliel, the Hillman shudders, yet this time there is no other reaction. Perhaps the fact that the others around the docks seem to regard this strange creature as perfectly natural has persuaded him that it is no immediate danger. Indeed, he even goes as far as to join those clearing the contents of the bale, darting occasional furtive glances towards the Elf.

[Sulome:] A smile touches the elf's lips, and he bows once again, lower this time, in respect. "My regards to you, fair lady, and to she whom you serve. I am but a humble bard, if there be such; Sulome son of Curunaro is my name. I am from Lindon, though I have been of late in Edhellond, for the wedding of my sister. It is there that I learned of my... lack of affinity with boats... and ended up here."

[Roziliel:] As the men move closer to where Roziliel sits, the scribe scoots carefully to the side to allow them to finish clearing the fallen bale; just as carefully, she makes certain the weapon under cover of her skirts remains just so. "I am happy to make the acquaintance of any bard of the Firstborn, humble or not," she answers Sulome with a warm smile, the gaze distracted a moment to observe the nervous Hillman. "Your sister's wedding?" she then inquires, proving her distraction is not so much to keep her from hearing the other's words. "That must have been a happy occasion, though I wonder at your....'lack of affinity with boats?'" she then wonders, allowing the words to drift off in hopes of further explanation.

[Sulome:] "Aye, my sister's wedding. But know ye, I am of the Noldor... no Telerin blood runs in my veins... and I have not the skill to handle boats upon the water. But... my new brother sought to teach me fisher-craft... I ran my coracle upon a shoal, and a squall took me... a week I was in the sea... a long time, even for me..."

[Minarak:] Even as Elf and scribe speak in the Sindarin tongue, the workers continue to clear the remnants of the bale. By the time they are finished, the customs official has collected no fewer than four finely crafted weapons - two knives, one dagger and even a short sword. At this the customs official has seen enough. "I believe you know the penalty for evading import duties," he informs the merchant and would-be smuggler. "Heavy fines will be the least of it." The man smiles thinly, even as he gives orders for the rest of Minarak's goods to be confiscated, and places him under guard until the matter can be brought up before a court. Oddly enough, Minarak does not put up a struggle when the guards come to lead him away, although a sword hangs by his side. Perhaps he reckons that he would be the loser in any fight, or perhaps he has other plans...

Only then does the customs official turn to Roziliel and her Elven companion, who are still conversing, and a searching frown creases his brow. "Tell me, what do you know about this man?" he demands in blunt Adunaic.

[Roziliel:] Finally making her way to her feet, Roziliel manages to keep the item she has grabbed up hidden in the thick folds of her skirt at her side, clasping the silken blue folds with her left hand and curbing the annoying ache of her wrist with a forced smile. "I know little of him, "Roziliel answers the officer, watching as Minarak is led away in the custody of others. "He invited me to his quarters one evening, and seemed to show an interest in me. There were things safeguarded in his room and not kept in the ship's hold...things he seemed loathe to part with. I did see a more modest knife of elven make in his keeping, though he said it was trifle from his trip to Lindon. I had no idea he was hiding others of the same in his cargo."

[Sulome:] Sitting still, Sulome stares up blankly at the official, shaking his head. The language is strange to him, for he has learned little of it. "No... knowing... man-that," he manages to string together, flushing at the halting words coming from his normally skilled tongue. "Eyes... no seeing man... him...' He falters, and looks at Rozuiliel. 'Please, Lady, could you convey to this man my apologies for my faltering in his own tongue, and that I have no knowledge of the... man here... for I have never before today laid eyes on him."

[Minarak:] The official listens to Roziliel's words. "I see," he comments. "Perhaps you would be so good as to write a description of what you saw - and I'll need your name. And your companion? Was he there also?" The man casts a questioning glance towards the Elf, clearly even more bemused by the halting attempts at Adunaic than the Elf presumably was by his speech.

[Roziliel:] Hastening to assist, even as Sulome flounders with the language in speaking to the officer, Roziliel intercedes, repeating the elf's words in the Adunaic. She looks earnestly to the customs official, nodding upon his request for a description. "I surely shall come up with anything that might be helpful," she agrees, glancing back over her shoulder to the harbour. "I am Roziliel, scribe to the Princess Miriel and owner of a shop in Summergate Square...The Scripted Page. It will not be a difficult matter to find me, in any case, should you need to speak to me. As for Sulome, he had nothing to do with Minarak. The two did not meet until today."

[Sulome:] Listening intently, Sulome tilts his head, his gaze flickering between the guard and Roziliel. Their words fly back and forth so quickly, and he hardly understands a word of thier speech. It frustrates him, and he sighs, wondering of what they speak... or if he now is under some suspicion.

[Minarak:] "Roziliel ... Scripted page ... Sulome," the man mutters to himself as he fetches out a stick of charcoal and a clean sheet of parchment to jot down the details. "Very well, thank you for your time. Since you holds the responsible position as Princess's scribe, there's no doubt of your reliability. I'll contact you if I need anything more. Good day to you both." With a nod and a bow to the two, a raising of his eyebrow the only sign that he has seen the Elf's sigh, he is off to where some other merchants still wait. Those who have not yet been dealt with are getting understandably nervous at seeing one of their own apprehended.

[Roziliel:] "Thank you," Is all that Roziliel offers to the official, relaxing a little as the man leaves them to make other inquiries after the ship's other goods. She turns to the elf next, and assures him in a lowered tone. "There is no need for your concern. I have told the man that you know nothing of Minarak, and only met the merchant this afternoon." Now the maiden sighs--a long, enduring spend of breath and energy as she looks towards the seagate. "I fear this day has fatigued me somewhat. I would find that satchel and return to make certain that my shop is intact. Then," and she offers the other a smile. "I shall rest..."

Participants:

MINARAK

Here is one who is doing well in the world, and knows it - at least that is what the faint sardonic smile often on his lips seems to convey. His grey eyes always appear distant, no matter whether glinting in laughter, cold with scorn or bitter with anger. High cheekbones and a long nose contribute to the air of slight haughtiness. His head is topped by black curls, which cascade down the sides of his face to just past shoulder level. He is clean-shaven, and his skin is pale though not without a hint of colour.

He is dressed in a shirt of white silk, and breeches of some velvety material, a midnight blue in colour. His boots are of polished black leather, as is his wide belt. Any impressions of austerity, however, are dispelled by one glance at his decorated waistcoat. The sky-blue silk is richly embroidered in gold and silver threads, arranged in complex geometric patterns, and edged by gold brocade. The buttons are gem-encrusted, as are the cufflinks that fasten his fine silken shirt at the wrists. Perhaps surprisingly, Minarak wears no rings. A short sword hangs by his side, its scabbard also decorated with jewels, these ones of deep blue and fiery red. If the weather is cool, Minarak wears a fur-edged cloak of deepest sable to keep out the chill.

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.

She wears a gown of dusty blue, of a fine fabric that rustles softly with each step and shimmers faintly in the light. The curved neckline is embroidered in a pattern of intertwining silver and golden leaves, pale and perfect in their ornamentation, so that the only jewelry worn in addition is a small teardrop pearl necklace held by a tiny silver chain. When needed, a dark grey cloak is worn; long and lined with silver satin, it is held in place with an elegant sapphire and silver swan clasp.

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.

SULOME

Hithilin's tempalt; not desced at this time