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Logs

(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 63 - An Open Meadow with Elves


Short Summary: Morrandir interacts with several Elves of Rivendell.
Date (real-life): 2001-01-25
Scene Location: Rivendell
 Middle-earth time is:
Midnight on Sterday, Day 25 of May.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 19:05:09 MST on Thu Jan 25 2001.

*Note - log submitted by Morrandir*

Open Meadow
This is a broad meadow, carpeted with grass. A huge oak stands in the midst of the meadow, a path passing close under its branches. The old oak looks like a pleasant place to pause and rest. The path itself is hard packed earth, clear of stones. Off to the north, trees grow more thickly as the meadow merges into forest. You can see where another path intersects the east-west one, heading off to the northeast, where through some trees you can see several low buildings. To the south is the House, and southwest is the bridge. In the west a stand of birches grow on the slopes before the cliffs. Gentle breezes drift through the countryside, and the calls of birds can be heard. The gentle greens of spring colour the thick grass carpeting the meadow, and the riot colours of wildflowers speckle the green. In the clearings of the forest to the north, more green grass and wildflowers are apparent.
Contents:
White Pavillion
Huge Oak
Obvious exits:
East leads to Open Meadow.
Southwest leads to The Valley shore.
South leads to Front Yard.
North leads to Crossroads: Meadow Path and Valley Path.

Into the meadow strides a vision from the Elder days indeed, a lady clothed in a pure white gown, and cloaked in a scarlet cloak, brocaded and bejeweled. Her hair is set with gems, rubies and opals, and her head is held high. She looks about her, seeming to sense that she is not alone in the meadow.

Hopping from branch to branch, Telosorn sets himself on a lower branch. He places his arms behind his head and props a leg up under himself. He shouts up through the branches in a nagging tone, "Oi, gwanur! I know you're up there somewhere!"

At the call from the elf, a silver-haired quendi drops down from the higher braches of the mighty Oak in the meadow. His eyes glimmer as he looks down and grins at the one who called him gwanur, and chuckles, setting his cloak down by his side. He slips down and sits on the same branch he landed on, letting one leg swing gently beneath him as he hugs his other knee to his chest. Peering out through long, silvery bang, his melodic voice rings out in warm, summer tones, as if dareing the spring about him to skip by. "Indeed I am brother, but you seemt o be getting sluggish if you can't even find me upon this very oak."

Orindis smiles at the brothers. "In one tree you cannot find your own brother, Telosorn? A poor Magor you will make in a forest, I deem. But perhaps your senses are a bit dazzled by the twilight in springtime." The lady steps back a moment, and peers upward again.

Telosorn seems to wince at these comments, as he replies, "I wasn't really bothering..." He chuckles, "So, Where's your Canorath been lately?"

The now obviously younger quendi blinks at his brother's remark, and looks off ot the side at the tree trunk at the same time hopeing his bangs hide his blush. "Che, since when is she 'mine'? It's not like we're even courting about or anything...."

Orindis smiles again, this time more broadly. "I am loathe to interrupt the quarrels of siblings. I was merely taking a bit of the night air." She looks about, and then turns her glance to the house. "Perhaps I will take my leave now, and seek out some of the folk of the south who are about the house. Have you two met any of them? They are a strange breed of Men..." she muses.

"They are strange indeed." comes a gruff voice, that of a newcomer who now comes striding towards the trio, one of the aforementioned southerners. Garbed in black and white, it is Morrandir the one-eyed who now stands before them. "Good eve to you." he says with a bow.

Telosorn shakes his head, "Oh, Don't worry...You arent interrupting this, as we do this all the time." He chuckles, "But no, I have yet to see one..." He looks down to the brushes, and waves to the new arrival as though it was nothing, "Ah, Hello!"

"A strange breed" smiles the elven lady, "with the hearing of the Eldar, if not the look of them." Her smile is slightly brittle as she speaks, and then she curtsies with the elegance of one born in the days before the rising of the Sun. "Welcome to Elrond's valley. I am Orindis, daughter of Ecthelion of Gondolin. Have you found the valley to your liking?"

Gentle green eyes blink at the new sound, though gruff and foreign in nature, it is not entirely unbearable to his delicate ears, which give a slight twitch. He watches the exchange between the new-commer and the others, before giving a mild shrug and glanceing over to Telosorn. "Why brother, seems you know more elletht han I've given you credit for. What modesty you jest." His mischevous grin flashes by his face before he hops down from the branches and land nimbly and soundlessly upon the night grass of the valley. He gives a flourished bow, the gemstone around his neck almost touching the ground before he rises again with all the air of a kind of performer. "Mae govannen to you both, Lady Orindis and he who has yet to speak his name. As my brother has yet failed to say, I am Cendalire."

"Gondolin!" the man exclaims, looking upon the maiden in awe. "But..." he shakes his head and smiles. "I am Morrandir son of Barrandil, blue squire of Dol Amroth's exalted Order of the Swan..." Morrandir stammers, for despite the length of his title it means nothing to one of such lineage.

Orindis nods, her eyes taking in the face and figure of this man who stands before her. "You are of an order of true friends of the West. Such as these have kept back the Darkness, as much as we may in these latter days. But not without cost." The Hiril glances at the Man's eyepatch, and then to her compatriots. Then she turns to the man of Gondor. "Do you wish refreshment, or have you come merely to drink in the night air?"

Cendalire simply waits where he landed, seeing no immediate response to his self-introduction. Soon he decides to forego simplicity and take shold of the lyre behind him, bringing it infront of his chest as he plucks a soft chord.

"Well the intention was a mere evening stroll, though refreshments would certainly not be unwelcome." The squire says with a cheerful smile. He then turns toward Cendalire, looking at the lyre. "My word, are there any elves at all who are not skilled in either music, art or poetry?"

Looking at Cendalire with a smile, the Hiril stops for a moment, listening to the lyre. Then she says, in a soft voice that does not rise above the ringing of the harpstrings, "I will bring refreshment then. You will taste the wines of Elrond's valley, and see how they compare with your southern vintage." The lady picks up her skirts, and makes ready to fetch the wine, looking less like a high lady of her people and more like a simple elven maiden.

With a small quirk of his eyebrow, Cendalire grins at the Man who addressed him with mirth. "Mellon, if such were so I doubt you'd ever meet one in your lifetime." He glances towards the elleth just now rising, his fingers idly playing a soft, yet crisp note. "If you so wish, Hiril, I shall be glad to fetch some of the House's best, in your place."

Morrandir smiles, "I suspected as much." He watches the nimble fingers dancing about upon the strings. "Though there are harpists in Belfalas whom one would swear had been instructed by the firstborn..." he pauses, looking thoughtfully at the lyre, "Perhaps they were?"

Orindis raises a brow. "Indeed, that would be most welcome. I had in mind the Culyave. You will likely find it in the Hall of Fire, on the cart. I'm sure you know the vintage, the golden-red one. If it is not there, you might enquire with the steward." The Lady of the House Ecthelion smiles warmly now at the younger elf. "You are kind to offer, Cendalire."

And with that she turns to the man of Dol Amroth. "You and your fellows have travelled far. And seldom do we see folk out of the South. Did you come to learn to play the harp, or was there some other purpose in your coming?"

"We come here in desperate times, m'lady," Morrandir says gravely, "The son of our Prince, Imrahil of the line of Mithrellas, Nimrodel's companion has been taken by a fell creature from the War of the Last Alliance. We seek the aid and counsel of your lord." Of this matter he says no more...

Orindis narrows her brows, hearing this, but says naught, then after a moment, she says in a soft voice, "It is better to speak of such things in the bright light of day. But come, perhaps we should make our way, all, to the Hall of Fire. For the night is become chill."

Another flourished bow does the young quendi give to the Hiril. He spares only a slight glance at the human speaking of troubles perhaps not meant for his ears. With no mroe to be said on his part, the silver-haired quendi leaps back towards the Oak, landing nimbly on a branch where he collects his cloak. THere he motions to his silent brother before hopping off, and making haste to the Last Homely House, lithe and silent as a shadow moving over the forest.

The squire nods, "Yes, the hall would be much warmer." He draws his cloak tightly about him and patiently waits for the elleth. "Perhaps we may meet more of my companions there?"

Orindis nods. "Perhaps. I am inclined to speak with your lord, as well." The lady wraps her red brocade cloak about her, and steps toward the lighted House.


Date added: 2009-02-27 10:14:01    Hits: 139
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