Day at the King's Cliff

Log file from Akallabeth.

The normally barren crest of King's Cliff is the scene today of a small invasion. Since early this morning, parties of servants have been coming and going with loads of building  materials and foodstuffs. And now, as the noon hour approaches, all is prepared. A modest pavillion has been constructed on the summit as a shelter from the everpresent wind. And within are laid out tables of the finest consumables that Umbar has to offer, and that is very fine indeed. Fruits of all descriptions gleam with misty droplets of water, and wines sparkle in crystal decanters. And for whom is this repast laid out?

Up the hill from the southeast plod a line of richly decorated horses bearing the elite of Numenor. Though the hill is steep, the wise animals recognize rest when they see it and their pace picks up a little as they near the crest. As the party rises into the full force of the wind, ladies and gentlemen all clutch at their headgear and laugh as they can barely hear themsleves speak before the wind whips their words away.

Coming up the hill, at the back of the party, is a young horseman, known as Breanir to some. He looks around at the scenery as he approches the summet, being his first time here. He eyes locked upon the blue horizon, as the Great Sea comes into view. His view turns towards a passing boat, sailing towards the fair land of Numenor. A small sigh is heard comming from the young man.

At the base of the hill some of the young ladies sit below the level of the wind, most of them of Umbar, but two or three adorned as Indrakhori, Murabeth among them. They gossip, and laugh though their words go unheard, and toss flowers at one another. Mostly they watche the procession onto the King's cliff, and talk of silly things... One of the girls becomes upset with one of the others, and a long game of chase ensues.

Thatanimon glances at the young ladies as they pass, but looks away quickly and continues up the hill. As he reaches the crest of the hill amongst the first of the riders, he swings himself down from his horse and tosses the reins towards the nearest hostler waiting by the pavilion. Stretching luxuriously, he allows his long hair to flow behind him in the wind as he walks the stiffness of riding out of his legs.

Aside from the group of travellers upon their steads rides a battle-torn man who sits in a slump upon his stead. Although he wears a great cloak over his body, the wind holds the material at a steady stream behind him revealing ,to those that look, a fully bandaged chest. The white bandaging has obviously been changed recently from the look of cleanliness they assume, but the wounds beneath seem to not give up on making their presence noticed. Two small circles of blood, as light as they are, secretly creep forth through the material to show exactly where this man had been wounded not too long ago; both shoulders, almost in the same spot on each. Beltaur hangs his head low while he rides, too unwillingly to hold it up and face the piercing winds upon his face. His hands lay motionless on the reigns of his horse, yet seem to control it as he rides.

Arriving at his destination,upon the crest of the hill, Breanir swings of his steed. A frown appears on his face, as piercing pain from his pierced chest, goes through his body. Regaining his breath, Breanir gives the reigns of his horse to one of the servents
and walks towards the pavillon.

Murabeth remains sedately downhill for a little while longer, and then abandons the girls o their play, holding her gown up to climb the hill on foot, black and red silk scarf garding her meticulousness fromt eh ravages of the wind. The riders, and the walkers, they all draw her attention, and she strays closer and closer to the cliff edge, passing Breanir with a polite nod on her way. "Good afternoon..."

Beltaur continues to jog his horse while his body uneasily bounces from the motion. He removes a hand from his reigns to pull it across his chest as he feels a tinge of pain. After a brief moment he leans forward to rest upon his horse's head, petting it slightly with his free hand, with reigns still in it. "Tis a good horse you are..." he whispers to the animal in an almost hypnotic state. He nearly falls off but quickly readjusts himself to sit correctly on his saddle. After shaking his head he softly pulls on the reigns to bring his horse to a stop before dismounting very horribly, almost toppling over in the process. A servant approaches him, bows, then takes the horse from him with a smile. Beltaur nods back with a painful smile, still feeling the pain in both shoulders, and begins to walk toward the pavillion, completely oblivious to those around him.

After a cursory glance at the view from the cliff, Thatanimon turns for the shelter of the leeward side of the pavillion, pausing outside to straighten his clothing and adjust his cape. A shake of his head brings his heavy, straight hair back to its accustomed position as though the wind had never touched it. Satisfied at last with his appearance, Thatanimon looks over those still outside as though assessing them until his eyes reach Murabeth. At that point his lips tighten, and he turns quickly to enter the pavillion.

"Good afternoon my Lady", Breanir says as he slightly bows. Raising, he asks as he starts walking bisedes Murabeth, "How are you in this fine day?" Breanir looks around him, as people run around or sit on the grass enjoying their day out.

And she misses Thatanimon's expression not a whit, the corners of her mouth turning up very slowly with some sort of perverse satisfaction. The incident goes far in improving her frame of mind and overall poise. "As well as this morning, and the eve before when last I slept. And yourself?" she asks Breanir politely, "What do you think of our view?"

Beltaur walks with unease, having problems keeping his balance. He constantly winces in pain, but continues to go about his business as if he were in perfect health. His hands quickly find his cloak and pull it over his body as a small group of people pass him; a grim look of disappointment coming across his face when he notices his bandages. The man sighs slightly before making his final approach on the pavilion. Beltaur looks at those around him finally and wonders if anything good shall come of this day of his that has been so wretched.

Breanir smiles, "As well as someone can be after fealing the tip of an arrow." Looking over the cliff, towards the endless water, he adds with a hint of sadness, "A great site it is, my Lady, but I fear it reminds me too much of the fair Isle of Numenor." Breanir pauses for a second, "I truelly miss that land, at least this place brings me closer to my home" he adds with a smile while turning to Murabeth.

Shrugging off his moment of unease, Thatanimon eyes the laden tables with satisfaction. A ripe melon is relieved of one of its slices, and with that and a goblet of deep red wine Thatanimon saunters across to another young Numenorean he seems to recognize. "Anmirtan, isn't it?" he asks, wiping a stray drip of juice from his chin. "Didn't know you came on this..." he seems to change his mind about what he was going to say, and finishes tamely with, "...voyage?"

The youngster spoken to looks around at Thatanimon, and as he recognizes the speaker, he becomes somewhat apprehensive. "Yes Thatty, I'm here, but with the Lord and Lady." He glances around nervously. "Ah, nice view, isn't it?" He waves vaguely towards the window of the pavillion, then turns back to his previous conversation.

Murabeth of Indrakhor turns her eyes on the dismounted Beltaur, one for whom she has seen nothing but ill come to since arriving in this land, and frowns slightly. To Breanir she says as they step under the pavillion, "Most wounds lose their ache in time. The sharpest blade makes the cleanest wound. Soon you, and the rest will be back on the island in the west again, out of the heat and the scorch of the sun... This visit has been most.. eventful. Given the circumstances, I will be relieved to see this group..." small smile, "-back where they belong."

"Ah, m'lord Beltaur, you look poorly! Come you, sit with us. I will have one of the servants fetch you something for your pains..." Murabeth breezes attentively, "The heat surely cannot be good for your health after such strain."

The Guardsman enters the pavillion with a slight relief as the wind siezes to blow his cloak about and sting his cheeks. A frown of curiousity, as well as a raise of an eyebrow, comes across his face when he looks at the food laid out atop the tables. He pushes his cloak from his body, as weak as he is, and staggers toward the tables with a forced grin and a supressed expression of pain. His face goes blank for a moment then comes back with a small grin when he hears Murabeth speak an invitation.

Beltaur turns his body to face the lady and bows, ignoring any and all pain now, saying, "Good day to you, m'lady. How do you fair?" His voice is gentle and unshook, but the shadow of pain still lurks about his body...epsecially when he sits.

"You talk as healer, my fair lady."Breanir says, then suddenly stops, realizing that they have not introduce each other, "I am Breanir, from the house of Isilrim. I wish it was as easy as you say, but I do not know when I will be getting back to the West, for my duties here require my presence." the young man says. Hearing the familiar voice, Breanir turns around to see the guardsman, with a smile he says, "Ah, Beltaur! It is good to see you again. How are your injuries treating you?"

Beltaur painfully raises his arms to brush his cloak behind him, revealing his large wrap of bandages. His hands softly pat the opposite shoulder's wound when he speaks, "They fair....better. But I fear I might not use my arms like I used to." Although he seems worried, his mood quickly changes to a happier one and he speaks, "It is good to see you too, Breanir. I would like to personally thank you for attendting to my friend, Shayla." His eyes look down at the table then back up. His smile turns to a slight frown when he says, "I am sorry to all who lost their lives during that riot...I should not have spoke out as I did." A hand covers his face and he rests his head upon it. He places his elbow on the table and begins to shake his head slightly.

With a shrug and a sniff, Thatanimon turns from the unresponsive Anmirtan and strolls back to a table of cheeses. After careful study, he selects a soft, dark cheese and a chunk of bread and turns back towards the other side of the pavilion. He is brought up short, however, when he finds that Murabeth has entered with Beltaur and Breanir, and now, as he stands not half a dozen paces away facing them, he can hardly avoid acknowledging her presence. Making the best of the situation, he bows gracefully. "My lady Murabeth. I did not see you with the party. Good morning to you. And good day, Breanir... Beltaur." He nods politely to each of the men in turn.

Murabeth lets her stole flutter its silky path to rest upon the crooks of her arms, "How rude of me... for not introducing myself, Breanir. It is my pleasure, though I am no healer, but I could not forgive myself if I allowed someone to drop into a swoon in the midst of luncheon. People would questiont he food, and it simply wouldn't be fitting." Much of what she says is teasing, and her face remains unchanged, pleasent as they are greeted once more. "My lord Thatanimon, how.. pleasent to see you out...enjoying yourself." Words are selected carefully. "Forgive me Breanir, Beltaur, he present my name afore I do. I am
Murabeth, of House Indrakhor."

"Non sense, Beltaur. You are not responsible for what happen that day. As for Shayla..." Breanirs stops, thinking about that day. Shaking his head, he continues "...it was my fault for what happened to here. I shall never forgive myself...". Hearing Thatanimon arriving, the young diplomat turns around to greet him, "Good afternoon, Thatanimon." and turning to Murabeth, he adds with a slight bow, "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Murabeth."

Thatanimon takes a bite of bread and cheese, savouring the flavour as he eyes the others. "The food is certainly enjoyable. I recommend that you help yourselves." He waves towards the tables. "I am out to enjoy the view." he bows again to all three and steps out the door.

The Guardsman gives a small sigh and keeps his face covered and head pearched. His other hand blindly reaches for a small plate of food with some fruits on it, of which he grabs an apple. He slowly brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, uncovering his eyes, and looks about to see Murabeth speak to Thatanimon, then look back to him and Breanir. He nods slightly when she speaks her name and says, "I believe we have met before...but let us not talk of that." He lets a small grin loose.

Murabeth grins victoriously as Thatnimon seemingly flees again, and smiles all the more graciously, stifling a laugh. "Nay. That would be ill form indeed. Truly, torture yourself not. Did you not know in coming here how dangerous it is, and how incendiary the people? That is why good Pharazon is here needed."

"Aye, my fair lady, I was told about the people here, but I have seen more action then I intended. I joined the Diplomatic corp, for I had no real love for the sword..." Breanir says and with a small grin adds, "... but it seems that even a simple debate causes havoc in this grand city. But enough about me, please, tell me about yourself Lady Murabeth."

The lady seats herself fluidly upon one of the benches, her posture stick-straight, the consummate Umbarean lady as she reaches for one of the passing decanters, and pours three glasses of a fragrant blush wine, one for herself and one for each of her luncheon companions. Whether they will drink or, she at the very least offers. "There is little to say, I am afraid."

Beltaur kindly takes the glass offered to him and drinks from it slowly, which is unlikely for him since he usually inhales his drink instead of drinking it. He sets his glass down and takes a small plate from a passing decanter, consisting of a small portion of meat and some very nice looking vegetables. After he sets it down, he takes a small piece of bread from the small tray at the table and puts it on his plate. "Thank you for the drink, m'lady," he says to Murabeth, "But I am sure there is, indeed, much to know about you." He smiles and says, "Please, won't you share?"

Breanir slowly seats down next to Murabeth, grimancing as his chest muscles thighten sending small burst of pain through his body. He takes a plate with some meat and patatoes together with a piece of cheese. Noding his head, while taking the glass of
wine, he thanks the Lady for her generious offer and then adds, "I am sure there is much to say and I will be honor to hear your story...if you wish to share it with us that is."

Murabeth tests the wine with a small sip and cocks her head to one side. "I am afraid I am truthful when I say my life is... very average, and uneventful. I was born in this tempestuous place, educated and raised in Numenor, and look after the interests of
my brother Zimrathads's household there. As I said.. Boring!" she smiles. "How can such a life compete with you own, gentlemen. Needlepoint is hardly swordplay." Careful, careful.

Beltaur stiffles a small laugh, then chortles a cough, bringing his hand over his mouth to muffle the small fit. After a brief recovery, he says with a small chuckle, "Aye, boring yer's may be, but dangerous is mine. If it is action and adventure you choose, I'd suggest taking a different route to the merchants rather than draw a sword," He brings his hand from his mouth and places it softly on his covered wound, "or this may happen to you....or worse." He hesitates for a moment, then speaks again, "So you find your life boring...hmmm. I'd expect a lady of your appearance to lead an action-filled life," another slight pause
before he speaks, looking away as he does, "with all the boys who might chase after you that is." Now his head is turned away from the lady Murabeth, but he manages to take a drink from his glass without facing her for a moment. Finally he turns to face her, an odd grin on his face.

Breanir laughs "My life is hardly exciting. I spend my life at my uncle's house, studying the ways and history of our people and then join the Diplomatic Corps, studying the ways and history of other people. As I said my life is hardly exciting." Breanir listens to the comments made from Beltaur and a small grin appears on his face. He then turns around to try his food and then takes a sip of his wine.

Murabeth laughs, a sweet, chaste sound, one expressing her delight at flattering words, or at the very least amusement. "Of my appearance? Chase?" she swirls the pinkish alcohol in her glass, and sips... then laughs once more. "Very kind, you are sir, very kind indeed. Nay, I am a very dimly burning candle to the lovely flames of more royal houses. Besides which... who is to say I do persue quarry rather than BE quarry."

"This is Umbar, after all."

He gives a slight shrug with a sly grin, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he begins eating his food, savouring every bit of it. After a few bites, he swallows, then says, "Aye, if a lady wishes to be troublesome, then she shall be troublesome..." His grin grows even more before he says, "Boring or not, you should charish your life for it may be taken at any moment," pats his shoulder again, "for mine nearly was..." He goes back to his food, taking a few bites of his poorly self-constructed sandwhich and his vegetables.

Breanir finishes his food and slowly gets up, beeing carefull not to put too much pressure on his injury. Turning towards the others, he respectfully bows, "Thank you for your company Lady Murabeth and to you Beltaur. If you please excuse me, I will take a small walk outside and enjoy the scenery. I hope we meet again soon." Breanir says and with that he walks out of the pavillon and dissapears outside.