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.

Mithrandir enters the Tavern from the Entryway.
Mithrandir has arrived.

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 left shoulder is company insignia, a Silver Ship set against the Gates of Minas Tirith, and on his right the cabled silver bars of a Lieutenant and Company Commander. 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.

Mithrandir:
        Before you is an old man, long grey and as gnarled as the ancient staff upon which he leans. Great cragged brows peek out from beneath a wide-brimmed pointy blue hat and a sweeping silver beard that extends past his waist. He is clad in ash-grey robes and a winding scarf and his feet are shod in black leather boots.
        Both the crooked point of his hat and the frayed edges of the scarf hint of long roads and hard days. Clearly, this man has led a difficult life and it does not seem amiss that he should seem so worn and weary.
        Yet...
        Perhaps all is not as it may seem. Every once in a while, you catch a glimpse of his eyes and they are dark as coal and glittering black. Stranger still is the gleaming sword hilt that at times is revealed beneath his robes. Indeed, even his movement seems at odds with his appearance--quick and steady steps that belie his age.

Arnafel:
         He is dressed in clothes which seem designed for comfort and free movement rather than ostentatiousness. His breeches are of soft brown doeskin, and his tunic, white in colour with a ship and swan etched upon it in silver, is worn over a thin suit of leather armor. It is belted around his waist by a wide brown leather belt, from which hangs a small pouch from the right side, with a simple dagger in a worn sheath next to it. A brown cloak falls from his shoulders, reaching till slightly below his knees, clasped around his throat by a silver brooch in the shape of a swan. His long black hair is held back from his forehead by a braided leather thong. His boots are of brown leather, of calf-height, with their tops turned down. The only feature in his ensemble which stands out is the lethal looking longsword which hangs from the left side of his belt in a beautifully tooled scabbard. It looks to be an ancestral blade, an impression which is confirmed by the well-worn ivory hilt which bears testament to th
e generations of warriors who have carried it into battle.

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Weather:            Clear
Time:                Before Dawn <about 4 AM >
Season:              Autumn
Date:               Hevensday - October 3, 3014

Real Time:          Tue Jun 23 13:20:45 1998
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The early hours before dawn bring few into the tavern of the White Tree Inn. In fact, many of the last night's customers are beginning to wake up from their drunken state and stagger from the room. One man, however, sitting near the fireplace in the back of the room, is quite awake, watching the citizens of the city and the travellers from the lands inside the tavern at their chatting and snoring. A few come in, seeking breakfast before the long workday begins, though none approach the black-clad man sipping at a glass in the back.

There is the slightest sound of wood upon wood from the floor above, and then a time passes so that the light knocking sound might be forgotten. And just when that time comes when the memory of the noise has faded from the minds of the many, a strange figure pauses to darken the door: tall and stern and grey, a gnarled staff in his hand and upon that staff perched a great blue hat.

A fire sizzles in the fireplace, shining light on the windowless room, and spreading heat in the autumn cold that settles around the room. Taking a small sip from the glass before him, a glass full of a brownish liquid, the young man beside the fire, sitting in a chair pulled away from the table nearby, looks about the room. As the door opens and a silhouette is formed against it by the darkness in that part of the room so far from the fire, the main source of light, the man's eyes rise to see what has caused the action, the bit of wind from the opening door causing the fire to flicker some.

The old man steps into the room, letting the door close behind him. He casts his eyes over the assembled, moving towards the hearth only at the last of his glance. He pauses at the table nearest, to lean his staff and hat against that wood while he draws out his pipe, and packs it full.

Footsteps clatter down the stairs, and a firm tread is heard on the wooden floor as a tall figure opens the door and steps in. He stoops slightly to enter the tavern for the ceiling is low, looking around the tavern as he makes his way to a table close near the hearth and pulls a chair out, seating himself. A slight frown passes over his face as his gaze falls on a vaguely familir figure, and then it passes, leaving his face expressionless.

Analdin's calm eyes follow the old man's movements carefully, though he doesn't stir from his seat by the fire. His attention lingers on the newcomer nearby and, leaving off his bored studying of the few patrons in this early morning, he takes to watching this man, only occasionally sipping at his drink. The sweet scent of apples can be smelled near the young man as he drinks from his glass. Another man entering the tavern draws his attention, but it flickers back to the other soon enough.

The pipe is small, short and stubby and made of clay. The old wanderer draws out a stick from the crackling fire, setting its burning end against over the bowl of the clay, and puffs with his cheeks until the weed within comes alight. A merry glow lies within the bowl as the stick is returned to the stones, and an answering glow fills the eyes of the wizard.

The smoke follows him, it seems, as he turns and steps back to the table where his staff already rests. As he settles in and awaits the service of the bar, he continues to smoke, and his smoke continues to stand around him in spirals, fading into the air about only with slowness.

After watching the old man for some minutes, keeping his silence, the young man in the talbard of the Guard leans forward a little ways, and, with a quick glance towards the bar, says to the smoking man, "I wouldn't expect service too quickly, sir. They seem to be a bit short on hands this morning, even with so few people about." His words are quietly spoken, the simple advice offered from one stranger to another, though the light of recognition shines in his eyes. With a cough as he inhales some of the smoke around the old man, he leans back in his chair once more, casting a glare at the spirals of smoke.

The comments draw a nod, though not a glance, from the aged man.

"I am somewhat accustomed to patience," he replies, a quirky smile tugging at his lips. "I will wait."

It is apparent to anyone who looks at him that the blood of Numenor runs true in Arnafel. His tall stature and grey eyes attest to his bloodline. At first glance, his youthful face and slim build give an impression of youth, but a closer look reveals that his eyes do not belong in that youthful face. They are the eyes of a man who has seen and borne much, a man who is burdened by cares and responsibilities which no one of his youth should have to bear. A long scar tracing his left jawline, indistinguishable except in moments of anger when it stands out whitely, contributes to this impression. He looks like one who keeps his own counsel, a man of few words.

Arnafel calls for a mug of ale, and as it arrives, he looks around again. It is with some surprise that he notes the old man sitting close to the hearth, for he is indulging in a most peculiar activity, smoke streaming from the pipe in his mouth, and swirling around him. The flames in the hearth leap up at that moment and highlight the shadows and crevices of his face as he leans forward for a moment to speak to the man seated near him in Guard's livery. A faint memory, or rather a memory of a memory is sparked in Arnafel's mind and then fades again...

"I had expected as much," the young man mutters beneath his breath, shaking his head quietly. He casts a quick glance and a quiet shrug to the other nearby, the tall man in the clothing worn by those from Dol Amroth. With that, he relaxes once more in his chair, eyes lighting on the fire beside him as he sips at the drink in his hand.

Other than the crackling of the fire nearby and the chatter of quiet voices from around the room, this end of the tavern remains almost solemnly quiet, no one speaking in a tone that could be considered loud save the big man calling for his ale.

Mithrandir does indeed wait with all patience, the morning sliding past him as untold hundreds have before. The firelight stands behind him, now, and the smoke all around: and if his darkling eyes are bright as the fire's most enthusiastic coals, that is all right. The stem of his pipe taps against his dry lips, and those eyes focus on something far away, beyond the walls...

The sun slowly rises in the sky, spreading its brilliant light upon Gondor.

The door opens, allowing another patron entrance into the tavern, and shedding the red light of a rising sun inside the doorway, but only a short way inside it is once more shrouded by shadows that choke off the natural light of the sun, as if trying to make the fire which lights the room the supreme source of light to match the burning ball in the sky. Analdin keeps silent as the room begins to gradually grow noisier, watching a number of his men enter, speaking loudly and, seating themselves at the bar at the other side of the room, becoming somewhat rowdy just off duty.

The influx of patrons does nothing to ameliorate the plight of the shorthanded staff, but at the last one of them does manage to detach herself from the crowd and come to find the old one who entered so long ago.

She approaches softly, slowly, head cocked to one side: her eyes watch the old wizard with a doe's caution as she closes. "Can I get you anything, sirrah?" she asks, and is answered by a nod and an order which pleases her: cheese, bread, soup.

After watching the exchange between the wizard and the girl, the young officer leans over in his chair once more so as to speak to the old man without having to talk loudly, "You know, sir, they have excellent drinks here.. You might try one before you..." he trails off, looking around, as though he has said or was about to say something he should have, adding simply, "You might try one."

Arnafel wraps his cloak around himself as he leans back with his mug of ale, for the warmth of the hearth does not penetrate to the dark corner where he sits. Another purpose motivates him, for it is in his best interests that his livery not be widely noticed.

Quick eyes turn then from under great and grizzled brows, and the smile that quirked the lips of the old now blossoms full. "Shall I?" he queries, but it is clear from tone and flash of eye that he asks less about the drinks than the other matter.

And yet he continues on the course he had set, one brow arching like a great caterpillar by dawn's waking light. "It is early, yet, for drinking... and I must go far, as you seem to know."

Analdin shrugs lightly in his chair, taking a sip at his own drink before responding, "They have excellent cider, though I couldn't speak too much for the ale," he leaves off there with an almost uncaring shrug, and adds quietly, "As to where or how far you are going, I know nothing, except that you are taking from me one of my better guardsmen." With that, he leans back in his chair, a hint of anger in his eyes as he looks at, almost studies the old man.

A spare hint of a glitter touches the old eyes as they look upon the lieutenant. "Your guardsman?" he questions, head tilted ever slightly. "The King's Guards, rather... or at least, in these days, the Steward's. And it is by the Steward's son's orders, and under his command, that the man of whom you speak rides with me."

The young officer shakes his head, "The Steward's Guards, yes sir, but a man under my command. But..." He trails off, shaking his head once more, and setting his cider down on the nearest table, which seems to be empty yet. His bright blue eyes shine with an almost orange light as the fire reflects in them. Something resembling anger remains in his tone, though it has no specific direction, though he doesn't add anything more to his argument.

Fanathir enters the Tavern from the Entryway.
Fanathir has arrived.

The food is brought, then; and the old figure accepts it gracefully, and holds his words until the woman has passed again out of earshot.

"I would not harm your pride," he says then, though his eyes and attention are for the food: the hard cheese, and the sweet brown bread, and the soup of potato and onion bulb. "But this is not a matter for you to question, man of Gondor. Trust in your betters, and keep to your rank."

Watching the young serving woman until she has disapeared, the Guardsman listens to the old man's words, biting his lower lip to keep from spitting a reply. He appears calm in posture, almost, but his eyes are a whirlpool and the features of his face hard and almost angry. "I would be the last to question Lord Faramir's commands and actions, sir," he begins quietly, eyes continually skimming the room to be sure no one can or will hear his words. He has the look of a schoolboy doing something he knows he shouldn't be, but doing it anyway, and being overly cautious not to be caught, "But a man so recently joined in our ranks, only a few months, and one his age... It makes me wonder, to be honest."

"So too did Faramir wonder," the old wizard replies, a smile in his voice. The first break of bread is dipped in the heady soup, and brought past his lips: and a smile spreads more readily in reality, then, as well as in the chords of his speech.

The eyes turn once more upon the guardsman, twinkling as their owner says this:

"I am old in ways you cannot imagine." A sigh, half sad and half true, breaks the words. "Faramir has come to trust my vision, which has through age come to see things lost on others. You must trust it to."

The tavern door silently shuts behind the large green-cloaked figure and the morning gondorian winds put out some candles at the outern-most tables. Slipping silently across the room the figure pauses for a moment to set his eyes on the dim lights and then continues his path towards the bar. Looking a bit suspiciously at the old man speaking of his Captian he leans his back towards the counter, but not before he gets the chance to exchange some words with the tender of the dinner.

Analdin shakes his head quietly, eyes shining all the more brightly at the old wizard's reply to his question. "Must I?" his tone is almost sarcastic. Settling on the edge of his chair, the young officer looks intently at the old man at the table near his chair, the fire at his back here at the wall of the room opposite the bar. The young officer appears to have slept well of late, his eyes are bright, and the circles that so often rest beneath them are not present.

Arnafel's eyes constantly stray to the old man as he converses with the Guardsman, for memory darts at the edges of his mind like hounds nipping at the heels of a bear they would bring down..and then he straightens as the elusive picture finally springs to mind...of this man standing in deep converse with Lord Helorondur in the Court of the Tree. He gazes him with, weighing him in his thoughts, for his interest in this man has been kindled..a man who Lord Helorondur would find of such interest..a traveller like any other, and yet is there is something about him which draws a man's attention and captivates him.

"There are no bonds upon you to do so," the wizard admits, another bite of the savory soup passing his lips upon a carriage of bread. "But I thought you convinced some time ago now: and I know your lips find the words of ancient places easier to speak than they did when I arrived."

The old one watches the young Analdin with some interest, boring into that man with a dancing flame. "Or am I mistaken?" he asks. "Would you wish to try again your sword against an old man, and find him a match for you?"

As though taking a step back in his argument, the young officer of the Guard remains silent a few moment before answering the old man's questions. "They do..." he says almost hesitantly, not mentioning what 'they' are as if it were obvious enough. Matching the other's gaze with his own, Analdin shakes his head quietly, "No.. I've no need to find myself bested by you once more. My wrist still bears a bruise from your stick there." he nods in the direction of the wizard's staff leaning against the table as his argument takes no particular direction, seeming to slow with his slight hesitation, "But am I not allowed to be indignant when one of my best men is taken from my command? Just lately he has helped more then I imagined he could have."

The tavern tender leans from behind and taps the scout gently on his shoulder, coming to him from his back, and puts a large mug, filled with boiling black liquid next to him. The scout shakes as he feels the grip on his arm, instictivly jumps around and raises his hand as to strike the tender. In the last moment his hand is stopped and the bartender holds his scream, which would certainly attract some unwanted attention. Setting back to his place at the bar the scout sips some of his drinks and his face gains a healthier redish color and his youthly mustashes get colored black. Putting the mug back he glances over the old man and the Liutenant, slightly confused by the nature of their discussion. Seeing the Guard pointing to his wounds the scout unbuttones his cloak and his hilt shines with the flamish red of the firesite.

A pause there is while the wizard considers this, taking a mouthful of the smoky cheese to chew upon in the meantime. Swallowing, and washing it down with a draught of the heavy soup, the old one clears his moustache, and makes this reply:

"If you care for your man," he says, "be glad that he comes: for this journey will grant him his time to find his destiny, which no man should lack. If you care instead more for your country, be glad: for more good by far can he do with me in the South, than ever could one more guard do on the Ringed City's walls. Only if you care for none but your own ease should you be sad: for I mark that I do, indeed, take a good man from you."

Analdin's attention remains strictly on the old man; he has given up his study of the tavern's occupants to concentrate on his words, serious as they are. It is a good minute, maybe two, before the young man speaks once more, "I suppose you speak rightly, sir," he relents, leaning back once more in his chair and taking the cider glass from the table nearby. Drinking it down, the last small bit remaining going into his mouth, he swollows, thinking once more before saying resignedly, "You always seem to get the best of me, sir, with your lectures about my country. Perhaps I should consider it useless to continue my complaints..."

He breaks off, a wry smile touching his face, "Though I am still displeased that the boy is being taken from my company, it would seem you know some little of what would help him best."

"I am old," the wizard repeats, "and through age, my eyes have come to see many things.

"But there is some time yet, before I leave," he notes, fishing about to soak up more of the potato broth in what remains of his bread. "What of you, lieutenant? What more of the Old ways may I show you, ere I depart your company for the black perils of the south?"

The empty glass remaining in his hands, the Lieutenant once more pauses to consider the old man's question, "What of the old ways? I was told once that a man who doesn't know what he knows nothing about will have a hard time finding anything about it." Wih this confusing, or rather confused, sentence from the young man, he says, "And if I know nothing about the old ways, how am I to know what more I wish to know about them?"

As he finishes his ale, Arnafel stretches luxuriously, for he has not had much rest these past few days. He steps to the bar, then stops abruptly as a shadowy figure appears at the door of the tavern and seems to look around for someone, his gaze stopping as it comes to rest on Arnafel. Anafel nods slowly and steps out of the tavern, falling into convertion with the other man as they make their way to the stairs.

This draws a laugh from the wizard, who nods his long face approvingly. "Well said," he replies. "And so you shall learn a bit, perhaps. Tell me: what do you know of the days of Old, before the fall of Numenor... or even before her rise?"

Arnafel heads for the Inn, leaving the Tavern.
Arnafel has left.

Analdin doesn't take any time at all to consider this question, and answers immediatly, "I have heard the name, Numenor, and a little about it while I was..." he trails off, and adds almost sheepishly, "I have heard some little about it, though know nothing of what happened. My father didn't think it necessary, I suppose, for a smith to know. And I've given it less thought myself."

"A tragedy, that," the old man replies, shaking his head. "For Gondor is the last of the lands of fallen Numenor that remained faithful, and strong enough to stand unbent by the forces of the Shadow."

A crease setting in upon his brow, the wizard begins then a story: and it is a story both long in its term and breadth, but short in the telling: of how Numenor rose after the Last Alliance, and of her glory: of how her kings grew vicious, and of the rising hatred against the First Born; of how the kings at last stopped naming themselves with Tar-, the Sindarin, and used instead Ar-, the mannish, to designate their kingship. And at last he tells of Ar-Pharazon the Golden, last King of Numenor.

"He led the greatest army the world has yet seen," the old one says, "in a time before even I walked these shores. The Enemy in the East surrendered before his might upon the streets of Umbar, and was brought back to Numenor in chains, your father's father's lands. And there his lies poisoned the King, until he led an assault on the Furthest West in spite of the Ban of those who rule there... and Numenor was lain low."

"There are tapestries of the Deluge in the library here," the wizard notes, smiling with impossible sadness. "Go and look, sometime."

Listening with rapt attention to the tale, the young officer doesn't seem to notice anything more in the tavern.. though, once or twice, his gaze strays to the doorway as someone enters, recognition lighting in his eyes before he returns his attention to the story. "That's what those tapestries were.." he mumbles to himself at the end of the telling, looking questioningly to the old man. "Numenor was lain low? Did enemies of those men come and attack, then, and defeat them on their own ground? How, then, did anyone from that place come to be here, if, as you say, it was surrounded by water?"

"No," the old one replies solemnly. "Far greater powers than that threw Numenor down. For the island exists no more... in despair, the Valar--those who guard the Furthest West--threw down their guardianship when the ships of men came unto their shores, and plead with the one who created the world to set things right again."

"It was He," the wizard replies, "who punished their coming with the deluge: and Numenor of old sunk beneath the waves and was lost for all time. A few of the Faithful, six ships... they came here, ere the end, and it was from their lines that the heros of Gondor and Arnor were founded."

Minuial enters the Tavern from the Entryway.
Minuial has arrived.

"At which point you would claim," the young officer notes, eyes shining brightly as he soaks up the knowledge of what happened, "That if they had remembered the old ways, none of the falling would have occured?" A touch of mischief lights in his smile, small as it is, as he makes light of the history and the old man's claims of earlier.

"It is not a claim I would make lightly," the wizard replies, taking the eyes of the other with his own: and as he speaks, those eyes and those words shiver the chords of the world around, until they seem to fill the room and all the air sings in harmony.

And then the words fade, and the echo passes as if it were never there; and the old man takes up his last break of bread, and tears off some cheese to accompany it ere he takes it in his mouth.

Analdin meets the old man's gaze for a few moments, but as he once more reaches for his food, the young man stands slowly. "I thank you, sir," he begins, almost hesitantly glancng towards the door, "For the lesson on history. It will someday come into some use, I hope, so your effort won't be wasted." Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a few copper pieces, setting them on the other table, the one empty except for his finished drink, and leaves them there as pay to the tavern. "I have duties to attend to, now, if you will excuse me."

The hollow mug sounds at the counter and the scout puts of his cloak now, some brown leaves are seem on his mustard shirt as he throws his hood over his shoulder. A slight jerk can be noticed from the bartender as the scout leans towards him again and points the breakfast at the menu. Leaving the counter the tender setts the table near the firesite, and the scout follows him silently. He sits down at the table, his fingers straightening the table cloth. Glancing his eyes into the firesite for a few moments is interrupted as Madeleine returns with a glass and a tall slim bottle filled with red liquid, "the finest Amrothian red wine", she wispers to the scout which nods at her words and fills his cup. He seems to be preocupied with his thoughts to notice anything else happening around the tavern.

A young woman, strangley with short hair of a boyish manner, enters the taproom and pauses under the arch of the doorway to look amongst its clients in search of a figure. Finding a man, alone at the back of the tavern, she sees him lift his chin and give a nod and smile in recognition to her and she heads towards him with a like expression. Weaving her way through the tables, she passes another man by the fire, Fanathir, and her eyes linger on him for but a breath before sweeping on without acknowledgement. As she finally reaches the man at the table, he rises to embrace her and the two speak a few quick words in the northern tongue before taking their seat.

Mithrandir inclines his jaw rightfully, and then lets it fall in a nod. "May your honor keep you," he replies. "Seek the library more often, if you have time: and if you do not have time, make time."

The smile on the wizard's lips is unmistakable now, but he pardons the younger man. As Analdin passes just beyond the doorway, he might hear an old voice calling to the barmaid: "Cider, if you would. I have heard it recommended highly."

With a final curious look to the wizard, the young Guardsman gives him a quiet, short bow and, turning on a heal as only a trained soldier does, steps out into the cool autumn morning.

You leave the Tavern and enter the Inn.