[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat like stone upon Mani. He listened with contained disgust as Abârzadan concocted a far flung accounting of the company's business. Fool, Marsillion thought to himself. He was about to kick Mani to the front and intercede when he saw a sight that froze his blood. Thoronmir had slid from his mount and was moving stealthily around behind the patrol. Folly! Screamed Marsillion's inner thoughts at the sight of the former statesmen crawling hand and foot through the tangled vines.

By this time a crowed had gathered, finding the commotion a much needed break from a mundane morning's work. If the fellowship were to attack now they would surely throw away any opportunity of freeing Abârpânarú , or even reaching Armenelos. If they could even survive the initial combat.

Seeing the situation spiraling quickly out of control, Marsillion nudged Mani forward, while keeping a careful eye on Thoronmir. Just before reaching the spot where Abârzadan and the patrol leader were talking the unavoidable happened. Thoronmir was discovered. Spears were lowered and the party was enclosed. The situation had grown deadly.

“Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Marsillion boomed, as he kicked Mani directly at the leader of the king's men, sending his inferior horse backpedaling foolishly in fear. “Is there a commander among this rabble of poverty?” Marsillion sneered, spitting in the direction of the known commander.

“I command this patrol, as I've already informed your counterpart,” was the reply. The words were spoken loudly, but Marsillion noticed a slight hesitation in the delivery. The arrogance was gone from the tone, replaced instead by confusion.

“Counterpart!” Marsillion roared with all his being. “I'll inform you to spare you any further embarrassment, that you have directed your inquiry to a slave. Is that your normal practice?” Before the man had a chance to respond, Marsillion began again, this time mockingly quiet. “I suppose I should expect no more from the dregs of our King's army.” Growing louder now, so the gathered throng could hear, “everyone knows every soldier worth that title is sailing now with the King toward another great, nay the greatest, victory man has yet seen!”

Mani snorted, sending the small shaggy horse, now a few paces away, into a panic, nearly throwing the commander to the ground. By the time he had regained control of the scruffy animal, his face had gone from an enraged red to an embarrassed crimson. When he had gathered himself, the commander questioned, “who are you, who insults a soldier of the king? Why is it that your man here tells a far different story then you?”

Marsillion sent the commander such a glare that he had to turn away from those piercing blue eyes. “My man?” Marsillion questioned softly, those dangerous eyes still at work. “This is my slave, you dimwitted fool,” Marsillion cried, roaring again as he grabbed Abârzadan's stout jaw in one powerful hand and jerked his head around toward those eyes. “What story did you spin this time, you miserable leech?”

Marsillion sat, clutching Abârzadan by the jaw, as the stunned man attempted to spit out his previous story through Marsillion's strong grip. Upon it's completion, Marsillion spit squarely in the young man's face, a gesture he regretted having to perform, and would need to apologize for later. Releasing Abârzadan, Marsillion turned Mani, and rode up along side Azarmanô , who sat erect, a look of understanding on his salt weathered face. “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion asked condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

“If you do not serve me better you will have no future!” Marsillion barked as he turned Mani back toward the King's Men.

“Do you truly expect me to believe this man is your slave,” the soldier asked, pointing sheepishly toward Abârzadan. "His dress is more fitting of a king.”

Marsillion boiled over with laughter, some of which was authentic. “Have you seen many kings? I am the Lord of Andunië , and I am the closest you will ever be to royalty,” Marsillion shouted for all to hear. “I see you gaze at my mount, as well you should. This horse is worth more then the homes of your ancestors as far back as memory reaches. The cape on my back is finer than all the riches you will ever posses. Tell me, why should I not dress my slaves in any attire I deem reasonable? Clear this path, business presses, and the hounds need not tarry speaking to the fleas.”