IC Story Thread: Ch.1,Ad.1 - A Sensitive Matter

It is late in the afternoon in the port city of Pelargir, and the sinking sun has set the sky aflame, singeing it into a wild gradient of orange.

This gateway of Gondor is bustling with activity, as trade ships coast in to the docks from the west, and seasonal workers migrate north, from the arid tracts of land that make up Harondor and the Harad to the south.

Over the centuries Pelargir has been a center of both culture and conflict for Gondor, due to it's positioning at the mouth of the Anduin River onto the Bay of Belfalas, and as the occasional (and current) southern border of Gondor.

Historically, it has also been a center of terrible woe - constituting the frontline of great wars and political strife for well more than 1,000 years of unstable relations between northern and southern nations. However! ... Now is a time of relative peace between the men of the southron lands, and Gondor and the other peoples of Middle-earth.

This once-great metropolis is struggling to emerge from a long period of decline. But it is, at this time, winning in it's struggle, and you can see it on the streets. Trade is growing, learned institutions have returned and are taking on new members, and there is even a lively and friendly exchange of cultures going on, available to anyone who seeks it.

You are a resident of the north side of Pelargir, the Gondor-governed portion of the city, which straddles both river and nations. You have been living there of your own accord and upon your own terms for some time now. However, recently, through a trusted friend you have heard - and heeded - a clandestine call, hailing any capable and available and true allies of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth...

And so it is that you find yourself, in this moment, approaching Whistler's Wind, a firmly-Gondorian tavern you've heard of but never frequented much. It sits just a couple streets off of the commercial port. And, according to this hailing, you are to attend an audience with a naval officer of Gondor. The subject of which you do not exactly know the nature of, other than that supposedly the Free Peoples are in need of aid and this officer is desperate for help...

The matter, you're assured by your friend, whom passed along the word to you, is rather urgent and dire.

Upon casual observance, the people about appear to be very much who she would expect at this time of day, this near to the port - local denizens bearing water buckets home to wash up for the day, laborers dabbing at their brows and conversing after a hard day's work, shopkeeps sweeping up their fronts and preparing for close (as many do after sunset), perhaps even one or two folk precede her into the Whistler's Wind down the way.

Ragnarr can tell that just about no one is paying him as much attention, as he them. A scant few might have their eyes draw to his armaments, but not his face, and so their concerns seem to be genuinely their own.

This is true of most people outside and within the tavern.

However, as he searches for a seat, one man does draw his attention. A hard-looking man of middle age, wearing a padded jerkin, and a cloak in the colors and fashion of Gondor's military.

This man IS looking at the face of basically anyone who walks in through the front door. His stare isn't one of searching, but one of appraisal.

Ragnarr finds there are a handful of seats at the bar, but every table is occupied except for the largest one in the room, at which sits the man with the military cloak.

Duinhir was among some of the first people to show up in the Whistler's Wind that afternoon - the tavern not even opening until a few hours after mid-day. And he was able to watch it slowly begin to fill up, the lower the sun sank in the sky.

The military man arrived perhaps just five minutes before the arranged meeting time.

....

As Seonaid approaches, the man stands and gives a nod to her as she greets him and he motions to a seat "Please, and thank you for coming.", he says stiffly. And he offers a similar welcome to Ragnarr.His face seems to tighten slightly with some internal pain when he sees the youth in Cirion - barely more than a child, walking in the door spurred on by wide-eyed hope and determination - but he shows the young man a spot nonetheless.

"I am Andireg.", he says in low tones as introductions begin to fly.

His eyes dart back and forth from the couple of figures in the room, dressed in the garb of Southron folk, and the conversation at hand.

There is a low din filling the room, comprised of the loosening tongues of people who's day is gratefully ending. But Andireg shares none of that buoyancy.

Andireg gives only a single, sharp back and forth shake of his head, to show he has no objection, then, still speaking lowly but assuredly, he says, "M'lady, it is my business to guide and make stronger the wills of men who have made their choices. Not to make their choices for them.

You are welcome here, Cirion. And I thank you for coming."