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WHO: Fingon and open
WHAT: Open log for Wintermarch
WHEN: Wintermarch
WHERE: In and around Kirkwall
NOTES: No warnings so far, will update if that changes

I. Outside the City

After the sheer misery that was Haring's weather, even the slightest uptick in warmth is a welcome relief. Fingon celebrates by getting out of the city as much as he can during the sunlit hours, wandering the Wounded Coast as he wishes. If there's hunting to be had or monsters to be fought that's fine with him, but it's the chance to move freely and simply enjoy the sunlight that he really wants.

II. Lowtown

It's no secret that there's no place for gossip like a tavern, and Fingon's come to like a few of the ones in Lowtown. The quality of the drinks varies and if that of the food did as well it would be an improvement, but the sailors, merchants, and travelers who make up the clientele are what he's really there for. It still feels like he's piecing together how this world works, and listening to its people speak in casual conversation is as good a way to learn as any.

On his way back to the Gallows he often browses the market stalls, looking for any sufficiently interesting trinkets to bring back to his kin.

III. Around the Gallows

Fingon frequents many places in the Gallows, whether pestering his cousin in the forge or on the training grounds. But at the moment he's in the library, the history books he's been working through temporarily shoved aside in favor of lighter fare.

Or at least, what is meant to be lighter fare. Noir fiction is more than a bit perplexing if you have no context for the genre, who would have thought?

IV. Wildcard

Have a more interesting idea? Feel free to hit Fingon with it.

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Korrin is working another shift at the Hanged Man, not behind the bar but before it. Though there's a drink before her, she doesn't pay it much attention, instead scanning the room for trouble. Friendly rowdiness is ignored, but any violence or threats of impending violence will have her ejecting the guilty parties, usually with the simple force of a woman who's at least a foot taller than the average human and with better muscles to boot. After ejecting a drunken pair that got nasty over a game of cards, she calmly strides back to the bar, nodding at the nearby elf that had to witness all that.

"It should be more peaceful, now...for a few minutes, at least."

The elf in question isn't much fazed by drunkards, but the sudden quiet is appreciated. He shrugs and laughs before responding. "Then we had best enjoy it while it lasts, I suppose. My thanks for saving my ears from the din."

He idly eyes the crowd in the busy tavern before turning back. "Is there a pattern to how rowdy things get in here?"

Edited 2018-01-12 07:37 (UTC)

She rests her back against the bar and shrugs, thoughtful. "The most basic one is the later it is, the drunker people get and the less restraint they have. Strangely enough, the perpetual drunks at the least likely to cause problems. They don't want to get kicked out of their 'home', whereas the folks who come in to binge and blow off some steam are the least likely to care if they get tossed out again and again."

"So, what's your name," comes a voice from behind his shoulder. The elf with the facial tattoos that would mark her as Dalish if she still considered herself one is standing beside the market stall too, but her focus is on the Eldar before her. Haldir suggested she meet the others to form her own opinion on them, but she's not sure she needs to do that if this is one of the Fëanorians about which Galadriel told her. Hence why she wants a name. Then she'll know if it's one of them or the High King instead. And if a High King doesn't like being addressed so bluntly, than oh well. He's not king of anything here.

The kingship is hardly a loss. There's a remarkably limited appeal to Wearing a Fancy Headdress While Being Ignored, even without the workload and the targets the position still manages to place on one's back.

Still, there's something to this young woman's tone that seems...off. Fingon raises an eyebrow as he turns to her, absently noting the tattoos. Dalish he recognizes, even as a neophyte to these lands; Inquisition is the obvious next step, even if he hasn't noted her personally around the Gallows.

"The one I've been using here is Fingon," he responds, "Though the custom of my people is to have more than one, and I suppose I could answer to those as well. Is there any particular reason you would ask, lady?"

With that confirmation, Ellana's mouth curves into a smile. She isn't sure just how she'd react to a son of Fëanor yet. This is better.

"Because I knew of Eldar here who I hadn't met yet, and I wanted to know which you were." Surely he can understand the reasoning, if he's familiar with the Fëanorians. "I was told a little about you by one of the Galadhrim, Haldir. Oh, I'm Ellana. It's nice to meet you."

Well, he can certainly follow the logic; whether he agrees with it or not is a more complicated matter.

"Well met, lady Ellana. You are a friend of my lady cousin's, then?" It makes sense to think so, if she knows of the Eldar enough to speak with Galadriel's captain concerning their identities.

And he is going to have to find a way to politely suggest that Haldir needn't run around telling stories of others' deeds in Arda, isn't he?

Edited 2018-01-12 07:31 (UTC)

"Of Galadriel? Yes. I was friends with her the first time she was here too." They had their share of adventures back then. Ellana learned much of Middle-earth that way, and taught Galadriel a bit about the elves of Thedas in return. Though she's sorry to see her friend taken away from her duty at home, she won't deny that it's good to see her once more.

Haldir could hardly be blamed for speaking of the High King when Ellana directly asked for his opinion, can he? There wasn't anything akin to gossip; only what Haldir knew before suggesting she find out more for herself, which she's doing now.

"Have you settled in all right?"

"I see. It's been some time since I've seen Galadriel- and I understand it's been rather longer for her than for me."

It's hardly a fault of Haldir's, of course. But the title means many things to Fingon- a dead father's legacy, a kingdom at war, isolation even amidst the people who love him. It is not something he would prefer to share with new acquaintances, even if he hadn't been asked to be discreet about Middle Earth and its history.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose. It can be very frustrating being away from home, but I have been fortunate in my company."

Unlike Fingon, Elros has spent most of the snow gaily warming himself up by throwing snowballs. Now that he is satisfied his aunt is sufficiently cheered from the weather, he's turned to Fingon, eager to get to know his famous kinsman as more than just a bedtime story.

Besides, it may not be the sea, but Elros is hardly going to refuse a chance to go outside, and if they can bring meat back, so much the better.

Aranruth isn't really suited for hunting, so he's borrowed a bow, and he arrived in his hunting leathers, easily falling in beside Fingon.

"Do you know if the hunting here is similar to Beleriand?"

Oh fortunate youth, who has never known the taste of fresh seal blood and can look at people out in falling snow without the urge to organize a head count and check them all for frostbite.

More seriously, Fingon is glad for the company. The Gallows is a gloomy place even without the weather, and it's a pleasant change to talk to his young nephew far away from its shadow.

"They're not identical, but the plants and trees have similarities to parts of the South. There should be deer. Boar, perhaps, as well."

He shrugs. "Or do you mean the monster population? I hear there are spider nests in the area, if you're feeling terribly nostalgic."

Is it tasty?

Elros laughs at that.

"A bit of both? It's always interesting to know what new - or old! - beasts there are to hunt, but I've had enough to do with giant spiders to last me a few lifetimes." He mock shivers. "Brr! All those legs and eyes!"

That depends on whether you like liver. And can put up with having it regularly for thirty years.

Fingon grins back at him.

"I can hardly blame you for that. There are still the animals, then. And I hear there are caves around here that bandits and slavers commonly use."

Edited 2018-01-12 06:15 (UTC)

He doesn't mind liver but thirty years... ew...

"Hm." Elros' eyes have the same eager light that runs in the whole line of Finwe.

"I suppose it would be a good thing if we cleared out the slavers." He says innocently. "Make life a good deal easier for everyone and all that..."

The reasons no one remembers the Helcaraxe fondly are many and comprehensive, but what the Exiles had to eat at least deserves a dishonorable mention on any list of them.

"That it would be," Fingon agrees, his own eyes older but just as keen for action. "It is a terrible thing, for a country to be filled with such people."

He nods in the direction of a cave system he'd seen on a map. "I believe there's one nearby. Shall we check in to see what's going on?"

"Aye." Elros bounces a little on his feet, eyes eager.

Numenor will one day practice slavery. Elros will be long and long dead by then, fortunately, for it would break his heart, if he knew.

"Let us do so! The less of that sort of scum, the better."

That lack of knowledge is an unexpected side-benefit of the Gift of Men. Fingon could envy it, after hearing how all he loves will fare after his death.

"Then we have a plan. There's an entrance marked on some of the Gallows' maps... this way." He nods in the direction the map marked, and they wander until they reach a half-hidden cave entrance.

Elros grins and nods.

"After you, cousin!"

As they get closer, however, the cheerful young man fades to the tested warrior, Elros' clearly paying attention to keeping his footfall quiet while paying careful attention to his surroundings.

"Do you want me to scout the entrance?" He murmurs softly.

"You look confused."

Beleth visits the library from time to time, for various reasons. Books can be useful even to scouts--or spies. Or bards. But whatever need she has for the library at the moment, her attention is caught by the Arda elf looking puzzled by some book.

She recognizes him as the elf who had come to Thedas with Maedhros--not Feanorian, though she's not sure if he's free of her promise to Thranduil. But the library is not private, so it should be fine. Probably.

"Can I help...?"

Fingon looks up from the book, brow furrowed slightly in surprise. "A bit, perhaps- I believe I have enough of the language to follow this tale, but reading it is a strange experience."

With a slightly sheepish air he closes the book and hands it over- a well-thumbed copy of Hard in Hightown, recommended as being related to Kirkwall.

"The author is clearly repurposing the city as a setting, that I can understand. But are these characters made up entirely? We rarely do such a thing in our tales."

Edited 2018-01-21 08:24 (UTC)

Beleth tilts her head to read the title, and smiles cheerfully when she recognizes it. "Oh, that's a good book. I really enjoyed it, I won't spoil the ending, but I found it very engaging." When he speaks on the characters, she raises an eyebrow, but gives a little shrug.

"I believe they are, it's not too uncommon here. Sometimes you want to tell stories that haven't actually happened, and it'd be rude to use people that exist for that. So you make people up." Only having stories that existed--wouldn't that be rather boring? Maybe Middle Earth just had enough excitement without having to make up stories.

The evening is upon them when Galadriel finds Fingon in the library; her own exertions are forgotten, lost to the distraction of all she must do, and she recalls one task very clearly this evening. She is no longer dressed for training, but her Orlesian gowns matches her not at all. Fingon is engrossed in his novel, reading about how Hard it is in Hightown, and she pauses a moment before interrupting him.

"I have not experienced much difficulty in Hightown," Galadriel says as she moves toward him and into the torchlight. "Have I missed something critical?"

In her hands she holds a series of unmarked tomes and bound parchment. There are a few letters of the tengwar visible along the edges of a few of them.

"A terrible conspiracy, it seems," Fingon answers, head tilted to the side in mock-contemplation. "Involving what at this rate just might be everyone within the city's gates. I can only imagine they are waiting for us to go native before we receive invitations to join."

He nods at Galadriel's garb, slightly amused. "Which might be very soon, in your case, if you make a habit of that style."

It's as he looks over the dress that the tengwar catch his eye, and with a thoughtful frown he sets down his own book. "May I ask what you've brought with you, cousin?"

"A gift, of sorts," she replies and holds out the books that she had brought.

They are of little note, or appear so from the exterior. She moves a hand and draws the first book open--on the very first page there is a riot of writing, it gives the sense that whoever scribed it was uncertain if they would be afforded more paper and were attempting to use it to its fullest. There are rows upon rows of tengwar and trade cbaracters--the page explains in great detail the conventions of the local languages of Thedas and how they compare to Quenya.

It is a key to the linguistics of these lands and, after the first few pages, it is a detailed translation of several of their histories.

"When I made these, I could not have guessed they would be for you, but here we are." She looks at him thoughtfully. "They are my notes and my journals, tbey should aid you and yours in some fashion. If jothing else, you shall have a great many more options of reading material."

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