Flame of the Ainulindalë
Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: Wearing rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves in a field behaving as the wind behaves
Posts: 9,308
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Rían took his pipe back, watching the big man in front of him. Grimhorn’s facial expression and the content of his words seemed to match. But they were in a dark contrast to his own experiences of the “Owl’s eye”. There was a hint of foul play here. But to a what degree? How much did he really pretend, how much did he really know, about his father, abut my father, about me...?
“Hide and seek” –games with identity were quite familiar to Rían. And after becoming quite good at them also, he had even learned to like them. But this time it was both much more challenging (which as such was not a bad thing at all), and more dangerous (which was a bad thing indeed). Normally his case for bravado was in his quick wits, fast imagination, and a good memory. He was quite a virtuoso in coming up with “instant” life histories, and in creating all those small incidents of life from scratch. These made his characters so believable. But now, there was a real danger, that this man in front of him knew already too much – and what was the most nauseating thing for Rían - he hadn’t the faintest idea, how much he did know.
This was a tough one. There were no safe paths at sight, as there usually were: being exotic enough, not to be known, but familiar enough, not to rise suspicion. At least, he would have to come up with something now, and come up with it quickly. Grimhorn would propably become more suspicious, if he would seem to be pondering his replies for too long, if he would give out the impression of reflecting his words too carefully. He should just act as casual as he could.
Rían had concentrated on puffing his pipe while thinking. Now he took the pipe from his mouth, turned it upside-down and knocked it tenderly a couple of times against the table’s side, to get rid of any already-burnt weed. Before taking the next puff, he raised his eyes to meet Grimhorn’s, and said, as calmly as he could.
“As I told you, I have no intention to go on bragging around about this. You know what I mean – even if you have just told me otherwise. There sure is no problem in being a son of Grimgor in general, how rare that name is. But being the son of the “One that runs at dusk”, could be a different thing?”
A light attack makes for a good line of defence. He would have to play as confident as he could, as though there were no risks for himself – that this all was about Grimhorn and his past. Pressing Grimhorn lightly, with confidence, could make Grimhorn draw back and change the subject. Well, that was the ideal. Anyhow. He had drawn his first line of defence now.
Then, suddenly, Rían decided to go even further, for an offer for a peace, that could in this situation, also count as a back-up for him. This was kind of all-or-nothing-game now. As he opened his mouth, he realized this. It was too late to withdraw...
“As we both have been raised along the banks of the Great River, you must also know the old saying: “no man is the same as his father, no child of yours is the same, as the children of your children”. So, no-one should be blamed for the sins’ of their elders? I truly have nothing against you, and hope just for the best for you, my fellow beorning. I say, we sit, drink another ale with lighter subjects, and maybe share some more weed, and then depart as friends?”
This was peaceful, and it didn’t deviate from the truth too much – he had lived two years at northern Anduin in his childhood. But if Grimhorn would just forget – or decide to overlook – his earlier mentioning of Mirkwood, and all that came with it. He would be safe then.
Rían leaned back in his chair, took a long puff from his pipe, and waited for Grimhorn to react. It had not gone so badly, taking heed of the circumstances, so far...
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Upon the hearth the fire is red
Beneath the roof there is a bed;
But not yet weary are our feet...
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