[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s Character - Callath

Name: Callath Harres

Age: 18 (6 months older than Devon, only just 18 a few weeks ago)

Race: Man

Gender: Male

Weapons: Callath has skill with both a slim, flat bladed fencing rapier of medium flexibility (not as solid as a usual sword blade, but with a little flexibility, as suits such a blade, but will with much power); the blade, in width, is about an inch, narrowing to the top, and just over 40 inches in length, an extension of his arm when he fights with it; it was made especially for him, as an 18th birthday present, and so is perfectly balanced, made of light steel. At the hilt, his knuckles, most of his fingers, and about half of the back of his hand are covered by a curved, silver filigree cover, and the small pommel is perfectly round, set in with a misted glass crystal through which the light comes through in a perfect circle, something Devon insists is perfectly impractical. When practising with Devon, Callath will use a blade similar to Devon’s own, and he wields more than adequate skill with it from so much practise with his rather zealous friend, but prefers the lighter flexibility of the rapier. In more ‘below board’ fights, Callath is less of a fair fighter though – he carries a small knife with him at all times, insisting it is a pen knife, but rarely is a pen knife quite so sharp, and, being ambidextrous when fighting, the young man can switch between hands with both sword and knife, and doesn’t have a problem with picking up anything else that’s lying around if desperate.

Appearance: Medium height, about 5 ft 10, and with what might be called an athletes build. Callath has flaxen blonde hair which he keeps quite short, down to just above his jaw line mostly, with softer, longer curtains; he leaves his hair down usually, as it is really too short to properly tie up. His dark, earnest brown eyes usually contain more than a hint of a smile, and his strong boned profile, with high cheek bones and an sharp nose, and strong jaw line, is rather striking, making him quite handsome. Quite fair skin, but unfreckled or burnt, to match his light hair, and mostly clean shaven. He, like Devon, wears a loose, rather billowy sleeved swordsman’s shirt, with a short, V-necked tunic over it (down to about four inches above mid-thigh), split from the waist down. Underneath this, he wears dark, quite tight trousers, with high boots resembling riding boots, which reach up to just below his knee.

Personality: Callath is a good friend of Devon, and has been almost ever since he came to Umbar at age seven, when there seemed a much bigger gap than six months between them, something Callath used to tease Devon about, and still does, but simply jesting. He is usually smiling, or grinning rather, as he loves to jest, and possesses what might be seen as an overly sharp tongue; although he usually means no harm with it, he can be excessively catty if he wishes. His anger is not easily sparked off, and he will put up with a lot, but if anyone attempts to put down or physically harm his friends, they generally come off worse. Not a rash individual, he will think his actions through quickly, but for all of this, his plans usually end rather sharply at a point, so he has become accustomed to making things up – as his friends have found, the trick is to work out exactly when his plan has come to an end. He is usually quite mild with the older generations, finding that if you are polite, they will not usually question your actions with too much fervour, and Devon’s father the ambassador seems to like him in a confused sort of way, as Callath is always perfectly well mannered. But when the young man is fighting, it is quite a different story – Callath seems to go wild when he is fighting in ‘less conventional’ spots, although he often practises fairer fighting with Devon. He writes well and reads often, and his passions also include horse-riding and sword fighting, both of which he does well. He is rather popular in Umbar, as there is something about him that is immediately appealing, but has just a few very close friends. Easily trustworthy, but not so easily trusting.

History: Callath has lived all of his life in Umbar, apart from a very few brief trips to Gondor. He is the only and therefore oldest son of his father by his father’s late wife, who died a few years ago when Callath was fourteen, something he and Devon share. Since then, he has never been particularly close to his mother-of-step, confiding scornfully to his few closest friends that he can never regard as a mother one who is young enough to be his wife. He and his father have drifted apart, his father being a rich merchant who travels often and far, taking with him Callath’s younger brother-of-step, who shows much more interest in trading, although occasionally Milar Harres will remember is oldest son and come back to the estate with a birthday gift such as the rapier, but mainly Callath is as happy as can be staying in the estate. He is constantly either the bane, or the best of friend, of the servants in the largish house by the sea, but generally is a good master, as he doesn’t make any pretence of having any power whatsoever.

Since he met Devon, they have got on together, after an initial stage of competition through sword fighting, a competition which remains between them. The younger boy’s enthusiasm with all things nautical by the time they were nine has become contagious, although Callath insists he would be entirely useless should Devon’s plans to have a ‘sea-faring adventure’ ever get off the ground, although this is probably mainly a lie, as the youth is a strong swimmer and can more than defend himself, although his experience of being on a boat is rather little, but so, he points out, is Devon’s own. However, he would back his friend all the way. (He is rather taken with the idea of the corsairs, as something in him is appealed to by this, thought…) He has been tutored since he was young in history, English, and maths, and other such subjects, and he speaks several languages other than the common tongue well, as he is naturally bright, and has an inquiring mind into many things other than what his tutors may wish often.

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Amanaduial’s post

Callath was up as early as ever, and was in the stables only two hours or so after the cock crowed. But this morning the stable-boy had had to rise even earlier than usual, much to his annoyance. Still, it couldn’t be helped; there was a new horse in the stables and, much to Callath’s chagrin, it was he who had been assigned, unwittingly, to look after it.

Wrestling with the wily stallion’s head, the young man fought to get a halter over his ears – he had given up trying to soothe the horse long ago, deciding there were quite probably dragons more good-natured than this horse. Not that it wasn’t a magnificent animal; a bay, his dark brown fur silky smooth and darkening around his nose and legs, nearly seventeen hands high and quite obviously Rohirrim. But, despite having the looks of a god, it had the temper of a demon.

“Get your head down, you bleedin’ monster,” He muttered angrily through gritted teeth. The horse glared at him, continuing to toss it’s head, before it made an attempt to escape the youth’s grasp altogether. “I swear, Captain Doran chooses his horses on bad tempers as well as looks.” He continued as he glared after the horse, halter in hand and arms crossed, as it stood quivering at the back of the spacious pen. The stallion glared back. The staring match did not last long as, with a derisive snort, the horse seemed to dismiss Callath and began to sniff at the hay which had been hung up for it, as if wondering whether it was good enough for him to eat. Shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes, Callath leaned against the door, wondering how exactly he was supposed to get the accursed halter onto the bay, and cast a angry look skywards…and inspiration came to him.

The central stables of Umbar were used by many, and also kept horses of it’s own, and so was no small matter. There were usually five or six stable-hands scurrying around the place seeing to the animals, from mighty stallions from Rohan, kept in livery for the nobles of Umbar, to mules and goats, kept overnight for a sailor who would be taking them off on a ship tomorrow. Because of the vast range of beasts it catered for, and the sheer numbers of them, the stables were no small matter, sprawling out over quite a wide area, with a paddock in the centre and a fields surrounding it (although not all of them were owned by the stables). There were two central buildings running side by side, with the tack room at the end of them. These buildings were partly stone, but mainly wooden, and all the way along, wooden rafters were above the stables, easy to get up to, if you knew how.

Callath himself knew all the ins and outs of the stables, and the rafters were often a good place to relax; they were quite shadowed at the sides, and people often wouldn’t spot him as he sat up there, the soft, soothing sounds of horses moving around beneath him. But he would not be using them to relax today…sighing angrily at the horse as if giving up, Callath left the pen, careful not the turn his back on the stallion – he wouldn’t put it past this one to give him a kick as he left. Then he cut sharply around into the empty pen two down from that one and, grabbing one of the ropes that always stayed there, he weighted it with an unused, but full, hay net. Swinging it around three times, he let the rope go, swinging it up to go over the rafter just above the wall of this pen, and got it the second time he tried. He fed the rope over the rafter until the hay was level with his head again, and took the hay net off it. Attaching the halter to his belt, and then attaching one end of the rope to his halter, he got a firm grip on the other end of the rope, braced one foot against the wall and, in the manner of absailing, began to walk up the wall.

Reaching the top, the stable-hand balanced there precariously, arms out for balance, then, wrapping both ends of the rope around his hands, he pulled down, pulling up his legs, and effectively swung himself up, upside down, onto the rafter above him. He paused to catch his breath and thanked providence that he was agile, then, standing, he began to walk very carefully along the rafter which ran down the middle of all the others down the centre of the room, biting his lip in concentration. Turning so he was above the stable of Captain Duran’s ‘monster’, he continued along, then stopped, just above where the beast was now placidly munching hay. The distance between him and the horse’s back was about six feet. If he managed to swing down, then drop the last few inches onto the stallion’s back, he would be able to get the halter onto the horses head from behind. A good plan. A good plan with a few points left out, such as how the horse would react, but ah, you can’t be expected to cover everything.

Crouching down, Callath took hold of either side of the rafter, preparing to drop under, before a voice nearly made him lose his balance all together.

“Callath!”

Almost jumping slightly, Callath managed to hold onto the rafter. The horse, however, looked up at the voice, in a way Callath suspected was suspicious, and the stable-hand, poised above him, froze. He could still do this.

“Callath Harres! Where are you?”

“Well, now you’ve given the game away…” Callath murmured, closing his eyes and cursing all at once the horse, the horse’s owner, and the voice’s owner, before standing. Looking down the length of the long stable building, he saw the owner of the voice, a young man whose face was as familiar to Callath as his own. Devon. And beside him was Calnan. He put his hands on his hips, and replied, just as Devon seemed about to turn and leave, or to shout again.

“Thank you Devon, you could not have come at a better time,” he replied, exasperated. Beneath him, the horse’s head shot up, then up again as it realised Callath’s voice was coming from above, before it started to move away to the other corner of the stall, where the stable-hand absolutely could not get onto it. Callath glared at it, before walking briskly and light-footedly along the rafter at the centre of the stables to be almost in front of his friend. Devon watched him all the way, one eyebrow raised.

“Can I ask why exactly you are up there?”

“I was trying to outwit Captain Doran’s monster, actually,” Callath replied evenly and with utmost dignity, sitting down on the rafter. “And may I ask why exactly you are down there, at such an early hour? Hello Calnan." The attaché nodded his greeting.
“Captain Doran.” Devon spoke angrily, his fists almost clenched. Wondering what it was that had got his friend so irritated, Callath nodded sagely. “We have something in common then.” Looking around, he sighed, then looked back at Devon. “You want to come up here, or shall I come down?”