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Old 01-31-2004, 04:18 PM   #89
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Sting

Rog

Rog’s eyes took in the interior of the simple tent with delight. So long, so long, he thought. He loosed the grey shawl somewhat as they entered; the small space was a little warmer than the outside and the chilly breezes were blocked. Surinen lit a small lamp that threw a soft, yellowed glow about the small space as Narayad crouched down to light the spirit lamp for making coffee.

Coffee! One of the many things he missed in his time in the northern lands. The smell of the beans as the man crushed them in the grinder filled him with anticipation. Memories of his mother and sister in the morning, busy about the making of the first light's meal, pulled at him.

‘Sit, please!’ he heard Surinen urge him in the common speech, drawing him back to his present predicament. Rog did as he was bid, wriggling into a comfortable, cross-legged position on one of the woven mats. Surinen and his companion worked in comfortable silence together, and Rog took the opportunity to look more closely at them.

Outriders, he guessed. Seeking a water source for their tribe’s migration. Young men, of a similar age. Perhaps half his age, or just a little older. The one called Surinen looked to be some sort of Haradrim shepherd – loose tunic and breeches, an intricately woven belt at his waist. Across his shoulder on a sturdy cord a curved desert dagger in its sheath. He could just picture him with some sort of staff in his hand, marshalling the flocks. Taller than him, he estimated, remembering the ease with which the man had put his arm about his sodden shoulders. And more muscular. Rog chuckled at this thought, flexing his ink stained fingers. No doubt the man wields weightier things than quills and journals! Narayad, too, was firmly muscled – looked to be the sort that had dug many wells in his time.

A fleeting moment of puniness assailed him, allayed somewhat by the fact that so far they had been quite kind to him.

And their speech . . . Surinen spoke passably in common speech. But between them they spoke one of the tribal dialects. The same, he thought, as he’d heard earlier that night, from the story-teller.

‘Your coffee . . . Rog,’ said Surinen, breaking in on his thoughts once again. With a nod to his host, Rog took the metal cup in his hands, waiting for the others to pick up their own. The steaming liquid made the rim of the cup quite hot, and the three blew their breaths across the surface of the dark liquid in an effort to bring it to a temperature tolerable to their lips. It was an old game he’d played earlier in his life. Offer coffee and see who would or could take the first drink. A test of sorts. One’s quotient of manliness went up if he were first to drink. He saw the dark, twinkling eyes of the two men as they watched him over the rims of their drinks.

He drew in a great cooling breath and touched the rim of the cup barely to his lips, drawing in a mouthful of the scorching liquid and swallowing it quickly. Rog could feel the blisters forming and he blinked his eyes once to drive away any tears that might follow. ‘Good!’ he croaked in a raspy voice, sounding much like the frog he had heard them joking about as they stood at the rim of the well.

‘So, tell me, my good hosts,’ he said, after a moment, in common speech. He sat his mug next to him on the mat. His voice had cleared somewhat, and his curiosity come back. ‘What brings you so far south to dig a well?’

Last edited by piosenniel; 04-07-2004 at 12:26 PM.
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