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.

Contents:
* Roziliel Royal Scribe
* Adunabar
* Bakhadun

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.

[Roziliel:] The day is warm and the sky a beckoning blue as the sun makes its upward track on this clear morning in Umbar. Upon the docks, new ships have been moored and are now being unladen of their cargo; dockworkers hurry to and fro in their duties, while among the busy docks wander another pair--Roziliel and Inzilgadin. Slow in her steps, Roziliel seems less concerned with the goings on than with what is apparently an intriguing conversation she is having with the attache, for at one point she stops in her steps to look across the deep blue of the bay. "Which would you prefer if you had to make choice. Numenor, or Umbar?"

[Barzag:] At this time of day the sun's heat is not so fierce, but in those occupied in loading a cart with slabs of precut marble, the signs of hard work are already apparent. Reddened complexions, sweat-stained clothing: both speak of effort. One of those involved in moving the stone is a broad-shouldered fellow with swarthy skin and dark hair that shadows his face, the Hillman labourer Barzag. The stone he carries is finely polished, white streaked with palest green - surely this material must be destined for one of the rich merchant's houses? Barzag places a stone in the cart and straightens to mop his brow, self-consciously tugging at the right sleeve of his tunic, taking the opportunity to look around him.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin measures even slow strides beside the scribe, whatever he is saying lost to any other but Roziliel under the hubbub and bustle of the docks. As she pauses, he goes another step to round with her facing the sea. "Hard to say, my lady. If I only considered the landscape, then Numenor must be my choice." He looks from the sea to his companion, smiling, "I do not now only consider the landscape, however."

[Roziliel:] Roziliel grins at the attache's answer, drawing her gaze from the jewel seas of Umbars coast back to Inzilgadin. "You do not?" she wonders, a gleam of her grey eyes added to the words. "You are finding your work that satisfying, then?" she seems to quip in an attempt to bait, though next her gaze is given lazily to the busy docks where the workers labour in earnest to unload the ships. About to speak else, Roziliel's gaze narrows, and she leans a little to the side to get a clearer look. "Is that Barzag?" she wonders next, her brows furrowing to curiosity. "I think it is. He left a note in my shop which I found just last week. A strange thing..." She waits a moment until the workers that obstruct her view of the Hillman move. "Ah..it is him," she confirms.

[Barzag:] Barzag glances this way and that, amber eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. His gaze falls on the pair of conversationalists, and he freezes, torn lips pressing tightly together, before turning his head away with a shrug and a sigh. Still, there is work to be done, and what difference should it make to him if two of Umbar's leisured class choose to take a stroll along the docks on this fine day? So he goes back to lift the next block, apparently ignoring the pair for now.

[Inzilgadin:] A stray breeze flutters his hair and the attache tosses it over his shoulder with a casual shrug. "My work here is my work there, lady. And, no, it only barely goes at a..." his voice trails off as she suddenly changes her attention. Curious about what has caught her eye, Inzil turns and frowns. He says nothing about the hillman, just watching him. When the man turns away, Inzil takes a step back, loosening his arm from hers. "Indeed it is. I will wait here."

[Roziliel:] Inclined as she seems to be to speak to the Hillman, Roziliel hesitates at the almost abrupt change in demeanor as Inzilgadin acknowledges the other. "What is it?" she asks in a half-whisper, her gaze shifting from Barzag back to the attache. "Is something amiss?"

[Barzag:] The labourers continue their work at a steady pace, appearing completely oblivious to the onlookers. Barzag halts and stretches to relieve the tension in his arms, murmuring something to another worker, this one fair-skinned but with equally dark hair. His words are met with a nod and a smile, and both labourers glance towards the hold - hopefully there will not be much more to unload.

[Inzilgadin:] Inzilgadin wrenches his gaze from the workmen to meet hers. "Not with me. I do not vouch for anyone else, though." The two men having turned away, the attache risks a wry smile. "The Hillman and I have had bad words." He pauses, and then nods once. "I think you had ought to go ask him for some money. He seems to think it important to pay, even when no one asks for it."

[Roziliel:] The scribe's brows raise in some bridge of understanding. "Ahh.." she says, nodding her head slowly. "He did in fact leave some money with the note left in the store. I found it very curious that he should feel so indebted. And somewhat uncomfortable that he might not accept a gift." She glances back to Barzad and gives a small shrug. "But then, he is not *of* Numenor or Umbar, really. His ways of thinking are different. Still I should like to make an attempt to speak with him briefly." She offers the attache a smile. "I will not be gone too long, I think." And with that, Roziliel turns to approach the docks and Barzag--mindful that she does not get in the way of those unloading the ships.

[Barzag:] Barzag may not notice the approaching woman, but others do. The pale-faced worker turns to spy Roziliel, and makes some soft comment to his fellows - is he remarking on the lady's beauty, or just on how out of place she is in these docks? Now Barzag raises his head too, and gazes at Roziliel with an odd disquiet in his face, before making a murmured reply, "scribe .. Summergate .. know ... a little. And she is ..." He indicates with his chin the place where Inzilgadin still stands. Perhaps feeling he has done enough duty as informant, he heads back up to the ship, returning quickly with another load.

[Roziliel:] Glances or not, Roziliel seems unhampered and unintimidated, and warding any with a smile in return, she continues towards the place where Barzag works, only calling for the Hillman as she is close enough to be heard, and so she will not have to call too loudly. Her face is given to placid inquiry, and she comes to a stop just beyond the perimeter where the stones are being brought.

[Barzag:] "Lady Rozilel." Looking rather surprised at being addressed, and trying to ignore the smirks of his companions, Barzag nevertheless makes his way over to where the scribe stands. The last load of slabs is being brought out now; there will be time for a short respite. His discomfort is obvious from the twitch in his lips and the way he tugs at the sleeve of his tunic, yet he makes the effort to speak, in his usual accented and slightly nasal tone. "I wish you a good day. I - I did try to pay you for your help, when I did learn reading. Did you get the letter? And is it enough?" His amber eyes are shadowed and his brows draw down in the beginnings of a frown as he asks this question.

[Roziliel:] "Yes," Roziliel says with a nod of affirmation. "I did get your letter, and the sum was more than enough--" She seems about to say more, but reconsiders, clasping her hands together and uttering, instead, "Thank you. I hope the lessons were helpful. I...I apologise that I was not able to attend them often, but you see.." Again, the maiden's words seem to fail her. "I have had many duties given to me by the Princess Miriel, and... Well. some troubles of my own. I hope you will understand." She flashes a glance to the workers seeing to their various tasks in earnest. Only know does she give the merest glimmer of looking as if she does not belong, and perhaps is nervous, herself. "I realise you are busy here, Barzag. And I do not wish to keep you from your duties. But I..." Her she stops, glancing to the others close by. Once again, reconsidering.

[Barzag:] Barzag shrugs at Roziliel's remark about the lessons. "I can read, now," he says, a glimmer of pride crossing his features for the first time. The right side of his mouth even curls briefly in the expression that those who know him would recognize a smile. "For that, I am very glad. But writing is more hard. Maybe, in time ..." He trails off awkwardly at this, then swallows. "Yes, I am busy here," he agrees in return to the scribe's last comment, looking uncomfortable once more. "But - what do you wish to say? If I offend, then I am sorry." His words carry the unspoken assumption that he is at fault, and his amber eyes are downturned now.

[Roziliel:] Roziliel is mindful of Barzag's lowering of his eyes, and moreso his 'lessened' demeanor. Clearing her throat softly, she breaches the subject at last. "Nay you have not offended," she begins quietly, moving another step closer to the Hillman so her words may be spoken more softly. "I only wish to understand. That....well. That you Inzil have had a disagreement....when he was teaching you." She wrings her hands before her. "It saddens me, is all. And I wonder if I might make things right between you both.."

[Barzag:] As Roziliel moves a step closer, Barzag tenses, again giving the sleeve of his tunic a nervous tug, but raises his head to look her in the eye. His own eyes harden as Inzilgadin is mentioned, and his lips press tightly together. "I do not think so," he tells Roziliel. "Inzil-gadin is one who believes he knows all things," he continues, the bitterness welling up in his tone. "What use does one such as that have for the likes of me? What interest, save to show to the eyes of the world that he is better, by throwing scraps? Can not I choose not to take help from those who despise me?" His voice drops to the merest thread, and those amber eyes turn away again, as he admits, "Inzil-gadin did say once that everything I could do was 'not enough'. So ... I stop trying, then." There is no indication given of what particular action or inaction he is referring to. "Not he, nor I, nor you, can change that." Barzag's voice fades to silence as he awaits a reply.

[Roziliel:] The morning is clear and pleasant; the docks that line Umbar's busy merchant bay are swarming with workers and merchants overseeing the unloading of the ships. Two figures speak near one of the ships being unloaded--its cargo fine slabs of stone. One of the two is the scribe Roziliel, the other is the Hillman, Barzag.

That Barzag's words put the scribe in a difficult position is obvious. And that she seems uncertain of even that which has been offered is betrayed by the shifting grey gaze that goes from Barzag, to the fine stone unladen from the ship, to finally the deep-blue waters of the bay. "Well I..." Odd, that the maiden seems to stutter, for is it very unlike her. "I would see things put aright between you, yet it seems you set your mind upon it. And I would not see you force in any thing." Her gaze is then returned to the Hillman, the smile calm--though hints of being forced. "Know that I hold no grudge against you, Barzag. And I would hope that you should forbear Inzil's presence if he and I are together and our paths cross."

[Barzag:] Barzag's lips twitch as he listens to Roziliel's words. "Forbear," he repeats, looking uncertain at the word. "I would not trouble him - or you," he adds. "But I do not think our paths will cross. You, and he, must - work with papers?" His voice raises in question. "And I must work for Ureziran. As for learning the reading..." He shrugs. "Maybe I can find a new teacher," he adds, a hoarse note creeping into his voice. "There are two from the healers who have helped me in other ways, maybe they will know someone." He sighs, then adds with sincerity, "But I thank you for your help ... for the use of your shop, and giving the writing things ... It meant much." Once again that brief curl of a smile.

[Roziliel:] While the scribe listens patiently to Barzag's explanation--and indeed shows some surprise that the Hillman has found employment with someone by name--she offers no more attempt to speak of Inzilgadin, nor the lessons that Barzag has found. "I wish you well, Barzag." The smile she offers is sincere, if a bit wistful. "And it was my pleasure to let you use the shop. Do let me know if it may ever be useful again." Glancing at one of the dockworkers who seems to eye her with more than casual inquiry, Roziliel takes a step back. "I thank you, again for the letter you left. I had best let you return to your work."

[Barzag:] Barzag inclines his head in a brief nod, then looks round - indeed, the last stone slabs have already been loaded into the cart. "Goodbye, lady Rozilel," is his only answer, even as he steps back to join the other labourers, carefully avoiding looking in the direction from whence the scribe originally came. Instead he fixes his amber eyes on the cartload of stone, seemingly so preoccupied that when one of his work-mates speaks to him, the man has to repeat himself. The faint frown lines that appear between his brows suggest that Barzag is pondering something.

[Roziliel:] With only one more glance to the Hillman, her smile still held in perhaps a token of hope and well-wishing, Roziliel makes her way from the docks, skirting around the busy workers and avoiding the cart as she passes. " Good day, Barzag," she calls, hastening her steps back towards the seagate and the attache awaiting her there.

Participants:

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 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

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.