Elendor Info

  • Increase font size
  • Default font size
  • Decrease font size

Picture this

Tags: Merilind,  Penniavas,  Mirodhel,  Broddur,  Jori,  Lominhur

Short Summary: Merilind reveals a sketch she made the previous evening, to mixed reactions, and Lominhur learns why the Dwarves' friendship has cooled lately
Date (real-life): 2010-11-16
Scene Location: Imladris: Dwarven camp
Date (in-game): June 3051
Time of Day: Night
Weather: Clear
Front Yard

Despite your not possessing a light, the scene here is far from dark. Lights within the Last Homely House twinkle out through many windows and give a gentle glow to the scene like starlight intensified. The grass near the house is not very high, perhaps because of being trodden on so often, but some higher tufts grow around the nearby trees. Hosts of flickering fireflies in the meadow to the north and west seem to be trying to replace the temporarily hidden stars. You can make out some trees standing nearby, and two paths can be seen leading away from the house, one southwest and one north. Down the steep bank to the south you can hear the chuckling of the Bruinen.

Obvious exits:
North leads to Open Meadow - Crossroads.
Front Porch leads to Front Porch.
Real time is: Tue Nov 16 14:29:45 2010
Game time is: Nighttime <00:29:15> on Hevensday, Day 15 of June (Summer) 3051

The sky is a dark, deep blue, with the full moon shining strongly overhead. It is summer and night is cool, and elves wander in the gardens of Imladris freely. Merilind walks from the House onto the front porch, and then to the front yard - stopping to survey the dwarven encampment currently occupying most of the yard space. Her eyes sweep across the tents, as though searching for something or someone.

Penniavas returns to the Dwarven encampment himself with the young Dwarven visitor he'd shown around to the Forge and other locations, having been talking the entire time to the poor Dwarf. He pauses as Merilind is seen, a hand waving "Merilind!"

Mirodhel is already waiting at the edge of the dwarven camp, waiting to speak to someone of importance.

Merilind is not the only one searching for something. The Dwarven miner Broddur is stomping about the camp, peering beneath wagon-covers and every now and then lifting the flap of a tent. "Where /has/ that dratted apprentice got to?" he mutters. The gathered Elves, alas, are given no more attention than if they were butterflies.

Even at a distance, the young red-bearded Dwarven apprentice Halli quails and his step falters so that Penniavas will find himself ahead of his companion.

Suddenly, Merilind's eyes focus on one particular dwarf amongst the many. One muttering, grouchy dwarf. She approaches him, a pleasant smile on her face. "Well met, Master Dwarf Broddur," she greets. In her hand she holds a scroll, its edges filigreed in a thin line of silver.

Penniavas pauses after his wave, realizing he was solo now. "Huh? " he turns his head, looking back towards the redheaded Dwarf with a blink of confusion "Am I going too fast? " he asks curiously, aware of his longer legs in compared to the young dwarf.
Mirodhel has arrived.


Amongst the Dwarves of Ered-Luin, Jori may stick out in his unassuming and silent nature. Truly, most dwarves tend to be loud and boisterous, and carry large weapons. Jori, conversely, walks quietly, watching the treeline with gentle intensity, his bow and quiver shouldered and fastened. Seeing Broddur, Jori goes to join his colleague and his new aquaintances.

Mirodhel waits close by and as Broddur appears, the Noldo approaches, though he keeps his own counsel until Merilind and the dwarf have a moment to speak.

The full moon bathes the camp in clear silver light, softening and illuminating. Broddur, a scowl carved deep on his gnarled features that not even the moonlight can gentle, starts to step round Merilind as though she were an inanimate object; it takes a moment for him to realize he's being addressed. He stares at the scroll, and then up at the one who's holding it. "What's that in aid of?" he demands suspiciously, forgetting to give even the barest of greetings. Jori's presence is noted and acknowledged by a terse nod - or was that a 'come and help me!' nod?

Behind Penniavas, Halli shakes his head, red beard flying. "No no, it's just ... You go on, Master Penniavas," he urges, trying to keep out of Broddur's sight.

Penniavas frowns in confusion, looking to the dwarf camp, and then back to Halli, utterly baffled. Then he nods slowly "Uh, very well then. " he notes, troubled. But he turns to head on, approaching the gathering of Dwarves and Elves

Jori lets his face stretch into a grin as he approaches Broddur, nudging his shoulder with his own in affable salutation, before the dark-eyed Scout looks up at the outstretched hand of Merilind. "Oh, don't mind him." he says to the Elf, outstretching his own hand to receive the scroll if Meril offers. "Show him a war and he's dashing and dancing with the best of us. Show him a smile, and he's looking for the ambush." he says with a soft chuckle. "Y'can call me Jori, I'm one of the scouts of the caravan."

"Well met, Jori," replies Merilind, and turning around: "Penniavas." She then looks to her scroll, pondering what to say. "This is no request, or summons, or message," she says slowly. "I completed this over the past few nights, and thought that I would share it with you. You will see."

She unrolls the fine parchment, showing it to the dwarves: it is a sketch of the dwarven camp on the day they arrived, from the view of her on the front porch, and colored with water-based inks. The tents are meticulously detailed, the scenery vivid. But the focal point is a dwarf in the center of the frame, his stocky build standing out amongst the background, clothes and demeanor faithfully transferred onto the parchment. It is unmistakeably Broddur, his weathered face surveying the camp critically.

Mirodhel glances at the scroll half-way unrolled and then glances at the giver and receiver of this gift, his face peaceful and betraying nothing of his thoughts.

Penniavas peers over Meri's shoulder at athe picture, brightening "Oh wow! That is beautiful! Look, there's even the old patch on that tent at the edge of camp, and the dropped tent pegs there and footprints! and you have the Master Dwarf done perfectly!"

The moonlight reveals a new figure then, and from the valley shore strides a tall, cloaked fellow. Though as he draws near keen eyes might spot that his bearing is different from Mirodhel and Merilind's own; though clad similarly to them this is no Elf. A man therefore arrives, and cautious eyes survey the Dwarven camp.

"Hail, friend," he greets Mirodhel quietly. "Strange company at your doorstep this night."

Broddur stares blankly at the scroll. For the moment there is absolute silence - it's hard to tell just what the grizzled miner might be thinking. But then he bursts out angrily, "Is this some kind of mockery?" He rubs a hand across the scarred side of his face, then notices Penniavas. "There's nothing wrong with our tents, thankyou," he retorts. "Some folk have use for things even when they're old and worn. And have /you/ seen that nuisance of an apprentice? Should've been back long ago. Iding time-waster."

Said apprentice, Halli, has taken advantage of the distraction to enter the camp at a tangent to Penniavas and is currently hurrying away behind the cover of a row of tents.

Jori is not so gruff as Broddur. A dwarf can appreciate a mastery of any craft, and to Jori, art in particular receives reverence due to his complete lack of talent for it.

The Scout forgets himself and the demeanor he is supposed to portray as he stands on his toes to get a better look at the unfolding scroll, eyes widening. "How did you make the colors?" he asks, his voice a soft hush of awe.

[Penniavas(#24815)] "Mockery! No, this is an HONOR Master Broddur! And I did not say there was anything wrong with the tents! I just noticed that detail in the picture and pointed it out." notes Penniavas, eyes widening a little bit in hurt. "And I was still showing him around the Valley after I showed him the forges. He was wasting no time, but learning so that he might tell you where everything is when you ask." He smild at Jori, nodding in agreement.

Mirodhel glances over at the Man who has arrived just now and offers him a nod of greeting. "Hail, friend and welcome to the Valley--" Just then, the Elf's greeting is interrupted by the outburst of Broddur.

The Elf-lord holds up a hand to suggest calm to Penniavas. "Master Dwarf, good evening to you. If you are displeased by the craft displayed here, there are others in the Valley that will be more to your liking, I'm sure. I am Mirodhel, a servant and counselor of my lord Elrond."

"A mockery?" asks Merilind in response, her question simple, but her tone lacking the edge of a curt remark. "No, this is not so. I merely sketched what I saw. I mean no disrespect, Master Dwarf." Then she unrolls the rest of the scroll, revealing a taller figure amidst the dwarves: it is Penniavas, his cheerful demeanor apparent, trying to attract the attention of the grouchy dwarf. The painting is at once both beautiful and amusing, for Penniavas's efforts are clearly unsuccessful.

While fiddling with the scroll, she turns to Jori with a smile. "We use plant pigments," she explains. "We extract them with water, and they stay fast on parchment." At Penniavas's outbursts, she is slightly taken aback - but says nothing more as Mirodhel intervenes.

What, /another/ elf? Broddur eyes Mirodhel with the same disfavour as he had the others - and Lominhur at his side with barely less - but the word 'counsellor' must have been heard, for he offers the latest speaker a stiff bow. "The Dwarves have craft enough of our own, Master." His tone is noticeably more temperate, even if he's not wiped the scowl from his seamed face. "We lack for nothing here. We'll not be staying long - will we, Jori?" The miner gives his more temperate companion a meaningful look. Alas, the fact that there is in fact a gentle mockery in the scroll, and not purely of him, passes Broddur completely by, for there is not so much as a twitch of his whiskers at the sight of the earnest Penniavas-figure.

"Whither are you bound, if I may?" asks the Man then, at this. "The weather turns ill, and the roads will be darker until the Spring. Have you so great a need that this will not deter you?"


Jori almost does not hear Broddur, leaning closer to the painting, before dropping back down to his heels with a start. "What? Oh, yes yes. Mustn't stay long. Many miles of road need driving before we are done." he says firmly.

Remembering the recent traitorous acts of the last Man his party had extended interactions with, Jori just watches the man for a bit, before speaking. "Old relations, family gatherings, you know the sort. Goblins raising a ruckus up north, needing a good sorting."

Jori makes no mention of true war or glory. That's not how the game is played.

Penniavas's eyes draw towards Mirodhel, and he nods as he quiets instantly, his head lowering ever so faintly as he listens. His frown though vanishes as he sees himself on the scroll, as though a coin painted black on one side and white on the other had been flipped back to the white side. He could not help but resist grinning, even as his cheeks and the tips of his ears go somewhat pink at the portrayal of himself obilivious to the grumpiness of the painted dwarf. "Oh Merilind, is that really how I looked that time? You even have the imprint on my belt. How did you do that so well, or is it a secret?" he was not aghast, more like shocked in a delighted kind of way, And then back to Jori, nodding "Yes, and things needing finding if I remember right."

Mirodhel glances over at Lominhur as the Man asks his question about where the dwarves are headed. The Elf-lord remains silent and turns back to Broddur for answer, but then hears Jori's and other words. "You have arrived at the Last Homely House. It is Master Elrond's wish that all who arrive enjoy his hospitality and then leave in peace. If your journey is urgent, then we will speed you on your way."

When the mannish figure speaks, Broddur merely stares. "It's high /summer/ right now," he points out. "If a Dwarf can't travel the roads then, when can he? You'd have us sit here a year, kicking our heels and listening to poetry?"

"Hssh," he hisses to Jori at the mention of 'north', though the rest of his fellow Dwarf's explanation is cryptic enough for the miner not to protest.

At Penniavas' bubbling delight, he leans closer to the scroll to take another look himself. "The scribe flattered you, in my opinion," he comments.

Pleased by his own cleverness with words, it is some time before Mirodhel's final remark sinks in. "What, you're turning us out now?" he almost growls, despite the fact that he's the one been complaining about their presence here all along.

Mirodhel shakes his head, ever calm. "You have not enjoyed Master Elrond's hospitality yet. When you choose to leave, we will aid you ask we can."

"Why should you care, Master Dwarf," smiles Lominhur then, after Broddur's reply to Mirodhel, "if summer is a time for travel? But in dimissing one care you chose not to answer the other. Whicther are you bound, to renew such family relations, and to sort out these goblins of which you speak? Many others walk these same roads. If there os trouble afoot that you are aware of, will you not share such news?"

"It is the result of years of practice, like any other craft," replies Merilind to the young elf. She smiles. "Would you like to experiment with it yourself? My materials are always open for those who wish to try the art. All are welcome, regardless of age, profession, or race," she adds, the last a subtle invitation to the dwarves.

Her smile then turns to Broddur as he inspects the parchment; as long as he is no longer angry with it, she is pleased. What an interesting dwarf!

She says nothing regarding the dwarves' movements - merely listening to the discourse between Elrond's counselor, the Ranger and Broddur.

Penniavas begins to nod in agreement to Broddur, then pauses, and glances sharply at him, in surprise at first, then he lets out a laugh, shaking his head "Perhaps so, but it sstill a wonderful peice that I think will be treasured for a long time. " he then glances to her "I would like to try my hand in it. I prefer the art of stories than to that of pictures so far myself." he too seemed unconcerned of the talk, even with his slight slip up.

Broddur's face darkens further at Mirodhel's maddening, unruffled calm. "I'd enjoy it more if there were fewer-" He catches himself just in time and substitutes gruffly, "wagging tongues."

Lominhur's question elicits a strange look. "I've a care for who we share it with," he returns. "We've found trouble on the Road already."

Alas, the invitation to try a hand at painting falls on deaf ears.

''We will help you as we can.'' Mirodhel glances over at Lominhur and his fellow Elves and calls to them quietly as if giving orders, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

A long moment passes as Lominhur regards the Dwarves, ere he turns his head to reply to Mirodhel. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

And then, to Broddur he nods softly. 'Trouble is easy to find on the Road, alas. Did your party suffer losses?'

"We shall see if that changes at all," says Merilind to Penniavas, anticipation bubbling in her eyes even as her amicable expression bears almost no visible change. She nods, almost imperceptibly, to Mirodhel's statement, not that she has said anything, or will say anything.

[<#24815>] Penniavas glances to the other Elves as the flowery speech surrounds him "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he notes, back to the other conversation. He grins at Merilind, nodding again ''I may be busy in the coming days, A friend will be... going on a trip. But if I am here I will attend when my duties permit.''

Broddur squints as he looks from one Elven face to the next - and now the Man is at it too, words tripping from his tongue like petals from a flower. Deprived of any intelligible words he can twist into an insult, the Dwarven miner has to content himself with a glower.

Lominhur's question in Common catches him unawares. "No," he blurts out, but then recalls himself. "It was one of your kind that brought the troubles on us," he states sourly, watching to see how the ranger takes that.

He is apparently ignoring those elvenkind now, but at Penniavas' words about 'a trip' his brows snap together in a sudden frown.

Broddur's words raises the brow of Lominhur, though the Man appears not to have taken offense. "By that you mean, a Man, I would guess? That is far from unexpected, but also such Men are far from my kind. What woes were brought, so that one kind of Man can rebuke the evils of another?"

"A trip?" echoes Merilind, her eyebrows raising in curiosity. She starts rolling up the scroll as she speaks.

"Great deeds have been done by Durin's Folk along the Great East Road. It was a party of your own folk from the Blue Mountains who slew the great troll known as Lou as I recall." Mirodhel thinks back at such deeds, his face showing admiration at the valor called for by such a deed.

Penniavas nods seriously "Yes. He has decided to leave... but I promised i would not speak of it until he himself has announced it." he cuts himself off abruptly "but I will be going with him part ways to see him off, and listen to his story so it is not forgotten. He had been wounded badly in battle and cannot use his arm."
Penniavas says, "Gilaearon."

Broddur tilts his head upward so that he can bestow a baleful glare upon Lominhur. "By that I mean a Man who looked like you. A Man who once pretended friendship, then turned on my folk in battle. Know this, Master Wanderer, we /will/ have vengeance for it, in time."

His brooding expression lightens a little at Mirodhel's return to Common. "It was a fine battle, aye," he answers, enthusiasm lighting his eyes despite his best efforts. "I have heard the tales - the fallen are honoured as heroes. Glad to hear someone else remembers." For once, something that's not an insult.

At Penniavas' speech, which he has unwittingly echoed, he shoots the elf a relieved-looking glance from under his bushy brows. Not an elf-spy on the road north after all, then.

Mirodhel turns slightly, a look on his face breaking his calm manner. "If you have made a promise not to announce it, why have you just done so?"

Penniavas pauses and he looks at Mirodhel, straightening a little "There are many places one can go when leaving Rivendell my lord. I was going to stop there and say no more." he explains, his words suddeenly quiet, almost fearful.

"Vengeance for what, Master Dwarf?" asks Lominhur calmly. "You still have not told us of this battle, or its causes."

"Yet still, I know the identity of the elf you speak of," says Merilind, her smile turning wry. "And so might Mirodhel."

Mirodhel ignores the dwarf and man for the moment, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Broddur makes a rumbling noise in his throat. "Do you think me an Elf, to stand here telling tales all night without food or sleep?" he demands to Lominhur. "But since there's many listening, I'll say this much. We battled against the Shadow in Mirkwood, some seasons past. Two great armies - the Dwarves and Forest Elves against the goblins and their allies. The man I spoke of fought with us - until he joined the goblins and slaughtered my kin." A spark is glowing in the coal-like eyes, but this time it is not enthusiasm but deadly ire.

[<#24815>] Penniavas's face had gone somewhat pale as he listens to Mirodhel, completely focused upon the Lord Elf. He nods silently, before speaking "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" and then he falls silent again, the least he's said now in such populated presence, his hands folded meekly before him.

Dark becomes the Ranger's bearing then as he hears Broddur's tale, and he is silent a long moment ere he asks only: "What name did he go by? Tell me this only, and I'll hinder your supper and slumber no longer."

Wrath still smoulders in Broddur's gaze. To Lominhur's query his answer is a single growled word, a name: "Imladech." He stands silent a while, then shakes himself and looks round the gathering of Elves and Elf-friend. "I've things to do, Masters," he announces somewhat abruptly, the Elven exchange between the eager Penniavas and the unfailingly calm Mirodhel having completely passed him by. He starts to turn, stops, glances at Merilind. "You draw not bad - for an Elf," he tells her. And then, after damning with faint praise, he stomps off muttering to himself, "Where is that pesky apprentice?"

On the other side of the camp, from the tiny tent used by the young apprentice Halli, comes the sound of peaceful snoring. The poor fellow, worn out by Penniavas' enthusiasm, has long since sought the solace of sleep.

Mirodhel bows deeply to the dwarf. "To you and yours, I offer my services during your stay. If you require anything, send for me and I will do all I can to meet your needs. A good night to you all." With that, the Elf-lord retreats into the moon-lit night and soon passes down the embankment and across the bridge of the noisy Bruinen.

At the mention of the name, Lominhur appears thoughtful, and he too slips away.

Penniavas remains uncharacteristically quiet, still staring after Mirodhel, his shoulders hunched slightly.

Date added: 2010-11-17 18:28:36    Hits: 112
Powered by Sigsiu.NET RSS Feeds