Thread of Chance (March 3010) - [Maegineth]
Sept 27, 2018 16:45:46 GMT -5
Post by Durion on Sept 27, 2018 16:45:46 GMT -5
The market was full and rambunctious, and a slight grimace graced Durion’s lip as two children dodged between about his legs, shrieking as the orc he once knew upon the plain. He could not fathom how parents suffered such noise incessantly, and his dark eyes panned the crowd as if he might be able to spy them.
Still, there were too many people, and the man could no sooner spot the ones responsible for the little curs running wild through the streets than he could have laid eyes upon a needle in a field of needles. At least the tailor shop was close. There was soon to be a colloquy; Captain Faramir had once again come from Ithilien with news. If one thing were certain it was that there was certain to be many ears there, and if ever there was time to snake Durion’s own ideas into Lord Denethor’s ear, it was when Faramir wished for his attention instead.
It had called for a new tunic set, though; something befitting of a councilor. Ultimately, it had been chosen to be a daring black, trimmed in the color of dark wine. Stark, perhaps, though Durion was no fool. In his time in the palace of the Steward, he had taken great note of the garb Denethor himself wore.
Perhaps if he mimicked it enough, he could gain his attention in the way he needed. A farmer in Lossarnach had sent word to the palace, easily intercepted by one of the council. He claimed his horses were descendants of the Maeras of Rohan, mighty steeds. If such were the case, they would be magnificent beasts. Grand, powerful.
Worthy of the Dark Lord himself, and those of his command that had need of such steeds. It needed to be confirmed, however. There was no use offering a tarnished sacrifice to the forces of Mordor. But, if Durion played his cards right, there was a chance that the horses, and a contingent of the cavalry, could be taken in one unfortunate swoop.
All he needed for the start of his plan was his new tunic.
Still, there were too many people, and the man could no sooner spot the ones responsible for the little curs running wild through the streets than he could have laid eyes upon a needle in a field of needles. At least the tailor shop was close. There was soon to be a colloquy; Captain Faramir had once again come from Ithilien with news. If one thing were certain it was that there was certain to be many ears there, and if ever there was time to snake Durion’s own ideas into Lord Denethor’s ear, it was when Faramir wished for his attention instead.
It had called for a new tunic set, though; something befitting of a councilor. Ultimately, it had been chosen to be a daring black, trimmed in the color of dark wine. Stark, perhaps, though Durion was no fool. In his time in the palace of the Steward, he had taken great note of the garb Denethor himself wore.
Perhaps if he mimicked it enough, he could gain his attention in the way he needed. A farmer in Lossarnach had sent word to the palace, easily intercepted by one of the council. He claimed his horses were descendants of the Maeras of Rohan, mighty steeds. If such were the case, they would be magnificent beasts. Grand, powerful.
Worthy of the Dark Lord himself, and those of his command that had need of such steeds. It needed to be confirmed, however. There was no use offering a tarnished sacrifice to the forces of Mordor. But, if Durion played his cards right, there was a chance that the horses, and a contingent of the cavalry, could be taken in one unfortunate swoop.
All he needed for the start of his plan was his new tunic.