Ryslig || IC inbox

[nearamir]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, DECENT_JEWEL. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 3019.03.15.03 *** DECENT_JEWEL has joined 3019.03.15.03 <DECENT_JEWEL> This is the address of Faramir son of Denethor, late Captain of Gondor. <DECENT_JEWEL> If you would speak with me, then seek me out; I am readily available for the most part. Yet if that does not suit your needs, then leave a message here, and I shall reply when I am able.

Comments

<TheRavensMan> Backdated to after September's event

[pageofstaves]

How are you? I know things didn't go as you had planned - and that isn't your fault. But I'm concerned for you, friend. Please write back as soon as you can.

<decent_jewel>

[nearamir]

[It is almost October before this message gets a response.]

I am

weary. I am very weary, and sick at heart. But in all other ways, well enough. It is nothing that will not heal.

<TheRavensMan>

[pageofstaves]

I do not blame you for either. It's good to hear from you. Do you need anything brought to you? Even just a bit of company?

<decent_jewel>

[nearamir]

Company would be a great gift. I have not seen a friendly face in some days now.

<TheRavensMan>

[pageofstaves]

Then, if you would be kind enough to give me directions, come this evening, you shall have it.

<decent_jewel>

[nearamir]

[Here follows a brief set of directions to the Troll's permanent camp by Lake Dala.]

I have moved a little way up the shore, to account for the inclement weather. Look for my fire; I shall be sure that it is lit ere nightfall.

-> Action!

[pageofstaves]

[the map is, as Childermass expected of a man like Faramir, quite easy to follow. he has Neena wrap some of her fresh cheese biscuits and a little pot of roasted fall vegetables in a basket, which he tucks a small bottle of good brandy into as well: the sort of things that help chase away the lonely cold of a rainy night. being a Yorkshire man, the wet doesn't bother him, nor does the walk, and he tramps his way downshore until he sees the promised light of the fire. once he's near enough to be seen, he whistles: a sign of his presence without calling the troll's name and alerting any possible unfriendly folk in the vicinity]

[nearamir]

[The camp is, in fact, visible at a small distance, even without the fire: it has grown over the past year to something that is nearly a cottage, as Faramir has grown more comfortable with his Trollish power to move the stones underneath. There is the cave he began with, and the tent at its mouth sheltering the fire; but there is a low wall around the place, too; and on the slope behind, the stone markers of small graves. There is a hearth (empty, as he has now moved the fire inside) and great stones laid flat like benches around it; and a rack for drying skins, currently empty and soaked with rain; and what looks almost like a little herb garden on the shore-facing side.]

[The Troll himself sits at the water's edge, pensive, his back to Childermass, looking like part of the rain-sodden landscape himself. His hood is down, his hair drenched flat against the plates of stone on his hunched shoulders.]

[He turns only when he hears the whistle, and stands, shaking water from himself. There is a smile for his guest, but his eyes are grave and grim as he moves to meet Childermass.]

Welcome and well-met, my friend. Come; there is space enough for two under shelter, and flesh is chilled by the rain more quickly than stone.

[pageofstaves]

Thank you. This is a lovely little place you've made for yourself.

[he says it by way of greeting, catching the look in Faramir's eyes and matching his small smile. he knows well how to read a room, especially when the only other person there is a friend.

once they are tucked away out of the rain, he holds out the basket]

I've brought you a little something to help with the chill, if you still stomach human food. Afton Height has a very capable cook now, and when I told her I was visiting a friend, she insisted on sending something along.

[nearamir]

[Faramir settles by the little fire, sitting back on his heels. His smile, when he takes the basket, is a little closer to touching his eyes. It is not the gift itself that matters; but the thought, under the circumstances, that there is a gift at all. That his friend has thought of him, and brought something to help.]

I stomach it well enough. It does not satiate, but it does serve to win a little time.

[He looks down into the basket, and then back up at Childermass. His smile, honest though it is, has faded a little already, as though it is too much effort to maintain.]

You are keeping well enough, then? Since things were thrown askew?