LOCATION:

Balkumagan Batan: Apprentice Quarter

This quarter of low, unimpressive buildings houses the lowest ranks of the complicated shipwrights' hierarchy. Neither silver nor gold adorn the dwellings of the locals, and the street is tidy but falling into disrepair. As the dwellings of the shipwrights are a city within a city, here its lowest-grade citizens are gathered - apprentices, younger sons of poorer shipwrights and not a few elder masters upon whom the fortune failed to smile. If this is a poor district, it is not outrageously so and the men and women you meet carry themselves with great dignity and a sense of purpose - of belonging.

A small gate opens to the south where the quarter ends, and northwest richer dwellings can be seen on the street.

Obvious exits:
* Northwest leads to Balkumagan Batan: Rich Dwellings.
* Southeast leads to Karab Square.

[Barzag:] It is late evening now, and the crescent moon is a sliver of light in the southeastern sky, casting a dim light over Umbar's streets. Already the damp days of spring are giving way to the dry heat of summer, and the air remains mild despite the darkness. The Apprentice Quarter seems quiet at this hour, but the soft tread of footsteps can be heard, accompanied by a hacking cough.

[Inzilgadin:] From the northwest, where the glitter of the homes of the commercial rulers of Umbar can be clearly seen, their occupants still engaged in evening play, a single tall figure is wandering, apparently lost in thought. He glances at his surroundings as they diminish in quality and his step accordingly slows. Presently he comes to a stop altogether, the cowl hiding his features turning this way and that, as he hesitates coming to a decision about where now to go.

[Barzag:] The maker of the first set of footsteps comes into sight, a dark-haired, shabbily dressed figure, head down as he tramps steadily southwards. He appears to be carrying something - no, it is only an old cloak, rolled up and slung across one shoulder. He also halts, long enough to clear his lungs at least, then continues on his way seemingly oblivious to the tall figure who stands now in his path, and indeed to the world in general.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin finally makes his decision with a final glance at the now wretchedly destroyed Refuse Quarter and turns, just in time to have to put out his hands to interrupt the other walker, who otherwise might well have walked right over him. He clears his throat, addin in a wry tone. "With this entire street to walk in, must my little bit of it be the main highway through?"

[Barzag:] At the sound of Inzilgadin's voice, the walker looks up. Swarthy skin, twisted features, the glint of gold-brown eyes in the moonlight reveal the fellow as the Hillman labourer Barzag. As his gaze falls on the diplomat, he takes a step back. "Your st- street?" comes the response in a rasping voice, the words interrupted by a cough. "Can not all walk here?" That is all - no pleasantries, no apology for almost walking into the man, merely the disinterested query.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin frowns at the response, but at least the fellow has stopped. Something in the voice quirks the attache's memory. He peers at the walker for a moment, not yet returning comment, then straightens and grins, mostly to himself. "Well, of course. Perhaps I should take being run over as proper payment for not fulfilling what I promised to. How fare you, Hillman?"

[Barzag:] Something in Inzilgadin's tone causes a frown to appear on Barzag's face, but it is one of puzzlement rather than anger. "I fare - I live," he substitutes after a pause, perhaps not wishing to use the word 'well' when he is clearly not. "As do we all. You-" he stops to clear his throat, tries again, "You are well? And lady Rozilel? I did try to pay my debt to her now, I owe no more to either of you." The sentence ends flatly, and the Hillman looks away with a shrug that sets him coughing once more.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin at first shrugs but then frowns in concern. "You are not well, clearly." He looks about him, but all the shops and houses are shut tight against the lateness, the occupants long since retired. His focus returns to the Hillman. "You should not be out in this air. And your clothes...are you not working?"

[Barzag:] Oddly, the diplomat's concern seems to have a negative effect. "Not ... out?" Barzag repeats, having managed to get the cough under control. His lips twist, and he says with a hint of scorn discernable despite the hoarseness, "Where else should I be? There are many of us who shelter in Karab Square now. It is not so bad - the days are dry now." He glances up at the clear sky. "And ... no, I did not work this day. Ur-ziran did say I was unfit, did send me to the healers ... Do not worry, I will work again soon." This last is said with a scowl.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin raises an eyebrow, but seems to accept this. "Well, you don't look fit, that's for sure." He glances again to the south. "Did you live in the Quarter down there..or..." his voice trails off and turns inward. This conversation is beginning to sound familiar. "You have been sleeping rough for some time now, haven't you? Roziliel and I met this other fellow outside the Azruphazan." Inzil takes a step back, an evaluating look on his face. "I now wonder...yes, that would have been you, wouldn't it?" He steps closer again. "You are being prideful in this, Barzag. You know that either Rozi or I would help you any time you asked. Why stand so aloof as to suffer for no purpose?"

[Barzag:] "Pride-" The single angry word sets Barzag coughing again. When he has drawn breath, he speaks once more. "Yes, I have pride. I do not need help from those who see me as 'not good enough'. And you, or the lady Rozilel - me you might choose to help, but what of others? There are-" another burst of throat-clearing, "many who need a place to sleep, many who are sick. This I did tell the healers. If you have pity, then help all. Many who ..suffer.. are your kind, not mine." The Hillman regards Inzilgadin unblinkingly as he voices this last statement, mistrust still evident in his gaze.

[Inzilgadin:] "You make a harsh assumption there. I do not see you as 'not good enough' and it is quite my business to choose who I will or will not help. I am not the treasury of Umbar and thus do not fling my capital into the street for any to grab it that will. I am acquianted with you and have the sense that, your hand put to a task, it will get done. That makes me want to make sure that if you are now in difficulty, you get by this until you are on your feet again. And if you are physically ill and your foreman refuses to employ you until you are well, then how are you to even get that far, without help?" He frowns inwardly, though a hint of it is visible on his face. "I simply offer enough coin for you to lodge for the days it will take you to recover. I do not ask for the coin back. It is mine to give as I will and it is for me to decide if a debt is incurred. I decide otherwise. You have only the requirement to decide whether my word is my bond in such a situation."

[Barzag:] The kind offer is met with a stare of .. what? Disbelief? Contempt? "I thank you," the Hillman says stiffly at last, swallowing, "but I do not need your coin. You judge this one as worth your coin, this one as not ... well then, maybe I am not. Or I choose to be not. I know what you think me, what you did say to I and Mara-zon." He pauses, coughs once, continues, "And I did receive the healers' help, already." He pats a small bag hanging by his belt. "If you would give coin, give it to the healers, that they may come - here." He gestures away southwards before, voice worn out by the long speech, he trails off into a silence punctuated only by rasping breath, before adding a final, oddly bitter, "But again I must thank you."

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin listens to all this in silence and when the Hillman pauses, shrugs and shakes his head. He lets the last comment pass altogether. "I know how much funding the healers receive. They need no additional gift from me. But, you're welcome, I suppose." He gives one last look at the Hillman and then simply turns and heads back toward the richer dwellings up the hill. "If we meet again, it will be by accident, I fear. I cannot help one who will not be liked. Fare you well."

[Barzag:] At this the Hillman merely nods, as if he had expected no less. He watches in silence as Inzilgadin turns his steps northward, then sighs and resumes his own slow course back towards Karab Square and the place that has become his home in recent times.

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. A faint bruise can be seen at his right temple.

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.