Pashaar

[Morsereg Dîndaedel]

Morsereg as well eyed Aragorn, sending his gaze elsewhere often to hide his interest. He slowly slid the cloak off to reveal himself, silverish grey hair sliding down his back as he shook it free. He placed the cloak to the side of him, sitting back in his chair. His hand held fast near his sword, in the case the need arose for him to use it, not like it would of course, but one could never be too sure.

He overheard bits and pieces of the conversations going on, but zoned in on Raithen and Aragorn's most of all, unnoticed. He sat there, sipping from the ale brought to him, and delved deeper into thought.

[Raithen Anar]

He had seen Numenor at its height, before the people had turned , first privately, from the teachings of the Valar, and Eru, and later publicly spoke rebellion against the Ban of the Valar.

' I saw the White City long ago, I walked that land, and saw its richness, the Lebennin, Pinath Gelin, and the Anfalas, and Imloth Melui where the roses bloom as richly as in the gardens here. And the mighty fief of the Princes of Dol Amroth ' Of Ainur blood he preferred , from an ascetic viewpoint, the Northern Lands, but there had never been any place for him there.

Raithens mind-voice , on the intimate one-to-one mode, which all elves could use, and he did not doubt this Man, also, although in many such gifts had been lost - wove into the Northern mans mind even as he spoke aloud

The Games bring many strange, and interesting folk to Pashaar , do you not think? That one there, carried himself like an assassin, in some ways, and in others like a warrior-King, - not unlike yourself, - one can tell much simply from how a man carries himself, he loks relaxed, but if some-one tapped him on the shoulder, if they ever got as far as that, which I doubt, he would take off their wrist, He too could smell the coppery scent of blood, but Pashaar was a violent city, - the dead each morning were carted away to the Towers of Silence, once, before Raithen had taken the throne, the carrion birds devoured the corpses and grew bloated on flesh - one of his laws now, was that bodies must be buried or burned, disease spread swiftly in this heat and close packed ranks of humanity.

He sent a light, very light, brush of his minds fingers across the strangers, out of curiosity, but it slid off a miror like, steely surface, and to use more force would alert the man, but it did tell him, that this one could guard his mind, and it was guarded, not to be easily read by any-one.

[Envin]

This time it was difficult even for Aragorn to disguise his surprise, for his head began to snap up to stare at Raithen, and would have had he not caught himself. Then this fellow was not of Harad, for no man of the south had ever been schooled enough in the arts of the Eldar as to use a mind-voice. An interesting fact this was, for the booming of the voice into his mind was louder than he was accustomed to his wife or even other Elves. More powerful? Perhaps.

He nodded to Raithen. His boots are soiled, something of which all remain unconcerned, but his cloak is not, cut too high to drag. Cares for his better garments, this one. And his hair, his hair now. Too well-groomed to be that of a simple traveling warrior. This fellow hath royal blood in him. But that hair, that hair! I shall recall it yet! It escapes me now, however. In the Line of Silmarien of the Faithful, Aragorn's ties to the Elven-folk were stronger than those of any man alive, and his ability to employ his mind in such as wise was no surprise. A swift thought - a thrill of a scent, a sound behind, a taste in the mouth - he sent soaring about the room, causing many to sniff or to lick their lips, but this fellow did not even blink. He would not have felt such a petty intrusion, but Aragorn could not easily enter his mind, and that was also interesting. He and Raithen had felt each other's - their minds open, and glanced at each other and nodded in understanding. Shall we invite him to sit here? Interesting talk we shall have, for the night is but young.

[Raithen Anar]

More interesting than the common run of travelers - you and he both, I agree, He too was caught by the strangers hair, it was uncommon in colour, - sailors often wore their in pigtails, ratty, tarred ropes, bandit chieftains cared little for theirs, - but clearly, anyway, he was no Haradhrim, no man of Rhun, no Variag - no man at all, he doubted, unless one skilled in ancient, and dark arts.

I would wager he appears in the Games, in fact, I might have a few side bets on him... and yourself..? he left the question hanging. He had watched almost ten Great Games now, as ruler, and many before that, but usually the standard was much of a muchness. The Games, - they would begin on the morrow, he dd not need sleep, rarely any, in fact, he could spend some time to talk, before slipping off to the palace.
He gestured to a slave, who brought a sealed jug of wine, and Raithen broke the wax, scenting it.
' Contraband, brought in by pirates ' he said aloud, ' Dorwinion, by the smell, ' he poured three silver cups and raised his voice to the stranger, ' You will join us? '

[Morsereg Dîndaedel]

Morsereg rose his head to the question, wondering why they would be inviting him over. He normally would leave petty things like this and walk away, but alas...there was something enthralling about these two. One seemed oddly familiar...the other, it felt as if he had a magnificent source of power. A power that could prove quite useful if he could find a way to acheive it for himself.

He rose, leaving the robe at the table, as he slowly wandered to theirs, a dead grace lit his eyes. Slowly he sat, locking eyes once with both men. Morsereg took one silver cup, but was careful not to drink it just yet. You could never be sure in parts like these, for poisons and assassination attempts ran amuck in such southern countries as this. That's why he liked his abode of the North...the only ones who lived so far north in that barren wasteland were his own servants, and he need not worry of being poisoned or being murdered. Nevertheless, his guard was always up.

"Thank you, my good men." He spoke calmly and evenly, showing not the slightest sign of mistrust. He knew fully well that if he was to reveal any of his true names, he would let his self be known in an instant. Morsereg Dindaedel, the Doomsman, the Black Istari, and Bragolamarth...all names that would have to be kept secret and silent. "The name is Bragol. May I ask yours?" He looked at them both in turn, awaiting an answer. Yes...Bragol, that would be his name. The very same name he signed up for the games under. That shall be his name, for the time being.

[Raithen Anar]

That's not his name, thought Raithen, not knowing, but if some-one powerful, dangerous were in Pashaar, why indeed would he give his real name? Only peasants who had nothing to hide gave their true names, he also saw he was being cautious with the wine - and not because it was a strong one. Poison by drink, by food, by touch, dripped into the ears, was common in Harad , it did not affect Ainur blood, however, or he would be long dead.
' My mother name, is Anacar, sir, ' Raithen said, ' you are from the north? ' he added, casually, ' as this gentleman? ' he indicated the Dunedain.

[Envin]

"Indeed thou may ask my name, good my friend," Aragorn replied. "It is Thorongil, and I am aquainted with the North of Middle-earth. This fine gentlemen has been inquiring of the state of things in that region of the world, and my humble knowledge of news has attempted to satisfy his curiousity. Art thou also of the North? Thy bearing is of a Lord of Eriador or lost Arthedain, or - heaven spare us poor folk - Angmar!" He chuckled, and raised his glass to Bragol. Nay, it is not his name. Aragorn was cautious to conceal his mind-voice now, for one with power such as this would likely notice quite much. And curse me if I can think of his name, for it would seem that I know it, or have known it, or should. Something about the hair. We shall see. "But what make thee in Pashaar? Art thou a trader? Or art thou here, as am I, to earn a name for thyself in the Games? I must confess that I am little known in my own land, and any fame that I may win here will be very welcome to me. But I am rather hesitant now, seeing that hefty blade upon thy belt - were we to fight in the Games, then I may leave with my hopes dashed." He took another drink, then lit a third pipeful and puffed away, offering the weed to both Raithen and Bragol with a simple glance of sadness at the thought of leaving Harad without a victory in the games.

[Morsereg Dîndaedel]

Morsereg eyed Thorongil, "I have no location. I am here, or there, with the wind. I have rested in Arnor but recently so as to replenish my strength, but that is all the association I have with the north," He spoke with his eyes locked on Aragorn, lieing flawlessly, "I am here for the Games. It all looks quite like fun, if you ask me," He let a sadistic grin settle on his face, taking a drink atlast. He had to see someone take some before he did to assure that it wasn't poisoned. That, however, was just to hold the illusion that he was Mortal. He knew very well that the strongest poisons would not kill him if they were made by an enemy and not himself.

[Envin]

"Fun? Nay, my spirit palls to think of what should happen to me should my aim falter or my foot slip," Thorongil remarked. He took a sip from his goblet, shakily, his hands quaking perfectly, as though affrighted. "I heard tales of Games and thought them merely games, not such horrid chances for death as these will be. But, my name is already entered, and to be false is against my nature. Come, come! Let us talk of something more pleasant! Whereabouts in Arnor hast thou been of late? For my kinsman tarry there in that land, the home of their fathers, and I have not been west of the Hithaeglir in many moons."

[Raithen Anar]

It was probably the very worse room in Harad for the assassin to enter, although he could not have known that. But the order he belonged to worshiped Death, believing that if they were slain in attempting to murder their victim, they would be greeted with honour in the Lightless Halls. If they succeeded, it was said, they would go to their Temple, and there, with great ceremony, take their own lives.
They could be contacted at only three places in all Pashaar, and the intermediaries they went through were so convoluted that tracing the ' buyer ' was well nigh impossible. The price was fixed, never argued over, and only the indecently wealthy could afford them.
Normally, three men would have presented no challenge to the black clad man. he was not tall, but corded with wiry muscle, and soundless as a shadow, as he came through the window. Raithen knew weapons of death would be concealed all over his person, from poisoned caltrops, to ' discourage ' pursuit, to throwing-stars, knives, poisons in lead phials, and also their antidotes, lest the assassin must needs take the poison himself to alleviate suspicion.
As he slipped through the window Raithen almost moved, but then , deliberately, he froze, wanting to see what the other two men would do. he, he was fairly sure was the intended victim, it had been tried before, - but for all he knew it could be any of them, and he wished to see their responses.

[Morsereg Dîndaedel]

Morsereg felt something change in the air as the assassin slunk in, and inclined his head to the shadows where he lay, "Oh, bother." He stood, hand hanging near the sword at his side. "I'll take this one, you need not bother wasting your time on such trivial tasks," He spoke slowly to Raithen and Thorongil as his sword was removed from its sheath, and he locked eyes at the assassin. After mere seconds of silence, he rose his hands to beckon the assassin to come after him, despite having the hilt of his sword held firmly in one hand.

[Raithen Anar]

The assasin did not expect this, but his eyes, all that could be seen of his face, remained stony, - a hand flashed, something whirled towards the men, his hands moving almost faster than a humans should. The noise was a thin whine, like an insect, and Raithens hand moved and caught the throwing star, reddish gold blood splashed, smoking where it hit silk and stone and wood, but he gave an almost amiable, wry smile as he pulled it from his mangled pal, alloowing the ripped flesh to begin it's healing.

[Envin]

Bragol and Thorongil whirled to glance at Raithen as the buzz of the star spun through the air, but even before the other two glanced about at the assassin again - only some few seconds later, a choking and a gurgling noise was heard from the corner. Raithen and Bragol looked about, and to their lasting surprise a curved knife was seen protruding from the fellow's throat. His eyes were widened with shock, and blood founted from his neck, dribbled from his mouth, and burst from his eye sockets. He slumped to the ground, and they whirled on Thorongil, for even at that distance the curve and the Elven-runes of a Lorien-blade were unmistakable. Thorongil had appeared not to move, sitting calmly in the same position as they had last seen him, and even the two Maiar were unsettled at the sheer, unblemished speed of the act. Throngil glanced up at them, unconcerned, and with bland mildness said "And I had just cleaned that knife, too. A pity."

[Raithen Anar]

' I agree, pity to waist an ancient Eldalie blade on one of the Crimson Brotherhood, ' Raithen said, as he rose, and picked the dead assassin up by the throat, his unveiled face was surprisingly young, but that mattered little in their Order, they were trained from childhood.
' Of course, it could have been his target was me, or either of you.... if any-one... influential knew you were here, and if, ' he smiled faintly, ' you were important enough to warrant a murder attempt. ' he did not go through the mans clothes, there would be nothing on him to give him away, only his red-stained palms showed who he was.
Raithen slung him out of the window, where the pi-dogs would deal with him - and that also was a calculated insult to the Crimson Brotherhood, whose names was feared and held in awe.

[Morsereg Dîndaedel]

"I would have gladly taken him," Bragol eyed Thorongil slowly, "But if it was your preference to deal with the scum, I shall have my fun in the games." He returned to his seat, "Now, to answer your question. I was staying in Bree, but I was forced to flee before long. In the night, vicious Wargs marched upon the encampments. Yet...they seemed not to be Wargs. For you could see straight through them to the other side, but they could interact with the physical world. Whether they were spirits or whatever else, I do not know. There was a massacre at the Prancing Pony, and the fair lord Arathorn burnt it to the ground. I was lieing in my bed in my lodging, an inn not far down the road, when I heard screams coming from the 'Pony'. I up and left on the spot, I could not risk my own hide for something like that." He shook his head as if shaking off a bad memory.