[1. Seeking Shelter] It's his books that spring to Francis' mind first of all when his horse, usually so mild-tempered, shies and rears; when he catches his breath after splashing into the mud, he scrambles for his bags before even thinking to check that he himself is hurt. Thankfully, the leather-bound volumes are well packed in oilskin, and although he doesn't dare expose them to the rain long enough for more than a cursory check, they don't seem too visibly damaged. Francis breathes a sigh of relief that catches in his bruised ribs, buckles the bag closed again, and pushes himself carefully to his feet.
The rain lashes down so hard he can barely see a yard ahead of him, even when the flashes of lightning illuminate the muddy woods. Francis is limping a little as, a heavy bag slung across each shoulder, he begins to follow the road, a tall and slender silhouette disappearing into the lashing, howling storm.
When he sees the light, he hesitates. It seems dangerous to leave the road in such conditions, even for something that seems as close as that light through the trees. Thoughts of will'o'the wisps and witch-lights hang heavy on him. But his bags are heavy, and there is little choice, really.
His knock on the door of the little cottage is loud and insistent, and whoever opens the door will be met with an intimidating first impression. He is a tall man, and grim-featured, and his cloak shadows his face and flaps around him, making him look bigger still. Even so, when he speaks, his voice is friendly enough, gentle and slightly accented, pitched over the roar of the storm.
"I'm so sorry to bother you. I... may I come in?"
[2. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry] There's no sense in missing out on an opportunity to get to know people, although Francis has never been much of a barfly. Getting himself a mug of small beer, more for the sake of politeness than anything, he looks around the inn for some time before spotting someone who appears to be without companionship.
He stands now beside your table, beer in hand, and clears his throat politely. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
[3. The Passage] His first response, when the door slides open from what had looked to be solid oak panelling, is a kind of panic. Before he entirely registers what's happened, he's very afraid that he's broken something, that on visiting the manor he's immediately started to accidentally knock it apart.
But that isn't reasonable, and he knows it. It doesn't take long for him to understand that this entrance has been made by design - and quite cunning design, too, by the looks of things - and then guilty panic gives way to equally guilty curiosity. He turns to his companion, frowning slightly.
"Do you suppose we ought to... find a way to close it?" he asks, slowly, and his sharp grey eyes scan his companion's face, trying to gauge their own response.
Faramir ("Francis Fletcher") | Lord of the Rings
It's his books that spring to Francis' mind first of all when his horse, usually so mild-tempered, shies and rears; when he catches his breath after splashing into the mud, he scrambles for his bags before even thinking to check that he himself is hurt. Thankfully, the leather-bound volumes are well packed in oilskin, and although he doesn't dare expose them to the rain long enough for more than a cursory check, they don't seem too visibly damaged. Francis breathes a sigh of relief that catches in his bruised ribs, buckles the bag closed again, and pushes himself carefully to his feet.
The rain lashes down so hard he can barely see a yard ahead of him, even when the flashes of lightning illuminate the muddy woods. Francis is limping a little as, a heavy bag slung across each shoulder, he begins to follow the road, a tall and slender silhouette disappearing into the lashing, howling storm.
When he sees the light, he hesitates. It seems dangerous to leave the road in such conditions, even for something that seems as close as that light through the trees. Thoughts of will'o'the wisps and witch-lights hang heavy on him. But his bags are heavy, and there is little choice, really.
His knock on the door of the little cottage is loud and insistent, and whoever opens the door will be met with an intimidating first impression. He is a tall man, and grim-featured, and his cloak shadows his face and flaps around him, making him look bigger still. Even so, when he speaks, his voice is friendly enough, gentle and slightly accented, pitched over the roar of the storm.
"I'm so sorry to bother you. I... may I come in?"
[2. Eat, Drink, and Be Merry]
There's no sense in missing out on an opportunity to get to know people, although Francis has never been much of a barfly. Getting himself a mug of small beer, more for the sake of politeness than anything, he looks around the inn for some time before spotting someone who appears to be without companionship.
He stands now beside your table, beer in hand, and clears his throat politely. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
[3. The Passage]
His first response, when the door slides open from what had looked to be solid oak panelling, is a kind of panic. Before he entirely registers what's happened, he's very afraid that he's broken something, that on visiting the manor he's immediately started to accidentally knock it apart.
But that isn't reasonable, and he knows it. It doesn't take long for him to understand that this entrance has been made by design - and quite cunning design, too, by the looks of things - and then guilty panic gives way to equally guilty curiosity. He turns to his companion, frowning slightly.
"Do you suppose we ought to... find a way to close it?" he asks, slowly, and his sharp grey eyes scan his companion's face, trying to gauge their own response.