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"So... we're taking the day off?"
"And good riddance that we are," muttered Hyarmenwë under his breath. He narrowed his glance at his fellow Gondorian diplomats- Dracomir in particular. There had been some harsh words in private council over the past week, and there had been little in the way of unity or working together since, but more of a mutual backstabbing- fortunately paralleled among the Mordorians, who through no fault of their own were completely incapable of presenting a united front on any matter. Hyarmenwë was of the opinion that Gondor and Mordor would probably be more likely if he and Maika sat down and hammered something out, without the "assistance" of their confreres, regardless of what certain loose tongues might make of it.
And, indeed regardless of what certain tongues might make of it, Hyarmenwë had every intention of spending the day with Maikaelwen. Though there was no indication that the Gondorians' visit to Mordor was EVER going to end, it seemed prudent to begin searching for his lost daughter immediately, a free day having presented itself.
According a note delivered quietly to his room late the night before, Maika had been busy with some research, and possibly had a lead or two. Hyarmenwë didn't dwell on what strange manners or devices the research may have entailed, and simply made ready to meet her at their predetermined meeting place: the laundry room.
Asking directions from one of the Orkish staff (a fact Hyarmenwë was reluctantly becoming accustomed to. If nothing else, the Orks were more canonical than most of humans in Mordor), Hyarmenwë found his way to a strange room full of washing machines, driers, ironing boards, and extra-strength bleach. Maika was apparently not so eager to escape the council chambers as he had been (well, he considered, he had pretty much left as soon as it was clear that they weren't going to be negotiating. A bit rude, perhaps- but nothing more than Angawen, Bearugard, and especially Dracomir deserved. As for the Mordorians, he doubted if they noted the difference, other than Maika).
However, it was quite clear that Hyarmenwë was not alone in the room. A tall, almost inhumanly handsome, man stood next to one of the washing machines, unloading a sack of blood- sweat- and dirt-stained cloaks and travelling clothes into it's basin. Hyarmenwë thought that the man might be Elvish, as he was cleanshaven- not to mention the whole handsome bit already noted.
The maybe-Elf had long, flowing black hair, brilliant blue eyes with a steely glint, and well-tanned, well-muscled neck and arms. He appeared like a tightened bowstring, ready to spring into action as soon as needed. Even in a task so mundane as loading a washing machine, the Maybe-Elf looked fluid, and graceful as a cat. The long, silver-hilted sword at his side looked not so much an encumberment as an ornament- and a tool ready to be used.
Even as Hyarmenwë digested the syrupy awesomeness of the stranger, he sensed the older man's presence, and fluidly turned around.
"Hail and well met!" he said, bowing ever so gracefully. "I am Elrogorn, son of Elrohir, and Chief of the Rangers of Mordor."
Hyarmenwë's jaw dropped. He found himself unable to summon even a modicum of his normal dignity.
"By the White Tree..." he breathed. "What level of anakronism are you?
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