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

Weather:            Rainy
Time:                Late Morning <about 11 AM >
Season:              Winter
Date:               Sunday - February 11, 3015

Real Time:          Sat Aug 08 20:36:45 1998

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

Gilrain and Ringlo Crossroads
Smooth riverstones set in mortar and worn flat over the passage of the ages to a near-level sheet slips through the city here, two great avenues meeting in a loving embrace before they continue through the city. The ancient road is remarkably unmarred, reflecting the enduring craftsmanship of Numenor, mirrored in the great buildings that crowd the intersection, rising into the air with quiet pride. Patterns in the streets are embossed in the stone, faded from millenia of wind from the far sea, and steady padding of feet. Ringlo Road stretches east and west, rising slightly as it approaches a tall stone tower in the distance to the west, leading towards an open square to the east.  The Gilrain rolls onwards to the north, where the tall spires of a tall gate can be seen, and to the south where it sweeps between old statues and structures on its way towards the Anduin.

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 right upper arm, near the shoulder, is company insignia, a Silver Ship set against the Gates of Minas Tirith, right above which is the insignia of Company Commander. On his left shoulder are the silver bars and cables of a Lieutenant's rank. A longsword hangs from his belt, 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 ineatures give him no appearance of darkness. An air of purpose surrounds him like a light mist.

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 200 lbs. He has a well toned muscularture, a broad frame, and a newly firmed stomach.
        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 gold cord loops around his left shoulder forming something of an 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 left 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 gold and sable metalic links of his armor show little wear, but his leather buckler shows signs of numerous sabre strikes. Upon his ring finger is a simple silver band.

Torelin:
 At first glance you are only aware of Torelin's most prominant features--his height (well over 6'5"), his bearlike size and his pleasant, boyish face. Years of having to look down on people has made his posture hunched slightly and thus gives him a uncharacteristically awkward appearance. His apparel is typical of most squires in Dol Amroth; a white tabald, with the silver swan adorning the front, fits overtop his leather armour. Blue trim around the openings of his uniform indicate his rank. On the right side of his chest rests a pin, showing a trio of black towers flanking a bright yellow star--the symbols of Barad Tarnost. What becomes more obvious on a closer inspection are his stern eyes and constant troubled look. It is readily apparent that his life has not always been pleasant and from the scars on his exposed flesh, he has seen his share of battle for one of only 21 years. His most obvious scar, still mainly a wound in fact, lies on his right cheek--a reminder of his unfortunate meeting with Daerith, henchman of Adrazor.
 

As the cold winter rain beats down on the streets of Pelargir, a lone figure dressed all in the black of the Guard, his coarse cloak held tightly against him with one hand, leads a dun-colored horse down the cobbled street. Though the man walks with a purposeful stride, the beast steps akwardly. Those close to the young Guardsman can hear a constrant string of muttered curses and mumblings.

Little effort is wasted as Torelin quickly makes his way along the streets of Pelargir, his cloak on, but hood off. He is either trying to get away from the rain on his head or maybe he is just impatient to be off the streets which soak his boots; either way his abrupt step can be heard off the buildings that surround him. Seeing a familiar figure, doing a rather unfamiliar thing, Torelin smiles and promptly walks towards the Guard and his unhappy horse.

Using the shelter of a small wicket and hay lean-to, a dark haired man clad all in black stands watch over the intersecting avenues. Idly chewing on an unlit pipe, the guard oversees a guard walking in the rain. Stuffing the pipe in his cloak, he calls out to him, "Lieutenant sir, a word if you will", he asks politely, reverantly walking to the edge of the shelter to meet him, his hands crossed behind him.

Though the newly knighted Torelin steps towards him, the light rain and obvious discomfort he is enduring keeps the young officer of the Guard from noticing. Yet as the Acting Lieutenant calls out to him, Analdin blinks a few times as if to rid his eyes of the rainwater and turns to head towards the lean-to. Halfway across the busy street, a horse and rides nearly runs the man and his beast down, only to get another, somewhat louder curse from the Guardsman. "What do you want, Malahir?" he calls out as soon as he is only a few feet from the shelter, not about to get much closer considering the press of people and the fact that he leads a limping horse behind him. His tone isn't exactly cheerful.

Torelin steps from the darkened, well-watered street in front of Analdin and Malahir, shaking his blond wet hair as he does so. He looks briefly at the Lieutenant's horse and frowns. "Lt.," he says bowing his head and then turning to Malahir he smiles and offers, "Well met, Corporal." With that said, the young knight turns his attention to the sad looking horse of Analdin's. "May I ask what is wrong with your stead sir?"

Malahir bows his head low, "I apoligize sir. Shall we walk your horse to the stall before we talk about the last fortnight. I notice you haven't been very talkative during the trip back, but I do think we have something to talk about", eyeing Torelin curiously, he nods his head, "Sir Torelin, well meet indeed, please, perhaps we should get your horses inside, so we can get out of the rain".

Analdin shakes his head sadly as Torelin approaches, questioning. "Morning, Torelin. Or... 'tis Sir Torelin now, is it not?" Even such greetings are in a flat tone, and the young man's eyes continually look about. "Of all the ill luck, the beast kicked a shoe during our return. I didn't even notice, and now it's lamed." Shaking his head slowly, the Lieutenant heaves a sigh, "And no man I can find will take the cursed thing off my hands." Taking another step forward, coming to stand just inside the lean-to and out of the rain, he pushes back the hood of his cloak and shakes his wet hair. Wiping blond strands from his eyes, he mutters a final curse and adresses Malahir, "What as it you wished to speak with me about, Lieutenant?" obviously in no mood to wait.

Torelin frowns deeper at hearing the plight of the Lt.'s horse and immediately trucks around to examine the beast's leg and hoof. Calling back to Analdin he says, "Let me take care of it sir. It was part of my training to do so." He steps back around the horse and takes the reigns from the guard, not even waiting for an answer and assuming that he would rather be lifted of the burden than talk about it. Torelin wastes little time in slowly leading the horse off towards the stables. "Is there a tavern about? Somewhere dry?" he asks after a few steps.

Looking the poor creature in the eye, Malahir clears his throat, "It's a shame that such a beautiful beast would pull up lame. If only we we're home, my cousin would know what we could do with him. Thankfully, we have a knight with us, I forgot. Sir Torelin, there is a tavern around the corner, just a block", pointing his directions, "You'll see the tavern sign clearly", shaking his head sadly before turning to face the young lieutenant, "Sir, what happened in the tower. It has got me thinking. Do you not remember what the ghost said to us?", he grows pale from either the recollection of that night, or the cold breeze.

Torelin wanders off with Analdin's horse, mumbling something to it as he leads it on. Soon he is out of sight and only the clop-clop of the horse can be heard.

Nodding his silent thanks, Analdin watches as the Knight takes his horse, mumbling, "If only I'd known, could have reshod it myself," to no one in particular. With a motion down the street he adds, "Aye, tavern just that way. One down by the docks, too, dry but noisy. Sailors'll keep a nice chatter going all the time, you know." Shaking his head quietly, he seems to have either not heard the Acting Lieutenant or is ignoring him as he sets off in the direction of the docks. "Just follow the Knight with the horse," he mutters as he heads off.

Malahir coughs forcefully, while remaining under the protection of the lean-to, "Analdin, sir. I would like to speak with you...in private, for a moment. This only concerns the two of us", searching out the familiar blue eyes, "then we can accompany Torelin, is that alright with you sir?".

Analdin lets out a heavy sigh, "Quite alright, Malahir. What was it you wished to speak of again?" Running a hand through his mop of hair, he looks intently at the Acting Lieutenant, "Then a warm drink would settle well with me. Speak your piece, friend."

Malahir lets his commanding officer inside the dry shelter, crowded as it is, by inching up to the opposite side. Hoarsely he states again, "Sir, what happened in the tower was quite dreadful if you ask me. I'm wondering how well your taking it. You /do/ know what I'm refering to", looking for the answer in his friend's eyes, "don't you Analdin?".

Torelin pages Analdin and Malahir: I have to idle for a few...if you are still rping later I'll join in...sorry

Malahir pages Torelin and Analdin: no probs Tore. I may have to go to sleep soon tho :(

Leaning back against one of those stout poles which supports the lean-to, whether it will hold his weight or not, the young Lieutenant shakes his head slowly, "'Twas the ramblings of a spectre, Malahir. Whether said curse is truely placed or no, I am not the man to tell. Nor will I believe anything out of the ordinary, save speaking hounds, attacking ghosts and the like, has happened until I have the proof." He meets Malahir's gaze with a firey blue glare, "And whether you are acting Lieutenant or no, Malahir, I am as of yet your commanding officer and will be adressed as such. Is that clear?" Each of those last words are clipped, and anger flashes over his face.

Wincing at the officer's edgy tone, he bows, "Lieutenant, I meant no disrespect. You should know that by now sir. However, I wish to make this warning. I myself do not take these things lightly. The undead are certainly evil, but real none-the-less. We are accused of being pridefull, are we not? That is a personal affront to me, as I would assume it is to you as well sir. But what is at stake here? What is truely at stake is not our pride, but perhaps our lives", he tries to make his point as bluntly as he can by remaining calm, and not wavering against his commanding officer's angry eye.

Analdin shakes his head with an almost careless air, "Take it as seriously as you like, Lieutenant. And being accused of pride... I /am/ a proud man, Malahir. Though I know nothing of this Usurper that has been spoken of, for my research into Gondor's history has not yet approached that, he has made a threat. Until it presents evidence of itself, I see no point in useless worry." That said, he takes a step forward, but trips on a loose flagstone, falling to his knees with a loud curse that turns a number of heads his direction.

As soon as Analdin trips, the curly headed guard suddenly grows as palid as the full moon, and his eyes grow almost twice as big. Stammering toward the fallen officer, he offers him his hand, "Sir, are you alright. I don't want to say I told you so..", traling off and biting his lower lip.

Serin arrives from the north, where in the distance you can see a great statue.
Serin has arrived.

Placing strong hands on his knees, Analdin pushes himself up with a scornful look at the offered hand. "Then don't." he snaps, glaring down at the muddy knees of a formerly clean uniform. "But what did you tell me? That there was a loose flagstone here? I think not." His quiet and brooding mood of the past many days has quite obviously worn off, letting loose the anger behind it. "What point are you making, Lieutenant? That I should listen to the words of an undead creature who accuses me of pride? Bah."

Malahir snaps his offered hand back and waves it over his head, "Oh nothing sir. It sure is strange that you tripped over the flagstone, just after you shrugged off the ghost's curse", looking up past the form of a statue at the gloomy skies that are forming, "Perhaps we should take this inside before we get struck by lightning now sir", he points down the road to where the Knight Torelin had traveled.

Just then a footsteps are heard coming up the riverstone path from the city. The marching is very faint, but remarkably in rhythm and count. Following the sound come the shadow, and at length, the appearance of a sailor in his white shirt uniform. It is Serin, and for the moment his face seems puzzled by the apparent filthiness of Analdin's uniform. It takes little effort for him to guess what had happened. "Ho there!" he calls, moving cautiously nearer.

Analdin casts Malahir another dark-eyed glare, "Aye, inside would be preferable. Though I have no fear of lightening, only getting more damp and..." he trails off as he looks down at his boots. A particularly rough curse escapes the young Lieutenant as he sees the brown mud that covers most of his boots. "Indoors it is, where I can get a rag to clean these boots." Eyes still studiously cast downward, he casts a disaproving glance at the mud covering the feet of Malahir's own boots. Yet a familiar voice rings out and he looks up and towards the approaching Sailor, giving him only a nod of greeting.

Following to where the lieutenant's disaproving eye leads, he shucks the loose mud, perhaps thrown from a flailing officer in his fall, off his boots. Malahir then looks up to see Analdin greeting a sailor. Chiming in, Malahir smiles, "Ho there to you sir. We were heading toward the docks, were we not Lieutenant. Would you join us if your not on duty that is", says the acting lieutenant, always looking for a friendly person to talk with.

Serin ventures nearer. "If it isn't sir Analdin, come from Minas Tirith on an errand of great importance... no doubt. Let me see, and if my memory serves me correctly, his company is none other than the Corporal Malahir, the guard whom I met but months ago in a squabble near the gates." He smiles warmly, avoiding making any stares at the boots as best he can. "The docks eh? Indeed I shall." he replies to Malahir, rubbing his chin. "Yet I have something for you first." He can easily tell, as anyone could, that these two fellows are tired and worn from travelling. He produces a wineflask that was strung with a leather chord at his side and offers it up to the men. "I see you are weary from walking. Here, have some brandy. That'll put the spirit back in you quicker than you can drink it." He chuckles to himself at the notion, for it is quite silly after all, but still holds the flask for any open personage to partake of.

Here are the connected Gondorians and their title.

Tilting his head a bit to the side as he listens to the talkitive sailor, Analdin falls into an almost brooding silence while the man identifies the two Guardsmen. "Great importance or no, our errand has dragged us here, aye. I hear Lord Boromir, whom we travel with, seeks a ship... Perhaps your Alcarondas will suite his purpose, if she is not already loaded and ready to sail." With a shrug, he shakes his head rather sharply at the brandy, "And thank you, no, Serin." Eyes still casting worried glances down at his no longer spanking clean unform, he nods with his head towards the road leading to the docks - and the tavern there, "Shall we go, Lieutenant, Serin?"

Being offered the flask, Malahir looks grudgingly at it, scratching his head in concernation. After Analdin speaks, he begins to walk with them toward the direction of the docks. Looking to Serin, he shakes his head slowly and mutters, "The lieutenant is right, perhaps another time sir. I do thank you for your courtesy. And I apoligize for any actions that I did not show likewise to you. I get, how should I phrase it, carried away, when I'm at my post. I do remember we had a storm of refugees come in, trying to beat the winter I suppose. Please forgive me if I was preoccupied with my duties at the time.

Serin swills down a gulp or two from the wineflask and puts it quickly away. "Well then, my guards, there is no further need for explaination. The Alacarondas--" He gives a shallow bow, with his usual indifference. "Is at your service and awaits commands from her captain. Let us be off then!" With that the sailor androitly marches forward, carrying himself forward in a merry whistle; perhaps popular for the city's occupants, but at least not unnerving to the typical foreigner.
 

Tavern and Restaurant
You step inside the door of the tavern and look around, seeing many tables filled with people, laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. A low, long bar runs along the entire length of the right wall of the building, its highly polished wood nearly appearing out of place in a tavern located in the scats. A bartender stands behind the bar, ready to fill orders promptly. Several barmaids, wearing the standard uniform of the tavern, rush about the inn, seeing to the demands of the patrons. The grey and black hearth at the back of the tavern provides ample heat for the entire room. The hardwood floor beneath your feet remains uncovered but well swept and polished. A wide door towards the back of the tavern leads into the kitchen area. Daylight streams into the tavern from the large window in front and the two smaller windows in the doors. The oil lamps hanging on the walls remain unlit until nightfall.

Stepping into the tavern, filled even during the middle of the day with sailors and dockhands searching out refreshment, Analdin glances around until he locates an empty table. It is back in a shady corner, not what would be called an inviting place, but he heads that way anyhow. Halfway to the table, though, he stumbles over the outstreched boot of a dead-drunken sailor, mumbling curses as he rights himself on a nearby table. Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure he is being followed, the Guardsman finally takes a seat at the tabel, sitting with his back to the corner and facing the room.

Following Analdin a few steps behind, he easily steps over the drunken sailor's outstretched leg. Nimbly, he catches up to the young officer before he sits down and taps him on his cloaked soldier, "Thanks for pointing out that man there sir, I might have took a tumble there", he smirks wryly as he takes his seat.

Serin carefully steps over the boot and procedes to take a seat in one of the creaky old chairs at Analdin's table. He folds his hands comfortably and gazes around the room. To the trophies of fish mounted on the wall, the local sailors cursing and sputter through their meals, and at last to the two guardsmen at hand. Serin forces a smile and interjects, "So, what does Boromir need the Alcarondas for?"

Alone, as is usually the case, Torelin sits at the bar contemplating his drink and the patterns it makes when the light passes through the glass and strikes the tabletop. Looking up as new-comers arrive he takes a final gulp of his ale and moves to join them.

Analdin's eyes narrow at Malahir's comment, his humor obviously not the kind that will take such jokes at the moment, "Have your seat and order a drink, Malahir. My treat, if you keep that smirk to yourself." Though there is a cutting edge to his voice, his features soften somewhat and the beginning of a smile graces his face for the slightest of moments. Yet as the sailor speaks, Analdin turns to face him, giving his aide a silencing look, "Sailing to some island, if I do remember rightly. Though why he wishes to travel there, I know not. Only that I'm bound to follow..." he trails off with angry mumbled words.

A lecherous young bar girl walks over to the lonely table where Torelin sits at idle. She smiles wistfully and asks in a gentle voice, "Alright, you've been 'ere for over an 'our and you aint moved an inch. Somethin' the matter, hun?" She daintily pulls up a stool to his table and smiles more.

Malahir bows frivolously, adding a wave of his hand, "I do apolligize sir, but if you do not believe in the curse, surely you can make light of it. But perhaps not, I'll not mention it again", leaning back to view the barmaid behind him, he tells her, "Since the good Lieutenant is paying today, I would like your finest cider madam", turning back to the conversation, interested. Asking the table in general, "bound to what sir? I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you two are talking about".

Serin's smile droops until his face returns to its normal stainless frame of indifference. He calmly sighs and replies cooly, "Very well, Is shall inform my captain." He folds his hands and bends his head over them. "Somehow, you two seem to be under a deal of stress, or else my mind deceives me." he says blandly, as though the comment were entirely frivalous.

Torelin makes a move to get up but is intercepted by a young woman. Smiling politely he says, "Aye, I have been sitting waiting for my company to arrive. If you will excuse me." He bows and walks away from the woman towards his companions.

The barmaid only frowns and sinks her pouting face onto one palm of her hand. She sighs and says, "Just like a Dol Amrothian!" before moving back to her work.

Catching sight of Torelin, the young Lieutenant makes to wave him over... yet upon seeing the barmaid conversing with him, he lowers his hand and nods to the girl to whom Malahir speaks, "The same for me, if you will. And whatever our friend here wishes," he motions with a hand to Serin. As Torelin escapes the young woman, he finally waves the young Knight over before leaning back in his chair and speaking once more, "Bound to follow Lord Boromir, Malahir. 'Tis my oath... and more, if you catch my meaning." Speaking to Serin, he adds, "Nay, don't worry your captain over it. If the Captain-General wishes your ship, he will speak of it. As for stress... It comes being away from the city, Serin. I have duties I much wish to return to."

Torelin takes a seat beside the other men and puts his hands together on the table. He glances from person to person and stays silent as they speak.

Serin nods dryly and rises. "As do I, gentlement." He sends a sidelong glance to Torelin with his phrase. Then like the tide, as quickly as he came he departs, leaving only the faint smell of the sea in his wake. Yet I shouldn't wonder if he will refrain from telling his captain, for sailors have never been known to harbor anything but ships for very long, much less secrets.

Serin has disconnected.

Malahir nods approvingly to Analdin, "As do I sir, but the quest goes on. As shall our hope that we will prevail", and with a wandering eye watches the sailor depart. Jerking his thumb in the direction of the departing Serin, "He's off in a hurry. Guess I can't blame him, two cursed guards aren't good company that's for sure", he says under his breath. Glancing to Torelin, he offers an apoligetic smile, "Sir, how fair thee?".

Torelin catches the sailor's glance and shakes his head. As if to combat discomfort he searches about the bar for a waitress before turning back to address Analdin. "He and I have not seen eye to eye in the past....but I understand..." He trails off and lets things unsaid remain that way.

With a quiet shake of his head, Analdin watches the sailor take off quickly. "Must you dwell so on your state, Lieutenant?" he questions Malahir with a sudden intensity, "Can you not just leave it be long enough to take a drink in a tavern without worrying over some crazy spectre's ramblings?" Cutting himself off in the middle of his tirade, he leans back and folds his arms over his chest, "Aye, how do you fare, Torelin? Hopefully better than some I know." With that he casts Malahir a glance.

Torelin clears his throat and looks at the two guards with a sidelong glance. "Do you believe the spectre's words?"

Letting the berating go with a shrug, he casts his eyes on Torelin, "No need to explain Sir Knight", then he idly sips the newly arrived cider during the awkward silence. Catching Torelin's words, he raises a brow, "I'll differ this question to my superior if you don't mind, my friend", he slumps back, looking defeated.

Analdin shakes his head in disgust, "No, Torelin. They are the words of a man long dead. I begin to wonder if he was not but a figment in our imaginations." As the barmaid delivers a pair of glasses, both filled with a steaming liquid, he tosses a couple coppers into her hands which she catches with skill. "Bring a rag and a bowl of water if you will," he adds as she turns to leave, handing her another coin for it. Yet Malahir's words reach him and his mouth tightens into a thin line, "I speak not for you, my friend. Whether you believe or no is your own buisness. Just allow a man to drink and polish his boots in peace from your womanish worryings."

Torelin frowns. "My uncle often said that the words of those long past reach the living and if we have opportunity to hear them we should not disregard them lightly." He eyes turn serious and dark.

Malahir brodes over his cider, in a feminine fashion. "You surely jest Lieutenant. I'm only looking out for the best interests of a friend", turning to Torelin after he says his own comment, "I happen to agree with you uncle. Hookie as it may seem, I do not like the idea of being cursed. And now the lieutenant is meet with a series of 'incidents'...", and he makes his fingers into apostrophe's, "it's all adding up to disaster if we don't get this curse lifted sir".

Analdin leans forward on the table, clasping his hands before him and looking Torelin square in the eye, "I do not know overly much of the history of Gondor, or the rest of the world, Torelin. I am a swordsman, sworn to defend my city and Gondor as best I can. The cursings of those long dead hold no meanings to myself, as they may to others. Until I see evidence of this, I see no point in thinking much of it." He shakes his head at Malahir's reply, nearly rolling his eyes, but not commenting. Instead, he sips in silence at his steaming cider.

Torelin sits up slightly and becomes increasing interested in the conversation. "I have been to university, and I have read of the history of the one that cursed you. His power, like the shadow's, exists long after death."

The sun sinks slowly behind the majestic Ered Nimrais, casting the plains of fair Lebennin into darkness.

Malahir eyes, once dim and gloomily downcast, perk up and fix on Torelin. "My studies have always remained on the art of war, and on diplomacy. History is a study I always thought frivalous", ignoring the gaze that must assurably linger from Analdin, he puts his shoulder on the good Knight, "Please m'lord, my friend, I wish to know what you know about this ghost. Disdain is all I felt of the undead, as ignorance covers the eyes. But this curse has been the death of sleep", he leans forward, and you can plainly see the acting lieutenant's bloodshot eyes.

The barmaid brings the rag and water requested by the Lieutenant and hustles off to answer the calls of many othr patrons. Analdin removes one of his boots and, dipping the pices of cloth into the bowl, begins to scrub off the crusting mud. Keeping his eyes on the black and brown of his dirtied boots, the young officer speaks slowly, "Whether that be true or no, Torelin, has yet to be seen. I will /not/ spend my days in useless worry until I have proof that such worry is justified." He does not raise his eyes, nor does he respond to Malahir's words at all save to grunt occasionally.

Torelin clears his throat and makes a small smile at the irony of him lecturing the one who so many times before was the lecturer. He says quietly, "The words of Castamir carry a great deal of evil, sir. Things we cannot see, like Minas Tirith, from where we are now, still is there. Proof sometimes comes down to faith. Faith in the Valar is your only chance to lift this curse." He falls silent having said more on philosophy then in his entire life before.

Malahir is seen saying a silent prayer, and nodding enthusiastically, "I do believe sir knight. Thank you my friend, perhaps I will get some sleep tonight. There are times in your life when you have nothing but faith, says my great uncle Emdir. This must be one of those time", sighing softly before speaking again "So you say his name was Castamir? Is there a story about his life?".

Analdin blinks once or twice at Torelin's words, "Of course Minas Tirith still exists!" he exclaims, "Unless Mathirion's burned the place down now, with Lieutenant Japhin retired and Malahir and I here." He shakes his head, scrubbing a bit harder on his boot than necessary and, hand slipping, jams a finger into the unforgiving footwear. Biting off a curse, he sticks his finger into the vessel of water, falling more into a brooding silence as the other two discuss history.

Torelin addresses Malahir first, "Of his life I know little except he was cruel and had dealings with the great Enemy. Perhaps Lord Boromir or the old knight Sirion know more. As for you," he looks over to the Lietenant, "I dare say that it does not bode well that you ignore such obvious signs of your curse..." He reaches down and takes something out of his bag--a broken horseshoe. He puts it on the table. "Little things can sometimes add up to something big, sir."

Malahir simply nods to Torelin then furrows his brow when he places a horseshoe on the table, "Is the lieutenant's horse going to pull through sir Torelin?", he asks inbetween sips of cider.

Dropping the rag on the table for a moment to put on a now-polished and mudless boot, Analdin pauses to consider the shoe. "'Twas just a dumb beast. Had I known, as I should have, that it had tossed its shoe, I could well have repaired it. 'Twasn't so long ago that I did so in my father's own forge." Finally taking a sip of the now-warming cider, he adds, "As for it adding up... I have yet to see proof of this so-called curse. No blind faith on such a thing as this."

Torelin smiles and replies to Malahir, "I think so. The poor thing was limping pretty bad but I did what I was taught and if I have half the skill my teacher's had then it should be fine." He shakes his head and sighs. "Where is it that we are going by the way? I have not heard where Lord Boromir wishes to try next."

Malahir smiles at Torelin, just adding, "You certainly have grown wise young friend", then motioning toward Analdin, "I'm uncertain really, I was lost in a daze after the ghost said those words. I really haven't a clue as to where we are headed next. Some island I overheard".

Having already slipped his boot back on, Analdin yanks off the other, nodding quietly as he begins to go at it with the now-muddied piece of cloth, "I thank you for caring for the poor beast," he says nearly grudgingly to Torelin before quickly continuing. "Aye, an island. Where, I know not... But we shall most definitly be going by ship."

Torelin looks quizzically at the two guards. "An island? There are very few about that we could travel to. Seems strange to go so far from Gondor. Is it perhaps a trick?" He asks the question more to himself than anything. "Well, friends. I must try and brave the weather again. If we are sailing I had better prepare. Last time I was aboard a boat I was sick for days--perhaps there is a healer about to help me with that." He pauses and stands, "And by the way Corporal. Please dont call me sir--I served under you before and though I may not now such titles seem somehow unnecessary." At that, the young man turns and begins to leave. Over his shoulder he says to Analdin, "I will check on your horse before bed and inspect that leg once more." That said, he waves with his back turned at walks out the tavern door.

Finishing with the second boot, the young Lieutenant slips it onto his foot before draining the rest of his cider. "I suppose there is buisness I ought be about as well. And you, for that matter, Lieutenant." Standing on his newly-cleaned boots, Analdin nods towards the door. With long strides, he makes his way out into the street.

Malahir stands up as the knight does and bows, "I'm sorry sir, force of habbit. Thank you again. I'm sure we'll see each other again before this is all over". Saluting to his commanding officer he simply sits back down and finishes his cider in one long drain before also leaving the tavern for some well deserved rest.