LOCATION:

Azrubatan: At the Seagate

The Sea Street spreads to an enormous width before the Seagate, forming a great plaza in front of it. To the north, the walls of Umbar step aside - a hundred-feet wide gap - revealing an unrestricted view of the Bay of Umbar and the armada of ships of all kinds that clutter its harbours. The thick battlements on both ends of the walls hide massive gates of steel that are ready to slide inward and block off the passage to or from the Harbours. Why would they ever be used is unclear, for who can challenge the Numenoreans from the Sea?

Southeast, the street starts narrowing as it heads for the very top of the Hill of Umbar, and disappears beyond it.

OOC Note: There are +VIEWables here. Type +views.

Obvious exits:
* North leads to Umbar, The Harbours: Merchant Harbour.
* Southeast leads to Kingsquare.

[Barzag:] It is late afternoon, and the summer sun beats down on the city of Umbar, bathing the dusty streets in waves of heat. At least here, just before the Seagate, the sea breeze brings with it a tang of salt spray, and a welcome hint of coolness. Crossing the plaza before the Seagate is a lone figure, shorter than most Numenoreans, dark head lowered, swarthy skin proclaiming him a foreigner. He has clearly been working - his tunic is spotted with moisture, and stuck to his back in places. He pauses now before one of the warehouses, this one firmly shut and with a weathered-looking piece of parchment stuck to the door, raises his head and shades his eyes with his hand as he squints at the letters scrawled there.

[Oroseph:]

Another man, grey in years, strolls down the street towards the Seagate. His attire appears rather dark in the bright sun, but he walks steadily without pause for the heat -- indeed on the unshaded half of the street -- looking but scarcely around him.

[Barzag:] The swarthy-looking fellow does not turn at the sound of footsteps - indeed, perhaps he does not even hear them, so fixed is the look of concentration on his face. At close quarters it is possible to see that the fellow has a split upper lip, and this moves now as he slowly mouths the words, voicing them in a nasal murmur. "Closed ... order of the Gov-er-nor ... pending invest-" He stops, shakes his head, and mutters doubtfully, "investi-gaton?"

[Oroseph:]

"That is what it says, isn't it."

A thin, worn voice. The other has stopped a short distance behind him, glancing at the sign with a skeptical eye. "But who knows what it really means. Move along now -- no need stare at it if you haven't the wish to attract passers-by."

[Barzag:] Now the swarthy-skinned one does turn to face the speaker. Amber eyes glance at the aged-looking Numenorean, puzzlement and resentment mingling equally. After a short pause the Hillman risks a question in reply. "Then I did read it right? It is closed more than a week now. My master, Ur-ziran, did store some stone there ... Do you know when this ... this 'investigaton'" again he seems doubtful of the word, "will be ended?"

[Oroseph:]

"Questions, too many questions. . ." the man muses, shaking his head slightly as if in disapproval. "Well, now. It ends when the Governor decides to end it, so you need not linger. I think you will find that it happens often enough these days, if you stay long enough."

[Barzag:] The Hillman's shoulders tense now. "But I was told to ..." he begins, then stops and addresses the man again. "I do not linger." He sighs and wipes a hand across his brow as he takes a few steps onward, the beginnings of a scowl on his face. Deliberately he turns his glance away from the Numenorean, looking instead up at the massive Seagates themselves, though they can hardly be a new sight to him.

[Oroseph:]

The Numenorean watches him impassively and without speech, a steady gaze following his movements without any movement of the head. Shortly, the half-fluttering sign on the door catches the man's attention again, and he begins to scan it slowly, word by word and edge to edge.

[Barzag:] The Hillman remains still for a time, twisted lips parted slightly in thought, then moves towards a different warehouse and halts in the doorway. This building certainly looks open - the door has been hooked back to let fresh air into the place, which must be uncomfortably stuffy. A man sits at a desk within, some sort of bound ledger open on the desk before him, and it is to this man that the Hillman directs his next words - a question by the sounds of it. The fact that the elderly Numenorean has lingered does not escape notice, and the Hillman jerks his head round to give the fellow a suspicious glower.

[Oroseph:]

Nor does that expression go by unnoticed. The man turns his face slightly, meeting his glance with a hardly perceptible raise of the eyebrows, but says nothing, and proceeds to pace away towards the Seagate as though nothing were amiss.

[Barzag:] The swarthy-looking man swivels his head back as the warehouse clerk makes reply. "No, I don't know. None of us has keys to the building - tell your master he'll have to go to the authorities. Which authorities? The civic courts, of course - didn't you read the ... No I suppose not," is added as a slightly contemptuous afterthought.

Through all this the swarthy fellow stands patient. Now he gives a nod and a mumbled, "I thank you," a single bead of sweat tricking down his forehead as he emerges into full sunlight.

Participants:

OROSEPH

Loose grey-flecked strands flutter across a face creased with years. His eyes are the color of dust run with precious little water at evening, sunken deep, quietly attentive. Features worn down by the sun possess, at their rest, but a trace of a weak and resigned smile.

Dark blue robes, the cloth inexpensive but passable in company, enfold a slightly bowed figure, no longer counted tall. By his side rests a long and slender aspen staff, held shakily in his left hand on his slow walks through the streets of the city.

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.

He wears a tunic of dusty blue fabric, which appears to be in fairly good condition still. The sharp-eyed might notice some sort of mark on his upper right arm, although the short sleeve of his tunic has been pulled down as if to conceal this. His trousers are of a dark material, faded now in many places. 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.