Malahir watches with little amuzement the folly that literally lay before him. His wondering eye catches a familiar soldier, the runner up in the footlist. He motions to him to come, even though the man has already set in motion his way. As he waits for the two to cross the distance, he views the red dressed woman curiously.

Lavinia smirks inwardly 'ah, so long since I've been refered to as M' lady' she thinks to herself, noddin softly to Sanos and following his lead towards the pavilion, surveying the situation as they walk. She catches Malahir's gaze and nods a polite greeting, with a gentle smile.

Sanos keeps his pace and the hand of Lavinia as he makes his way toward Malahir. Smiling and saluting, he relieves Lavinia's hand as she nods. Sanos replies sternly, "I see you need some help Malahir, eh?"

Malahir offers a warm smile in return to the blonde locked lady, bowing with as low as his soft cast will allow. Seemingly reluctant, he turns to face Sanos, "Aye Sanos. It seems as if our comrades do not take well to my orders", pointing toward the mess that was a small barrack tent, "they are under there, be kind and dig them out of their buriel."

Lavinia grasps her cloak as a brisk of wind threatens to break through it's protection, she smiles and nods to Malahir's gracious bow, remaining silent for the time being as she does not wish to interfere, watching the men 'work' and glances towards Malahir often with curious interest.

Mathirion walks quietly from near one of the pavillions, coal eyes taking in the dawn scene about him. However, the struggles of moving canvas catch his eye, and he diverts his course towards the fallen tent and the wounded man. With a toss of his head, clearing his face of dark hair, he stops in front of Malahir, his face a scene of conflicting struggles as a smile tries to escape.

Malahir turns to view the comedy before him, three guards under the chaotic intanglement of canvas and ropes, and another tugging at the mess from the outside. Confronted by another of his Lt,'s men, he shakes his head and speaks in a low tone as not to offend, "Good day Mathirion. What do you think of this display of soldierly ablility?", waving his hand at the once upright tent

Mathirion snaps a quick salute to the other Silver Ship man, looking up a good few inches at the other's eyes, "Very impressive, Malahir," he replies, not a hint of humor or sarcasm in his hard-edged voice. "No others could take down a tent yet amuse the locals at the same time. Is the Guard not amazing?" The darks of his eyes glint over his carved cheekbones.

Malahir returns the young guards salute with an unconfortable one of his own, moving in to pat the shorter fellow on the shoulder. "Aye good man. If I wasn't so bandaged up, I'd might as well do it myself. It seems as if half the company has run itself out of shape", sighing loudly, "what with all the pomp of festivities."

Mathirion shakes his head slowly, hair shaking gently with it, revealing the hints of silver near the edges. With a light shrug, Mathirion casts another glance at the moving canvas, and the first evidence of men beginning to escape its throes. "Heard you took a bit of a beating, son, right there along with our lieutenant. You feeling any better? I hear they still have him restricted to the healer's tent for being up with a bad shoulder and making it worse."

Malahir moves the old timer alongside with his arm, walking to stand over the moving tent, screams of help being muffled by the heavy canvas. "It seems as if the man I ordered to help them has disappeared. Such a shame.", turning back with a grin, "Ah yes. Scappy is still tied up. Those healers have him under intense scrutiny now. Course, for me.", whispering into the man's ears, "It helps to befriend a healer and promise him up and down that a souvenier from Minas Tirith will arrive for him", chuckling lightly.

Mathirion tosses his head back, laughing, his hard veneer breaking for a few moments. "Scrappy? I remember back when the youngster joined up..." Shaking his head, still chuckling, he follows Malahir over toward the tent, grabbing a side of the canvas and giving it a hard tug, and revealing one of the struggling soldiers, "Had something of a punch back then, banged up poor Ekroth's jaw, from what I hear."

Malahir leans against his single wooden crutch, keeping his eye on the fellow below him, "That's the story I've heard, from scrappy himself. What I wouldn't have given to be in the guard then, rather than being groomed by my father for noble birthrites and such", he peers at the tent, and spies the newly revealed Sanos and smiles, "Hello sir. It seems as if your sudden disapearance has been explained"

Sanos walks over to Malahir and says softly, "I'm sorry Sir, twas a calling of an odd animal nay."

Mathirion's brow arches, his intent black eyes peering up at Malahir, "From the man himself, then? Well.. you must be something. Can't say I've heard of 'im saying anything about it to anyone." Shrugging, he gives Sanos a nod and a tight smile, "Good day to you, son," he says, brushing a hand through his hair once more, it falling over his fingers like small waterfall of coal-dusted water, before turning back to Malahir, "He tell you anything else of interest?"

Malahir nods impatiently toward Sanos and motions with his head to the men still trapped inside the tent, the muffled cries for help turning to low weeping. "Young man, I expect an elder soldier doesn't have to be the lone savior of these unfortunate souls.", turning back toward the chimney charred toped soldier, "Aye, but he told me in the strictest of confidence, so I'm sorry old timer"

Smile fading as the faint cries reach his ears, Mathirion leans down, grabs a handful of heavy canvas, and gives it a hard tug. Another of the hidden soldiers is uncovered, though his muscles bulge as he pulls. "Not used to this kind of work," his voice comes out a bit raspy, "Usually leave it t' the younger men. They tend to want to do the impossable a bit more than myself." Winking, he straightens, motioning for some help from Sanos. Casting Malahir a half grin, the older guard says, "Better not betray his confidence, then. The lieutenant's got no temper, though, at least not one I've ever seen."

Malahir idly pushes aside some unfettered canvas with his crutch, keeping his eyes on the older guard. "The Lieutenant is a well tempered man, though I have to admit, I've come under the outcome of his peculiar temperment a time or two, or three.", grinning as he offers another revealed soldier his hand but scolding him none the less, "What do you have to say for this mishap?"

Mathirion raises another black brow, curiousity shining in his dark features as he looks back up at Malahir from the canvas. Giving it a last jerk, the third man comes uncovered, and the older soldier stands up straight, though it doesn't add too much to his stature. "So he does have one, then? 'Fraid 'tis not seen much, then, though I would wonder how you came to find out about it..." shaking his head, with a light smile, he adds, "Then again, perhaps I don't."

The scrunched up soldier, whose part in the mishap was originating the domino effect of supports falling down upon them, stands before the young aide d'camp, saluting smartly. "I'm so sorry sir, I...I didn't see the cord. And your yelling at us didn't help sir"

Malahir eyes all three soldiers increduously, "You sorry rags, if this mess is cleaned up in fifteen minutes, bagged and packed on your backs mind you, then I might consider tearing up the report of this incident to Lt. Analdin."

Mathirion's other brow rises slowly, though the man himself remains silent, dark eyes intent upon the scene before him. After a few moments, as the other guards quickly pick themselves up and begin attacking the canvas once again, he turns back to Malahir, muttering something about temperments and rather facing the lieutenant's than a certain someone's.

Malahir peruses the activity of the men and crosses his arms about his chest, above the soft cast that pads his midsection. He shouts, "Not that way! roll it, roll it man. Did you learn anything. When you fold the canvas, it creases.", shaking his head rather displeasingly. "Well Mathilorion, the lieutentant is a fine soldier. I'm sure you know about his expliots here in this very fair?"

With a toss of his head, one that causes raven hair to fly out of his face, Mathirion shrugs, "A bit. I was on duty a good amount while we were here, escaping the activities. Heard about his escapade down in Pelargir, though you were there from what I see." he nods to the taller man's cast, "You got beat up as bad as he, if not worse. But other than that, nothing."

Malahir stares into the elders eyes, arms still crossed and scowling, "Aye good man. It is a good thing we kept some guardsmen alert. We were ambushed in the narrow streets. The lieutenant and I, with a rohirian rider, fought back a rear attack on Prince Imrahil. We fought well, but not without sacrifice", sadly shaking his head.

Mathirion nods slowly, his gaze lowering a bit. "Aye, I had noticed. We lost a man or two of the company.. And all too many of the city." Raising his head, the older soldier's eyes glint hard as forged iron, "It had better not happen on my watch, is all I can say, for those corsairs wouldn't live to see another day for they pulled off down there."

Malahir turns his attention back to the three stooges attempting to pack one tent, "hey, be careful not to rip the canvas with the...", saying this slightly too late as the man sliding a pole into the pack fulled with canvas looks up, distracted, he stuffs the wooden pole inside, and a tearing sound escapes from the bag. "The Lieutenant will not be pleased about that...", drifting off, attempting to remember the subject at hand. "You see, Analdin and I seem to have connected somehow. We are complete opposites mind you. But I hope his friendship means as much to him, as it does to me", looking into the black coal eyes of the elder soldier.

Mathirion shakes his head in disbelief as the soldiers pack up the canvas, and winces at the sound of tearing fabric. As Malahir shouts a bit late, the darker fellow places his hand on the shoulder of one of those working, showing him a gentler way to ease the pole into the next bag. Turning back to Malahir, he listens quietly before replying, "He's a friendly fellow, I'll allow as much as that. Not at all surprised he took to you, though..." he does not explain the response, however, but does flash a quick smile at the aide, "You drink at all?"

The Lieutenant's aide tilts his head, as he scratches his disheveled brown waves on top. He eyes the elder queerly, "I'm guessing you were at duty during the grand ball as well. After such a poor loss of control would have been followed up by expulsion is the Lieutenant was an impatient man. But lo, he has shown me temperment then sir. Do you know what I speak of. I ask for you honesty in this matter?"

"Do I know what you speak of? Honestly?" Mathirion peers up at Malahir, brushing the vagrant hair from his face once more. "No, son, I can't say I do. Aye, I was on duty that eve..." He trails off, curiousity glinting as bright as silver in his iron eyes.

Malahir uncrosses one arm and rubs his chin, posing his thinking process. Looking off toward the healer's tent, "Well sir. To answer your question. I try not to drink"

Mathirion raises a brow, "No drink, Malahir? Do you take cider, then, perhaps?" Eyes glistening with something boardering on curiousty, "Any particular reason for it?" He folds his own arms across his chest, "I know the lieutenant has one... though I'm not certain what it is. You picked it up from that young man?"

Malahir scratches his nose, and nervously fiddles with his unkept curls, "It seems as if you know a great deal old timer. Is that a genuine question in your voice, or is it rhetorical?"

A half smile touches Mathirion's face, "I don't get in to rhetoric, young man... bad for the health and dulls the reflexes." Arms kept folded sternly on his black tabard, the older man stands firmly, like a schoolmaster, on his ground and simply waits for an answer to his previous question.

A guard previously packing the tent, the speaker amongst the three, walks toward the aide d'camp, and presents an oddly shaped duffle bag, pecurlarly shaped like a bumpy egg. Malahir sighs and points to the other tent that makes up the tent, "Now go practice on that one. You'll be bringing down tents till you get it right, you hear?"

Mathirion remains rather silent as the young guard presents the bundle of canvas to a disaproving Malahir. However, after the bandaged man orders the other off, Mathirion raises a brow, "You going to answer me, son? Where I come from, young men respect their elders as much as junior officers and men-at-arms respect their seniors."

Malahir half turns from the duty he had on hand to stare blankly at the man with the hair of onyx, and the eyes of cold steel. "Excuse me sir. Are you accusing me of disrespect. Around my noble estate, this is not taken lightly. If you must know, I am currently avoiding liquor. And that is all you need to know"

Mathirion's eyebrow shoots up, "You're of the nobility, then? The lieutenant and yourself must be total opposites, then. IT is well known the glare he gives to those of noble blood." Shrugging, he adds, "And I was, as a matter of fact, warning you that you were appraching it, though not accusing you of it."

Malahir overhears the crashing of the second tent to collapse this hour. Shrugging lightly he throws his arms up in mock questioning, "What next??"

Malahir repostions the crutch under his arm and nods to the elder before him, "I'm sorry Mathirion, I must take my leave. It seems the men need more directions. Good day, we shall speak of nobility later, yes?"

Mathirion nods quietly, his own eyes approaching neutral from the other's anger a moment before, "Aye, we most certainly shall." Snapping a salute, Mathirion wanders off in the general direction of another tent being lowered.