End of Stonewright's Street -- The Barracks
The end of Stonewright's Street runs right up against the side of the mountain here at this sheltered location. The long low buildings of the garrison stationed here take up most of the available space around this square, with the soldiers' quarters to the outer edge, sheltering the officers' houses from the brisk winds. The sounds of drilling and sword practice drift up from behind one of the myriad building - the commanders' voices yelling above the noise of the trampling feet. Now and again, some soldier or another dashes across the cobbled square on errand to or from the Citadel and the higher officers stationed there.

Malahir:
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. A silver cord loops around his left shoulder forming a epaulet. 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.

Arya:
You catch sight of a young lady, no more than a child, perhaps eight years old. Her dark brown eyes are large with curiousity, and her face is far from pretty. One would call her a plain child. Pulled back in a tight braid down her back is her long and thin black hair, reaching almost to her waist even when braided. Her mouth is usually straight, and a puzzled expression often adorns her childish face, though you can almost imagine from that the look of joyful glee she must get when solving those puzzles which often occupy her mind.
Her clothing is plain. A simple, white smock covers a faded dark red dress which almost hangs on her thin frame. A pair of brown leather boots cover her feet, boots that are small and come up only just past her ankles, their tops hiding beneath the hem of her dress. The bottoms of her boots are, more often than not, either dusty or muddy, depending on the weather.
She appears to be a sweet young girl, though intelligence lights in her eyes.

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Weather:            Cloudy
Time:                Early Morning <about 7 AM (breakfast time) >
Season:              Autumn
Date:               Sterday - November 11, 3014

Real Time:          Wed Jul 08 18:32:28 1998
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Even though it is only morning, the sun has been up just a few hours and yet is not seen for the clouds covering the sky, the Guard of the city are already up and about. Dawn signals the change of shift, and now the main traffic of such is over. Men are already down in the training grounds, asleep in the barracks, on duty, or checking out the nearest taverns. The Guardsmen in the training grounds seem to the of more interest than the rest to one ragged child, as she sits, cross-legged and quiet, on the short stone wall seperating a good part of the road's end from the practice fields below. Her attention is focused on one pair of men at a practice match with their blunted steel, both sweating hard even in the winter winds under the light armor they wear.

Malahir is sitting on an upturned emptied crate, contently eating his breakfast. Sweeping up the remains of a runny egg with the last morsel of toast, the Corporal gone Lieutenant, uncrosses his left leg from his right and looks up at the men exchanging blows with their training swords. Glancing across the field, he notices a familiar figure sitting dimuratively on the wall. Recognizing the child as the girl with two names, Malahir casually strolls over to her, interested in the mystery that she had set in motion.

The young lass pays absolutly no attention to anything other than the men on the practice field, those crossing blades in the morning bits of sunlight that can be seen peeking through the clouds every so often. Her eyes see each move, following the blades intently, not allowing anything to distract her from it. What should bring such a young girl's attention to the swordfighting is unknown, but she is obviously involved in it.

Malahir passes by the swordsmen, and offers them a quick guide, "good news men, with swordsfighting like that, the Lieutenant wont have my rank, he'd have my head!", buckling on a shield that was tossed on cue by the humble aide Mathirion, Malahir strikes his own blunted weapon against it. "Listen up men, I may look round and slow, but my swordarm is constanly in motion. The key to winning a fight is motion, momentum, and surprise", he points to a nearby guard, "Let's see what you got sir".

As Malahir speaks up, making fun of the two swordsmen, they do turn slightly redder than usual, and the young lass on the stone wall giggles lightly. With the acoustics of the training ground, her laugh, so foreign to such a setting, carries over the noise of steel ringing against steel as the men practice. She suddenly draws a breath, leaping off the wall and ducking down in plain sight, though she may think herself behind the wall, and begins to nurse a scraped knee.

The Guardsman Malahir points out, a tall, sturdy, nervoud, farmboy looking, ner recruit, picks up one of the practice swords lying about and holds it carefully, as if worried about hurting himself, as he watches the Acting Lieutenant with fright in his eyes.

Malahir, a bit distracted by the interuption from the child, hides a slight smile from both guardsmen and child. Resuming his fighting stance, defensive in nature, he balks at the man, "come now, show me what you got. Attack me", awaiting the man's attack as he winks to Mathirion.

The hesitant Guardsman swings his sword carefully, almost as though afraid of hurting Malahir as he does so. The blade, dulled as it may be, swings easily through the air in a loose arc in the direction of the Acting Lieutenant's upper sword arm.

Mathirion hides an amused smile as he stands back, at easy attention, hands clasped behind his back, watching his officer and the new recruit battle. They do make something of a comical pair.

Above the heads of the men on the grounds, the young girl, upon seeing that her knee is more than simply scrapped with blood coming from her wound, begins to cry, her salty tears mixing in with the blood and causing it to drip down her leg and onto her bare foot, for she has nothing to clean it with.

Malahir began his manuevering quite esquisitively, half turning to bring the shield toward the strike, and sweeping his right foot back, his sword held high over his head like a scorpion's tail ready counter, but upon hearing the cries of the child, he suddenly looked away, losing all concentration. The expression on his face was full of pity for the hurt girl, and there was only a hint of embarrassment on his face when the guardsmen's blunted sword hits him in the chest squarely. Sprawling to the ground in an awkwardly unpleasant fall, the man lies there and moans, calling for his aide, "Mathirion! Help me up will you?".

Mathirion, covering the amused laughter in his face, though unable to hide it in his coal black eyes. "Of course, Lieutenant... couldn't have you lying flat on your back when the city needs saving." Casting the new recruit who stares at Malahir with wide eyes a comforting glance, the acting Corporal says, "Don't worry. He is not usually so blustery, I can assure you... Or next time, refuse his request for a partner. It may be the safer option." His words are said with with a laugh in his voice, obviously setting the younger man at ease.

Malahir hides his blushing with stern orders, "Mathirion, conduct the rest of the training. I am a bit distracted at the moment", walking up to the guard, "it was a good attack sir, we'll continue this another time", winking to play along with the jesting Mathirion. Malahir walks away from the group and toward the crying child. Making his approach known with a few coughs he speaks up, "Are you alright child?".

Laughter not completly erased from his quiet voice, the dark haired Mathirion tilts his head in aknowledgement of Malahir's orders, "Yes, Lieutenant. Would you like to me demonstrate more falling techniques as well?" His words are lost on the officer's departing back, and the older Guardsman begins lecturing the recruits on how one correctly holds a sword.

At the man's approach, Arya looks up, eyes wide and puffy from tears, "M-M'knee's hurt," she stutters through sobs, "D-do you h-have a kerchief, sir? M'ma just bandages it with hers when I scrape it so." She looks up pleadingly at the Guard, sniffling.

Malahir looks down at the child, remorse flushing his face. He quickly removes his shield and draws back his cloak. Reaching inside, he pulls out a white silk handkerchief, lined with gold thread. He bends down beside the girl and offers

The young lass draws a hard breath as the fine kerchief is drawn from the Guardsman's pocket, forgetting about her bleeding knee. "Where'd you get that, sir?" Her speech isn't so common and rough as most of the street children of her appearance. Though elements from the gaminesque types, a touch of former breeding shows through in her talk. "I've not seen many Guards with finery like that. Most've them just wipe their nose on their sleeve, my mama said..." she trails off at mention of her mother, lowering her eyes, the wound almost completly forgotten, "And she'd have my hide if she knew I was here."

Malahir listens intently to the little girls strange accent, the unfamiliarity of it pleases him like a fresh start. Seemingly lost in her conversation as he places the handkerchief on Arya's knee, he hasn't even thought of replying to break her off. Taking this time to address her wound, Malahir wipes off the blood from her shins with his fathers handkerchief and smiles warmly at her when she is done talking, "There my lady, you have stopped bleeding".

Not making a move to stand up, the girl looks up shyly at Malahir, a thankful smile on her face. Like the smiles of children, smiles that seem unable to be broken, it not only lights on her face, though her lips are upturned, but shines most truely in her large eyes. "Thank you most kindly, m'lord," she says with a duck of her head, almost a curtsy sitting down. Her smile fades slowly, however, face draining as recognition replaces the thanks in her eyes, "Aren't you the one who-?" She cuts off, obviously sure of the anser to her question. "Oh, please, please, sir, don't tell my mama that I'm here," she pleads.

Malahir tilts his head, curious and mystified by the little girl. Truely, this man seems touched by her actions, as if a string has been tied to his heart and tugged on as she smiles. He keeps his hand on the dressing he made for her wound, "I'm I hurting you? Hear, you press down on this, keep it there so the blood will clot". Shaking his head, he whispers, "It's are little secret", pausing to assure the girl with a pat on the other unwounded knee, he then asks, "Do you remember me Lyanna?".

Sighing with obvious relief, the lass makes a move to try standing up, but regrets her decision immediatly. Settling down against the wall, as if to get her back more comfortable while she holds the dressing to her knee, she nods quietly, slowly, "Yes, I remember you. You were the nice man from the grounds," she motions with her head towards the training grounds, "I met the other day." Straightening her posture a bit, she adds in a mocking tone, "You may call me..." her tone humbles somewhat, with an added twiching up of her small lips into a smile, "Arya. Lyanna, that's my grandmother's name. She was a lady, you know."

Malahir stands up with Arya, and decides to sit on the wall beside where Ayra stands. "Arya", tossing the word over a few times, "that is a beautiful name my lady, you should use it more often", offering her a space beside him on the wall, "Do you have time to sit here for awhile, I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble with your mother", he asks.

As she looks up at the Acting Lieutenant, Arya's ears take a hint of red in their tips, "Thank you again, sir." She almost winces though, at the thought that her name maybe pretty, "It's an old name, my mom says it means trouble in the old tongue." A sly grin touches her face, and she dips quite obviously intentionally into street argot, "I've got plenty o' time, sir. M'ma doesn' 'spect me 'ome 'till later, 'till midday meal, 's long 's she doesn' know I'm 'ere botherin' th' Guards, I'm 'kay." Then, with an innocent smile in the Guardsman's direction, she adds, "I forgot your name, sir.. Or should I just call you Lieutenant? I can read rank, you know. Been around that long."

Malahir eyes the lass, his smile broadens as her slang gets tougher to decipher. But he nods despite not understanding all that she says, he mentions out of the blue, "You wouldn't happen to know a lad named Dric would you?", but this only seems to depress the Lieutenant. He waves his hands, "forget I mentioned that name Arya", he looks into her eyes and suddenly remembers that she asked him a question, "Oh, yes, my name is Malahir Agendir, you can call me Malahir, or corporal if you like".

A puzzled look comes to Arya's face as the name Dric is mentioned, but realization dawns in a few moments, "Oh, yes, Dric!" her chatter continues, as if she doesn't notice the officer's depressed look at that name, "The blacksmith's daughter talked about him all the time. She said he was dreamy, and he loved to play in her father's forge, but I don't see how any right thinking boy would want to be in a forge, espicially one who got to wear a Guard uniform!" Taking a breath to continue, she finally notices the man's face, and stops short with a question instead, "Corporal? But sir, you wear the stripes of a Lieutenant."

Malahir follows the conversation about the young drummer boy Dric. His far off look is brought back to Arya when she questions him about his rank, her voice acting like a tugging on his tabard, drawing him back to the present day. He looks down at her and then to his silver cords he wears signifying his acting rank, "Oh, well you are quit right Arry for assuming I am a Lieutenant, but this rank is only temporary. The real lieutenant is on a quest, maybe for a real long time. So I'm filling in for him. Dric used to call me corporal, alot like you say things", he smiles with a slight sad look in his eyes.

The young girl's brow wrinkles some, "I heard that Dric's brother was an officer too, a Lieutenant or something like that. Or so that smith's daughter always said. You like him, don't you?" The question is said in a tone less prattling than the rest of her conversation, "He's a nice young man, but he is far too old to pay me any attention. Maybe...." she trails off with a shake of her head, "Have you seen him of late? I haven't. They say his brother drove him off, the women at the Inn outside the Gates do. But they're old and don't know anything. Just gossip. Where did the real Lieutenant go, then? And why would he just leave someone in his place and not promote them perminantly. That sounds rude to me."

Malahir smile comes back to life as the lass with the funny accent launches into a long string of questions, rhetorical and otherwise. After he notices a pause in Arya's talking, he sighs, "It is good that you are curious about things. Dric was too. No matter how much it might hurt the parents, children must always have the right to find out for themselves", shaking his head, "I'm sorry Arya, I didn't mean to get off the subject, Dric is the Lieutenant's brother, and he isn't missing, he has left to discover what he has been missing. Adventurous hearts tend to break the hearts of those that can't seem to leave home", he rubs his eyes, "Could I ask you a question?".

Arya listens to Malahir's words with the same intent that she spoke with, eyes wide as the Guardsman speaks to her. Her prattle seems to stop as the Acting Lieutenant questions her, and she gives a hard nod of her head, "Oh, certainly, sir. Ask all you wish, and I'll answer if I can. I like the Guards down here, but my mama thinks they're a bad lot and will hurt me, but I really don't think so, espicially since you helped me with my knee and-" she breaks off into an embaressed silence, "My apoligies for all the talk, sir. Ask away."

Malahir grins and shakes his hands, likewise gesturing with his hands, "No apoligies necessary madam. I appreciate the company of a lady, it's not everyday that I can get away from this helpless lot of farmhands, and laundry washers", thumbing at the company in training, their loud busterous jeers, still probably centered on Malahir's fall can be overheard above the robin's chirping overhead. Again, lost in the moment, Malahir almost forgets his train of thought, "Speaking of home, and your mother Arya, where is your home?".

Tilting her head, the young lass looks down the street, "My home? Down that way," she motions with the hand not still holding the kerchief to her knee towards the gate to the second tier. "We live down that way, near the smith. My mama makes me talk to his daughter a lot, she tells me to make friends with her, but I think she's just stuck up. Doesn't like playing with ladies, I suppose." A grin on the mischevious side comes to her face.

Malahir returns the grin, but w hint of remorse darkens his eyes. Silently, he looks off toward the direction that Arya calls home and sighs slighly. He looks at her, his lips trembling slightly, "Arya, You can stay and watch the guards train any time you want, as long as I'm around, you'll be safe, you can count on that. I have one request tho. Don't tell your mother that you are hanging around here, she might not let you out of her sight again you know".

Arya nods solemnly, apparently noticing Malahir's suddenly less joyous mood. "Yes sir, my mama won't know a thing about it. I'd much rather be here than trying to get along with Ismeralda." Her smile doesn't seem absent from her face long, for it is once again brightening her appearance. She stands slowly, reluctant to put weight on her wounded knee, but, finding it not too painful to move, she stands straight. "I suppose I had better get home now, then. She will be home from the market soon, and 'tis almost time for midday meal." Almost shyly, she curtsies with a grace unknown to the common street urchin, "I thank thee again, good Lieutenant. And I'll be back." With that, the dressing still on her knee, she begins limping off homeward.

Malahir stands up and bows deeply, smiling at Arya. "Good day Arya, make sure to wash that cut out with clean water when you get home", emphasizing the word clean and drifting off the word home with pity. He leans up against the stone wall to watch the lass depart, uncrossing his arms to wave at her if she decided to look back.