=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Weather:            Rainy
Time:                Early Afternoon <about 1 PM (after lunch) >
Season:              Spring
Date:               Hevensday - May 23, 3014

Real Time:          Sun May 10 00:29:33 1998
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
 

Meldar:
     Here you see standing firmly before you a worthy Corporal of the Guard of Minas Tirith. He seems to be in his early twenties, and he stands at some 5'9" in height. He is of slender build, although his face is neither sallow nor bony. His hair hangs down to his neckline, and is a glorious golden in hue, to blend in with his eyes, which sparkle a keen chestnut hazel. His face seems haggard from many battles, and his lips are stern, although you will not bet that they won't break into a smile at any moment.
     Meldar wears an uniform of black and silver, like any other Guard. He wears a corslet of heavy black mail that glitters with a hint of silver. The tabard that covers this armour is fashioned from black cloth, and it displays the symbol of the White Tree of Gondor, in a shining white. His overcoat is the hue of ebony, and is worn to keep out the cold, and to denote rank. On his left shoulder, Meldar has the token of the White Tree, to show his Company. On his right shoulder is a single stripe of a Corporal. His gloves and plain trousers are also black, and his tall black boots shine with new black polish. His wide belt is made of black leather and tinged with grey thread, and the buckle is in the shape of a flying eagle clutching an arrow. His helm is tall and resilient, made of black steel, with two raven-wings soaring on either side. His round shield is slung over his back when he is not in action, although it is mostly covered by his garments. He also wears a thick yet elegant blue cloak that hangs down to his boots, which he insists on wearing even though it's not strictly a part of the uniform. Meldar has a sword sheathed at his belt, and it is long and glittering, its pommel shining like copper in the light. The scabbard is also finely fashioned from tough leather and looks almost new.
     Here seems to stand a man that you can trust, one that will aid you in your hour of need, one that will stay by your side when danger is imminent, one that will not flee and leave his friends to die when some hideous fate is nigh. He is a member of the Guard of Minas Tirith, after all...

Malahir:
     Immediately, you are captured by the honest brown eyes of a young man, who is scantly an adult. There is inner solace in his eyes, which almond shape and youthful glint, show to the viewer his true emotion. Framing his amiable round face are wild brown curls that extend down to his broad shoulders. His smooth face is clean shaven, but not by choice. His leather tanned skin displays the strength he bears in his arms. On his left forearm is a nasty scar, and if he is not wearing his armor, another long scare can be seen on his right shoulder. His impressive stature measures six feet, one inch and he weighs in excess of 210 lbs. Although he has a well toned muscularture and broad frame, he sports a slightly convex belly.
     He appears to blend in with a moonless night. He wears a black tabard emblazened with the city crest of Minas Tirith: the white tree and seven stars, in silver embroidary. He is robed in a long black satin cloak. On the left lapel is a silver brooch of a ship, and on the right part of the cloak, above his heart is a crest of white and blue, with a sword and two horses rearing to meet at the center. Loose black pants are tucked into black boots and a broad black leather belt slims down the tabard at the waist. A silver buckle, also with the etching of a ship, hangs dead center. His black helm is winged at the crown with long cheeck guards, close fitting to the face. Lazily, his sheath hangs below his waist, where the gold pommel of his sword sticks out from his cloak by his hip. Occasionally, he brandishes an antique wooden cane, the handle being carved into a falcon's head. But while on duty, he grips a small leather buckler that proudly displays the crest of purple and gold, three wreaths, a sigil of his ancient family line. Adding to his massy bulk are the heavy chain mail bodice he wears under the tabard. The metalic links of his armor show little wear, but his leather buckler shows signs of numerous survived battles. His sword his well polished and the gold gleams from a half hidden sheath.

Dric:
     A short young boy catches your eye as he darts about wherever he is. He wears a consideribly downsized black talbard bearing the Tree of Minas Tirith as well as the insignia of the Silver Ship half tucked into a pair of black trousers. Though his clothing seems to have been washed multiple times, it still has that little-boy dirtiness about it, the soiled look that comes from too much activity. It appears a bit large on his small frame, for all that. Blondish brown hair sweeps across his forhead, cut relatively short though it is scraggily and tends to fall down into his eyes. Those eyes being bright, shining, inquisitive-about-the-world blue.
     All of four feet in hight, with his boots on, this young lad makes up or it in inquisitiveness - and speed. He seems, from his build, to be no more than ten or so, but his eyes place him in more of the twelve-year range... though it may just be his overly-intelligent shine to his eyes and the lack of hight, which could throw off any judgement.

A loud bellow can be heard from the gatehouse, as the a man dressed in black calls out to a rider seeking entrance into the city, "You sir, dismount where you are!".

Meldar is already by the gates of Minas Tirith, and he glances upwards, tightening his grip on his sword but loosening it when he seees it is but Malahirl. He too steps up to confront the rider, looking it up and down, and moving to a stirrup where a man has hung a spear.

A boyish voice pipes up from just inside the gates, where a small boy in a makeshift Guard uniform stands before the horseman. "Yeah!" he adds, "D'smount or w'can't let y' in th' city!" A small drum is slung over his shoulder, and he stands straight and tall, as if to add some hight to his small stature.

Malahir nods to the white tree corporal as he approaches the rider, smiling at Dric and his imitations. Reaching over with one hand to grasp the rider's reigns while holding the hilt of his sword with the other he glares at the rider, "Sir, you realize that horses are not alloyed past the city gates?".

Meldar frowns and looks away from the rider up towards the gates. He rolls his eyes, and strides over to where the lad stands. He flicks the boy's helmet up with his finger, and pushes the face up to look at his. "Causing trouble again, are we lad?" he smiles, and looks down at the drum the boy is hefting. "What are you up tot oday? Does your brother know where you are?"

Dric puffs out his chest, looking up at Corporal Meldar as he is questioned. Tilting his head a bit, he grins, "Nothin', Corporal, sir. I'm d'liverin' messages from m'-" at this he cuts off, glancing around, and the tips of his ears that can be seen under the mop of blondish hair can be seen turning a tad red. "From the L'ten'nt."

The rider, tipping his goose feathered brow felt, merchant's hat at the guards surrounding him, places his strong foot on the stirrups and wheels his other around to dismount. Landing lightly on the ground, the man raises his gaze from under the shadow of his hat, "You would have a merchant walk four tiers?".

Meldar puts his "massively interested" face on, and he muses on little Dric's comments. "Messages, eh?" he says, turning away for an moment to help Malahir deal with the horseman. "Well," he continues, not looking at Dric but knowing he is right behind him, "What message have you for the poor guards at the Gates?"

Meldar moves to the merchant's horse and says as he does so, "We would have a king walk four tiers if he had no purpose, sir Merchant."

Dric watches the two much older guardsmen take care of the merchant, though it doesn't stop his stream of boyish chatter. "The L'ten'nt told me t' tell the Corporal-" he breaks off once more, looking from Malahir to Meldar and back again. Brows scrunching together, the young lad heaves a light sigh, "But I don' know which one!"

A light rain begins to fall, pattering on the guardsmen's helmets. Some people look up and curse and move indoors.

Malahir glares at the rider, he stance not budging as the rain pummels his helm, "Sir, I realize the walk would be an unpleasant one, but think of the civil interests for once", backing up the fellow corporal's address.

Meldar looks to Dric with a mock look of indignance on his face. "What do you mean, boy? Don't you know one of us from the other?" he says dramatically, and bends down to Dric. "And what about the other fourty-seven Corporals that are here?" he says in a whisper, raising an eyebrow, "It could be one of them! And the Liuetenant will be veeery angry if you give the message to the wrong one!" He prods Dric in the chest with the last two words, but a smile plays on his lips.

With a glare at the unhorsed merchant, young Dric pipes up once more, "Civil inter'st?" he asks, blinking a time or two, "B' Analdin always says that" and he breaks into a rather good, if somewhat highter pitched, impression of the Lieutenant's voice, "There's to be no horses in the city, save those on errands for the Steward." Yet, as Meldar once again adresses him, he shrugs, seeming almost uncaring, "'E jus' said "the Corporal at the Gates!"

The rider shrugs and begins to lead his horse toward the stable, but not without sudtle prostest, "I'll have a word with that lord of yours, so say I merchant Landor, of Dol Amroth, remember that when I have your titles corporals", and the rider disappears into the rainy haze.

Meldar puts his open palm out to Dric, and puts his head on one side. "Then I am a Corporal, I am at the Gates, why not give it to me?" he says, and a mighty smile graces his face. He raises both eyebrows expectantly.

Malahir salutes the man mockingly, "it was a pleasure doing business with you sir. You have a wonderful bred horse by the way", muttering under his breath as he turns to the corporal and the drummer boy, "his horse will have a pleasant stay outside those crowded stables, and in the rain no less", chuckling to himself.

Shifting the drumstrap uncomfortably on his shoulder, the lad turns his bright gaze up to Meldar, "B' wha' if the L'ten'nt meant Malahir?" he asks, brow creasing again. The worried looks seems unfit for his childish face, but he looks honestly puzzled, "I don' wan' t'get 'im angry wi' me for d'liverin' it t' the wrong one of y'!"

Meldar looks to Malahir, and winks, then turns back to Dric, frowning. "Well, what about this," he says

Meldar says, "you give it to me, I'll read it, and if I know it's supposed to be for Corporal Malahir, then I'll give it to him, and then all'll be alright, won't it?" He beams and puts his hands on his hips."

Malahir overhears the commotion from the little lad and his annoyance at the rider disappears like the merchant into the steamy distance. Bending down to greet the lad with a pat on the shoulder, "What's this about a letter master Dric?".

Dric looks once more from Corporal to Corporal, biting his lower lip and shaking his head at Meldar's idea. "I can't, sir.. 'E jus' told me to tell the corporal at the Gates th' message. 'E said 'twas real important." Looking perplexed up at Malahir, he lets his shoulders droop a little more, "The L'ten'nt tol' me t' give a message to the corporal at the Gates, Malahir, sir, bu' 'e didn' tell me which one."

Malahir nods casually, "it's not a problem Dric. I'm sure that if scrappy meant it for Meldar he would have told you his name specifically. How about if I take a look at it. I'll take a peek at it". Winking at the drummer boy, "The liuetenant wont have to know about it".

Dric shakes his head again, harder this time, and takes a step back from the two men. However, this brings him right into the path of an approaching - and rather large - merchant. Skipping out of the way just before being overrun, the curses of the merchant trailing after him, Dric pops back up behind the guardsmen. "But y'can't see it!" he cries, exasperated, "I'm jus' s'posed to tell whichever of'y that th' L'ten'nt's goin' t' be down here any minute, ready to flay the man on whose watch some merchant 'scaped the Guards and brought a weapon int' the city." Frowning a bit, he adds, "Analdin's not in great temper right now, too."

Meldar starts, "A merchant escaped us? Impossible! When was this? How could the Lieutenant have known? Does he have him in custody?" He growls and draws his sword. Turning to those outside the gates he says "Stop every man entering the city! Search them thoroughly! I'll give a copper penny to every man who confiscates a weapon! Two if it's from a merchant!" He shakes his head and turns back to look at Dric, and begins to pace to and fro.

Malahir calms the blonde haired boy with a serine look, "I see..", trailing off as he looks over his shoulder toward the other corporal, frowning. Turning back to the boy, "You are dismissed if you wish to leave before the Lieutenant arrives".

A dark figure can be seen approaching from down the road, the rain on his cloak not hindering him a bit. Eyes blazing, the Lieutenant strides quickly towards the Gate. However, while he is yet a ways away, young Dric shakes his head at Malahir's statement, "No sir," he says clearly, though his eyes flash and he grins widely, "I wan' t' see what 'e's goin' t' do." Yet, as the guardsman's boots sound on the ctone of the street, the lad ducks behind Malahir a bit.

Meldar turns to see who is coming, and exhales from the corner of his mouth as he sees who it is. He wraps his cloak around him, and lets his sword fall until he is holding it pointing towards the floor. He feels the rain patter onto his helm and coat, but his gaze is still nailed on the Lieutenant. "He looks in a good mood," he mutters, not to anyone in particular.

Malahir starts at the sound of boots echoing over the pelts of rain drops. Gulping, he turns and rises to face the uncoming man, his hands crossed behind his back, "keep your cool Meldar", he whispers out of the side of his mouth.

Meldar whispers back to Malahir in the same way: "Easier said than done, Malahir," and chews his lip thoughtfully, a frown beginning to crease his forehead.

Dric's eyes widen as he hears Meldar's comment. "Good mood?" he asks, incredulous. "Y'think that's a good mood?!?" he shakes his head sadly, straightening his shoulders a bit more.

Approaching his destination, Analdin pauses just before the pair of corporals. Lips pressed tight, he pulls a long, sharp, dangerous-looking dagger from his belt. Holding it before the two, bright, blazing blue eyes looking from one to the other, the Lieutenant asks in a calm, dead cool voice, "Who was commanding the watch two hours ago?"

Meldar coughs slightly, and pauses before saluting Analdin. He swallows before saying clearly: "It was not I, my Lieutenant, for my watch started at ..." - he thinks for a moment - "... ten. I cannot say who is was. Perhaps one of the sergeants? Why do you ask, sir?" He eyes the dagger with wary eyes.

Malahir shakes his head, "I would have to look at the lists to see who was on duty at the time sir, if it was one of our men, I will take full responsibility for the mistake", and he raises his hand, "May I see that sir?".

Analdin presses the dagger, flat of the blade down yet blade first, in Malahir's hand. Out of a pocket in his cloak, still silent, he pulls out a sheet of paper, handing it to Meldar - the duty roster. "Ten, Corporal?" Each syllable is prounounced clearly and with a dead calmness. "I thought to find the both of you here," he begins, as if in explanation, "For, if I read th epapers rightly, you were both on duty at that time... or supposed to be." Shaking his head slowly, he glances down at the small boy standing behind Malahir, who shrinks against his gaze. "Would you like to offer an explination? Or should I take this, an armed merchant all the way to the fourth tier, as simple incompetance?"

Malahir takes the dagger and moves it over in his hand, from the blade to the handle and back again. Inspecting the handle closely, he nods and mutters, "This is fine bone work..certainly expensive, maybe somebodies idea of a collectable", bringing the dagger butt first to Analdin, "Sir, I was not on duty at ten, I left the post to use the..", nodding, "you know".

Meldar curses himself silently and feels his chin thoughtfully. "May I say, sir," he says, "that if I was on duty at that time, that I would have examined the merchant in question carefully, just as I would have done to any other man. If the man was carrying such a dagger" - he motions to the one Malahir is holding - "then he would have hidden it carefully. And save a body cavity search - which I do not like doing to every passing man - there would have been no hope for me to find it." He adds, suddenly remembering: "I was not at duty at ten, sir, for I had arranged with Lt. Vorlain to exchange with one of the Privates for personal reasons. I am sorry that you were not informed."

Analdin casts Malahir a bright glare, "I don't know exactly what moment the man entered the city, Malahir, but only that it was within the last couple hours." Pausing a moment, as if to collect his composure, the Lieutenant gives Meldar an almost understanding nod at his excuse. However, he takes a step back, looking to the both of them and frowning. "And I don't care who it was as allowed him in the city, I want to know who was in command of the watch at the moment... Malahir?"

Meldar nods again and looks to Malahir, "I'm afraid that I am unblamable on this occasion," he says, "although I doubt either that Malahir was here when the tall cloaked merchant riding his brown horse and talking ina strange accent came by. I am sorry I could not help." He smiles calmly, and salutes his Lieutenant, and adds: "I am afraid I must go now, Lieutenant, I promised that I would meet with Lieutenant Vorlain at noon." He salutes again and turns to walk away.

Meldar has disconnected.

Malahir salutes the departing corporal, "It seems to me that I was technically on duty at the time sir, but I do not recal seeing anyone suspicious. Although, just recently I stopped an irate merchant, whose arrogance stands out in my head. He called himself Landor, and was threatened our titles. Perhaps this is a clue?".

Analdin returns Meldar's salute, "Good day, then, Corporal." However, his tone adds something of uncertainty as he watches the corporal walk off. Turning back to Malahir, he seems somewhat calmer than before, replacing the knife in his belt to be taken care of later. "I don't know whether this irate merchant of yours and the one of mine are at all related, Malahir. Perhaps if you, or the others on duty, had payed more attention to all those passing through as opposed to only the suspicious ones, he may have been caught before having a chance at entering the city."

At that moment, a blond head pokes out from behind Malahir, and then the rest of Dric appears. "I told 'em, sir," he says with a proud smile, "Both of 'em, even though you didn' say which one."

Malahir bows his head, speaking carefully as not to seem rude, "Sir, I assure you I know my job. I will take the responsibility of having the man enter the city at the time of my post, but my question to you is where do we go from there?".

Analdin nods quietly, a hint of a smile touching his features at Dric's outburst. Ruffling the lad's hair, the young officer fingers the handle of the knife with his other hand. "The merchant was apprehended by the men at the gate to the fifth tier, and brought to me. I've a feeling the man had some intention, and did not just forget to hand his blade over at the Gates... what do you think?" he looks expectantly at the younger - if not by much - guardsman.

Malahir watched the brothers carefully, "I have my suspicions when it comes to merchants, they are on a whole a very corrupt sector of the population. But sir, I swear to you that we did all that we could possibly do to ban weapons of that length sir. You know that the crowds overwhelm us in the mornings", looking dejected, "I think we ought to add another corporal to help us out, maybe a seargant perhaps. The work load is too much for Meldar and I to handle".

Analdin examines the late morning/early afternoon crowd at the gates, and gives Malahir an understanding nod, "'Tis not an easy load, I rememer." he mumbles, eyes distant a moment. However, focusing back to the current moment, the young officer says, "I shall speak with Captain Elbarad about posting another corporal to your watch. But," and his eyes narrow again, "Those Privates in your watch had best keep their eyes more on the merchants than the pretty young ladies coming through."

A hint of a smile brightens the flushed face of the Corporal, just before a sneeze interupts him resuming the conversation. After a fit of coughing dies down the corporal apoligizes, "I'm sorry sir, the weather is doing numbers on my health. I wouldn't be surprised if the privates take a liking to the young madames seeking refuge from the country. They pass through these gates by the dozens every morning, seeking the attention of a guard. Either that, or they are avoiding us at all costs. It's hard to know which ones to worry about, those that want to be seen, or those that dont".

Taking a step back as Malahir sneezes, Analdin mumbles something about nasty spring weather. "Perhaps you need a break, Corporal, if your nose and eyes are acting together in it." However, turning a bit more serious, he nods quietly, "I doubt many of the maids are in need of watching. It's the merchants - and other scraggily men - I am worried about. Let the ladies flirt as they will, but keep the Guards on their toes. Spring weather turns their brains to mush." he adds the last sentance a lot softer than the rest.

Malahir nods, "hear hear sir. I'm accustomed to seeing dreamy eyes privates around this time, slinking off their posts just as soon as I turn my backs on them. Whatever we try to do to placate the situation with the men, only seems to make matters worse. We can't baby sit them. We certainly arent their mothers!", chuckles softly and then sighing, "I know what is is to be young, but we haven't the time for it sir", smiling down at Dric with a sad glint in his eye.

Analdin shakes his head slowly, gaze also drifting down to the young lad. "We're not so old ourselves, you know, but as you've said.. the time for being young just isn't around." Allowing a light sight, the Lieutenant regains his composure somewhat, snapping at an almost dozing Private against a wall. "On your feet, mister!" he growls at the young man. Shaking his head almost hopelessly, he turns back to Malahir, "I have reports to make out concerning this, Malahir. Keep your eyes on the gate, and those passing through." With that, he motions for Dric to follow him and makes to turn back down the street.

Malahir looks inpressed at the sturdy disciplining of the private and takes mental notes of his lieutenants techniques. Upon his departing he salutes sharply, "Yes sir, I will speak to you after my post is up", winking at Dric while the lieutenant has his back turned.

Turning sharply on his heel after returning the Corporal's salute, Analdin strides down the road quickly.

Dric, grinning at Malahir's wink, has to run to keep up with his brother.