Osgiliath: Beside the Great River
This section of the ruined city must surely have been the home of some wealthy lord of lady, for the remnants of what was once a great home can still be seen. Tall pillars of marble and limestone lay broken and weathered, and underfoot well placed cobblestone lay; a testiment to the skill of Gondor that they remain. Built right along the Anduin banks, the cobblestones extend right to the water's edge, no doubt a high-point for those who once lived hither. South and west the remainder of the ruins can be seen, darkened even in the light of day, and there is was that the majority of structures were built. North and west the lands of Anorien take over the ruinous scenery, stretching far as the eye can see.

The sun shine brightly in the sky overhead.
Obvious exits:
 SouthWest leads to Osgiliath: Northern Ruins - Old Residential Area.
 North leads to Anorien: Along the Anduin.

Dric:
        A short young lad catches you eye, though it is almost as if you hadn't seen him, so quick does he move. He wears a black homespun shirt 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. Polished black riding boots, perhaps a bit scuffed and definitly not the norm for street boys such as himself, cover his feet. 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 and a half 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 at most, but his the light in his eyes places 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 heavy, dark wood longsword hangs strapped to his back, the sword being almost as long as the boy is tall. It has a rough look to it, but even covered by a pack on his shoulder, the sword does appear well made.
        There is a haunted look to this boy, hidden behind the rash courage of a young lad.

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. 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

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

Weather:            Cloudy
Time:                Early Morning <about 7 AM (breakfast time) >
Season:              Winter
Date:               Hevensday - January 9, 3015

Real Time:          Tue Jul 28 18:24:52 1998
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Amidst the magnificent ruins of the outskirts of Osgiliath, a patrol of black clad soldiers huddle around a campfire. The overcast sky, with the early morning rays begining to peek through, makes the landscape breathless. Leaning up against a lone column, standing outside the group of guards, is a man in a cloak, his insignia signifying the rank of Lieutenant. Crossing his arms, this man seems resolved to just take in the scenery.

Though 'tis still early morning, there is activity in the Osgiliath garrison. It is not only a night task to guard the fortification, after all. Some begin to wander towards their barracks in search of rest while others replace them at their posts. Even this far from the main fortification, near the river Anduin, the patrols can be seen. Yet 'tis no easy task to hear them, for the roaring of the river nearby.

Nothing heralds his arrival, no tell-tale bootsteps on pavingstones, no speach, nothing, as he approaches the Acting Lieutenant from behind. Silence is only broken when he clears his throat and finally speaks. "Corp - er," he pauses, casting a glance up at the unfamiliar insignia on Malahir's shoulder before continuing, "Lieutenant?" His voice is not exactly soft, and is very familiar to those who live in and about Minas Tirith. Save for the fact it is a bit higher pitched, his voice sounds exactly like a certain Lieutenant's... Which shouldn't be suprising. Even his tone matches, except for one element, the almost ever-present anger in the Lieutenant's voice... And the dialect. "C'n I 'ave a word wi' ye?"

Snapping around, still leaning his hand on whitewashed marble pillar, the acting Lieutenant stares at the young man, a spitting image of his commander. His eyes grow wide with recognition, where in comes shock. But a smile soon forms, and Malahir steps toward Dric, his hand reaching out for him, "Master Dric! Is it you or is this a cruel trick of my imagination?".

Ducking beneath Malahir's hand and giving a bow with something of a flourish, the young lad comes up grinning widely. He seems a bit taller than he was before, which is evidenced by the good inch between the hem of his sleeve and his wrist. The boots he wears are definitly familiar, with a Rohirric look to them. Grin shining on his face at seeing his friend, the young lad says in a matter-of-fact tone, "A cruel trick of yer imaginashun, 'course. I'm no' me, ne'er was, ne'er will be... Ye ought learn t' believe yer eyes, Malahir, sir, 'else ye'll never make 't."

Malahir scratches the back of his head, just undeneath his helm, taking in the sight of an old friend. He beams, the morning light glowing in his face as well as in his features, "My have you grown Dric, it's going to be hard to tell you apart from your brother one day", looking down at his feet, "I see your wearing a momento of one of our traveling days", he reaches out and this time gets to rub the boys head, messing up his blonde hair.

Analdin's face darkens a bit at mention of his brother, and he only shakes his head.. until Malahir mentions the travelling. His appearance brightens slightly, then, and though he tries to duck away from the hair-ruffling, the Acting Lieutenant manages to win that one out. "Tha's one o' th' things I came t' talk t' ye 'bout, sir. Went t' Minas Tirith, they tol' me ye were 'ere, so I came." Looking down at his feet, his face gains a totally serious look. Then, looking back up at Malahir with an almost pleading in his eyes, "M' boots're growin' too small, sir."

Dric's face darkens a bit at mention of his brother, and he only shakes his head.. until Malahir mentions the travelling. His appearance brightens slightly, then, and though he tries to duck away from the hair-ruffling, the Acting Lieutenant manages to win that one out. "Tha's one o' th' things I came t' talk t' ye 'bout, sir. Went t' Minas Tirith, they tol' me ye were 'ere, so I came." Looking down at his feet, his face gains a totally serious look. Then, looking back up at Malahir with an almost pleading in his eyes, "M' boots're growin' too small, sir."

Malahir motions the young adult forward and points to the river, "It's much to loud to talk hear", then lowering his voice further, "and you never know who might be overhearing our conversation. Lets move over to that old house over there", and he points to a decrepid old ruined shelter, that once represented the glorious architecture of Gondor.

Dric nods in silence, glancing about and taking in the ruined city. As he follows Malahir over to the ruined building, he glances up at the older man, "D' ye 'appen t' 'ave s'm extra boots wi' ye, sir?" A touch of a smile hints on his face, and by the time the shelter is reached, he is already looking for some place to sit down. Doing so, he pulls off the boots - which, you'll notice, are perfectly polished, not unlike a Guardsman's - and begins to clean bleeding toes with a rag from his belt.

Malahir reaches the building a step behind Dric and finds a place to rest next to the lad. He squints at him, trying to follow his rapid speech. Then looking at what the boy reveals of his bleeding toes, Malahir nods, "Aye lad, I'll fit you into some adult boots, it seems you are ready for them", sighing loudly, "You must have done some traveling master Dric. It's a shame you didn't come to me sooner, I would have decked you out with new boots".

With a quiet nod, the not-so-young lad tucks the rag away and looks up at the Acting Lieutenant, "Aye, travelled from Dol Amroth t' Minas Tirith t' this place on m' own feet. Lef' m' money wi' m' boys, f'got t' get a horse. Can' ride one as 'tis." Shrugging, he doesn't even seem to be phased by the miles he has walked. "I would've seen ye sooner, m' friend," he doesn't address Malahir as 'sir' or his rank for the first time... sounding all the more like his brother without meaning to it would seem. "Had m' boys t' take care o', though. Can' jus' leave 'em all 'lone, ye know."

Malahir stares at the lad blankly, confusion spread across his face, "Do I hear you correctly master Dric, my friend, but did you say you had boys of your own?", letting the issue of the boys absense of properly addressing a noble.guardsmen

A proud smile graces the lad's face, "Tha' I did, L'ten'nt. 'Ow'd ye get t' be a L'ten'nt as 'tis? Ye'll 'ave t' tell me." His feet are obviously still sore, and much larger than so many months ago when he quitted Minas Tirith. "Aye, I've boys of m' own. They took m' in when I firs' 'rived at the place. Follow me now, they do. We do make quite the team... though I'd watch yer purse an' gold 'round 'em."

Malahir shakes his head in disbelief, "You have followers?", hiding a smile, "that's, well...that's very becoming of a natural leader as yourself", still looking very much confused as before, "Perhaps we have too much to catch up on as we have time?", letting the question linger. "I have joined your brother on a quest master Dric. We move constantly, I'm sure by afternoon, we will be hundreds of fathoms away"

Tilting his head to the side a wee bit, the lad nods, "Aye, we've time. 'T leas', I do. Need t' ge' back t' Dol Amroth when I can, bu'.... Well... Thought I owed ye a visit, f'r runnin' off so sudden. M' boys can make do w'out me for a few days. Some o' 'em did 'fore, an' they'll 'ave t' again if I e'er get caught." Leaving that hanging, he looks once more to the Acting Lieutenant, "Ye still ha'n't tol' me 'ow ye got promoted. Did m' brother get it as well?" His face does darken some as he mentions his brother, but cusiousity apparently compels him to ask.

Malahir turns away from Dric for a moment and looks toward the fortifications on the western horizon, the sun lighting up its brick masonry. Shaking his head he mutters, "I haven't talked to your brother about that quite yet, as of yesterday, I may have been demoted", sighing, "I don't know Dric, I guess you would be one to understand how your brother can be sometimes. This cord was only temporary", flipping the gold insignia, "even so".

The young lad's eyes linger on the gold cords for a moment longer than they perhaps should, and a somewhat greedy look comes to his face. He reigns back, however, checking himself and forcing his expression into a smile once more. "Why d' ye wear gold, then? Analdin wears silver, if m' m'm'ry serves." With a quiet nod, he adds "And well d' I know his temper. 'E's the spittin' image of Father in tha' respect."

Malahir smiles at the lad, a pensive look upon his face, "That temper of his, well, it may have nearly cost us our friendship", wetting his dry throat with a gulp, "Well, I wear gold because I am a nobleman. Your brother, is not of noble birth, so he wears silver. It's a downright imbicile thing really", and he stands up and looks down at Dric, "I'll get you new boots. I'm wondering though, perhaps you'ld like to join us on the quest?

The young lad shakes his head slowly, "'E'd better no' 'ave done nothin' t' drive ye off, L'ten'nt. If 'e 'as, I swear by m' oath tha' 'e'll 'ear from me 'bout it." The boy seems almost genuinly angry that his brother may have hurt his friend. "As f'r bein' noble or no', makes sense t' me. Things like that make 't easier t' tell who's got the more, an' who a boy should borrow from." A bright twinkle touches his eyes as he holds up a small pouch that jingles. "Ye may wan' t' keep yer eyes on yer purse, as I've said, L'ten'nt."

Malahir snatches the purse from the boy, "Dric!?", he places the stuffed bag inbetween his belt on his right hip. Staring at the boy for awhile he finally says, "That's a nice trick you learned in Dol Amroth. You have taught me a valuable lesson. So I'll leave the matter at that", idly fidgiting his golden cord, "As for this rank, I'm sure my acting Lieutnenant days are over, but I will undoubtably remain a noble. That, well..that will never change", looking down at his feet, "I don't think. Which reminds me, I'm stopping off at my estate as we head back west for supplies. Would you like to come with me, perhaps show your little trick to my father", he smiles wryly.

A dashing smile touches the boy's face, and a self-assured look comes to his eyes, "'T isn' a trick, m'lord nobleman, sir," the lad says almost matter-of-factly, "'Tis 'ow ye keep 'live. I, for one, rather like t' eat. Hear ye got t' t' stay 'live for long. Eat, tha' is." His hands, now empty, lay flat out and palm up on his knees, almost in a good-will gesture. "I was jus' teachin' ye t' keep on yer toes, sir. I wasn' gonna keep yer money, no' after 'ow nice ye've been t' me. Why, I'd turn m'self in t' the Knight Marshall 'fore I stole from ye." He says that as if it was some large thing to do, such as cutting off his own leg. From the look in his eyes as he says it, it might seem they would amount to about the same in his sight. "An' if yer pa's 'state is on m' way back to Dol Amroth, I'll come wi' ye for certain. I'd love t' 'ave yer company on th' road... may keep the bandits from gettin' me." Casting the Acting Lieutenant a humourous glance, he adds, "Or th' wolves."

Malahir looks at the boy with sudden sympathy, a downcast grimace on his face, "Dric, I don't like that you are forced to live off of stealing. If you need money, I would be more than happy to be your beneficiary. Perhaps I could tug a few noble strings and get you a job over there. I know many of the Girithilin clan", he somewhat spits out the name of the noble house of Belfalas.

The barefooted boy nearly jumps back, and it seems he would if he weren't seated. "I'm no' forced t' do anythin', Malahir. I've sword m' oath jus' like ye have, and I'll 'ave no bene.. bene..." he trails off, still struggling with that word, "no 'elp. Las' thing I'd do is desert m' boys, too. Ye wouldn' leave yer men all alone, would ye? I know m' brother wouldn'... Or, leas', 'e wouldn' 'ave when I las' knew 'im." At mention of the Girithlins, a look of distaste crosses his face, "Ye mean the Knight Marshall? I was there when 'e was promoted. Looked friendly 'nough, bu'...." he shrugs, "Anyway, I don' need any 'elp. I get 'long... Jus' need some boots."

Malahir begins to walk toward the fort, then turns around, "Stay here Dric, I will fetch you a pair of boots. You seem to be almost your brothers size, that will not be a problem finding", and he walks away quickly toward the fort. He returns with boots in hand and lies them beside Dric's feet, "There ya go", he says, trying to imitate the lad's argot.

Dric looks down at the boots by his feet, and tries one on. To his delight, it seems to actually fit those feet of his which have definitly out-grown his body. For he is hardly five and a half feet, when he stands straight, yet his feet are large. "Thank ye kindly, m'lord," standing, he gives a flourished bow, "Thou hast aided me in time of great need, and shalt never be forgotten for it." Even as Malahir imitates his argot, the young lad falls into his knight-impersonation.

Malahir bows ever so slightly, his eyes not leaving the boy, "I'm glad I was able to help, if they worry so much about a pair of boots, I'll remind them that the importance of the quest is at stake, and there's no time for all the silly formalities that seem to go on around here", he curses silently. His foul mood now evident, he then changes subjects, "Will you be keeping those old boots of yours? They have served you well, indeed".

The boy grins widely, "And I thank ye 'gain, sir. Ye've been more a friend t' me than m' own brother. I'll keep these, 'less ye've got good use for 'em? There's a boy, one of mine, 'o doesn' 'ave any. I tol' 'im if I got a new pair, 'e could 'ave these... Smaller'n me, ye know." The grin disapears from his face after a moment, however, replaced by obvious concern, "Wha's th' matter, Malahir, sir? Ye're always so cheerful... Wha's got ye down?"

Malahir shrugs, stiffling a sigh with a yawn. Sitting back down next to Dric, he pats the lads knees, "I will always be your friend, so don't mention it", he smiles wryly, "matter of fact, if you mention it infront of the wrong Lieutenant, I may get into more trouble", darkened by the trailing words, "not that I'm in enough as it is. I think your brother hates me now Dric".

The boy's face takes on a seriously hurt look, "What's tha' son of a.. wait.. ne'er mind." He lets out a light sigh. "The problem wi' insulting your brother's parents is tha' you insult your own too." That said, he continues, "Wha's tha' dog of a smith done t' ye, Malahir, sir? 'Ow'd ye get in trouble wi' 'im? 'E loves you like... nay, more than a brother. B'lieve me. I know."

Malahir looks over the boy, "You have grown up too much, I miss the boy that you were", he grimaces, "I wish you could have stayed in Minas Tirith Dric". Uncomfortable with lecturing a young adult he answers his question reluctanly, "I guess I embarrassed him by dragging him out of the tunnels we were in. He was hurt, and so tired. I think he blames me too for waking him up, which resulted in him being so fatigued in the first place".

Dric's eyes remain on the Acting Lieutenant, and he shakes his head slowly, "I couldn' stay, sir, ye know tha'. I ha' a live o' m' own t' live.. there was no place f'r me in the city." He sounds almost solemn, more so than any boy with his twelve years should. Perking up a bit, however, he says, "S' ye saved 'is life by draggin' 'im from tunnels when 'e was wounded an' tired? An' 'e's mad at ye?" The youth seems almost unable to believe this, "Even 'e wouldn' stoop so low. Anyway, I've seen 'im skip a whole night's rest on watch an' do a whole day's trainin' wi'out showin' a spot of fatigue. A li'l lost rest didn' 'urt 'im. Somethin' else must've."

A light brow rises on the young man's face, all to similar to his brother's. "'E said 'e'd demote ye for 't? For savin' 'is life? Was 'e wounded, did ye say, sir? 'Cos, if 'e was, don' take 'im seriously. I'll bet 'e's broodin' over 'is words this instant. Always was too soft-'earted, I'd say. Got tha' from Mother, for Pa was ne'er one to worry over 'nother's feelin's." He stops a moment, considering his hands as he looks down at them. They're well-worn for a boy his age, and dirty. "'E'll come 'round, sir. 'E can' stay mad at ye fore'er."

Malahir sighs again, but somewhat more shorter than before, "I guess you are right my friend", elavating him to a level of maturity equal to his as the conversation goes on, "I should be patient with him, I feel guilty for waking him up, then everything happened so fast. After the battle, all I wanted to do is get out of that place", a light touches his eyes, "Come now, tell me about your lil' ones?", inviting the lad to talk about happier things.

A hint of a smile touches the young lad's face, "Jus' think, sir, wha' would've happened if ye hadn' woken 'im? An' if he'd missed out on a battle? Jus' think 'ow much the madder 'e'd be right now." The smile widens as his boys are mentioned. "Ah, they're a scraggly bunch o' mother's sons, they are. Couln' bring in a day's profits among 'em if they 'ad to." Pride shines in his voice, "No' 'fore I came, a' leas'. I gave 'em discipline, I did. Swore m' oath t' 'em, too. They're m' brothers, they are."

Malahir smiles, but becomes restless when the boy mentions the word oath. Squirming a bit he bites his lip, "What would you do if they broke the oath Dric", his eyes inpenetrating the young boys blue ones.

The lad meets Malahir's eyes, not flinching a bit, "Wha'd I do? Why, I'd 'old 'em to 't. I didn' make the oath, sir, I just swore to it. Penalty for oath breakin's death, everyone knows that. Kill 'em.. or, if they did somethin' 'specially bad, turn 'em in t' the Prince's men an' let them 'ave 'is 'ands.. an', mos' likely, 'is life." Looking away, down at his new, better-fitting boots for a moment as if unable to hold up under the older man's gaze. "Why'd ye ask, sir?"

Malahir takes a deep breath and puts his hand on the lads shoulder, "Dric, I didn't want to bring this up. I don't hold it against you. But you took an oath as well, it hurts your brother deeply that you quit the guard. I only want you to understand where Analdin, erm...and I are coming from. Do you see what I mean Dric?".

Dric allows the Guardsman to place his hand on his shoulder... he even seems to relax somewhat as he does. But with a shake of his head he gives his reply, "I gave no oath t' my brother, nor t' the Steward. I took no oath t' be a Guard. I broke none when I left." This he states simply, in a matter-of-fact way before returning his light blue eyes to Malahir's face, "No... No, L'ten'nt. I don' see wha' ye mean."

Malahir looks down to his lap and shrugs, "Oath or not, you gave your word to your brother. Don't deny the responsibilty Dric", he shakes his head and waves his hand, "I'm sorry master Dric, I didn't mean to pull that on you. I'm not your brother, or father for that matter. I have no right to chastize you about deserting us", his words sincere, but cunning at the same time.

Dric still sounds quite indignant about Malahir's having claimed he was bound to the Guard... yet he seems to lighten some as the Acting Lieutenant mentions responsibility, "I've other respons'bilities now, L'ten'nt. T' m' boys." It takes a moment, but the young man's face drains of color as Malahir's words dawn on him, "Ye're not goin' t' tell m'brother, are ye? Oh, please, sir, please, I beg o' ye, don' tell 'im." The lad's eyes are wide, and he suddenly drops to his knees, a look of sincere pleading in his face, "I'd rather sell m'self back t' the corsairs than m' brother know. I beg o' ye, m'lord, don' breathe a word t' Analdin."

Malahir stares the lad down, his eyes bearing down on the pleading boy, "Dric, I told you it is not my gripe. I have gotten over it", he motions for the boy to get off his knees, "I still don't approve of what you did Dric. But I forgive you, even though Analdin doesn't", wincing a bit at the thought of giving advice, "I went to get those boots without you, and pulled you inside this building and away from attention for a reason Dric. If the Lieutenant would see you, there's no telling what he'd do. But if you ask me, I think you should see him before you go".

Staying in his current position, the boy look up at Malahir, something resembling fear on his face, "Then yer not gonna tell 'im?" He seems to hold his breath for a moment after asking this, still unsure of where the Acting Lieutenant stands on the matter. "I swear, sir, if m' brother finds out, 'e'll make me give m' boys over. I'll 'dmit 't, sir, they're a pack o' thieves. Bu' who else bu' themsel's is gonna take care 'o 'em?" He shakes his head slowly, looking down and studying the officer's boots, "I tell ye, sir, if Analdin finds out, 'e'll 'ave m' ears. I'd be better off back wi' th' slavers, I would. I can' see 'im, no' after wha' I've done."

Malahir fidgets with his hands, looking like he is making a decission. Having done so, he points to the fort, "That man, your brother, is your family. I promise he will not take you away from your boys. He deserves to know you are alright. Come, I will be with you. I'll make sure he does not do anything rash", he makes this request with the sound of an order.

The boy finally rises to his feet, not bothering to dust off the dirty knees of his trousers. "I don' know 'bout that, sir. Ye said 'e's mad wi' ye as well." He shakes his head, blond strands of hair falling into his eyes as he does so. "Family 'e may be, bu' if 'e's the only family I 'ave, then I'm best off like m'boys: wi'out." That said, he folds his arms over his chest and stands agianst the wall of the shelter.

Malahir looks at Dric inquizatively, "You'ld rather have no family? Do you not care about your sister?", he stands and moves to Dric, awaiting a response.

Heaving a heavy sigh, one not heard often from a boy of his years, Dric looks up and at Malahir square. "I care 'bout m'sister. An' 'bout m' other brother, aye. An'..." he breaks eye contact and lowers his head to stare at the ground, "An' I care 'bout Analdin, certainly. Bu' 'e's jus' so much like Pa, it scares me, sir. 'Is temper's th' same, an' 'e's jus' as strong too." Keeping his eyes on the ground as if afraid to look up, the lad finally admits, "'E scares me, almost as much as the corsairs did. 'Cept 'e doesn' 'ave a whip, tha's all."

Malahir walks past the boy, whose build, tho somewhat bigger than before, is still rather scrawny, "I familiar with your brother's temper Dric. You forget I face it every day. Look, it's no excuse that he is bigger than you, I will not let him lay a hand on you. I think you don't want to face up to your own guilt", he says these words carefully, and looks at Dric with sympathy in his eyes, "By the Valar Dric, you up and disappeared on him, ofcourse he is mad. But more so, he feels guily too".

The lad's eyes finally leave the floor, and fear is written heavily on his features, "Please, sir, no. Ye can gi' 'im m' greetin's if ye like, bu' I can' face 'im... no' yet. Came back up 'ere t' see you, sir, an'... t' 'poligize." He heaves a heavy sigh once more, "Bu' no' 'Din. Ye don' understan', sir, ye can'. Ye didn' spend months an' months with pirate dogs. Ye don' know what it means."

Malahir turns from the boy and takes a few deep breaths. Turning around slowly, he nods, "Don't panic Dric. You don't have to fear me. Your an adult now, you even have your own boys, so you don't have to prove anything to me. You will go to Analdin on your own time I assume", he walks up to him and softly punches the lad in the stomach, "Thanks for coming to see me Dric. Remember, I'll be there if you need me, you know where to find me", he winks.

As it seems the older Guardsman is not about to drag him off to see his brother, a wan smile comes to the lad's face. "I'll go when I can, sir. Not 'fore, not a'ter, when I can." With that, he glances off in the distance, and around the camp, completly changing the subject. "D'ye know where a boy could ge' somethin' t' eat, and perhaps a dry spot o' ground t' sleep on? I don' need much 't all, Malahir, sir."

Looking around he finally proclaims, "If you would like, stay close to our patrol, hide out in this building for today. I'll come back with midday meal and supper. I go on walks by myself often, the men wont think any wiser of it. Do you remember Aiesha by any chance?".

Dric nods quietly, "Aye, I 'member 'er. She's a nice one, she is. Didn' we go t' Rohan t' find her?" He nods once more, "I know 'er. An, thankee, sir. For the boots, an' the food. An'..." he trails off with a shrug. A shrug which doesn't last long, and suddnely his and scrawny arms are around the older man's chest, for the lad isn't much taller than that, in an akward hug. "I missed ye, Corporal, sir." is all he says, mindless of his slip.

Malahir smiles brightly, "remembering the old days Dric, you bring back good memories my friend. Well, they had their moments", he winks and makes for his camp site, calling back to the building, "I'll get you some breakfast Aiesha prepared, and a new bed roll for you", disappearing to the river's edge, where the ice begins to cling to the swallow sides of the river.

The young lad watches as the older guardsman goes off to find him some food and a bed. Once Malahir is out of sight, the boy lets out a tired sigh and falls to a corner of the room, hugging his arms about him to keep himself warm.

Malahir reappears with the bed roll and a tin of scrambled eggs. He sets them down on what was the buildings front porch. Looking at the boy crouched in the corner he smiles, "Use the building as shelter tonight, I'll come and get you before the sun rises, when the moon is about to set. I'll lead you to a new hiding place close to the new campsite. I will not tell the Lieutenant about your whereabouts, or that I ever saw you, is that alright?'.

Dric nods softly, "Aye, 'tis perfect, sir. I couldn' ask f'r more. Thankee 'gain... I hated t' leave las' time, 'cause ye'd been so kind..." he trails off with a yawn, and sneaks back further into the corner. It is a mater of moments before the boy is asleep.

Malahir moves to pat the boy on the head, but stops short, partly because the boy is no longer the youth he was, and for fear of waking the tired soul. He only smiles and turns back toward his camp.