Upstairs Room; Prancing Pony Inn, Bree - “A Tale of a Troll”
Real time: Thu Jan 24 08:30:04 2008
Bree time: Dusk <19:30:12> on Hevensday of Winter - February 9, 1443 (3043)
Wyr is IC
Before you is a man who's height is something over 6 feet. He is fairly broad of chest, perhaps aging into his early middle years. Disheveled shoulder blade length black hair falls loosely. Strange, faded lines and dots make a tattoo pattern across his cheeks on either side of his nose, drifting down each side of his neck. Similar patterns lace up the backs of his hands and forearms - they resemble writing. Thick, old ridges of scar tissue ring each of his wrists as though he had worn shackles of iron, long ago.
This man's face has the bone structure of a man of Numenor, beardless and well formed. His eyes are a pale, silvery grey, wary of this world, and weary with pain. Currently, the left side of his face looks like someone hit him with a boulder. Blood cakes his brow, outter cheek, and his nose appears to be freshly broken and slightly crooked to his right. Dried blood lingers below it and down his chin and throat.
Rhif wears a soiled and now torn off-white shirt. Grey woolen pants are tucked into high black riding boots which show signs of travel, but once held a fine polish. A wide banded golden ring is worn upon the smallest finger of his left hand. Set flush into the ring is a smooth, tear shaped rich blue stone.
Rhifaroth just looked at you.
The few gray hours before dawn find Muirgheal roaming the halls of the Prancing Pony. She's barefoot and in her blue dress, having left her boots behind in her room for the loud noises they might make on the wooden floor. Eyes dark as pitch in this dim light peer into cracked doors. There is the sight of a familiar-looking man laid out, perhaps asleep. Finally. This door she swings open and saunters into the room, hand on the hilt of the sword that hangs from the belt around her waist, bold as you please. Her eyes sweep the room for signs of anyone who might not welcome her presence so gladly.
Someone indeed did leave the door ajar, and a lantern turned down to almost nothing burning near to the man's bed. The room is neat and tidy as Rhifaroth had previously left it except that his saddle bags are now dumped on the floor next to a small writing desk. The thick furs of his bed roll have also been dumped over the back of the desk's chair with his soiled black cloak, his boots tossed below them on the floor. Bow and quiver at least laid down on top of the desk with slightly more care by whomever was carrying them.
In the bed the man is sprawled, his splinted left arm sticking out awkwardly from the bed covers thrown over him. His studded leather jerkin had been removed, but not his stained shirt. Rhifaroth's battered face looks slightly better, less swollen on the left side, but otherwise he seems about the same as she had seen him before. Eyes closed, his breathing is vaguely laboured and uneven.
Muirgheal watches the sleeping figure, frowning as she comes closer, pondering on how best not to startle him. She settles for kneeling beside the bed- first setting the hot cup of tea she's brought on the little writing table- and lightly patting his good cheek. "Wake up!" She says just above a whisper. As she waits, a hand that has slit many men's throats strays across his brow.
The man turns his face away from the woman as she creeps closer to kneel by his bedside. Un-expectedly, he mutters in his sleep, "Yes sir! Right away..." and then something else not so clear. He seems agitated, not resting well.
And it is no wonder. When Muirgheal touches his cheek, then the skin of his brow, they are dry and hot to the touch.
Rhifaroth does not waken, or at least not enough that he bothers to open his good eye. Absently he tries to turn away onto his right side and mutters more loudly, "Go away, Acelen."
"I am /not/ Acelen!" Muirgheal says much more loudly near his ear. Her voice is deep and rich, but unmistakably feminine. She adds, not knowing if he can understand yet, "I've brought a tea for your fever.." She lets her voice drop at the sound of boot steps outside, but they pass by the door and continue on down the hall. She pats his cheek again. "Up, up!" She urges. "You aren't going to get better without a healer...they should've asked me..." She reaches into her dress pocket for some sort of balm, and the movement causes her sword scabbard to scrap across the floor. The thief winces.
The hand that slaps lightly but more insistently at the unblemished side of his tattooed face causes the man to withdraw his own right arm from under the covers. Using it, he tries to capture that hand to stop the annoying patting. He also tries to shift his splinted left arm but to no good. Something on his smallest finger of that left hand gleams in the low glow of the lantern, close to Muirgheal.
Rhifaroth opens his eyes, both of them now, as he hears a woman's rich, young voice. Those silvery eyes seek her face and he blinks, beginning to frown.
After a moment he speaks in his low, husky accent, "Acelen's drugged me again, ... else I'm dreaming."
Henleg comes up the stairs from the first floor.
Henleg has arrived.
Muirgheal gives a startled laugh as Rhifaroth manages to catch her usually quick thief's hand. Her eyes fall, then, and blink curiously at what shines on his finger nearest her.
"Well," the beautiful thief frowns, "I should hope I'm not a dream. Especially seeing as I brought you medicine and things to eat, should you want them. And who's Acelen?" Her dark wide eyes glitter in the lamplight, perhaps giving her the appearence of a phantom or angel, to a drugged man's eyes.
Drugged he might still be, but whether he is or not, the man's grey eyes do not leave the woman's face. Rhifaroth smiles thinly, looking at her from where he lays, "I told them you were real..." his accent is slightly less thick as he wakes up more fully. Still holding onto the woman's captured hand with his own tattooed right hand he adds, "Acelen's the stable master." then a grimace, "Keeps doping me …. with something foul."
The dull gleam on the smallest finger of his left, splinted arm appears in the low lantern light to be a gold ring. It is wide banded, and set with a smooth, flush stone who's color is not clear in the low light. But that slanting light makes the ridges of scar tissue around his wrist stand out with shadows across them.
Muirgheal slowly returns the smile. "Well, of course I'm real," she replies, shaking her head. She falls silent a moment, thinking. "You trust this stable master?" She inclines her head to the ring on his little finger. "You're certain he isn't taking all your pretty things like that? What kind of tonic a horseman might provide, I cannot even fathom." With that, she snatches up the cup of tea she's brought with her free hand. "Would you consider drinking this? I'll wager it'll do you better than what Acelen might offer.." She offers the no longer steaming cup up to him.
The woman's speech, so much of it perhaps a bit too fast for him, seems to go over his fevered head. Rhifaroth turns his face away from her and closes his eyes a moment, releasing her hand as though too weak to retain it. His breathing continues a bit too labored for a resting man and he mumbles, "Rob me blind, every chance he gets..."
But whatever else he might say, it comes out as a mutter in some other language that isn't clear at all. If he heard her say something about the tea, he gives no indication. Indeed, he lays out flat and would probably need assistance to sit up or raise his head to take it.
Muirgheal gives a rather aggievated sigh. She who takes life, not really given to attempting to restore it, is finding she's got no patience. "Well, then, I'll rob him back," she snaps, more to the invisible stablemaster than to the ill Rhifaroth. She looses her hand from his grip so that she can slide an arm beneath his back and help him to sit up just a bit. The other hand holds the teacup steady.
Someone's hand and arm wiggle behind his head and shoulders, and urges him up. The man, still groggy and probably about to slip back into sleep is vaguely resistant at first, but then uses his good right arm to try and lever himself up. The woman can feel through his thin, loose shirt that something is odd about his back - as though it were textured with hard wheals or ridges beneath her fingers.
The crudely splinted left arm is in the way and causes some difficulty. Apparently slats of thin firewood and rope were used and bound as high and as close to his shoulder as possible, restricting movement. Rhifaroth's shirt is torn up the arm to accommodate it, showing a glimpse of dark bruising in the upper arm and shoulder even in the low light.
Muirgheal winces at the sight of his wounds which are revealed as she helps him to sit up. Even she's impressed. "You must've tangled with something fierce," she guesses. Her fingers move subtly over his back, curious as to what she finds there. She is no stranger to scars, as evinced by the one that begins above the low collar of her dress and plunges out of sight, but this feels different. "What happened to your back?" She wonders of him as she holds the tea closer to his lips, waiting.
Nauthcel comes up the stairs from the first floor.
Nauthcel has arrived.
Rhifaroth does indeed manage to sit up with the woman's help, and his right arm to lean on. Despite the fact that the left side of his face is still swollen and caked with dried blood, he manages to grit his teeth in another grimace for a moment, while he struggles to get his breath back from the movement. Then the man tries to turn his head to see the woman better, still able to open his right eye more fully than the left, "It was ... big." he answers in his foreign lilt.
Sipping of the tea that is proffered, the injured man takes another breath before he looks at the woman again, oddly, to her last question, "What?"
There is a low creaking of the wood planks that make the stairs... or is it from the wall? Well, it’d be hard to tell from inside the room, but, after all, every house in Bree creaks like this on a windy night like this one. But one of keen vision would see that there is someone almost hiding in the shadows of a nearby corner, although something makes the man (for he's taller than any hobbit would ever be) pass almost undetected. A cowl hides his features, and a heavy cloak falls almost to his ankles. Thus Henleg, known in Bree as Grey, stand, silent and unmoving, but listening to the conversation inside the room.
"Your back," Muirgheal repeats, being stubborn and unable to let go of things. "What happened to it? It feels like a hundred scars," she says, more curious than sympathetic, though she is gentle as she pulls back a piece of his torn shirt to get a glimpse. "Can you drink the tea? It'll help your fever," she tells him as she peers at his back. As the room creaks, however, Muirgheal turns her head, sharp eyes peering into the dark. "Hello?" She calls softly before turning back to Rhifaroth.
The man's back is indeed criss-crossed with old scars, old wheals from some long ago caning or whippings. Rhifaroth tries to drink the tea the woman holds but he is still unclear, still probably drugged a bit - or the fever that warms his dry skin addles him. It takes him a long moment to focus on what Muirgheal is saying. But then he frowns, trying to shift some of his weight off of his right arm, "Harad... " he says, turning his face again to try and see her better in the dim light, "It was long ago. I was a prisoner... slave. Ignore it." But he doesn't explain what Harad means, a place or a person.
The soft creaking of floor boards or wind doesn't get draw the man's attention at all. He leans a bit more on his splinted arm to free up his right arm, some of his weight against the woman unconsciously, as he tries to focus on taking the cup from her.
Nothing answers the woman but the howling wind, as Henleg stands still and silent. His hand never leaves the pommel of his sword, although it is relaxed, at least for the moment. Straining to listen more of what transpires inside the room, the Ranger's eyes remain fixed on the open door, his ears attentive for any sound coming from inside.
Muirgheal frowns; she does not know the word 'Harad,' but she does know a good deal about scars and slaves. She leans forward, taking more of the man's weight and helping to support him. "Here, take the tea," She tells Rhifaroth, though she is mindful of this exchange, fearing he might spill it all over himself and be infinitely unhappier. She leans just a little closer, under the pretense of helping him sit up further, to whisper close to his ear, "I don't mean to alarm you, but I thought I heard someone near the room..." Her eyes stray down to her own sword close to her side.
Despite the pain it brings to the tightening of his face to lean on his splinted arm, Rhifaroth does accept the cup into his good right hand. Apparently he's clear headed enough to be overly conscious of his dignity - enough that he would rather not be so helpless that someone else has to feed him food and drink! He gets a breath and downs the remainder of the tea in a few swallows, to be done with it. He frowns at the taste, but offers the cup back without spilling more than a dribble down his chin.
The woman's whisper doesn't get much reaction except that his grey eyes flicker up to try and look past her towards the door mutely.
Finally, the Ranger moves, and a polite knock on the door is heard. "I hear that someone injured lies on a bed here", Grey says, still not coming in. "I wondered if you needed some help, friend", he adds, still not even opening the door further.
Muirgheal looks considerably unhappy as she ponders the admittance of a stranger into the room. The word 'friend,' not one she is accustomed to hearing, makes her wary. The warrioress does not leave her position at Rhifaroth's bedside, even as she says, "Enter if you'd like. If you've medicine, especially," she adds. "I'm only doing this for your sake," she murmurs to the man on the bed. She gives him an unsteady smile before she turns to face the door. She has not abandoned her post, still helping Rhifaroth to sit up somewhat, which means she's only got one free hand for her sword.
Rhifaroth seems intent to lay back down, the efforts of sitting up dragging on him even though he leans on the woman and his bad arm. Leaning back and sliding his right arm out, he manages the feat - and thereby frees up the woman's helping hand whether he intended to do so or not.
The voice outside of the room is vaguely familiar in sound to the man, but he makes no reply himself. Instead he closes his eyes and just concentrates on breathing.
Grey is not the only Ranger who is near at hand, however the two appeared to have missed each other. Having quietly followed the wagon from its entrance into the small town yet giving enough delay to not appear suspicious, Nauthcel finally creeps up the stairs towards the room where the foreigner is residing. As he reaches the top of the stairs, he sees Henleg before him and steps lightly over to his kin. After hearing the female voice from within, the Constant says, still outside the door, "Foreigner, it is I, Neal. I was told that you were carried in possessing grave wounds."
"Well, I've got no skill in the healing of wounds", Grey says, as he pushes the door open and enters, "yet perhaps I can help with other things... if you need something, I can perhaps get it for you, and I can even go fetch a healer if need be", he adds, as he steps inside. "The name's Grey, by the way", he says as a manner of introducing himself, nodding to both the man lying on the bed and the woman seated beside him.
"I am called Muirgheal," the woman says. "I've tried to help a bit, with the healing, but I think he is perhaps beyond my skill. If you would fetch a healer..I'm sure he would be grateful." She falls silent, not wanting to speak for Rhifaroth further. She studies these new men quietly.
There is a cough for reply from the man lying in the bed. It is a painful cough that causes the Southern Dunadan to reach with his right arm to hold against his lower right ribs. Once his coughing subsides, Rhifaroth frowns, "I know Neal's voice... bid them enter." He turns his head to try and see the newcomers. He can open his right side eye fully, but the swelling around his left brow and cheek still hinders the left eye's vision. Whatever hit him in the head was large, blunt, and appears to at least to have broken his cheek bone and nose.
"Well, that's a bad bruise you have there, friend", Grey comments, his tone not different from that used by the Breefolk, "and I bet it's causing great pains. Indeed", he adds, "a healer must be brought quick, for your nose needs looking at, as your eye. haven't someone go to fetch one of the healers already?", he asks, both to the man and the woman.
"I didn't know who to go to," Muirgheal answers simply, in a tone that leaves no room for argument, "and I wasn't about to leave him alone while he's feverish. Besides, there's others that have been tending to him." That's the last the warrioress says, shifting her position slightly so that the men can move closer.
In being able to hear the foreigners reply, Nauthcel enters after Henleg. His eyes’ ashen gaze passes over the injured man listening to the words of his kinsman and woman before he says, "What is it that had done this to you? Were there any blades involved?" The question may seem odd but the Ranger appears to have his own line of thinking for it.
As weather wears away rock so has struggle worn away at the tall Man before you. His straggly black hair shows no sense of taiming done by its master, the visage only visible beneath low bangs. Faint creases line forehead and cheeks as well as lips and chin. Yet within the eyes of the Second Born, a light of youth still burns unceasingly. Wisdom and knowledge ignited by days gone past can be drawn from the ashen gaze.
The raiment of the Man is simple, primitive. A cloak of an interesting material that appears to show no aging adorns his shoulders drawn together by a small broach, engraved with a sword and lantern, clasped at the neck. From that able to be seen of the garments underneath, a dark green vest overlaps a draw long-sleeved shirt showing the same need for mending as that of the brown pants and black boots worn below the torso. Around his waist a belt is drawn from which hang small pouches and at his side a longsword. To match such weaponry a longbow and quiver hangs from his back possibly depicting the Man to be a skilled warrior.
Studded Leather Helmet
Studded Leather Armor
In front of you is a Man, tall for the standards of Men, his head barely surpassing seven feet. Broad of shoulders he is, large-boned and long legged. However, this Man is lean, and his face seems like that of a rock that has suffered the withering of a constant wind. Signs of much toil line his face, but most of them disappear when he smiles. His grey eyes are bright, like the light of stars that twinkle on a clear night sky; and they seem to glow with an inner light that is kindled as he looks upon you. The nose is somewhat aquiline, giving his face a somewhat noble bearing. His jaw is straight, with some beard stubble on it.
The man wears leather breeches, a pair of supple leather boots, and a leather vest, all of these items showing signs of a lot of use. Upon it all, a hooded cloak grey as the Sea, clasped with s silver brooch shaped like a rayed star, which has seen a lot of use too. This Man's hair is raven, falling a little past his shoulder blades. Unkempt it seems, as the hair of someone who has lived in the Wild for much time. The hands seem to be strong, and callouses can be seen on them.
"Well, if others have been here and left", Grey says, shrugging a bit, "then I bet they went for a healer... anyone can see you're in dire need for one", he adds. As his kinsman speaks, Grey grows silent, his grey eyes going to the prone man, awaiting his answer.
With his own eyes still closed, resting, the injured man listens to the voices speaking around him but seems disinclined for the moment to take part in the conversation. His breathing begins to ease somewhat.
Neal's voice coming closer to the bed in the dimly lit room causes Rhifaroth to peel open his good eye, then slowly the left as well as he might. He tries to look at the two tall men who have entered, his own grey eyes assessing them for a long moment. When he finally replies, his voice is tired, "I don't know what it was... big. No blade..." but then he scowls, "Lost mine, though."
With a sigh, Rhifaroth turns his face away, angry at himself, "Man came... found me there…. He pried me ... out of it's grip… while ... it slept." He gets his breath again and then turns his head to look at the two men again, vaguely frowning, "One of your ilk. Said it was ... a troll."
Obviously though, Rhifaroth doesn't expect anyone here to believe him after all of the comments of late about him being out of his head and seeing things - because he adds, "I may have ... been addled."
This young woman is as tall as most Dunlending women are, standing at about 5'10". Her frame does not have womanly curves, but instead is thin, hard, and wiry: all muscle from being born into a fighting clan. Her Rohirrim-Dunlending cross has given her an abundance of long, beautiful golden hair, which she usually wears bound back from her face. Should she let it down, however, it loosely curls down to the small of her back. Her breeding also has given her a touch of exoticism: gently dark skin, just barely tinted, a shade or two darker than white. Her brows are just a little darker than her gold hair, and arch above sharp, dark eyes. The lines of her face are smooth and her cheekbones pronounced, high and regal. Her lips are full, but almost always unsmiling.
She wears a simple chocolate brown tunic. The material is flimsy, and not very warm looking, a cheap fabric. It does little to hide the pinkish scar that begins above her right breast and plunges down beneath the tunic's neckline. Her breeches are of a similar material as her tunic, but lighter in color, more beige, and end at the tops of her boots. However, the sable leather belt that encircles her waist is finely crafted and patterned with little flowers. From the belt, down along the length of her thigh, hangs a sheath, and peeking out of it, the darkly shining hilt of a longsword. Over the ensemble she wears a warm, lined travel cloak that swirls around her perpetually dirty boots when she walks.
Studded Leather Armor
Studded Leather Helmet
"I don't think so," Muirgheal interjects. "I've had encounters of my own with trolls very near here. It's quite possible that's what it was." She continues to watch the two strangers, not unfriendly, but cautious.
"Big as a house, with a nasty temper, and strong enough to beat you up", Grey asks, as he shakes his head slightly. "You were not addled, friend, but it seems you did indeed came face to face with a troll. And I've heard say that they aren't very nice... something that's been proven by you being in this state", he adds.
Nauthcel listens intently to the words of the man, appearing to take in every detail. The Ranger does not speak for some time even after the comment from the woman or Grey. When his voice finally resonates, his words seem to be chosen methodically. "A troll...I also believe that you are telling the truth for I have heard of attacks by these enormous things with the same descriptions that Grey has stated. Where is it that you came into contact with this creature? I cannot imagine them coming close to civilization since they would most likely be attacked."
Rhifaroth isn't entirely out of it as he hears the others speaking. The injured man shakes his head negatively just a slight motion, re-opening his eyes, "Bigger than me, but... not so big... as I would have... expected. Strong, though." he says.
Indeed, Muirgheal's words that someone had previously tried to tend to the man is evident in the awkward and crud splint applied high up on his left arm. Thin slats of firewood and coarse rope bind the arm so that he can't lay it alongside himself. Swelling there makes the binding maybe to appear tight and his lower left hand is also swollen from the pressure.
Neal's question makes Rhifaroth try to think. After a moment of remembering he says, "Camped... East Road, just ... southeast .. Chetwood." Rhifaroth's tattooed face frowns, "Came at night.... from the Marsh."
"I met my troll in the woods also," comes Muirgheal's cool voice. "Only he had orcs with him...so you might consider yourself at least slightly fortunate, in that regard." She gives Rhifaroth a quick smile before turning her attention back to the rangers.
"Aye, trolls do not come out during the day, for it is said they're mightily afraid of the Sun, and indeed, that their very skin is turned to stone by it... if you'd believe such a thing", Grey says. "Of orcs I have heard in this area many times, yet they rarely come in large groups. One or two at a time, although they don’t come close to Bree". The rangers then takes a step towards the bed where Rhifaroth lies. "Perhaps the troll is gone, for those creatures are strange and do not stay in one place for long. But if it's still around..." The Ranger leaves the statement unfinished, as he turns his gaze towards Neal.
To the Rohirric looking woman's statement, silvery grey eyes shift to look at her. Rhifaroth frowns from where he lays, the tea she having given him at least not making his head less clear. "Orcs at least... I know how to -deal- with." And he smiles a little, but it's a feral grimace rather than friendly.
Fevered enough maybe to have become distracted, the injured man studies the woman's long golden hair and face in the dim light. His tattooed face smiles a little more pleasantly, "Did you say... you were from... Edoras?"
"Orcs," Muirgheal echoes with disgust. The warrioress gives a little shiver. Then she looks up and replies, "Yes, that's right; my father was a soldier there." She returns the smile. "And you? Is that where you've come from?" She wonders.
Rhifaroth continues looking at the woman and smiles thinly again, "No... but I remember Edoras... in the spring. Good, hearty... hospitable folk." He draws a tired breath and raises his tattooed right hand to carefully try to scratch at itchy, puffy flesh around his left brow. It is yet too tender and he gives up on it, "Minas Tirith... " the Sindarin name rolls off of his tongue with a life time's familiarity. The man sighs and drops his gaze from the woman, "South... and east of Edoras."
Muirgheal only shrugs and replies, "I've never been there...was it beautiful? And what drove you all the way here to get attacked by a troll?" She wonders, thinking she is asking perhaps too much for the weak man to answer. She smiles. "You can tell me later," she adds then, watching as he attempts to touch his injured face.
COMBAT: Your health improves.
Nauthcel returns the gaze as if knowing what is passing behind the deep grey eyes of his kinsman. "And speaking of trolls," says the Ranger returning to the original point of discussion, "We may wish to alert the Mayor to the current sightings. He will want to protect his people from wandering near the locations of the creatures. Yet, mayhap something will chase them off before any more casualties occur."
A grim smile forms for a moment in Grey's lips as Nauthcel speaks, his grey eyes glittering in the torchlight, as a nod is given to his kinsman. "Indeed, the mayor and the breeguard must be alerted. The people of Archet and Combe might be at risk if this troll wander nearer to these lands".
As the stranger speaks, Grey returns his gaze to him, and indeed, at the mention of his homeland, the Ranger arches his eyebrow, yet nothing does he say about it. "Careful there", he remarks as the man raises his hand to touch his face, "you might do more damage to that eye".
Nodding very faintly, the battered man answers the woman, "Aye, Edoras was... lovely." He looks at her, but doesn't for the moment repeat some similar comment he had made to her before about herself. But to her second question, Rhifaroth looses that pleasant look and he frowns slightly. He doesn't seem inclined to speak of that just now in any case, and accepts her comment to put it off.
Nauthcel's words bring Rhifaroth back to the topic as well and he scowls as his gaze shifts to the Ranger, "Folk here are daft." He lightly moves his right hand's fingers to dismiss it, "Think I'm … off my head, already."
Muirgheal, who is listening to Rhifaroth, just nods and says, "Later, then," to his lack of a response. She blinks, then, remembering something. "I brought some balm for your shallower wounds, to help them heal, at least until the professionals come with their help." Muirgheal grins and adds, "I can help you with it, or if you'd rather one of the men.."
"But even the daft still need be warned," replies Nauthcel to the man's words. "Whether they choose to accept the warning or ignore it is their decision. And do not worry of their opinion of you - they think ill of anyone who travels beyond the village."
"Indeed, anyone not of the four villages is suspect of dark things and daftness", Grey says, nodding to his kinsman and to Rhifaroth. "I think I shall go and seek that healer... and the Mayor too", he adds, turning to leave.
Rhifaroth may be hurt badly, and still a little groggy from Acelen's vile medicine, but he's not dead below the waist. He returns his attention to the handsome young woman and smiles just a little, "You are kind... and gentle, lady." He wants to close his eyes and rest, but adds, "Please ...you don't go."
To the words of the wise forest men, the Southern Dunadan does not make reply. But he frowns, having heard their words and thinking not entirely too well of the isolated foolishness of the local people, perhaps.
As the current conversation appears to have come to an end, Nauthcel follows suit and turns to depart. "I shall ask some of the hunters if there have been any more sightings of the troll. It would be good to know where he currently resides, if anywhere. I hope that you wounds heal quickly and that the healers may be able to assist." With these finals words, he Ranger departs out of the door and down the stairs.
Muirgheal searches her deep dress pockets for the small tin of balm, and retrieves it. "I'm not going to go," the warrioress assures him, "I told you I was going to watch out for you while you're here." She raises a hand in farewell to the rangers departing.
Nauthcel descends the flight of stairs which leads to the Inn's main floor.
Nauthcel has left.
Henleg descends the flight of stairs which leads to the Inn's main floor.
Henleg has left.
Seeing the two, strange men departing, Rhifaroth raises his right hand just a little bit in a parting gesture. He appreciates the well wishing Neal gives as that man slips quietly out and leaves the room. But his eyes are so heavy, his mind slipping sideways to other places.... The voice of the woman as she rummages through her garb to find her ointment seems distant but he smiles just a little, eyes closed, "Good."
After that, his face turned slightly towards her, Rhifaroth says nothing more. His breathing has eased, the tea she having given him doing it's work to ease his fever somewhat. Sleep has snuck upon him against his wishes.
Muirgheal smiles as she looks back up, and is silent, listening to his even breathing. She rises, bends to kiss his forehead lightly, a thief's stolen kiss. Then she sets the balm on the desk with the teacup and settles on the floor to wait for the healers.
Muirgheal has disconnected.
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