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Old 09-11-2004, 03:04 AM   #286
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Piosenniel

I had forgotten how the heat lingers even after the sun has fallen . . .

Pio wrung out the plain cotton handkerchief she’d dipped in the pitcher of water on her nightstand and hung it loosely round the back of her neck. The cabin window was swung wide open and the breeze that riffled through her short locks was hot off the southern mountains, bringing no relief. She was in the midst of packing for the trip inland when a soft knock pulled her from the latest study of the last few piles she had heaped on her bed.

‘Come,’ she called out, not turning from her sorting. She planned to travel as lightly as she could. Much of her things she had brought with her would be stowed away in the trunk that stood at the foot of her bed. Loose, light clothes in the style of the desert peoples were her choice for the journey – breeches, tunics, her old, soft boots; a woven aba robe, plain colored to keep off the heat. Her blade in its plain leather sheath, of course, her knives, and pushed into the inner pocket of the robe, a thin, wire garrote. A number of coins, all of Umbarian mintage, she’d gotten from Faragaer were secreted about her clothing, and a small pouch for show would hang at her belt. Last came her worn leather shoulder pack; its pockets and compartments already haphazardly packed with all manner of necessary items.

‘You’re not taking this are you?’ Hamar had come up beside her, in his hands a large tome he’d stumbled over as he entered. ‘An Elvish doorstop of some sort,’ he asked with a grin, placing the thick, purple leather covered book on a nearby chair. ‘And an expensive one,’ he went on, his finger running over the gilt edging of the pages. ‘What’s the title?’ he asked pointing at the Elvish script embossed in gold on the front cover.

‘It is a book from the library at Rivendell. An Elvish copy of one an old friend of mine penned. It is taking me a while to read and digest it.’ She picked it up and spoke the title for him:

~*~ Frodo - Callo var Alasaila ~*~

‘It is only a rough translation from the Westron she wrote it in originally. She had a certain way with words. Not all of them translated directly, much to the chagrin of the Elven scholars who worked on it.

‘I recognize the name,' he ventured. ‘Frodo’, of course . . . it is the Frodo . . . yes? But what does the rest of it mean?’

Pio shook her head, smiling as she wrapped the book in a scarf and placed it in the wooden chest. ‘Well, “Callo var” is “Hero or” and I am afraid “Alasaila” was one of those make-do translations.’

‘Make do for what?’

‘ “Chump” .’

The lid of the wooden chest closed with a thunk; the brass bolt teeth of the inset lock finding their way into the tumblers. Pio sat down with a satisfied sigh on the chest top. ‘Best we leave the discussion of literature for a later time.’ She surveyed the clothes Hamar had on with a critical eye. ‘Are you packed and ready to move,’ she asked. ‘We will be leaving within the hour, or so Faragaer assures me. I am going now to see that Baran has gotten together what he will need. What say we meet on deck in a short while? A last glass of wine with the Captain and we should be off.’

Pio shouldered her pack and herded the man out the door. With a last look round the room, she stepped out into the passageway, shutting the door firmly behind her.
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