[Arvedui III]

A flickering mix of yellow and blue light cast exposing shafts upon the equally rotting and gnarled wood of a small cloistered room at the top of the Low Tide Inn. The dusty space was cluttered with only a small cot, an oblique table, and two worn chairs, one of which was occupied at the moment. Telson hunched awkwardly over the table, doing battle with an unruly piece of parchment and the dim light of the ‘mid-shipman's sweet', which the innkeeper claimed was the finest room he had available. Sighing defeat, he withdrew from a drawer a shabby ink bottle, a slightly disjointed quill, and a crumpled set of notes he had taken earlier that day.

The Innkeeper's son, a boy in his late teens named Culous, had at the bidding of his father and Telson's silver coins shown him some of the lower district, while Telson's quick eyes dutifully took in various forges and warehouses. All in all, his first day in Umbar was fruitful, however by the time darkness hit and Telson returned to the Inn, he was in a daunting struggle to decide which local Umbarian who looked his way had won the contest for the best repulsive stare of the day. So, with a flourish, Telson began to write.

Detail of Supplies and Readiness of the Isle of Umbar. This 25th year of the rein of King Elessar Telcontar of the house of Elendil. 4th age, year 25. (by Gondorian Reckoning)

Readiness Concerning the Lower Districts:

At this Telson paused and absently stroked the end of his quill. "Well, mangy grubs, cantankerous sailors, and soldiers hung out to dry by the war. S'pose they're ready as they'll ever be." He mumbled and refreshed his quill in ink.

There is, at estimate, over six score men in the lower districts of Umbar who are of age to fight, most of them being veterans of the war against Sauron the Accursed. Given the declaration of marshal law, nearly twice that number could be forced

Furrowing his brows, Telson scratched out the word 'forced'. "Too mean, forcing young boys into service. We're the Reunited Kingdom. I've gotta find a nicer word for that." Chuckling, he replaced forced with 'enlisted' and paused to survey the glistening black ink.

Suddenly, a hard rap on the door disturbed his thoughts. "It's open" Telson called automatically, looking up curiously. The innkeeper with a halo of tatoos about his bald head poked into the room, saying in the coarse voice Telson had come to expect, " I do ‘ope I'm disturbing you, sir, but that meal you requested is almost ready. Would yeh like to sup here or down at the bar?" Giving one disapproving look to the parchment on the table, Telson rose and offered a smile. "I think I'd like to take it somewhere a bit distracting, if that's alright." Nodding with a benign chuckle, the innkeeper began clunking down the stairs again; Telson followed.

At the bar, things were just staring to get lively when Telson arrived and sunk into a particularly comfortable lopsided chair. He studied the various cases of rum as the fleeting broad back of the bartender wandered into a back room he assumed was the kitchen. A prickling sensation coursed through the back of his neck, and out of the corner of his eyes he noted a new party sitting down at a table near the bar. There were about eight of them, all tolled in assorted states of shabbiness. A broad shouldered, greasy blond-haired man who seem to be holding court among them gazed appraisingly at Telson for a moment, before giving him a nod returning conspiratorially to his fellows.

After a minute, a very pretty, dark-haired woman sat down to join them, but not before giving Telson a thoughtful glance of her own. Feeling as though he had passed some kind of test, Telson looked back to the shelf of rum, and feeling his lips twitch back into a smile, nodded as Culous came bounding out of the kitchen with his food. Admittedly, the steak he ordered looked less than desirable, but Telson began eating with wholehearted enthusiasm all the same.

About five large bites into what he would later call ‘the beef that tastes like chicken', a bright eyed, pink-faced man ambled into the chair beside Telson's and called for a drink. Twitching with a sort of nervous energy, the man addressed Telson with a lilt that suggested this was not the first bar he had frequented this night, " ‘Lo, friend. Is that any good?" He said, pointing to the steak. Spending only a moment evaluating his answer, Telson replied, "If you're hungry." The man gwaffed and shook his head. "S'pose so. But for me it's a thirst needs taking care of." Telson laughed, gesturing at the bar, "Go right ahead, good sir." "Sir?" The man looked puzzled, then shook his head. "I'm a lot o' things, Mr., but I ain't a sir." Cutting another piece of meat, Telson replied, "Cry your pardon, then, Mr..?" He let his voice trail off into nothing. "Predd" Came the prompt reply. "Tomis Predd."

Spearing a piece of meat, Telson answered, "In that case, a pleasure, Mr. Predd." The man, who by this time had been served a drink, was now too happily absorbed in his tankard to respond. Telson finished his plate without another word, and Tomis Predd didn't seemed to mind one bit, now tackling his fifth stein. At this point, the woman appeared and began talking in low dulcet tones to him. Soon, she had both a drink and a plate of something Telson supposed was soup. The greasy blond who had noticed Telson toward the beginning of the night now sat down opposite Predd along with another man with deep brown eyes and skin to match. Telson gave him a reciprocatory nutation and called for a brew. "Was yours good too, friend?" Startled, Telson looked at Predd, whom he thought was done talking with him. "Again, only if you're hungry, which I was, so yes, the food was fine." It took Predd a minute to soak that up, but once he had he burst into unchecked giggles.

"Well, what else can you say about Corsair food, or what they pass for it, hay?" If not for the two men now glaring at the bar and another six that Telson didn't need to see to know that they were now keenly interested, he might have laughed; But Telson only scowled at Predd and the woman who was now whispering in a most intimate fashion to him. "Now, that's rather harsh, friend." He said reprovingly. The greasy blond-haired man shot him another look, and then stared very intensely at Predd, who seemed oblivious to the whole thing. "What, pray tell master Predd, do corsairs pass off as food?" Asked the brown man in a voice so cool and quiet, it was dangerous after the woman had gotten gracefully to her feet, leaving Predd to stare longingly back at her. "Why, that's simple," Predd chuckled heavily, still gazing at the woman walking out the door. "Vermin eat vermin, do they not?" He finished as if it was the most logical thing in the world. Telson winced.

As one, the other six men seated around the table, along with at least seven other Gondorians Telson hadn't noticed converged on the bar. The Innkeeper and his son both look rather unnerved, and sensing a storm, Telson surrendered his seat next to Predd to a burly sailor with unforgiving green eyes. Braking into a near run, he dashed up the stairs for his belt, and more importantly his swords. A round of cries arose from below the mid-shipman's sweet, and Telson knew that the situation was now beyond him alone, and that fighting would only get him in trouble.

But I can still bluff like nothing they've ever seen

Now armed, Telson hurtled back down the stairs into complete chaos. At least three separate brawls were taking place, and as he dodged artfully between fights, Telson noticed with a grimace a bloody body slung over the bar. Predd. Slipping out the door and onto the eerily quiet street, Telson took a moment to exhale and straiten himself up. After licking his lips and twitching quietly for a instant, Telson drew his two short swords, swung the in a preemptive arch, inhaled, and kicked the door to the inn open in an effort to create as much noise as possible. "All right, hold up scum or I'll run you all though!' He bellowed for all the world as if he had the authority to call at least thirteen men who much larger than him scum.

But it worked. Someone shouted, "Run!" and most of the men including the greasy-haired blond made frantically for the nearest available exit. However, suddenly the brown skinned man rushed him, but Telson merely sidestepped and laughed when the man bumped headlong into the doorpost. In any environment, grown men scampering hastily out of windows will attract attention, and the fight at the Low Tide Inn was no exception. By the time Telson had walked comfortably up the stairs and disappeared into his room for a bit of light reading, the proper authorities had arrived and broken up the last of the skirmishes.