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

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.

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 in his clothing, his light, almost Rohirric features give him no appearance of darkness. An air of purpose surrounds him like a light mist.

Pelargir: Hero's Common House - Main Room

        You stand in one of the oldest structures of Pelargir, filled with architecture of a more graceful, creative time. The entryway of the common hall is circular, and the room's expanse fills your sight with ancient granite and light wood. Four columns of oak wood climb upwards from a grey slate floor to melt into a painted ceiling and support a dark oak balcony. A spiral staircase along the eastern arc of the round wall rises to the balcony, built to curve along with the wall. Spanning the western curl of the room is a long stone bar with a wooden top with angled ends to hug the granite walls. Antiquated tables dot the room and arranged around a large hearth cut into the southern arc of the room are several couches and plump pillows.

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

Weather:            Rainy
Time:                Late Morning <about 11 AM >
Season:              Winter
Date:               Hevensday - February 14, 3015

Real Time:          Sun Aug 09 20:24:54 1998
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Aslorindo strums the mandolin and music begins to flow from it slowly...

Talagand sees the man with the mandolin and smiles. He grabs his harp and walks over to the man, "Do you mind if I join you, fellow musician? I would love to play in a duet, for I have not gotten to play my harp for a long time."

Shaking his head like a wet animal, Torelin, long overdue for some nourishment, steps loudly into the Hero's Common House. His cloak is drenched and it is the first thing to be removed and rung out. With that accomplished the young knight flits his eyes about the room and settles on a table near him unoccupied.

The bard does not stop his playing but simply smiles and says, "Certainly, if you would tell me your name. I am Aslorindo of Lebennin."

Long distance to Meh'Kraash: Analdin chuckles.

Talagand grins and begins to play his harp, finding a riff to play over the chords of Aslorindo's mandolin. "I am Talagand of Dol Amroth. and I must say that you are a fine musician and it is an honor to play with you." He then immerses himself completely into the music, trying to improvise a good harp accomaniment for the song being played.

Aslorindo says with a smile, "I am honored then master that you would join me. Do you know the Lay of the Two Trees?"

As the door to the common room swings open moisture from the storm outside seeks its way in, forming something of a puddle near the doorway. Stepping inside and splashing his boots in that small pool of water, Analdin glances about with a curious eye. No cloak hangs about his shoulders, and his uniform is quite damp. In an almost brooding silence, the young man makes his way to the table occupied by the only man not a stranger in the room, Torelin.

Yet, as he nears the table not too far from the doorway, his heave boots slip in the water gathered on the floor from the knight's dripping cloak, and, with a coarse curse, the Lieutenant steadies himself on the table.

Talagand nods, "I do. It is a beautiful song." He quickly switches to a different series of notes.

Torelin makes his usual perfunctory smile at the Lieutenant and his seeminly new found ability to lose control of his body; he offers the man a seat beside him. "Well met, Lieutenant. Perhaps your luck will improve if this rain leaves us." He lets a small chuckle and awaits Analdin's usual gruff response.

Aslorindo grins and meets the meter of the lay, "Then with your permission master, I shall begin."

Talagand glances over at the slipping lieutenant, and barely manages to hide a smirk, though his playing is not affected. Turning to Aslorindo he grins and says, "Please do."

Analdin does not make Torelin wait too long before he speaks while pulling out a chair, "If the cursed rain would shut itself off, perhaps we could continue from the city." His tone is, as expected, much like a growl and he shakes his head in disgust at the floor and the water there. "I do begin to feel as if the weather is playing tricks on me," he nearly mutters as he takes his seat.

The voice of Aslorindo rises high, "Guests of the Hero's Common House, I welcome you. I am Aslorindo, a harper of the river, and with me, is Talagand, one of the sweet harpers of Dol Amroth. This night, we shall sing to you. And the first song we shall sing is old. It is called, the Darkening of Valinor." Then Aslorindo's voice grows deep like a pool of water yet soft as he begins to chant the lay:

The Flight of the Noldor From Valinor

A! the Trees of Light, tall and shapely
gold and silver, more glorious than the sun,
than the moon more magical, o'er the meads of the Gods
their fragrant frith and flowerladen
gardens gleaming, once gladly shone.
In death they are darkened, they drop their leaves
from blackened branches bled by Morgoth
and Ungoliant the grim the Gloomweaver.
In spider's form despair and shadow
a shuddering fear and shapeless night
she weaves in a web of winding venom
that is black and breathless. Their branches fail,
the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched.
Mirk goes marching, mists of blackness,
through the halls of the Mighty hushed and empty,
the gates of the Gods are in gloom mantled.

Elidran steps in and glances around. He smiles, spotting guards whom he knows, and he makes his way towards them.

Torelin laughs now, his eyes smiling in mischievous delight at watching his poor friend in such a fowl mood. "Maybe, maybe. But perhaps this music will help..." He stops speaking to listen to the music--something he long misses.

Aslorindo looks over to Talagand and nods admiring the skill of the bard. He then sings the next stave, and it his voice is a powerful whisper:

A silence falls over the Lieutenant, and he casts a curious glance towards the musicians as they begin to play. However, he shakes his head once more, beads of water falling into his face from his damp hair, at Torelin's words.

Lo! the Elves murmur mourning in anguish
but no more shall be kindled the mirth of Tirion
in the winding ways of their walled city,
towercrowned Tuna, whose twinkling lamps
are drowned in darkness. The dim fingers
of fog come floating from the formless waste
and sunless seas. The sounds of horns,
of horses' hooves hastening wildly
in hopeless hunt, they hear afar,
where the Gods in wrath those guilty ones
through mournful shadow, now mounting as a tide
o'ver the Blissful Realm, in blind dismay
pursue unceasing. The city of the Elves
is thickly thronged. On threadlike stairs
carven of crystal countless torches
stare and twinkle, stain the twilight
and gleaming balusters of green beryl.
A vague rumour of rushing voices,
as myriads mount the marble paths,
there fills and troubles those fair places
wide ways of Tuna and walls of pearl.

Aslorindo now sings louder but yet his voice is in the background of the inn:

Torelin leans over to Analdin and whispers quietly, soas not to disturb the musicians, "My uncle onc spoke of this story...I think you would be wise to listen." He eyes are serious, more so than normal for the young man.

Of the Three Kindreds to that clamorous throng
are none but the Noldor in numbers drawn.
The Elves of Ingwe to the ancient halls
and starry gardens that stand and gleam
upon Taniquetil towering mountain
that day had climbed to the cloudy-domed
mansions of Manwe for mirth and song.
There Varda the Blessed the bluemantled,
the Lady of the heights as lovely as the snow
in lights gleaming of the legions of the stars,
the cold immortal Queen of mountains,
too fair and terrible too far and high
for mortal eyes, in Manwe's court
sat silently as they sang to her.

Elidran sits near Torelin and Analdin and murmurs, "This is a lovely tune..."

Talagand sings an accomaniment to Aslorindo's singing, working out a harmony for the song as he goes. At the same time, he plays out a rythmic chord progression to go behind Aslorindo's notes.

Analdin almost appears to ignore Torelin's speaking, listening as he is to the tune, though an almost disaproving look is impressed upon his frowning features.

The bard now moves away from the lay for a moment and his voice suddenly sings in the language of the fair folk:

Oh Varda the Star-Kindler save the night
Far from fairness, in the blight oh Elbereth
The elves do sing!

A Elebreth Gilthoniel!
silivren penna miriel
o menel aglar elenath
Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!

Aslorindo voice grows soft and sad as he returns to the proper lyrics of the lay:

The Foam-riders, folk of waters,
Elves of the endless echoing beaches,
of the bays and grottoes and the blue lagoons,
of silver sands sown with moonlit,
starlit, sunlit, stones of crystal,
paleburning gems pearls and opals,
on their shining shingle, where now shadows groping
clutched their laughter, quenched in mourning
their mirth and wonder, in amaze wandered
under cliffs grown cold calling dimly,
or in shrouded ships shuddering waited
for the light no more should be lit for ever.

Aslorindo strums his mandolin in a more fevered rhythm now, he looks to Talagand with a shared look that only the harpers know:

But the Noldor were numbered by name and kin,
marshalled and ordered in the mighty square
upon the crown of Tirion. There cried aloud
the fierce son of Finwe. Flaming torches
he held and whirled aloft,
those hands whose craft the hidden secret
knew, that none Noldo or mortal
hath matched or mastered in magic or in skill.
'Lo! slain is my sire by the sword of fiends,
his death he has drunk at the doors of his hall
and deep fastness, where darkly hidden
the Three were guarded, the things unmatched
that Noldo and Elf and the Nine Valar
can never remake or renew on earth,
recarve or rekindle by craft or magic,
not Feanor Finwe's son who fashioned them of yore -
the light is lost whence he lit them first,
the fate of Faerie hath found its hour

Aslorindo continues his song, his eyes flashing, and voice growing strong, as if he himself were the very son of Finwe upon that square of old:

Thus the witless wisdom its reward hath earned
of the Gods' jealousy, who guard us here
to serve them, sing to them in our sweet cages,
to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets,
their leisure to please with our loveliness,
while they waste and squander work of ages,
nor can Morgoth master in their mansions sitting at
countless councils. Now come ye all,
who have courage and hope! My call harken
to flight, to freedom in far places!
The woods of the world whose wide mansions
yet in darkness dream drowned in slumber,
the pathless plains and perilous shores
no moon yet shines on nor mounting dawn
in dew and daylight hath drenched for ever,
farbetter were these for bold footsteps
than gardens of the Gods gloom-encircled
with idleness filled and empty days.

As the song continues, Talagand switches from a background chord progression to a lead role, hoping that Aslorindo will catch the cue and switch into a background role. His fingers fly across the strings of the harp, and the noise that is created could be called either painful or incredible, depending on your musical tastes. He smiles and drops out of the solo, returning to a slower more conventional series of notes.

Aslorindo flutters his eyes, and his voice grows sad and solemn, he nods to Talagand and takes a step back allowing him to continue the lay.

Torelin listens to the song quietly but his eyes turn to Analdin occassionally as if to emphasis the need for the man to heed the words.

The doors to the inn swing open and in walks the figure of Sirion the Elder, Knight of Dol-Amroth. Without a greeting he sits at the table with Analdin and Torelin and looks to the harpers.

Analdin fingers the wood of the table's top with a rough finger, eyes cast down at that flat surface. Almost as though he were either too lost in his own thoughts to hear the music or too lost in the music to pay attention to much else.

Talagand's eyes follow the new arrival as he plays. He smiles again and goes into another short solo, hoping that to impress the man.

Aslorindo now steps forward and sings the next stave of the lay:

Yea! though the light lit them and the loveliness
beyond heart's desire that hath held us slaves
here long and long. But that light is dead.
Our gems are gone, our jewels ravished,
and the Three, my Three, thrice-enchanted
globes of crystal by gleam undying
illumined, lit by living splendour
and all hues' essence, their eager flame -
Morgoth has them in his montstrous hold,
my Silmarils. I swear here oaths,
unbreakable bonds to bind me ever,
by Taniquentil and the timeless halls
of Varda the Blessed that abides thereon -
may she hear and heed- to hunt endlessly
unwearying unwavering through world and sea,
through leaguered lands, lonely mountains,
over fens and forest and the fearful snows,
till I find those fair ones, where the fate is hid
of the folk of Elfland and their fortune locked,
where alone now lies the light divine.'

Torelin nods to the senior knight, his blue eyes alive with emotion over the words in the song. He leans over and knight speaking quietly. "They sing the story of Turin," he informs Sirion

Aslorindo nods and says, "Nay my friend, they sing the lay of Feanor and the Curse of Mandos."

Sirion nods and says, "Nay my friend, they sing the lay of Feanor and the Curse of Mandos."

Aslorindo draws up his voice and continues the song:

Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen,
crafy Curufin, Celegorm the fair,
Amrod and Amras and dark Caranthir,
Maglor the mighty, and Maedhros tall
(the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt
than his father's flame, than Feanor's wrath,
him fate awaited with fell purpose),
these leapt with laughter their lord beside,
with linked hands there lightly took
the oath unbreakabl, blood thereafter
it spilled like a sea and spent the swords
of endless armies, nor hath ended yet:
The harpers voice grows dark and deep. Dreadful and powerful:

'Be he friend or foe or foul offspring
of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark
that in after days on earth shall dwell,
shall no law nor love nor league of Gods,
no might nor mercy, not moveless fate,
defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance
of the sons of Feanor, whoso seize or steal
or finding keep the fair enchanted
globes of crystal whose glory dies not,
the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!'

Aslorindo lifts up his voice as he begins to achieve the climax to this plot that he sings:

Then a mighty murmuring was moved abroad
and the harkening host hailed them roaring:
'Let us go! yea go from the Gods for ever
on Morgoth's trail o'er the mountains of the world
to vengeance and victory! Your vows are ours!

THE END

Aslorindo takes a step back, and bows.

Torelin makes an "ah" sound and returns, "It is very sad, whatever its title. These stories I heard as a child." As the song ends he pauses to take in all the meaning of the words.

Elidran claps as the song ends, smiling.

As the long sung tale ends, Analdin leans back a bit in his chair, disaproving appearance replaced by one unreadable. His silence remains, however, even as noise resumes in the room. Dark eyes look about with a guarded look of curiousity at the faces of other patrons.

Sirion says sorrowfully, "Alas, for Feanor was the greatest of the Elves in body and mind, and low he fell, under the curse of Mandos and his overweening pride."

Talagand pulls his harping to a stop, drawing out a long low note. He too bows and then says to Aslorindo quietly, "That was wonderful. You have a great voice, friend. I shall have to travel to Pelargir more often."

Torelin claps as he listens to Sirion's words. "Pride?" he asks. "But could he not redeem himself somehow or was he doomed forever afterwards?"

Aslorindo smiles, "I come here at times to play for the travellers who come to Pelargir, though sometimes the guests would like to hear happier songs."

Though his eyes are directed elsewhere, a flicker of interest shines in them as Analdin overhears the words between Torelin and Sirion.

That flicker is soon smothered by an uncaring appearance, however, and he fingers the tabletop once more out of what looks to be boredom.

Talagand grins and says to Aslorindo, "Yes, they can be like that. I'm more of an instrumental person than a lyrical person, though, so I have always felt that what sounds good sounds good, and for that reason have not brought my voice to such a skillful level as yours."

Sirion looks grim, "Alas no, for the oath he swore bound he and his sons and all they did was ruinous or so it is sad. For in the lore of old it is said that Mandos the Vala cursed Feanor and his sons, and every deed they did turned to ruin; and Feanor died, and so did his seven sons but not before doing great evil to their own kinsman." Sirion sighs, "Yet perhaps more evil was the curse laid upon Turin." Then suddenly Sirion laughs, "But these are child tales. But then again, with what we have seen I would not now disbelieve in them, perhaps if Feanor had let go of his pride and gave up his claim to the Silmarils he would have saved himself. But who can say? Yet it is a heavy doom. And a doom falls upon us as well. For did not the voice in the tower say that only the worthy may achieve the helm?"

Aslorindo laughs, "I do not think my voice is skillful. If it was I would be singing in the court of princes and counts instead of this fare." He says this last softly so as not to let the bartender overhear.

Talagand smiles, "It may not be of an unfathomable quality, but it is better than mine. But our audience is proably eager for another song. Did you have anything in mind for our next piece?"

Torelin frowns as Sirion finishes his sentence. "Well I certainly am not worthy considering everything I have done before this point in my life. However, surely Lord Boromir is worthy of the helm....or perhaps you." He looks at Sirion expectantly.

Aslorindo smiles, "Do you remember the Siege of Pelargir?"

Analdin looks from the young knight to the elder one, yet speaks not, listening only to their words with a calm expression. Even as his face is nearly peaceful, his eyes are bright with thought, and it is obvious that his silence is no sign of idleness.

Talagand nods grimly, "Aye. I was child then, but it definately stands out in my memory. I'm sure it would have been worse for you, though, as you were here for it, while I was safely nestled in Dol Amroth."

Sirion says with a bark of a laugh, "I do not wish for the helm, I go because the Prince Imrahil commended the quest upon me. I seek not glory. But if this helm exists then it would be a great boon to Gondor, for no dart may pierce it, and it fills foes with the dread of the Dwarves of old. However, if it is to be won, then perhaps it would be best to live by the seven virtues laid down by our longfathers."

Aslorindo smiles, "I have written a lay of those deeds, perhaps you could meet my key?"

Joran emerges from the kitchen just as Araloth steps through the door. "Greetings and welcome to The Hero's Common House."

Torelin looks at Sirion with a quizzical expression. "My father was a soldier and spoke little of virtues. I don't think I could name them all if I tried."

Finally raising his voice, Analdin speaks quietly, "Pray, tell me, Lord Sirion... What are these seven virtues you speak of? That is, if you believe they are of worth to be known..." he trails off with a shrug, as if to hide his interest in uncaring.

Elidran glances from Analdin to Sirion curiously, sipping his wine.

Talagand nods, "Of course. You can't get anywhere with a voice that sounds like a dead orc if you can't pick up the notes to a song quickly. I pride myself on my ability to improvise, since I have to pride myself on spomething, and I can't very well do it on singing." He grins.

Sirion replies, "All soldiers should live to virtues." He looks to Analdin, "In Numenor of old, before the downfall there were virtues lived by the warriors of old. The true warriors do not love war, but love peace, and seek to bring it to our kin and kine."

Aslorindo laughs and strums the mandolin again, "Then we shall sing of Pelargir!"

Analdin mouths in near silence, "Our kin and what?" but simply nods his understanding, following up quickly with a question, "And what would these seven be? Can you name them?"

Sirion then continues, "These virtues are thus: Loyalty, truth, justice, valour, compassion, humility and hope."

Talagand nods and listens closely to Aslorindo's notes for a few seconds before coming in with his own notes to accompany them. he taps out a steady beat with his foot and smiles to Aslorindo. Silently, he mouths, "A good tune."

Aslorindo now sings a new song, and his voice grows sharp:

A! Pelargir, pleasant neath pearly sand
lamplit quays along, the length of long Anduin,
raucus river, calling, roaring blood of Ulmo.
Now dark neath the daunting foes:
Saurons servants, who slowly
roam wide in the world. Woe are they who fall
neath that sharp shadow. Yet sure hearted are
strength of men mighty, the folk of
noble Gondor: sons of the Sea-Kings of
Old, Kin of Elros, Earendils Elder son,
now halved in blood, yet not of heart.
Lo! In these lost after days, the Leaguer
was held by Angbor, whose foes fled his face
the Fear-less Lord of fair Lamedon.
 Reluctant he was to receive such royal repose for
his wont was the wide forest of the weeping trees
neath mountain shadow: mirthful and shimmering
wind from White whispering hills call to him.
But baleful duty is otherwise and now he serves
this city nigh the slow stream of Ancient Anduin.
 

Analdin relaxes back in his chair with another nod, considering the words spoken by the older knight.

Torelin nods. "I thought war was all adventure once." He touches his cheek, it's scar readily visible, as if to indicate he has come to a different conclusion now. "How can we live like that though, when all around us is death and evil. It is hard for me to feel compassion after seeing all I've seen."

Elidran sighs, "There is little that is pleasant or adventurous about war, I fear."

The notes of his harp are sharp and precise as Talagand plays along with the new song. Though he does not know the words, he manages to hum a harmony along with Aslorindo's singing.

Sirion speaks, "Perhaps I may fortell, that only a true knight may win the helm. Perhaps if Turin and Feanor thus were seperated from their pride they may have removed the curse from themselves." Sirion then replies to Torelin, "Ah, this may be so, but all Men are motivated by their own goods and few are truly evil. A true knight can remove themselves from the needs of this world and think of only the good of others. A warrior goes not to war for war, but to bring hope and life to others."

Aslorindo now sings the next stanza to the lay:

Yet though by foggy moonlit light,
New tidings tore from the south,
of the bitter brave spear of proud Angiest,
and the deed dealt therein on horse and spear.
Angiest, home was Pelargir! A twice born-
noble, thrice reknown! Now new word
was whispered, prepration mustering
of feast to fester even the fairest of all,
ere the Great River sang, or Orome rode.
Angbor allowed anon the speech and
fair bards to come, and merchants and their makes,
far prizes, fair from realms beyond the ken of men.
Yet even as merriment was made evil plots were woven in woods afar.
 

Talagand's notes take on a low and sinister accomaniment as he plays.

One ear turned to the music and song, Analdin also listens to Sirion. A hint of a disgusted smile plays upon his lips, and he shakes his head, only mumbling something about true knights before he speaks a bit louder, "No true warrior would go to battle seeking death... Only to fight as he must to protect."

Aslorindo continues his song his voice strong:

Lo! The Golden Lady of the Wood,
Spins nets from none that escape!
And in such time of merriment
a strange shadow, a man not but
form of treachery, fair seeming
and as ancient as the shadow of Sauron
came to Pelargir. An elf by name
stood afore murdered man in the myriads
that day. And Angbor hastened justice
swift and sure. Brought before the throne,
Minas Sirion tall. And there asked passage
for its folk down Anduin, to escape the
shadow it would seem. But perhaps not.
So spoke Hurin hateful of such deceit:
Why oh ye Gondo? Should we not be
mindful of Elvish trap and cunning?
Dead men lay upon the streets as this
one seeks our leave? Nay I say!
This creature has most assuredly
the doer of such deeds and swift justice
may be met only in true sure speedy
of what Elven power deserves: Death!

At this point in the song, Talagand squeezes in a short solo, played with a medium speed on the middle of the scale. He closes his eyes and bows his head as he plays out the notes.

Aslorindo sings the next part of the lay....

Many a man harked Hurins daunting words
and were turned. Murmurs of agreement
ran swift but Angbor was of different mood and
spoke: And in such we become naught better then
they. This I say to you Elvish master. Get thee gone!
Stay here no longer for you are haughty and
treat us as if boys when by our hand we have
staved the flood of the shadow! Come here
no more nor your folk. A cold welcome at
spears point shalt thouest find!

Torelin squints his eyes as the words of the elder knight work around in his head. He sighs and replies, "Sometimes I wonder how I even ended up in this garb." He motions to the tabard he wears. "I make a very poor knight."

Sirion laughs, "You see, you have mastered the virtue of humility! Tell me then, why did you take up the valour of Imrahil then?"

Aslorindo continues the sont:
 

And the Elf looked deep into Angbors eyes and spoke
with power: So you sayest, and so must I, that the
Elves will not look kindly on these words and no
aid shall you succour in our haunts. You are not
friends but unfriends. And penalties shall be
wrought thou of an upstart race!

And thus with a wind he vanished. A heavy gloom
encircled head and a sudden fear. What curse
was wrought here will in after days nigh at hand
will be soon to tell. The Siege of Pelargir.

 Behold! Anduin, keeper of fate and witness
 to all! Yet silent as the rocks of the earth,
 in its groaning course dark shadows overlooked
 west, wide beyond river, to the white walls of Pelargir.
 That lay in the sun, lit by the fires of fierce Anor,
 stood proud, willful, wiley, starlit, moonlit, sunlit,
 as if walls of pearl and halls of opal, stored with
 lines of Corslet, axe and sword, in hoard since
 the days of the Dark Years when the kings came.
 Yet no wisdom or whisper of knowledge came
 to Angbors ear, of treachery afoot, or dark plotting
 from a doomed Demon afar. And so they
 came, crossing the river in riven blood,
 black stained and evil, defiling proud realm and
 clean country with their foul arts and fey enchantments,
 evil and guileful. Gladness passed, mirth died
 on bards lips replaced by baleful fear and death
 as the Orcs, came to those walls in guise of war.

Aslorindo continues to sing...

 Sadness! Sorrow! Sanguinity!
 The air wretches and rumbles the earth neath,
 the feet of groaning gasping dust,
 hewn by the War engines of Mirthless Mordor.
 Ah alas the long leaves and lawns of Lebennin,
 now trampled neath iron shod foot,
 trapping within those white walls,
 the Folk of spear, sword and horse.
Yet not all are in despair.

 Lo! Defiant yet are the sons of the West,
 Terrible and tall are they in anger unchained,
 as they stood held back the hungry hoardes,
 from their prize: Pelargir.

 Upon those ramparts that day,
 when the arrows fell as thick as hail,
 stood Angbor the Fearless, fell in Battle
 and he shouted out swift and sharp words
 Defiant and dauntless to his foes.

 Alas! From the shadows came forth,
 a creature of dire power,
 a Nazgul of the Nine, nurtured in hate,
 and bound in a black heart of blistering evil,
 servant only to faithless whim of their
 Dark lord, Direful and powerful.
 The darts did cease and he rode forth,
 Uvatha, Lord of a realm now in choking
 dust, and spoke with spearing tongue of bitter hell:

Aslorindo grows deep and almost evil as he speaks of the ring wraith...

So! Soon I see that the high-helm are yet haughty,
 filled with proud faithless pride that are but
 a languishing of lies. Soon your red blood
 will stain Pelargir's pale walls. Yet come!
 I offer you this, to give way thy pride and
 relenquish power to a better master, who
 may mete you with reward generous to glut
 any worm of Greed!"

Torelin looks hard at Sirion and then to Analdin. "I have never been asked that...and am not sure if I can answer well enough." He pauses and mulls a bit before saying, "Partly to right some of the things I did in my past and partly to ensure that the few I love here will be able to feel safe..." He trails off, finding little else offer.

Analdin falls once more into silence, dark eyes moving between the two knights who are seated at the tavble. After a few long moments, disregarding everything else, he stands with a suddeness and pushes the chair back from beneath him. Finally on his feet, he walks with all the calmness of a caged lion to the wall not to far from the table, against which he leans, though a restlessness does touch his features.

Sirion smiles, "That remains to be seen who shall be safe or no."

 Yet Angbor, angry, defiant and not awed
 laughed at the Wraith: "Can'st thoust
 unlearn thy lore. Nay, we shall not
 fall chattle to thy masters will or whim for
 we would rather die in dire battle then
 become blackhearted traitors unto are own.
 So Nay! Get thee gone from these green grasslands
 foul demon lest even the deathless will learn to die,
 as your hosts will ruin fields with black blood."

 Naught the Nazgul answered save with hefted hand
 heavily raised and a rain of razored arrows fell from the sky
 and the ladders were laid heavily upon the white walls
 and the orc sprang severely up them shimmering scimitars
 reckoning in the rancor of battle for blood.

 Yet it was not to be yet! Oh ye men of Gondor hear now
 of the wonderment of that day! When Hurin the Dauntless,
 Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith, spoke to the men now
 haunting in fears foul shadow. Quoth Hurin:
"Proud men, perilous shadow shades over us,
 and the spear tips of the terror take their
 glut at our gorge of blood. Yet they shall
 rue the day that draws to their doom!
 Men we are of the West, whose wind
 lay hope and endurance beyond pain!
 Ye have sworn oaths, now fufill them!
 Ye have named and numbered your kin,
 now protect them in the name of the Tree
 of Elendil and the wide fields of far Rohan!
 Come ye warriors! Let us show that we are not a race defeated!"

 So they sang and slew as they went,
 chanting the deeds of ancient spear thanes,
 now names lost in shadow, until the white walls wept
 with blackened blood and the orcs were forced back.
 Proud Amarthion, noble Rhian of Rohan, Celebhir the bold,
 slew beyond any glut of greed yet the city remained besieged.

 In those dark days many brave deeds and dark deeds
 were done. In the service to of Sirion One-hand was
 a Squire, Xabre by name he was and of loyal
 service to Sirion Sema. Upon the walls in those days
 there were few so daring in death or life.
 His prowess was mighty among arms indeed,
 for part of his master who made him hard in arms.
 Yet that was but part, for love also drove him
 enamourmant of a bardess, gentle of the art
 and soft of voice, hair as if the dusk and eyes
 as if stars. By sooth he was fallen in greater
 love for she then by oath or all. Charystra
 was her name, numberless among the stars
 was the greatness of her art. Yet she perhaps
 did not love as less he to her.

Sirion looks up at the bard as he sings of his son...

 Now in those days, whilst the black hearted
 ones fought in the first wave upon the city ramparts
 some cruelly captured Charystra and others,
 to be tormented in the black arts. Some were
 killed and caused sorrow indeed for corpses
 were hurled over the walls for all to see.
 And Charystra, Charystra was put to the torment
 on a stake before the wall. Xabre marked this in his torment.
 The orcs laughed and cried:
"Ho human come hither and see the torment!
 of those who defy the Eye! Knowest well
 remember!"

Torelin watches Analdin leave the table without a word and frowns slightly. "Did you decide to be a knight for all the virtues you mentioned before?" he asks Sirion.

Xabre then cried: "Such payment for our
 life and love would be ill met! We shall
 not pay for still Charystra, ah Charystra
 will still be tormented in your hellish abodes!"

 The orc then smiled and replied: "Come now
 and swear and gladly we will release her to thee.
 A small reward for so great a treachery!"

 And Xabre swore, for his mind was wroth
 and whelmed with love. Forgetting his oath
 to the tree he swore to the Eye, and became
 Oathbreaker. When those about him saw his
 treachery he was taken in chains to be held for
 judgement.

Sirion replies, "Nay sirrah. I became a knight for my father was a knight. And I was proud and willful and thought not of virtue. Yet I had learned, for I have tasted death and fell under the curse of the Nazgul."

 Yet the bard was released, though taken
 for dead by the hellish fiends. And
 Xabre was brought before justice
 but to his great dismay his own
 Lord Sirion Sema sat there brow burning and heart hot.
 His own squire, now he sought to remand utterly
 for oath-breaking, greatest of commitable crimes under the sun
 and in his judgement cast from the order
 and to Dol Amroth was he banned.
 Yet this was mercy for only at the sooth
 of Angbor was his life spared for it was
 by Sirions wont to cast him from the Land
 entire and send him to those to who he would
 swear alliance.

 Ah! Angbor the Fearless, fell in war,
 tireless in terror and undaunting in noisesome
 struggle at hand bade bold Celebhir of the Rangers
 to lead at length a silent mustering of men
 to wreak what havoc their hands may.
 And so sent lit alight the evil machinations
 of the Enemy yet they were pressed hard
 and the arrows fell and the Nazgul came.
 Laughed lightly the orcs did at Fearless
 who stood amid the battlements headless
 of any dart that fell. And a foul creature,
 Shagrat he named himself in uncouth tongue
 and spoke unto the fey fearsome eyes of Angbor:
"So the white flesh burns against the white walls
 of Pelargir. And thoust will see this day thine
 own people tormented in the hellish confines
 of this bloody field. Thy folly is revealed!
 Come craven coward! Meet thine own fate
 unless thou likest the torment we have driven
 thine kinsfolk to! See what we do!"

 And so proud Ravenwyr Doomridden was put to torment,
 put atop catapult and slowly tortured. And lo! There
 in small cage was a Great Eagle. Or once was when
 it was free in flight. For now it was but a shadow of itself,
 eyes gouged and talons marred. Yet strength was
 still upon it. And Ravenwyr in last sorrow managed to free
 the raptor and it screeched in sudden freedom and stooped upon
 the foes, as Ravenwyr was soon to escape in confusion, but now
 body marred and mind melted by the Morgul shade.

Analdin remains in the tavern, listening to the words of the minstrel, but only casts a single frowning glance towards the table he so suddenly left. Eyes wandering the room, as if doing the pacing that the young officer would do, he stands in silence, arms folded over his chest as he turns his attention ro the song.

Torelin stares at Sirion with the eyes of one in awe. "Sometimes I feel so young just when I begin to think I am grown up finally."

Sirion nods, "As do I. Yet perhaps I am wiser than I was in my youth. For I have been humbled low. And the curse came to fufillment, and my house is in shamles, my daughter knows me not, and my son is deadl."

 And so Angbor came, shining shimmering in armor!
 In panoply of perilous weapons at his nod,
 lord of Lamedon, Captain of arms mighty!
 And he held aloft his sword, smithed of old
 in forges strong. And blackened steel
 clashed against the bright and they hewed
 at eachother. But the enemy Shagrat, Shadow dweller
 hate-filled was stronger and hewed him down.

 Lo! Ere Shagrat should show his evil purpose
 and take proud Angbor to torment, a storm
 stern as if proud beacons of old, worthy of
 the sons of Numenor came on horse
 galloping gladly for freedom from costly
 confines and narrow battles! The Knights,
 stern Sirion, marshalling them to war
 and rescue hewed on the foe with sudden
 onlsaught. Angiest was there, one-eye dark in the
 recesses, as was Amarthion gladly singing for battle,
 helmetless and hair a-flowing. So Sirion Sema
 took up Angbor and bore him back,
 a champion in arms yet but just to most eyes
 delaying his death.

 So most said and muttered, but at the last
 the gates were smashed and the town razed,
 people pushed were left to confined in narrow
 Minas Sirion, an old stronghold in citys center.
 In that plunder the people were slaughtered and
 the fight was grim, and few survived indeed.
 So dark were the shadows, and the nights long,
 nigh impossible Pelargir fell at hands of
 deadly foes, and the sore weeping of women
 and children filled the air. Sleep was ill begot
 and death was swift. Pestilence pored the air
 and darkness was welcomed to forget the
 blight of day.

Yet even so brave deeds were done,
Fair flower of fragrant Rohan, Aracynn,
taken and tortured by mirthless Mordain,
was brought to rights by the proud sword
of Xatra, and so won each others love
in days of doom.

Elbarad the Doughty, proud warrior of the walls,
made flow the hearts of men with new hope,
and with Tinnian and other brave men of whom
but numbers can little show save by blood the tide
was staved for a time... But still it fell to darkness.

 Yet by such impossibility, by few words it
 would seem. Word had reached friends afar and near.
 And upon the dawn, when the darkness seemed
 lighter and the friendships of old were but
 narrowly held on sword edge. A strange sound
 was heard in morning light.

With images of horror running through the background of the tavern, combined with Sirion's words Torelin finds little to say, his eyes expressing nothing but sadness. "I...am sorry, my lord" seems to be all that the young knight can manage to enunciate.

Sirion replies, "It is over, and now perhaps I may be of service to my lord ere I die. But as for myself, no pride claims me. Only pity, but not for myself."

 Hark! Horses hooves! Hastening wildly in hopeful hunt,
 seeking death and battle. The Riders hath returned from
 the North, summoned by the eagle saved by the deeds
 of Ravenwyr the Doomridden. News from afar was
 given to them, and with lightening loosed their hosts,
 and sped south in search of war and doom.
 By such speed and terror to their taunting foes,
 came they with sudden onslaught. Blood!
 Gore were about and they sang as they clove in
 the defiled streets of Pelargir. And now they came to
 the mass of the besiegers. But there were trolls
 and a Nazgul who now fought Gondor in deadly doom.
 Proud Sirion swaying at the knees, and Angiest
 One-Eye, sword death consumed! And soon they
 would fall, and the Rohirrim would fail.

Yet then even as if a new dawn, a sound
 came, horns as if sea shells. The Prince!
 The Prince! At last word had reached Adrahils
 son and his trusty Knights have come. There upon
 the square he sucourred the remnant of Pelargir,
 and sought battle with Nazgul. Yet then he
 knew his hour had not come yet. And he had
 disappeared into the shadows. The blood was
 deep, the sorrow numberless and the tears
 shed as a river, but the people lived, and
 the houses of Pelargir sang a song of hope:

Ah! Proud is the princely Tree thrice reknown,
 scion of kings. Withered it is wasted,
 Black the branches which fall baleful,
to the dusky side, a daunting act of destiny.

Yet so the harpers sing, of such singular,
beauty to behold, when the king will come,
with brandishing sword, from sea and blackened,
firth. None may stop him, fate is his guide,
guiless sing the birds that few may hear,
along the stony shore of sea.

Torelin looks over to Analdin as he asks the older knight, "Did you believe the curse in the beginning?"

The whistling wind doth whisper,
A rumor into running ears,
Of a time that comes of torment,
And the dauntless dogs of demonic
war, shall cease, and the King will come,
again, his hands will heal the land,
and again shall bloom the elder branches
of that merry tree under sun and seaside,
And rejoice shall we that will be,
the heralds of the coming king.

Aslorindo bows as his lay ends.

Though his attention seems to have been turned towards the song and preformers, Analdin doesn't look up from staring across the room as the music ends.

Torelin realizes that the song has ended and turns to give his thanks to the two performers. He turns back to Sirion and awaits to hear the man's answer.

Talagand bows also, and then turns to Aslorindo. "That was quite a marathon. Very impressive, though. I would like to have the lyrics some time, if I can. But now, I'm sad to say that I'm a little worn out, and I need some rest. Maybe tomorrow we'll play again." He begins to head towards the stairs and then turns around again, "Oh, one other thing, would you by any chance be interested in an instrument? If you ever want to learn the harp, I'd be willing to make one for you."

Siron shakes his head, "Nay, I thought I was dead, and I became insane for a long time. Thus I found the emyn Muil. But after a time I sat on the Seat of Sight and I returned to the world."

Torelin looks sidelong at Sirion. "Emyn Muil? It sounds familiar..."

Sirion laughs and rises, "You know it well enough, well, I think we have had enough of this dark talk. Boromir wishes to set sail soon and the ship is being provisioned. I wish to go see some of my friends in Minas Sirion."

At mention of setting sail, Analdin snaps out of his brooding stare across the room and nods quietly, "What ship shall we be taking?" he shoots off a quick, and almost snapped, question.

Torelin turns his attention briefly to Analdin and then back to Sirion, making leaving motions. He puts off his well-wishing until the knight has answered the Lieutenant's question.

Sirion replies kindly to Analdin on his way out, "I think we shall be taking the Alcarondas itself."

Aslorindo heads out the door to the main square.
Aslorindo has left.

Analdin shrugs a nod as the knight leaves so suddenly after replying to his question, once again lapsing into that silence that has marked his stay at the common room so far. It does not last more than a few long moments, however, before he mutters something to himself.