[Kransha]

Idruil concealed his relative surprise after finding out the actual identity of the newcomer. He scolded himself swiftly, as he so often did, for even considering lashing out at a man he didn’t know. Before he knew it, he was up again, leaving his not yet imbibed tankard of ale behind, still brimming after his solemn session with it, on the table that had narrowly avoided being upturned and littered with Roryn’s acute arrows. For Idruil, the short, cross-town ride to this new, more comfortable abode passed quickly and mellifluously, Idruil himself too caught up in a subtle moment to pay attention to anything else. When they arrived at the home, as grandiose and splendiferous as it was to the naked eye, Idruil still seemed strangely detached from the spiraling reality. He headed in, as the group began to split up and go their separate, conspiratorial ways throughout the mansion. Idruil, alone at the time, did not head off to inspect the place, see to his room, and do some much needed exercises of hygiene. He could get to that later, though.

The man of Minas Tirith found himself, at long last, in the dining room of the manor belonging to Arridan’s patriarchal parent. He sat back, enjoying the feel of supple cushions relaxing his pained back, arched and hunched after days of horse riding and sleeping on the cold ground. He laid his gloved hands on the great, oaken wood table, smooth and polished with a multicolored cloth laid carefully over it. Smiling a withered smile, Idruil peeled his leathery gloves from sweat-soaked hands and laid them in a pile beside him as he leaned forward on the table. He relaxed, removing his heavy woolen cloak for the first time in several days and lay it in a cloth heap on that table. Without it, Idruil’s more slender silhouette was visible; his more colorful garb could be seen as he sat back again. He placed his arms on the carved arms of the chair in a regal fashion, puffing his chest out playfully, trying to mimic the solemn sternness of a throne-seated king.

He was annexed from his daydream by a flitting figure, who wasn’t truly flitting. It was Atharen who entered the room through the door opposite him. Usually, the entrance of a cohort would not have deterred Idruil from his single, treasured moment of splendor, but as his own eyes turned to the lowered ones of Atharen, he detected a look of dejection on the ranger’s face. His eyes were turned down as he stalked forward, just as contained as Idruil had been in a personal shield that would not take in the dim fluorescence of the room around. Idruil could not detect his usual ample warmth.

Though Idruil was not a man who understood such things, he had been near Atharen to see the apparent. He knew rangers of Atharen’s ‘caliber’ held much grace and courtesy, but Atharen had been visibly more than courteous to Miss Crystal, indeed. As much as Idruil tried to tell himself that he should not male foolhardy assumptions, his mind kept nagging him with the truth that he knew, or at least thought he knew. The way Atharen acted around her, though he never seemed to flinch from his ranger persona, the things they talked of. [i]‘Perhaps I am merely being foolish,’ thought Idruil calmly as Atharen paced by, ‘I have not experienced this quality of companionship in ages, so perhaps I am blurring the difference between love and graduated friendship…but…’ He was almost sure at this point, and his thoughts seemed affirmed as he looked across the table into Atharen’s down turned eyes. He was firmly resolute in belief, but he needed to know if he was right or not. Daring to stir Atharen from his new mood, Idruil spoke up at last.

“Atharen, something troubles you?” he murmured as softly as he could without being unheard completely.