LOCATION:

Adunabar

Main Deck of the Adunabar

Measuring a full 80 feet by 20 wide is this strong and maneuverable war ship. Three slim masts rise to cradle the webbing for sable sails of the darkest hue. Above it all on the primary mast flies the crimson and black silk of a mythical dragon. Off of the stern flutters another kind of flag, one of amber gold with a small black ship overlaying a red hawk with wings just opening to take flight.

A pair of ready ballista sit upon the shrewdly crafted deck, cargo hatch just aft of center. In the other end there is a door leading down to the sleeping quarters and the dinning hall. Above in the rigging upon the forward and aft masts are archer's nests and look out points. A smaller deck rises at the stern with the door to the offices and Captain's quarters. The hull at deck level is plated with overlapping scales of steel, each one as wide as a man is tall and painted red. When she's under sail, sails like great black wings of a mythical dragon, she is fast and very maneuverable.

Contents:

* Roziliel

Obvious exits:

Overboard

It is evening, and dark clouds scud across the sky above the Adunabar, obscuring the moon every now and then. The ship is fairly speeding along, with the help of a fresh north-westerly breeze. One particular figure, a dark-haired fellow wearing a white silken shirt that gleams faintly in those moments when the moon does show its face, pokes his head through the hatch for a moment to peer round the deck with a vaguely disappointed expression on his face. Then, with a sigh, he disappears below once more.

Roziliel is late for her appointment. With a frown to mark her steps, she closes the door behind her, stepping underdecks to towards the cabin which holds the gentleman merchant met just the day before upon the topdeck. Tugging at her sleeve, the scribe almost stumbles upon a slightly warped planking, though recovers quickly enough to merely chuckle at the near mishap. As she reaches the third door from the hatch, she gives a sound and solid rap upon the thick wooden door.

Almost instantly the door shoots open. "Good evening to you, Lady Roziliel," says the merchant Minarak, breaking into a smile, taking her hand and kissing it briefly. "Welcome to my humble abode." The cabin is indeed small, and sparsely furnished - not to mention that much of the floor space is currently taken up by boxes of various shapes and sizes - but still, with space on board so limited, it cannot have been cheap to rent. There is only one chair, and Minarak now takes Roziliel's arm and leads her towards it. "How delighted I am that you honour me with your company," the merchant continues, a gleam in his eye. "Your brother could not accompany you?" Somehow, he does not look too upset about this.

Perhaps Roziliel is startled by the grand manner in which she is welcomed, for though she politely dips her head and offers a smile, she seems surprised when Minarak raises her hand to his lips in greeting. "Good evening," she at last answers, the grey gaze travelling in interest to the store of crates and boxed in the room. Odd, too, that there be only one chair. "Alas..Marazon was unable to come," the scribe answers with a pleasant smile that masks disappointment. "Another time, perhaps?" she offers, taking a seat and smoothing the fine silk of her skirts as she does so. "It looks as if you have made a fine trade in your journey to Lindon.." she now observes aloud, motioning to the cache of boxes with a slight nod of her head.

Minarak's hand lingers on Roziliel's arm perhaps longer than is strictly necessary to seat her. "Ah yes," he replies, "a fine trade indeed. Though these are mainly personal items. I have a cargo of furs stowed in the hold." Reluctantly he turns away from Roziliel for a moment to reach into one of the boxes, bringing out a bottle of wine. From another box he draws forth two leathern cups. "My apologies for the crudity," he says, frowning as he sets them down, "but on ship one cannot afford to have breakables, as I am sure one so well-travelled must know. Now, where is that corkscrew ..." He begins to lift boxes. As he does so, a long-bladed Elven knife with a finely tooled handle and jewel-encrusted scabbard falls to the floor. Minarak gives a start, but lets it lie; he straightens with a flourish to hold up a corkscrew. "Shall we sample the vintage?" he says with a slight smile.

"Personal items?" Roziliel repeats, the gaze settling upon the crates once more in interest. "You trade in furs, then?" she asks, clearing her throat softly as the other expresses apologies at the crudness of the 'glassware' he sets before her. The sudden clatter of the jewel-encrusted knife is surely reason for her to flinch with a startled glance to the floor, but the gaze given to the dropped weapon is perhaps held longer than the item warrants. The words of askance bring the scribe's glance back upwards to meet with Minarak, and at first her mouth is undisclosing. "Well, yes," she says with a nod and broadening smile. "Indeed, let us try this wine. Thank you."

Ignoring the dropped knife for the moment, Minarak gives an answering smile, and as he opens the wine, his eyes are on Roziliel rather than the bottle. Only when a drop splashes onto his hand does he look down. With a slightly discomfited frown, he quickly pours two cups. Handing Roziliel a full cup of wine, he replies politely, "I trade in various items, but it is furs that brought me here. Our Governor's import duties on furs are less outrageous than on many other items. And the northern forests yield pelts of much higher quality than our southern ones." Pouring a second cup of wine for himself - this one only half-full - he perches on the bed. "Do you know these northern coasts well, my lady?" he queries now.

"I have heard the same," Roziliel says, taking the cup offered and sipping it slowly and with the grace of one who attends royalty. "...that the better pelts come from the north," she adds as she brings the wine up for another sip. "This is excellent," she says, looking across to where Minarak 'perches' and motioning to the wine. "I must confess, I did not have time to sample but one or two sips of the Eldar's wines while in Lindor." She sets the cup down a moment, turning it slowly in her hands. "But as for the forests..." she muses, thought creasing her brow, "I do recall going more often with my father, when he made trips to the north. Faint memories, only," she says with a shrug, bringing the cup to her lips for another, lengthened sip. "Why do you ask?"

Minarak looks interested. "Your father is a merchant, then?" he asks, then shakes his head in recollection. "No, I remember now - a sailor, you said?" He looks questioningly at the woman. "And I merely asked because I thought you might like to hear some tales of my trips to Tharbad and beyond. Wild lands, indeed ..." He turns away for a moment, and his eyes fall once more on the dropped knife. "Would you like examine this?," he asks Roziliel politely. "It's truly a fine piece of workmanship." He retrieves the item and holds out the bejewelled scabbard towards her.

"My father did a fair amount of travelling," Roziliel answers with a nod, reaching for the knife that Minarak offers after he retrieves it from where it lies upon the floor. "Indeed, a very fine work of craftsmanship. And Elven from the look of it? Where did you find it?" Once again the cup is raised and Roziliel savors a long drink of the rich, vintage wine, leaving but one sip left in the cup. The grey eyes lower to rest a critical gaze upon the sparkling and dazzling display of color lent by the encrusted jewels. "It must be very expensive," she breathes, her lips slowly curving upwards as she turns the piece over in her hands.

"Indeed, the blade is Elven," Minarak replies eagerly, glad to have piqued Roziliel's interest. "Made by one of Lindon's finest craftsmen. Of course," he appends hastily, "it is merely a souvenir, nothing more. With the import regulations in Umbar so strict, importing Elven weapons would be unthinkable!" His tone seems a little forced. Eying Roziliel appraisingly, he continues, "But let us not talk of such dull subjects. I'm sure there are much more interesting things we should talk about." He smiles, then gets up to retrieve the bottle of wine, this time reseating himself much closer to Roziliel. "More wine, my lady?" he beams.

Roziliel looks questioningly to the merchant, still turning the jeweled knife over in her hands. "I hardly find the subject dull," she says with a wry smile, though glances back towards the door as Minarak offers more wine. "I really should decline.." she says, as the gentleman sits closer to her and offers to refill her glass. But there is, in the refusal, the slightest hint of uncertainty, yet...

"But tell me, then. What are these 'personal' belongings kept so close to you and not in the common hold?" She motions to the stacked crates and boxes that surround them.

"Oh no, take just a little more," Minarak insists, pouring her another half-glass despite her refusal. He dribbles a little more wine into his own cup also. Glancing round the cabin, he continues, perhaps a little evasively, "And as for the personal items, well, you have sampled some of them ..." He gestures to the wine, the cups, a jerking movement of the arm that sends a spurt of wine flying towards Roziliel's dress. Immediately Minarak's slightly glazed smile turns to a look of dismay. "Oh, my Lady! I am so sorry. I apologize profusely for my clumsiness. Here, let me help you." Pulling out a large silken handkerchief from his pocket, he presses it to Roziliel's breast, his eyes filled with concern - and more. He makes no move to draw back.

Perhaps drowsy from the wine, Roziliel does not react as fast as she might have to avoid the clumsy spill from the other--caught half-way in drinking another long sip from her own cup, herself. But as the blunder is given, the maiden sets her own cup down, scoots the chair back, and then clears her throat loudly as Minarak seeks to clean the spill himself. "Truly," she fairly insists, drawing away and taking the handkerchief in her own hand. "I will see to it. It is quite alright." She glances at the faint stain of wine. "Have you a basin of water?" she then asks, forcing a smile in the asking.

Minarak looks at Roziliel in consternation. "Ah - no," he says at last, a faint quaver in his voice. "Please believe me, my Lady Roziliel, I am truly sorry for the mishap. How bad is the damage?" He steps forward once more, catching Roziliel's hand in his own as he attempts to pull it away and see beneath the handkerchief.

"A waterskin then?" Roziliel asks, the forced smile given more brittleness as she draws away firmly from the other. The wine is taking some effect, however, for even these firm motions are given to a certain softness. "It is not bad, but surely some water would render it less obvious." She again looks to the door. "I have a basin of water in my own room. Perhaps I should thank you and be on my way, Minarak."

Minarak looks dismayed. "Alas, I have not even a waterskin," he admits at last. "Woe that I should be so ill-prepared! Allow me at least to make amends." There is a tremor in his voice that cannot be wholly faked. "I have an acquaintance on this voyage who is a cloth merchant - I shall endeavour to procure some fine material from him. Perhaps it will even be possible to have a new dress made up." He gazes earnestly at Roziliel. "Will you let me arrange that? Please, my Lady?" Regretfully, he leads the maiden towards the door, one arm around her shoulder to guide her, gazing into her eyes as he waits her reply.

Setting the silken handkerchief down upon the table, Roziliel rises to her feet, assuring the other with her words. "There is no need to replace the dress," she says. I am certain it can be washed. I shall see to it straightway once I am returned to my quarters." This last utterance is once again followed by a smile, though even that is offered in vagueness as the scribe steadies herself slightly upon the back of the chair. "I am suddenly very weary," she admits, allowing herself to be led towards the door. "Worry not about the dress," she assures. "Please..just..do not worry over me." She takes another few steps and passes through the door, though says little else to the merchant accompanying her.

"I would worry less if I knew you would accept a gift of material in return for my clumsiness," Minarak insists. "Please, at least consider it?" He leans forward towards her, then perhaps thinks better of his action, for his lips merely brush her cheek and do not linger. "Farewell, my Lady," he says sadly as he draws back to stand in the door of his cabin, watching Roziliel depart.

Participants:

MINARAK

Barzag/Gimi's NPC, not desced at this time.

ROZILIEL Royal Scribe

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 thick, natural waves to the small of her back, and is most often left unbound.

She wears a fitted silk 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 delicate 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.