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Who: Boromir and Ilde.
What: Boromir is on his way to a tavern for post-monster slaying ale, and ~~gets drive-by trolled~~ meets Ilde along the way.
Where: Somewhere by the Gross Tar!
When: Sukkardi (Saturday) evening.
Notes: None.
Warnings: None.

Boromir was restless. In less than a week he had been slain in battle, resurrected in the strangest city imaginable, attacked by even stranger creatures and resolutely he had battled on. But when he had finally gotten back to the Valhalla Inn on Sukkardi morning, washed and tried to get some rest, he found he could only manage a few hours. He wasn't used to a long night's sleep; he had been travelling for months on end, alert and ready at the slightest hint of danger. It was impossible to suddenly stop.

The answer was to find whatever tavern was still open and hope that a good, long drink of ale could bring him some respite.

Still unsure about his bearings, especially at night, he made his way towards the Gross Tar and followed the river.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The woman sitting by the edge of the water with her CiD and a packet of cigarettes might be familiar, but perhaps not immediately recognizable - she has feet and clothes this time, for one thing, and her eyes and her sheen are hidden beneath the illusion of humanity. The knife (sheathed, now) is the same, though, and when she sees him coming she recognizes him, briefly brightening as she notes he lived, looking more or less unharmed.

"Boromir," she says, leaning back on her hands. "You smell less like dead monkeys this time."

...how nice for him!

Edited 2011-06-05 09:29 (UTC)

It's the voice that cinches things together more than anything. He pauses, looking at the woman he thinks he's never met before, and then everything mentally clicks into place. There's a visible smile -at himself, at the comment, at the ridiculousness of everything so far- and he stops near her.

"Ilde," he says, and it almost sounds like a question because he's hoping he remembered her name right.

"Yes." She breathes smoke out in the other direction, looking up at him to keep track of his voice - it's a mannerism that matches their earlier encounter, when she'd watched more than she'd seemed to be listening. She has ears, this time, but evidently they're what you might call a cosmetic addition. "Did you find your way?"

"I did." He studies her face to notice the differences both subtle and stark. This was different than what he was used to: most non-human beings in his world didn't take on human guise, and elves let their inner-light shine regardless. But then again, perhaps that was a luxury that couldn't always be afforded here. "I met a few members of Hellsing on my way, and Sir Integra herself."

Ilde's illusion is almost too good and too real, like a vividly coloured oil painting that hasn't yet dried - there's something distinctly different about her, even when she's hiding what she is, but it's subtler than some. Subtler than elves, anyway, but she's something very different to what they are.

"They were in the newspaper." She's got newspapers beside her, coincidentally, and beneath them a copy of the new Burnworth. (No one is going to catch her looking at that, it's half-hidden inside one of the papers.) There's a pause, and then she holds one up. "Do you read English?"

Boromir had come to realise on his own that some sort of magic was involved where languages were concerned (although very useful, he had to admit). He crouches down beside Ilde, peering at the letters in the dim light.

"No. I can understand certain things -like this word," and he taps at a letter, "is the name of a thing or person. But it may as well be horse whinnies for all I'm to understand."

She studies him for a moment, and then presses her fingertip to the words as she reads them aloud, in a neat and precise voice, "Guild of Battling Paranormal Horrors Excel. In her official capacity, Princess Nuala stated: 'I was gladdened to see the willingness of so many recent arrivals to work together for the city's safety. Our agents were efficient and our citizens were sensible; we may hope that will continue, outside of crisis.'." There's a brief pause here as she raises her eyebrow at the Pollyanna soundbite, but she continues: "Hellsing operatives were able to swiftly contain the worst of the outbreak in Brock Marsh and remind citizens that the investigation into the cause of this most recent uprising remains ongoing..."

Ilde finishes the article, then reads another - 'Brave Newcomers Keep Inn Safe' - with occasional pauses to tap ash into the little tray she's created by folding a boat-hat out of one of the original Burnworth pamphlets. (A fitting use, she feels.)

While she reads, Boromir sits a little more comfortably, and listens attentively while growing more and more thoughtful.

"I saw the announcement on the communication device. The leaders of this city don't even know who or what is attacking them?" He has a lot of mixed feelings about their captors: they range from deceitful, to incompetent and to being both intentionally, although he doesn't understand why.

"Oh, and apparently there are gods, of course." It doesn't sound completely derisive, but he's certainly surprised. By way of explanation he offers, "We do things differently in my world, and so do the Valar."

"Mine, too." Not better - she doesn't sound as though she thinks her world does anything in a way she prefers, but that's one of the reasons they have to go back. There are things that need to be fixed, wrongs that need to be righted. Balances that need to be found. Baedal is another kettle of fish entirely and she worries about getting too invested (while she hides pamphlets about the gods and thinks about Shada's smile).

Ilde looks at him, putting the last of her cigarette out. "What are the Valar?"

"They are holy spirits, or gods." He's not a religious man -in fact there is no formal religion as such in Middle-Earth, no temples or churches. Even then, out of all the races in Arda the elves would be considered the most devout. The most that people do is ask Varda to watch over them, Yavanna to bless their crops, and he supposes the Dwarves must have their own dedications to Aulë. It takes him a moment to recall the lore he was taught as a child.

"First, there was Eru Ilúvatar, The Father and One Who is Alone. He created the Ainur, or Holy Ones, and he taught them music, and they sang the cosmos into creation. And when that was done he gave the Ainur a choice: they could reside with him, or in the world they had created. The greater spirits who chose to go were called the Valar -seven Lords and seven Queens. And there were also other powerful spirits, although less powerful than the Valar. They are called the Maiar."

"Most of them reside in the far West, in Valinor, or the Undying Lands. Only the elves are permitted to go there."

Her lips quirk without quite making it all the way to a smile; she doesn't know if the distinction of titles between 'Lords' and 'Queens' actually indicates a godly matriarchy, but she enjoys her interpretation of it so much that she isn't going to ask. It doesn't matter to him if she quietly believes something that pleases her about how his world works - he doesn't sound like the Gondorian equivalent of a bible-thumper.

Little flights of fancy are fine, as long as you know what they are.

"Music is good that way," she says, after a beat, resting her arms on her knees. "My father used to sing money out of people's wallets."

For Boromir the Valar are distant: they don't involve themselves with the comings and goings of Men and haven't concerned themselves much with Middle-Earth since the fall of Morgoth. The race of Men were more or less alone when it came to dealing with the forces of Sauron and that was something he'd come to accept a long time ago.

He smiles at Ilde's comment about her father. "That's quite a talent."

"He was a philanthropist," she says, which is context if not explanation - though she isn't even sure if Boromir will recognize the word, is that something they do, where he's from? Who knows. She opts not to risk condescending to him by trying to explain it preemptively, saying instead, "Back when that was still a thing people did."

She was right, she decides. He's very earnest.

He understands the word, although not so much the second part of her statement (the idea that kind deeds can go out of fashion, or stop altogether). It probably shows.

It takes her a moment to realize where they've gone sideways, and the tone of her explanation is oddly kind: "There is no world as we knew it, any more." The apocalypse is sort of the ultimate gamechanger in that way. "Not where I'm from. We're going back to fix it."

Or at least wreck the hell out of the villains in the piece. An eye for an eye is good enough for her.

"I don't think I can go back." The way he says it carries a physical implication rather than a lack of desire. It's both an admission and a revelation. "I would like to: to know what became of my brother, and my father, and our people."

Unsaid words hang in the air. He turns to Ilde, resolute. "I hope you can."

She watches him for a moment in silence, mulling that over and wondering at what it might precisely mean - for where he came from (and why), for how he'll adjust to Baedal. It must be noted at this point that Ilde's friendliness (such as it is, Ilde being...Ilde) stems in part from the fact that she doesn't quite take him seriously; he's a curious sort of novelty, so far, one she finds interesting and sometimes amusing, like a string to be pulled along with claws.

There's no malice in it, for what it's worth; he's a very endearing ball of yarn, and she spares him the hope that he'll be all right here, since he has to stay.

"We will," she says firmly, after her brief mental tangent draws to a close and she deigns to reengage with the conversation. Sonja's sheer force of will can make anything happen, she thinks. Sooner or later. "Maybe you'll get news here."

He will more than likely discover, in due time, the nature of the fae and other creatures that reside in Baedel. For now he only has his own experiences and the comparisons from his own world to draw upon. Even then, not all interactions between men, elves, and the things in between have always gone to plan.

"Perhaps." It is a small hope, but it is a comfort nonetheless. And he will certainly make a new place for himself. It's not like he can die trying (again).

The worst that can happen is that he doesn't, she supposes, and it isn't as though that would be a surprise.

"Where were you going?" she asks, absently, as if it's only just now occurred to her to wonder what she interrupted.

"To find a tavern." He also seems to have gotten waylaid but conversation is nice, regardless of how well you know someone, when you've been hacking away at innards for the past how many hours. "I'm finding it difficult to sleep and thought ale might be of help."

Ilde's laugh is quiet, and nothing personal - he's something strange, to her, and that answer is incongruously typical. "It's a depressant." She thinks briefly that serious as he is, he probably doesn't need a lot of help getting depressed.

"It's clear you've never seen a drunk Halfling," he says, smiling, and then, "And either way I'll have to investigate your statement first. I feel as though the ale should have a chance to defend itself."

The second laugh is brighter and louder - there's an odd, water-gurgle quality to her laughter that's more than a little out of place to someone who isn't already used to her - as she shakes her head. "It's science, swordsman, science already found ale guilty." Which isn't to say that she herself is not a goddamn hilarious drunk.

(Sonja's already had to carry her out of a bar once.)

"Nonsense!" Although her laughter makes him grin in like (if you think he is serious, Ilde). And then, conceding slightly, "Although it does have a depressing effect afterwards, particularly when your father catches you the morning after your younger brother's coming of age."

"It makes you sleep," she reminds him, because there is no slight concession in the world that she isn't willing to push harder at. "Though it's nice to know you aren't all virtue." Ilde is inclined to find the too-virtuous suspicious on principle; if she can't see a flaw, she wonders where the bodies are buried. She's of the opinion this is merely realism, as opposed to unfair paranoia.

Edited 2011-06-05 16:40 (UTC)