Upon the Sea

Log file from Akallabeth.

A strong and chill wind stirs the Adunabar's sails in the low light of the moon. The storm clouds have been blown to reveal a clear sky, that is beautiful, with the greys and blues of a turbulant sea. The deck is somewhat crowded considering the coldness of the night air possibly due to the recent bad weather that kept many below decks.

One such cloaked woman stands alone at the side of the deck facing westward. Her gaze on what looks to be onyy open sea. Her hood is down and the sea wind stirs her hair which from the look has been blown about for some time already. If one were close enough, one would hear soft tapping on the deck, as one boot raps on the deck, possibly in aggitation or perhaps just nervous energy.

The wan moon rides high in the sky -- a sky unmarred by clouds and ill weather, and the chill wind blows from the West, clean and fresh, bringing with it the scent of the sea. Through the tall mast it whistles, the sails trembling and taut in its wake. Past the sailors it blows towards the East, keening and moaning. A never ceasing sound, it seems indeed to be the only creature which ventures abroad this night, companion to the lone ship which leaps through the water.

Of a sudden, a sound there comes from the gloom-shrouded deck -- a sound most strange, for it is a man's voice raised in song. Clear and rich, the voice sings the elvish words in a pleasing fashion, and another sound there can be heard then -- the footsteps of the one who sings, firm, and yet light. From the cabin he steps forth, and towards the westward side of the deck he makes his way, his tall form shadowed in the gloom, and yet his alabaster tunic gleams with a pale light, and so too does the hilt of the blade by his side.

Galenriens head turns perhaps a little slowly towards the sound of song and approaching footsteps. Soon after she turns fully around to face the singer, moonlight showing her face clearly. It holds a curious expression. Wonder and a small trace of fear can be seen in her grey eyes as she tries to identify the singer. She watches and listens intently, in unabashed frankness as the man draws near to her place at the edge of the deck. She speaks no word as to not stop the song, but waits for the man to notice her, for unless he is so absorbed in his singing, he could not help but see a woman pointedly waiting to be noticed.

Towards the lone woman the shadowed figure makes its way at a leisurely pace, and but a few paces from her it halts, grey eyes, keen and bright in the darkness, intent upon her. And the song dies a natural death then, and even as its last notes linger upon the air, the man bows, his great cloak sweeping around him, "Ah! I had deemed this night lonely and bereft of company, but it would seem I thought wrongly!"

Galenrien silently watches the man finish his song. A small smile hovers on her lips for a fleeting moment as she hears the man's words. She waits til he is close enough for her not to raise her voice. "Indeed, company." She pauses." Good eve to you sir. Company you seem not to need, so absorbed in song are you, and on of elvish words it is, as well. If you wish company, maybe you should sing of something more would be comforted by, perhaps." There is laughter in her clear voice as she says this.

"Company", and those grey eyes sparkle as the man straightens, "is ever to be welcomed, lady, for I fear I find myself tiresome when chance would have me alone with none other nigh." And he strides forth a pace or two to rest against the wooden rails, his voice mild as he continues, seemingly uncaring of any among the sailors whom his words might reach, "And they are fools, who would shun a song sung in the elven tongue, for it is fair indeed, and beauty is to be held in wonder and high esteem." A flickering glance he casts to the one by his side, laughter in his tone, mockery in his gaze, "Are you such a one, lady?"

Galenrien smile has grown now but the laughter has fled from her voice as she studies the man's face as she says calmly. "I? Such a one to shun elvish songs? For myself, no. My ancestors, though, in their generations of service to our kings feel more strongly than I. For I am a healer therefore love and hold dear all life, be it human, or not. But here on this ship the men are King's Men. What do you here on this ship if you do not sympathize with the Arnari. You should fear for your life if your song is heard by a hot-blooded soldier, sir"

Meregond arrives from the lower deck, a small goblet of wine in his hand. He looks about and breaths heavily, sniffing the brisk ocean air. He finishes his wine and hands it to a nearby servent, making his way towards Galenrien and Azrakhor. With a small bow, he says in a low-pitched tone, "Good evening to you both!" He grins as his cloak blows in the chill gails. Standing at his full height, he looks valiant and ready for anything.

With arched eyebrows, and a smile which grows ever steadily, the man regards Galenrien, "Human? What mean you by that, lady -- for if you speak of the virtues men must posses to be known thus, surely the Elder Kindred do so in far greater abundance than do we mortals!" And he pauses then, turning to look upon the other man who has spoken, and of a sudden, his delighted laughter rises rich and clear, startling indeed in the stilness of the night, even as he inclines his head in greeting to Meregond, "Verily, your words are those of prophecy, lady! Here is a valiant soldier I deem, the likes of which you would caution me against."

Meregond rests his arms across his chest, the pale moon reflecting off the placid waters and his mail. He looks over the faces of those before him, even so, they are almost all darkened by the night. He says in response to Azrakhor's words, a bit confused at the previous statement, "Prophecy? What do you speak of, prophecy?" His voice is low and inquisitive, his eyes landing on Galenrien now.

Waving a hand, the man draws his cloak closer, for the wind grows sharp and chill now, and it carries the scent of rain upon it, "A jest, no more. The lady feared I would not live long if any such as you were to hear my song." And even though he smiles and his words are light, his gaze rests heavy upon Meregond from beneath lowered eyelids.

Meregond chuckles slightly, almost to himself, wallowing in some sick humor. He vexes his gaze upon Azrakhor, thoroughly, and says with an undertone, "Sir Azrakhor, would you happen to have a moment? I wish to speak with you, and it doesn't concern your song, however I would like to hear of that matter too." He chuckles at his last comment and grins wryly, motioning to the front of the ship. He says once more, "Excuse us lady Galenrien."

Motioning in silence to the gloom-shrouded fore of the deck, Azrakhor straightens, and he turns then to Galenrien. Low he bows, graceful and assured, his smile swift, his eyes bright in the starlight, "And so I must take your leave, lady. But at the least, I have the knowledge of your name to bear away with me -- and this!" and leaning forward, gently he picks from the railing a silver thread which flutters thither, trapped in a crevice in the wood. A thread like to the ones braided amongst her hair.

Towards the front he strides then, waiting not to see if Meregond follows, a half-seen figure in the darkness, his low laughter floating back upon the wind.

You sense: Meregond remains silent as Azrakhor gives his final dues and takes the silver thread. His face is shrouded with darkness, his rippling cloak the only visible movement from his silouhette. He follows Azrakhor and comes abreast to him, motioning once more to the far end, near the last mast.

As they reach their destination, Meregond says rather quietly, "I understand you are Alphelen's brother, correct?" His eyes are unseen, but they lie heavily upon Azrakhor.

Dusting a barrel which rests nigh the railing, Azrakhor seats himself with a faint grimace, his legs clad in supple leather stretched before him. And his head against the wooden bar, he looks up to the one who stands over him, and calmly he speaks, "It would seem my fame comes before me. Indeed, I am Azrakhor and brother to the Lady Alphelen. And to whom have I the honour of speaking, who would have speech with me where none other may hear us?" and yet again the barbed mockery runs through his tone and dances in his veiled eyes.

You sense: Meregond picks up Azrakhor's aura quite well and continues to drape his arms across his chest. His face is unseen, but his large figure is easily visible in the light of the moon. He chuckles lightly at Azrakhor's words and replies with the same intent of mockery, "You speak rather brazenly, Azrakhor, son of Solitar." He chuckles again and adds, "You are just as you were described...anyhow, I am Meregond Ziranardu, the one who calls you now."

He clears his throat and says once more, now in a whisper, "Have you ever heard of the Black Hand?"

"I fear", and Azrakhor draws from his belt a pair of gauntlets and draws them on, a mild frown creasing his brow as he smooths the wrinkled leather, absorbed in his task, "that I have not the skill with words to be aught other than brazen." And he pauses then, his visage unreadable, "As I was described? Indeed, it would seem I am known to more than I had thought!"

A brief moment he pauses yet again in seeming thought, ere speaking with unhurried calm, "The Black Hand -- the foul men who sought to bring harm to the Lady Alphelen numbered amongst its servants, if my memory does not fail me -- did they not?"

You sense: Meregond's face is unreadable from the darkness which veils his face, but a calm laugh floats from his lips. He says quietly, "Indeed, many know you which you know not..." He joins Azrakhor on a barrel and sits quickly, adding with a whisper, "Yes, the organization which sought to put an end to your beloved sister."

The wind blows harder and Meregond moves closer to Azrakhor. The hint of rain comes over the skies, dimming the pale moonlight. Meregond continues in a shrill whisper, "You know me not Azrakhor, but we have watched you closely. We know of your distaste for your father his ways. We are also aware that you have the ability to be trusted, and subservant." A brief moment a silence follows, "We know you quite well Azrakhor...and we are aware of your emotions, your mind set..."

You pemit "For a moment -- a moment so fleeting it seems naught but a play of the dim light, Azrakhor's visage is pale. Carved from marble it seems, white marble which is cold and hard. And then, akin to a half-remembered dream which fades swiftly and cannot be recalled, that moment is gone.

Serenely he smiles, his tone placid, his eyes, mad fountains of mirth, "You claim to know much about me, Meregond Ziranardu -- more indeed, than do I! And have a care, I beg you -- you speak thus of 'we' and secrets, that almost I could think you were of the dreaded Black Hand yourself!"" to Meregond.

You sense: Meregond lets out a mirthful chuckle, his darkened face caught for once by a glimpse of the pale moon. His eyes are set heavily upon Azrakhor, his face hiding something dreadfully prompt. He says again, leaning in towards Azrakhor, "You think right my friend..." He cuts short and lets the silence fill the tense void in. He laughs again, this time it is caught by the torrent wind.
With more clouds rolling in, a chill patter of rain begins to fall upon Arda. Meregond raises his hood and adds again, "You have been choosen, Azrakhor--son of Solitar. You have the most supreme position to be sworn into the Black Hand, and your skills alone set you out from others." He sighs and continues, "This is something of great importance Azrakhor, of glory, of willpower. Do you have it? And I must say something...saying no is not an option." He grins, hidden by the darkness, but also moves his hand to the hilt of his sword. The rain picks up.

Meregond continues to speak with Azrakhor near the front of the ship, the chill rain coming down much faster and more consitantly.

"It had not", and Azrakhor draws up his hood, wiping chill drops of rain and spray from his visage with a gauntleted hand, "for a moment struck me that it would be otherwise." To the other man's blade his glance flickers briefly ere seeming to dismiss it from his attention and return to rest upon Meregond's visage.

High now the waves leap, the seas driven by the fury of the wind into a wrath of their own, and sheets of spray crash against the steep wooden sides of the ship and splash over the railing. Heedless in the midst of this the hooded man sits, droplets of water glittering like diamonds lit from within by a thousand lights, upon the silver fillet bound to his brow. And with unfaltering smile he speaks again, and the sparkling mirth in his eyes is such that any moment, it seems, it will burst forth from his lips in laughter or song, "So be it, Maregond Ziranardu -- I shall work with the Black Hand!"

Meregond whispers, "The Adunabar rocks back and forth with sickening motions, the howling wind becoming all that is audible. Meregond stands quickly and offers his hand out, so that Azrakhor will grasp it tightly. He says in a bellowed tone, as if to defeat the wind, "Excellent my brother! I must tell you the dire accomedies of the Black Hand!"

With a quick motion, he releases his grip from his pommel to his cloak to clasp the broach. The wind and rain continue to rage, the masts swaying in the strong gails. An order to drop the sails is given and Meregond continues to speak towards Azrakhor, "This is one of the finest societies, one of the elite, Azrakhor. One who devotes his service to the Black Hand is always at it's despense. If you cheat it, you will be cheated by your own demise. You must swear to me now that this will never be uttered from your mouth, not until I meet with you again and we can speak in full about what this details."

He pauses for a second as a crew member runs by. After the surrounding area is clear again, he says, "No one will know you are a member, and no one you will tell. All consequences are punishible by death..." He coughs from the chill wind, "You will continue to do what you do now, and your career will carry on. The Black Hand must always be your top most priority however. We meet, we worship He Who Will Return, and we are trained in the elite arts of the Black Hand. You will learn more as time progresses my friend." He regains his breath and ceases to speak, searching Azrakhor's eyes for his thoughts."

You pemit "A moment longer Azrakhor remains seated, regarding the other man in thoughtful silence, ere rising. The hand stretched forth to him, he glances at but once, and he does not clasp it -- and with grave solemnity -- a solemnity belied by the sparks dancing in his eyes -- he speaks, "I swear to do even as you have said, Meregond Ziranardu!"

And back he steps then, drawing his cloak closer against the rain, "But I fear I must take your leave now, even though I would that I might stay yet a while and listen to the words of wisdom you speak!" and his lips curve faintly. And spinning on his heel, he makes his way to the cabin, pausing but a moment to look over his shoulder, his tone as light as ever, and yet, with an air of honed steel to it, "Ah, one other matter. My sister -- no harm is to come to her. For", and he stoops to enter the low doorway, "what need is there for such measures when her brother is allied with you?" And he is gone then, a mere shadow on the threshold ere fading into the darkness within." to Meregond.