Analdin:
        Dark blue eyes, the color of the stormy sea, shine glacially cool from this clean shaven young man's face. Dark blond hair cut short, short to hanging just abover his ears in a clean wave, covers his head. His cheekbones are chisled and his features are sharp, though the lines of his mouth are those of one used to smiling - if only slightly. His hands, when they can be seen, are rough and large. His left hand, however, sports a black glove at all times. He is a man of muscle, espicially with strong arms. Though not extremely large, he rises to six feet and is of meduim build.
        He wears the black talbard of the Minas Tirith Guard, with the Tree embriodered in silver on the breast. Simple black trousers are tucked into boots, black and polished to a shine. Upon his shoulder is company insignia, a Silver Ship set against the Gates of Minas Tirith, along with Lieutenant's bars and Company Commander's. A longsword hangs from his belt, perhaps not old, but well forged and well used. No special adornment can be seen on it save the marks of much use. A shining helm with raven's wings sometimes adorns his head, though more often, when in the city, is nowhere to be seen.
        His posture is that of a trained soldier, though rather friendly for it. Even though black is the dominant color in his clothing, his light, almost Rohirric features give him no appearance of darkness. An air of purpose surrounds him like a light mist.

Sirion:
 This man has a regal look about him. With hawkish nose and flowing long dark hair his sea grey eyes look intent. At his side is a sword in a well polished hilt and his belt is of black leather. His clothing is green in color though his hair be long and dark, swept back only presumed by his long navy blue cape that rests on his shoulders.

Rhiforath:
        This young man, perhaps in his late teens, stands slim at about 5 foot 11 inches and still growing. His normally loose and wild black hair is now combed and neatly tied back to lie in a single smooth tail of straight hair bound by a black silk ribbon. Pale grey eyes set wide and deep into a face of regular features with marked jawline and cheek bones in an unscarred face, set this young man to be of true Gondorian descent. For those who are familar with him, gone are his nervousness and sly ways and suddenly, as though overnight, his whole bearing has changed to one more self confident and open. The change is so strong in his posture and character it is as if a great weight has been removed from the brooding boy leaving him healed of old inner scars and fears.
        Sporting a newer uniform tabard than his last, he is clothed in the typical black pants, tall riding style boots and tabard with the Minas Tirith crest. His upper left front shoulder bears the Silver Ship of his Company and his other shoulder the rank of Man at Arms. A longsword completes his uniform attire, strapped to hang at his left hip.
 

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

Weather:            Rainy
Time:                Twilight <about 8 PM >
Season:              Autumn
Date:               Trewsday - September 25, 3014

Real Time:          Sat Jun 20 18:47:36 1998
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Minas Tirith: Before the Great Gate
Rising up before and tappering off towards the great moutains behind them, a walls of Minas Tirith climb into the air. Here, at the roadside a small hill rises to the entryway of the city where guards stand before the gate. These men are known as the Doorwardens. Currently the gate is withdrawn into its housing and the doors before it opened wide. The great Gate itself is housed between the two Doortowers before you, standing some 100 feet tall and nearly 50 feet wide. The gate to is made up of a pure steel bounded about the trunks of an unknown wood. The gate is said to able to withstand anything, as even the most strongest blows will just make the gate bend slightly and then return to shape.

Men and women enter and leave the city being stopped, most pass without contest others pass over weapons they carry or have them peaceknotted. Others are turned back as they approach with a horse or a cart. Only the horses of the Stewards errandriders are allowed in the city. Off to the south are the stables and inn houses outside the walls. To the east lie the crossroads of Great West Road and the Great North Road.

A light Autumn drizzle is falling and you pull your garments closer in an
attempt to stay dry.

Contents:
Farothil
Handuril
Sirion
Gate-Wardens
Weapons Rack
Obvious exits:
 North leads to Anorien: North of Mount Mindolluin.
 South leads to Inns and Stables.
 East leads to Pelennor Fields: Crossroads.
 Gate leads to Minas Tirith: Inside the Great Gate.
 

The sun sets west and its gleam lights the field of Pelenor 'neath the walls of Minas Tirith. Passing through the gate, an older knight passes bearing the devices of Dol Amroth.

Following in his wake, dusty, and travel worn, but still looking resplendent, is a young knight. His haughty bearing, and sneer belying his noble carriage. He pauses at the gate, letting the elder knight pass.

Sirion nods to his would-be companion, "Many thanks young Farothil. We must soon gather tidings from Dol Amroth. Word has spread that a party led by Boromir the Brave has returned hither."

The light autumn rain falls softly from the sky, raindrops bouncing off the pavement and the heads of those walking in it. One man with light features and darck clothing, the livery of the Minas Tirith Guard, stands off to the side of the Gates,

Faramir arrives from the crossroads.
Faramir has arrived.

Farothil nods lightly, and says, "Aye My Lord, that is so. I confess I like not the look of this rabble, thieves must abound everywhere." He makes a show of placing a hand on his pouch, and the other on his peacebonded longsword, as he looks over the crowd.

Sirion approaches the guard and bows, "Hail soldier of Gondor! As is the custom I announce myself ere I enter this City of Guard. I am Sirion son of Tirion of the House Isilrim, and with me, is my kin Farothil of the Seventh Tower."

*HOOoooooOOHHMMMMMM* An echoing call sounds from the east and to look away yonder one can see a small light approach. A men, darkened in the night and moving quickly against the rain, makes his way towards the great city of Minas Tirith.

Analdin, almost startled by the sudden approach and words of the knights, jolts from his relaxed position at the wall and straightens out his posture - as well as his uniform - a good bit. Returning the bow with something of an akward one of his own, the guardsman says quietly, "Welcome to Minas Tirith, Lord Sirion." He adds a nod to Farothil, but his eyes turn and brows furrow at the sound of a loud horn.

Farothil turns as the horn blows, and with a look of scorn, watches the man enter.

Sirion quickly turns, "But soft! What is this? The baying of horns upon the field of Gondor. Look! And see, the proud face of the Lord Faramir leading his knights to the city!" Sirion draws his blade in salute and cries, "Faramir! Faramir has come!" Then as an aside to Farothil, Sirion says, "There Farothil is a great Captain of Men - though perhaps not as great as his elder brother Boromir. Denethor is graced indeed to have two such sons."

Farothil watches as the elder knight pays homage to the man, and slowly, and ungraciously, bows as he approaches.

A second light suddenly appears through the thick darkness, then a third and a forth. The men had been walking single file till they approach closer. All are armed and look hard of measure, striding forth and showing no signs of halting as they march to the gates. But as their leader nears the knights of Dol Amoroth he is taken to pause and he turns his grey eyes upon the man, Sirion. "Hail O' Sirion! Such a surprise is this? I had naught expected to look upon your face ere these gates. What brings you here?" And Faramir looks quickly to those about, nodding politely in reply to seen folk.

As the men approach the city, the young officer of the Guard does nothing but watch, bright eyes blazing curiously in the lightof the torches and lamps around the gate, the lights themselves sputtering from the fall of rain.

Sirion now looks back to the guardsmen for a moment, "Tell me guardsman, whither has Faramir gone to return thusly? Is war abroad in Osgiliath?" Then upon the words of Faramir he turns and says in the Elven tongue, "A star shines upon the hour of our meeting Son of Denethor! Indeed, I have been sent by the Prince Imrahil to serve Boromir and his company in his mission."

Farothil, noting finally his place, watches quietly, his face expressionless, save the habitual sour cast to his features. He fingers his pouch gently.

At this Faramir tilts his head slightly, a slight frown accompanying his somewhat confused glance, "Mission?..This is first that mine ears have heard of such. Though oft my brother has missions to task, but why would my father call men from far south as yourself?"

Analdin shakes his head slowly, eyes remaining on Faramir even while he speaks to Sirion, "You know as well as I, m'lord. I know little of Lord Faramir's comings and goings." A hint of distain touches his words, perhaps regret, which disapears as he falls once more silent, listening.

Faramir gives Analdin a quick sideways glance, the look on his face one of warmth and comforting thoughts. 'Later prehaps' he thinks to himself, then hurriedly he returns his curiousity back to Sirions words.

Rhiforath comes around the walls of the city to the north of you.
Rhiforath has arrived.

Sirion replies, his voice tinged with the accent of those Men of Belfalas, "Nay Lord Faramir, it was not thine father that called us hither, but rather the will of my liege the Prince of Dol Amroth. Yet my tongue speaks too swiftly in a place with many ears. If you would here more of this, then I would bid you to join me in a place where we could speak more." Sirion then looks at Faramir for a moment, "Well Faramir, you have grown great in the years of my absence, and you are keen. Yet tell me, is their war marching in Osgiliath that makes you return hither with grim and battleworn men on weary horses?"

The night is gloomy and darkness has fallen early this eve with the autumn mask of cloud cover and chilly rain. High up the peaks the rain has fallen as heavy wet snow off and on the past few days, lending a high humidity and persuasive chill.

A solitary but quiet figure walks down from a thin trail that leads to the north. He is wrapped in a black woolen cloak against the damp but smiles faintly at seeing an older man and others he knows at the Gates. There are strangers too. Rhiforath stops to listen.

Almost as if not catching Faramir's glance in his direction, Analdin keeps his silent watch of the meeting between the two lords, standing straight and listening closely, perhaps more closely than he should, but keeping his silence, eyes intent upon those faces before him.

Rhiforath notices his officer on the other side of the men who are standing about and speaking. He begins to walk around them quietly and head towards Analdin.

Faramir lets his eyes wander a moment at the coming of another man of Gondor before replying in like, his elf speech is indeed well taught, "The wars seem to be upon us endlessly my friend. But of late it has been fought further east. Ithilien, land of forests and rolling hills and now well travelled by Orc and Southron alike." Looking upon the Knight his visage is certainly of a worn and tired man. He and all his men stand alike, dirty and wet through, a long and hard trek they must have made to get here as such. "I think I shall take up your offer O Sirion, but prehaps firstly we should get from out of this weather.." Looking to Analdin, "do we have your leave O Analdin?"

Sirion nods and looks up at the sky for a moment. His grim features look sharp at the mention of the Southrons. At length he says, "Star or moon, storm or wind - it matters not to the Men of Gondor who endlessly take up their task of the guarding of West against the shadow."

Seeing faces, some of them familar to him from his own past, Rhiforath openly studies the man assembled loosely around this tall unnamed man who is their Captain. The woodsmen of Ithilien have captured his interest as he comes to stand near to his Lieutenant. A salute is given to Analdin, but the youth says nothing and merely watches, curious.

Faramir nods and as it would seem he begins to walk towards the gates a thought enters his mind and he stops, turns to Sirion once again and utters a single word, "Dubhglas?"..

Broken out of his listening silence by being addressed, Analdin pauses a moment before replying to Faramir, as if waiting for his words to register, "Most certainly, Lord Faramir," he manages, shaking his head a bit to shake the "absentness" from his eyes. At Rhiforath's approach, he nods quietly, eyes still cought up in the exchange before him

Sirion pauses in his steps and his face pales. Instinctively he reaches for his sword yet he stops and turns and says almost in a low hiss, "Dubhglas? Why do you say that name?"

Farothil watches this exchange cautiously, stopping to adjust an armor strap, so he may fall back, and remain less noticed, he follows the two men at a distance.

The rain is light, breaking off for a while, perhaps. Lowering his hood as he now stands beneatht he stone overhang of the Gate behind the others who gather there, Rhifoarth skims hand over his head to smooth his hair back. He slips a glance to carefully look at Analdin, to assure himself that his Lieutenant is well.

Faramir gauges the reaction from Sirion and he lets out a soft chuckle, "I thought as much...never mind friend, I'll explain it all to you later. A story about a Captain and a conman methinks...come...come!" He lifts his voice," Let us all find shelter ere this weather turns me ill" Noticing at this moment he and his men are still ready, he motions for them to sheath their weapons.

Sirion turns about and says, "Farothil. Come with us." Sirion looks to Faramir, "The way is thine Lord."

Farothil nods, and rising, follows, watching those curious men of the woods as they mingle in the hustle of the busy streets.

Faramir enters the fair city of Minas Tirith through the gate, beneath the watching eyes of the guards.
Faramir has left.

Sirion enters the fair city of Minas Tirith through the gate, beneath the watching eyes of the guards.
Sirion has left.

Farothil enters the fair city of Minas Tirith through the gate, beneath the watching eyes of the guards.
Farothil has left.

Analdin relaxes some bit as the lords make for the city, gaze lingering on them as if he wished to follow as well. Shaking his head, however, he looks over the gates and those before them, a disapointed and rather hesitant look to him.

Rhiforath stands quiet, watching those men pass by in silence for warmer, dryer and finer environs than the slick cobbles and leeking sky. He smiles to himself slightly, voice very low as he too watches the woodsmen, "Aren't they splendid?" He sighs and shakes his head of foolishness, looking back to Analdin, "Are you well, sir?"

Analdin shakes his head quietly, almost regretfully, keeping his silence another few moments before replying to the younger guardsman without looking at him, "Aye, I suppose, for those who like to spend their days continually fighting, or so I hear that's what they do." Ignoring the last question, he turns to face Rhiforath quietly, rubbing his forhead as if to get his mind to work.

Rhiforath smiles a friendly reserved smile, "If you are off sir, or can get off, would you like a drink to clear your head? I'll buy." There is no mocking in his voice, just an honest offer.

Analdin blinks once or twice at Rhiforath's offer, and at the youth himself, then casts him something of a critical look, as if tyring to decide whether the drink will be poisoned or no, "I suppose I can get off, Rhiforath," he says hesitantly, beckoning with one hand to a corporal nearby, "Is there something you wished to speak to me about?" he tone is a little more than suspicious. After a few short words to the corporal, he looks once more to Rhif, "Lead the way," his words once more as if he is ready to take them back if needed.

An open smile is the other's reply as his light eyes laugh quietly, "No, no... nothing particular in mind. Just seems you are alot like my step-father and are always working. I haven't seen you relax yet, not really. Any particular place you like to go, or shall we just go to the White Tree?" He turns and gestures to the south, wet but near. Faintly there is the smell of earth, grasses and ... beasts, perhaps, about Rhiforath's clothes. There are indeed grass and mud on his boots as though he's been out walking on his Rest Day.

Muttering something beneath his breath about foul weather, the young officer shrugs heavily, "The White Tree is closest, if it's all the same to you. I do have a lot of work I should be getting done.." The din of the city, the people walking, horses, carts creaking, enough to give anyone a headache, floats about the gates, even in the early evening hours. With a final somewhat suspicious look at the young man, he adds, "You sure something isn't the matter? You look about ready to..." trailing off, as if not finding the end of his sentance, Analdin shrugs once more, motioning with a wave of his hand at the road leading southward.

The young man cocks his head at his officer, "About ready to what, Sir?" His manner is unusually relaxed for him and he smiles again, "Come on. It's not so late... we can still get a descent table and ale that's not been sitting about long out of the cellars and getting warm." He raises his hood and turns on a boot heal, begining the walk back through the rain to the south with his long loose strikes.

You leave the Entryway and enter the Tavern.

Tavern
        The taproom of the White Tree Inn is a large, airy room with exposed wooden beams in the ceiling. The atmosphere is crowded, noisy, and at times, raucous. A wooden bar runs the length of one wall and tables are placed about the main floor. A fire burns continuously in the large stone fireplace during the winter months. Behind the bar is a large exquisite tapestry and candle sconces are mounted along the walls.
 

Analdin follows the youth inside the tavern, allowing him to lead the way, a definitly tired and somewhat hesitant look still to his features. Glancing about the room as he enters, the officer looks for an open table against the likliness that all may be full, keeping his almost pensive silence.

Pausing to remove his cloak and hang it neatly by the door, Rhiforath looks about for his favorite table but sees it's already occupied. Instead he shrugs and heads for the bar itself. He lays a hand donw on the old wood and waits patiently for barhelp to take thier orders. He looks back to Analin, "Is there anything I can help you with at your office? You know I've worked as a scribe. Perhaps I can take some of that busy off of you, Sir."

Taking an open seat at the bar beside Rhif, the young Lieutenant shakes his head quietly, "Rhiforath!" he all but exclaims, "I get the most frightening feeling you're about to ask me for something. Now speak up, will you.. You should know all this buttering up isn't necessary, and, convincing as it may look, an act you need not put on for me." This is said in his usual, quiet tone, but laced with exasperation. He swipes a vagrant, and quite damp, strand of light hair from his face.

Rhiforath looks taken aback and blinks, studying Analdin's face very carefully and is silent for a long, long moment. Then his expression of surprise has subtly shifted to a puzzled look, then a frown, "Are you alright, Sir? I'm not buttering up for anyting. You just seem... well, awfully tired or harried alot. I don't have enough to do, so it is only logical that I could help. I used to do alot in the Officer's Quarters for Ravenwyr." The youth pauses again to continue looking at his Officer and then only turns his pale eyed gaze aside when the barhelp arrives. He smiles warmly at the girl, "Please, two tall ales, preferably still chilly from the cellars, eh? Thank you."

The girl glances at Analdin, then smiles back, "I'll bring ya close I can." With that, she turns with a swirl of skirts and goes to draw them.

Analdin raises a hand, as if to call after the girl, but drops it on the bar without saying a word in her direction, simply mumbling something to himself. Shaking his head quietly, rubbing his temples with a hand for a moment, he looks back to Rhif, "I'm quite alright, Rhiforath, more so than I've been in a long while. Just tired, that's all. There is a lot of work to do... even with my aide taking care of a lot of it. Still..." Trailing off, he shakes his head once more, casting the youth a suspicious look, "You sure you're not about to ask for something? Something, maybe, that you think it's best I be drunk for?"

Rhiforath laughs softly, "No, nothing at all unless you care to tell my why you wear a glove always on your left hand... but then, I'd be prying and that's rude, isn't it?" A twinkle of his more usual humor brightens his grey eyes but he sits comfortably, "No, really... I -would- like to do more. Surely there are things I can do to help you and your aid. Surely you should have more than one aid anyway. Not that I'm asking for a raise in pay or a promotion or anything. I haen't earned them, but I'd also rather not always have an idle mind. It's not like there's much of anything intellectually stimulating about standing watch at the Gate or street patrols. Tedious, actually."

The young woman retuns with two tall steins full of foamy, chilled Ale and turns away quickly to assist other patrons streaming in for the evening. Before she slips away, she smiles at them both again, dark brown hair glossy in the lantern light.

The smells of roasting meat, fresh baked bread, tobacco and fire wood smoke, sweaty men, damp leather and wool, ale and other things all kindle to make a warm and homey atmosphere.

Rhiforath picks up his ale and sips it, relishing the crisp drink.

A silent chuckle escapes the Lieutenant at the young man's words, no sound coming from him but amusement in his eyes and his shoulders shaking, as is normal with silent laughter, "I think I like that nothing at all better," he mumbles, a bit more loud than his usual murmurings but still not outright. Instead, he says quietly, "I suppose I could find something for you to do, if you honestly wish to help out with the tasks in my office... I can't assure you that they are any less tedious than watching the Gates, though." As the ale is delivered, the young officer stares at his, holding it in one hand, though doesn't make to drink it as yet.

Rhiforath shrugs over his ale, "Whatever. The practice can't hurt my penmanship. If I don't use it, it will only get worse and I rather think I have a good hand. Eventually I'd like to take more classes at the University but Lynnithia needs the sprae money I can bring home for now. For a nanny, to watch the chilren. Else she couldn't work and me not be there either." He picks up his stein again to sip from it, unnoticing Analdin's reluctance to drink his own.

A quick thumping of footsteps from the outside comes nearer, and a tall shadow comes nearer the doorway. Then the figure, a tall and imposing lordly man, pokes his head into the tavern. For a brief while his sharp blue eyes pierce the room, looking from one man to the next, and apparently not finding who he was looking for, he ducks his head quickly back out and tromps toward the common room.

Analdin nods at Rhif's words, continually looking into his own drink, staring down at the frothing liquid as if trying to summon the courage to drink it. "The university... An interesting place, if I may say so," this he does say, whether he may or no, with a hint of distain. "Yes... I suppose I can find you some work, if you're so anxious. Not the most interesting, you know, enough to put a man to sleep after twelve hours or so."

Sipping his own drink again, Rhif leans back on his stool and chuckles, "Well, my shifts aren't usually 12 hours, thank the ..." He hesitates the barest fraction, "Valar." He finishes. Then he shakes his head at himself, "But I can do a few hours of paperwork before my regular shifts. See if that doesn't ease the burden some and give me reason to look forward to walking around."

Only now noticing the Lietenant's reluctance to drink, the younger man adds in a lower voice, "I'm sorry. If you don't like ale... or aren't feeling well, sir, we can get you something else. Or would you prefer to just rest? I can call a coach." Honest concern colors his soft voice.

As if giving in to the young man's insistant request, Analdin tilts his head slightly, "Alright, then. Come by my office two hours or so before your shift tommorow, and I'll see what I can't dig up for you to do. Still have things sitting on my desk from the week Captain Elbarad..." he trails off, touch of amusement entering his tired eyes once more, almost laughing at himself. However, reaction delayed, he glances once more to the untouched stein before him, "I'm suprised you haven't heard, long as you've been by now with us. I hear the rumours fly in the barracks."

With that, he picks up the mug in one strong hand, and takes a nervous sip, some of the liquid disapearing down his throat before he breaks out coughing and cursing.

Rhiforath looks quietly back at his Lietenant after a glance over his shoulder as a stranger comes in and walks closely past them, "Heard what, sir? You know by now that nobody talks to me. I'm anathemia, you know. Tainted." It his the youth's turn to laugh silently, his eyes bright. There is oddly enough no trace of bitterness, not even after his nearly having been beaten to death only a handful of weeks ago. Even now his ribs ache but he ignores that, "Been speaking with that older fellow... Mithrandir. He talks to me. I'll proly wear his ears out before he leaves to go south."

Ithilir enters the inn, walking stiffly, and slowly. His weight on a wooden staff. He was once a tall man, but is bowed with pain, and appears older than his 30 winters now. He nods to Analdin, seeming to recognize him, but says nothing, as he makes his way to a chair, and orders a brandy from a passing waitress.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the drink down as if with finality and glaring at it, the Lieutenant regains his composure and looks to Rhif, "Heard of that is what." is all he says, quietly, hint of disapointment in his tone. "Mithrandir? I'd be suprised if he doesn't have your ears talked off as well.. Or you all black and blue with bruises from his big stick there." Rolling his right sleeve up a bit, he points out a healing bruise on his wrist, but before he finished explaining, a figure catches the corner of his eye, and he exchanges nods with Ithilir.

Ithilir speaks as Analdin nods, and says, "Good Evening, it has been a long time, since the Tourney I think. Analdin isn't it? "

Confusion is writ upon the younger lad's face at what Analdin says... or does not say, rather. So he drinks well from his ale and shrugs, "I don't follow you at all."

As his Officer addresses the stranger who has just taken a seat, Rhif turns on his stool to smile and nod his head in polite greeting.

Ithilir nods to the young Guardsman, and smiling tightly, says, "Please forgive my intrusion, go on, but if you would join me in a drink at your convenience?"

An even longer time since we drank together," Analdin says this quietly, almost beneath his breath, but adds louder, "Aye, Analdin I am, have been since I can remember." Rhiforath'w words draw him out for a moment, and he looks to the young man questioningly, "Don't follow me where, Rhiforath? About the drink, or the old man?" His attention, as before at the gates, seems to have drifted somewhat. Or, perhaps, the tiredness is taking over.

Rhiforath glances between Analdin and this stranger, not intending to be rude. He smiles, voice low to his Lietenant, "Both." He sips his ale and looks back to the other, "You care to join us Sir? You'd be welcome... are you newly in from Dol Amroth?"

Ithilir smiles at Analdin's jape, and says to Rhiforath, "I have been back once or twice, but it is long since I was here and able to take my leisure."

Analdin nods quietly to Rhiforath, "Perhaps another time, then, I can do more explaining." He manages a tight smile as Ithilir speaks, at the older man, though his eyes shine with something else, no smile hiding behind the bright blue. "Aye, quite welcome to join us, sir," the last, the 'sir' s added almost grudgingly.

Ithilir laughs, and says, "Even now, you do not trust me Analdin?" A twinkle in his eye, betrays his humour, "Well, I accept your kind offer, if you are sure I do not intrude? I find little enough in this city that is not strange to me, but you at least are a familiar face."

Rhiforath stands and moves down a seat to offer his to the stranger to sit next to Analdin, whom he evidently knows, "Yes, please join us and take your liesure." He smiles, "I was just telling my Lietenant that he works too hard sometimes. I am Rhiforath, Man at Arms... yourself, Sir?"

Ithilir rises slowly, and hobbles over to take the offered chair.

Ithilir bows slightly, and says, 'Ithilir, of Dol Amroth, pleased to make your acquaintance Rhyforath."

Analdin sits quietly as the action takes place around him, Ithilir speaking, Rhiforath moving, before he has a chance to get a word in edgewise. Ithilir's remark, however, seems to disarm the young lieutenant, whose smile almost appears not forced, "No, no intrustion at all, sir," the polite address still begrudged, "Every man needs a drink now and then." Falling silent, he listens to introductions, stifling a yawn.

The young dark haired man inclines his head in return and eyeing Ithilir's clothing adds, "Captain." He takes his new seat and sips his ale, nearly gone now. A slender hand beckens the serving girl when she can get free. She nods and will be with them as soon as she can.

Rhif leans forward and glances down to Analdin, "I'll be there, in the morning... early." Looking back to their guest the youth goes on, "I've never been to Dol Amroth, but my step-mother is from near abouts there... hmmm... can't recall the name of the fief, but little farmstead in the Late Lord Sirion's holdings. Calembol or something like."

Ithilir nods, and says, "I have not been to Calembel, my family is from a small village near Linhir."

Rhiforath nods, "I'm not familar with it. Is Dol Amroth as beauitful as I've heard? I am given to understand that the weather is milder... the sea pleasant. I've only been north, in Rohan and on. Except for Pelargir..." He pauses, "I was there when she was sieged. I don't think I'd ever care to return there."

With a quiet nod, the young officer replies to Rhif's statement, "You'll find me there." That said, pushing his hardly touched drink from him, he stands slowly, almost stiffly. Smiling, almost naturally now, to Ithilir, he says, "'Twas good to be seeing you again, Lord Ithilir. Perhaps we shall meet again soon. But, I fear I shall drop on the tables if I don't get some rest soon." Adding in Rhif's direction a "And thank you for the drink, Rhiforath. I shall see you in the morning." Once again rubbing his temples with a hand, looking down atthe floor, he walks out of the tavern, almost tripping on his own feet.

Ithilir nods, and rises to bow as Analdin leaves.

Rhiforath stands as his officer prepares to depart, "Certainly Sir. Rest well." He watches Analdin leave, concern faintly evident on his young face.