Elendor Info

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

(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 65

Short Summary: Rowaen and Amano meet a few other guests of the valley, a conversation disturbed as Rowaen's right leg seems not as recovered as he thought
Date (real-life): 2001-01-25
Scene Location: Rivendell
IC time is: Late Morning < About 10:45 AM >
IC day is: Oranor
IC date is: 45 Ethuil
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 142 o Yen 21, Nelandran o Endor
RL time: Thu Jan 25 06:35:04 2001

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.
White Pavillion
Huge Oak

There the fiery flame of Arien reaches for the first half of her long-hour way. For the morning finds an end and stands ready to make place for a soft midday. Slight is the breeze spreading over the meadow, leaves barely moved within the giant Oak. Quite apparent is the presence of spring not only in temperature and softness of the climate, also the plants, trees and grasses give evidence of the season. The smell of fresh new life fills one's nose hear, a scent finding great content with the weary men who reside here at the moment, Men of Gondor on a quest, recently they had their arrival in the valley of Imladris. And it is one of these men, that finds his rest at this place.

Raven-hair, sullen blue eyes nearly shut, a young lad sits against the base of the tree. He grants none any attention, seeking no converse, being quite pleased with the almost serene silence about. It is Rowaen of Nimothan who sits there, still recovering of his injuries. For a keen gaze would see his left arm not moving a single inch, aswell as his right leg, being rendered useless. It lays limp and stretched. Yet Rowaen seems to pay no heed to the marks he bears, except for one. And it is there where he lets a finger finds way, across the rightside of his face, following a long scar, forming a certain sign...

[Muriel(#10077)] Morning comes again, alike the many many times it has been for years passing, the light from the ball, flaming with fire and heat, radiating down upon the dark carpet of the earth, bids a peek from behind the mountains. The hues tinted the sky, soft orange and red, gentle parting away the shadows that lurk the night before. Slowly the land becomes alive again, birds chirping upon the branches, foliage dancing in the tender breeze, greeting the awaking of a new day.

Thuds be heard from teh distance, clumsy thuds from amidst the shadows of the trees, carelessly paving its ways closer and closer, to where the meadow dances beneath teh wind. Not long for the thuds be heard that it stops, only to follow by a loud plop, a ruffle of grasses before mutters of words grace along, angry voice, as the noise continues, the voice battling the grasses for a bit more.

[Gilgwaith(#26727)] There is a faint rustle in the trees above, though the sound is faint enough that only the keenest of ears would have a chance of hearing it. A moment later, and with great commotion, a tall Quendi, garbbed in white drops to the ground, landing in a crouch with a loud *thunk*. His deep blue gaze drifts over the forms of the edain before him, looking with a mixture of surprise and curiousity.

A rustle of garments and booted footfalls, certainly not the soundless, springy steps of the folk of the House of Elrond, but those of one accounted among the Secondborn - draw nigh from the direction of the House; and it is a tall Knight, surprisingly young, in a place where most here have seen the passing of ages. For mortal man indeed is this youth, not unlike his own kin from the North, though browned not with sun and clad in silver and azure rather than the browns and greens.

His height and finely cast profile mark him as the young Isilrim, Amano, bereft perhaps of the silver-damascened sword usually girt at his side, and without helm or shield, but no less for that; a need that had passed with their arrival in Rivendell. His clear grey eyes gaze out upon the field of flowers with something akin to mild wonder, and it is with care that he does not trample upon the growing things that have over the field sprinkled myriad colours, keeping to the flat trail that circles the field and passes directly beneath the spreading branches of the mighty Oak.

Slowly, he approaches, the midday sun trailing golden rays across his countenance; it is an expression of peace that holds sway there, and he bears with him a stoppered canteen, and a few wooden cups. Yet the wine is forgotten, and set aside in the hands of an incredulous squire, when to his startled eyes the elf falls from his perch in the tree above.

Even more surprised you would exspect to be Rowaen, at the sudden arrival of one of the Eldar. Still no more comes from the lad then an opening of eyes, and one single blink. As is so common to this squire, he hides all emotions behind a calm cold glance, an icy blue gazing about. Yet he shows his manners, granting the elf before him a faintest of grins, head slightly inclined, while strong spoken words leave his lips. " Good day... is there something amiss? Perhaps my presence near this tree. If so then I do apologize, quite peacefull and silent it seemed to me, a place worthy of spending some time with thoughts alone.."

As lips close, cutting of the flow of words, light Rowaen stirrs, pressing his right hand upon the soft soil, in an attempt to straighten his figure. And sincere is the attempt for it goes not with ease, thus this Men of Gondor fails to notice the arrival of another of his kin...

[Gilgwaith(#26727)] A firely smile graces the countenance of Gilgwaith, his pale lips curving upward in what some might consider to be a rather wolfish grin. Rising from his crouch slowly, gracefully the young healer murmurs, 'Mae Govannen,' to the Dunedain, knowing that they will at least understand that much Sindarin. He takes several steps toward the young lad against the tree, looking him over quickly with a keen gaze. 'Why child," he begins, his voice soft and melodic, "You appear to 've suffered injury of a kind, no?"

As the elf adresses him, Rowaen turns his head immediate, frowning a bit, not at all pleased with the words spoken. A moment he seems lost in thoughts, apparently pondering on a matter, yet a soft sigh dismisses the matter. "Child?..." muses the Blue Squire silently, then graveness is broken by a broader smile, Rowaen glancing about not unkind, "Injuries yes... still in time they will heal, as does most of things, does it not?"

Finding suffice in his speech the blue finds other subjects of interest, swift they are in their ways, falling now upon another of his kin. There he spots Amano.

"Ah, Amano, good day to you, in search for rest aswell?" inquires the lad curiously, raising a brow in question.

[Gilgwaith(#26727)] "Perhaps your wounds will in time heal, O man of Gondor. I am a healer of Elrond's House, should you wish a speedier recovery from your ills, you will visit me in the infirmary, yes?" Replies the Nethron.

The hawk-eyed knight, from his place behind the others gathered there, makes his way to where the elvish Healer stands inquiring of the Nimothan; and a flicker of a frown crosses his brow as he descries Rowaen sitting against the tree, not so much of disapproval as the reminder that the other needed healing. " Well met, Firstborn," he greets Gilgwaith, the Sindarin strangely accented as if it had not been spoken much among them. " Indeed, he has, as you can see; if there are those who would see to his wounds and gauge if they have been healing properly in the days ere our arrival.." Amano gives pause, before adding, " I am Amano son of Aglahad; I am sure that the leechcraft of the House of Elrond is skilled indeed, though as yet we have not gone to visit any healer, though it seems to us you have come, instead," he finishes, with a smile.

To Rowaen, he answers quietly: " Nay, merely to speak with the others ********* the knowledge that is to be had in the library. Tis a great collection of books, many of which have not been seen in mortal lands, I deem."

[Muriel(#10077)] The rustle in teh grass continues, more so as it seems to be moving closer and closer towards the meadow, towards unknowing encounters to come. The mutter seems to heighten, the voice, more audible each second, angry hinted in it, yet soft does it flow, alike a voice from a lass, yet a lass would not be moving in such manners. Clinking of tin be heard along, rolling and rolling across the foliage, unstoppable it seems, as the figure bearing the voice crawls forward, pursuing the precious thing clumsily. Only soon, the rolling seems to be free of obstacles, the tin like object reveals itself, emerging out of the grasses into teh open meadow, a tin can of precious ale, rolling gently until it rests not far, not far from teh crowd gathering by the tree. The surprise isn't yet to end, for not long after the can, a head pops out from teh edge of the grass, bobbing confusely, sillouatted by teh hood covering the figure, left and right the head turns till it rests straight, the gaze fallen upon the faces before, as the mutter comes to a stop. Embarrased perhaps, surprised perhaps, the eyes underneath the hood peers forward silently, carefully perceiving the big men before. The figure seems to belong to a child, perhaps of a young lass. Yet she seems too small to belong to a big folk, for it is too far for one to travel this far somehow. Nor does she would belong to the firtborn, yet there she seems gawking silently at the strangers before her.

[Gilgwaith(#26727)] "Leechcraft!" Exclaims the Healer, "I must say that I've not used a leech upon a patient, why not ever! We'll see your man properly healed, yes, but leeches! Hah!" And with this the Healer is scampering off.


One word leaves the Nimothan's lips, only one and no more follows. And it remains a question whom he adresses, both elf and man, or perhaps only one of the two? Rowaen seems to care naught, eyes having fallen silent upon a stirring in the sea of green. And how the reflection within the blue of his eyes resembles the sea of grass, a small figure there stirring the smooth surface of newborn life. In such a manner the cold calmth of the blue is now moved... only slight, but it attracts his attention. Such great is the Squire's attention that he moves naught, but only extending one hand, brushing back a few locks of his raven-hair.

"Be not shy or afraid... we seek none to hurt..." goes out Rowaen's voice gently then, and the expression upon his features softens.

Where Rowaen is gentle to speak, Amano is startled, though the words that come from him are courteously spoken as is his wont, in a voice that though deep in timbre lacks not the hue of youth. "Good afternoon," he essays to utter, though trailing off at truly addressing the lass correctly, never having met one individual such as this he saw before him.

Taking action then, and striding forward, he approaches, hefting the tin can of ale carefully. It did not take much deduction to sumrise that this was the object sought after by the new arrival, and he offers it to her, smiling.

[Muriel(#10077)] Still, none a word leaves the child-like figure, watching the men attentively, before the gentle voice of one be heard, urging her gently to comes out. She does so, her eyes still upon them, she pulls herself out, free of the foliage above her. There she stands, merely half the size of them, eyes wary, yet daring enough to move a step, proceeding carefully forward. Wobbly she does seems, this child, dressed in a dark blue cloak, such cloak that has seldom be seen is this far of the Misties, worn by ages and by dust, a sign that this child is a traveller. Alone would she travel, not it seems by her small figure, stout alike a chubby little girl, for one child woul dnot stand the weariness and danger lurking in the shadows this far away.

She stops, yet her eyes seems to long for the can so much that the halt seems too short, for she dashes forward, grabbing the can in such a swift motion, only to run back to where she once stood, yet not wanting to leave, but only to stare again upon the strangers ahead. Perhaps it seems awkward to her for taking something from people who did not seem to mind her, that she begins to speak, her words for the one who had given her back her water, "Thank you, sir" says her, courteously.

And though soft, still the bare mutterings can be heard, finding way from Rowaen's lips, for he curses his injuries, unable to rise swift and with ease. Not too pleased the lad seems with it, features darkening slightly, as if a sudden dakr cloud come before the sun, casting it's darkness of shadow upon the Nimothan. In such 'misery' he sits then, pressing eyes tight shut, and teeth upon his lips. All that lies within his might is then called upon, only support being his right hand, pressing force upon the soil. And slowly, with the barest of movement, Rowaen rises to his feet. Yet it costs him many... grey as ash turns the whiteness of his skin, eyes troubled with the pain of weary muscled being set in motion. Still, perhaps merely proud, or stubborn as is the wont of his House, he utters not a single grunt, thus he stands only grasping heavily for his breath.

"No thanks are needed.." Amano hesitates again, not knowing precisely what to utter, though he continues, "It seems we are alike," he grins at Muriel, "In that we both have travelled many a league to this fair elf-home. Tis restful for the weary, is it not?" But what else he might have said goes unspoken, for Rowaen rises to his feet; and in silence Amano turns his head to the other youth.

The sea-grey eyes of the Isilrim narrow at his friend's effort, though he makes no move to lessen the dignity of the other by protesting or offering aid; and it is with a voice light and glad that he heartens Rowaen with: "I will have to salute you, Rowaen; few have regained their feet after such injuries as that you bore, and less with courage. Only take care."

His gaze flits to the lass, then to his fellow Gondorian, once more.

[Muriel(#10077)] The young lass seems troubled, as her eyes trail towards the injured one, the one who had coaxed her out of her hiding. What is playing in her mind, perhaps wanting to help, perhaps fear, yet her eyes seem bold now, yet whatever itis, only known to herself. She moves not, only her hands do, one swiftly tucking the can back upon its righteous place, the other, pulling down the shadow that has been hiding her face, the hood falling gracefully, revealing a face, a young curious face, unlined nor grey. Yet she differs from those roaming this side of the land. Yes, a lady with hair falling down her chin, peculiar for such a child, but those eyes are gentle, inquisitively looking towards the men before her.

"Who are you?" says the lass again, Muriel is her name, born to a kin called kkhazad, living asunder, far way in a place called Ered Luin. She wobbles again upon her soles, perhaps nervous, perhaps that is her nature, her curious soft eyes darting back and forth between the men before her.

Words... replied in the same manner as Rowaen finally seems to have catched the breath he had lost in the rising to his feet. Still quite unstable he stands, not taking a single step away from the support of the tree, being a great aid in standing up straight and silent. Brief is the regaining of dignity, a sincere grin playing around the slender lips of the young man, yet it dost not remain, eyes turning custom cold, expression plain. So Rowaen lets fall his gaze upon his friend, the Swan-Knight Amano. "Only logic, Amano, for did I not succeed in sitting down aswell? So if that was possible, why not standing up again aswell..." Clearly this lad is one of the Nimothan, using reason to set his mind and a strong iron-will to do as he sees fit.

Then, when the lass makes her query, icy-blue forms into clearest blue of a cloudless sky, deep and peacefull at the same time. "Should I be able to bow, dear lass, then I would, yet I fear I cannot," only brief is the returning of dark, being reminded of his limitations in these days, "My lips are still free of injury, so my name I can give. I am Rowaen of Nimothan, Blue Squire from the Order of the Swan, here on a quest with a fellowship of men, most in service with the Prince of Dol Amroth."

[Muriel(#10077)] A nod leaves young Muriel, her borwn bright eyes a fire, peering cautiously still, watching the two men from afar. Yet her face softens, a little, as as her guard begins unwear, she poise herself out of her rockings unto a stand, not long before the stand turns to a step, slowly advancing towards the injured man.

"For you seem a kind man, I fear you not sir" says her, young Muriel seeming to defy her fear for the unknown folks, "I have seen not your kind before, yet you resemble others that I have seen though dress you not alike them." continues her again as closer and closer she inches towards him. "Muriel is my name, and I come from afar, a land you have never trudge upon I am sure, for it is far asunder from here, of months journeys of danger and storms." For then she bows slightly, her stout figure hindering her for a deep bow, yet she seems courteous and sincere, "Rowaen is your name yes sir?" asks her again as for now her eyes trails around toward sthe others upon the camping ground not afar, that she finally realises their numbers. That stops her, upon her ground, not moving further, until again she speaks, "Such army, where are you heading to and from where do you come from?" questions her again, more aloud her voice now, uttering calmly to Rowean.

"I am afraid I am amiss once more in doing the same and giving mine own name. I am Amano son of Aglahad, of Dol Amroth as well." Though he gives no rank or order of his own, the quiet dignity of the knight's speech, unusual for one so young, marks him as clearly as though he had, his tall form precise in bowing to the dwarven lass. "We hail from Gondor; and tis a journey of many destinations that we are upon, this only one of many on the road. Tis wisdom that is sought, and not battle; but such peril there has been, that our numbers oft have seemed few, many times ere arriving hither."

In his turn, his regard rests lightly upon the now unhooded figure, realization dawning that it was one among the Dwarves with which they spoke.

Clear is the rising of laughter, apparent mirth displayed. And Io! It is the darker of the two, the one in such pain, Rowaen, he smiles bright now, at the display of words. "My, well met Muriel, and gratitude for your lofty words on my part. Indeed you should fear us naught, for we meant no one harm, none fexcept for the servants of the Dark..." a moment of silence, as the lad's expression turns thoughtfull and grave, for memories are brought to mind, one's not pleasant,

"...Still," smiles he again, "you seem none of that sort, so rest assured, and worry not for our numbers. Only a dozen of men we are, and as Amano spoke, many were the perils were indeed an army would have been of great aid, aswell to ward off misery and physical hurts. As for where we go, honestly I know naught... I only know where we have been, no more or less. So many realms we visited so far.. ones of legend, such as this valley, others darker, rougher in their ways. And undoubtly there is much more to come, though lot of the men grow weary with the day, and surely would have returneth, were it naught for oath's sworn..."

And at the mentioning of oaths and return, the blue eyes wander off, searching the brightest of sky, letting fall the warmth of the sun upon his face. In silence Rowaen closes his eyes then, sighing a few more words, "A letter I should sent..."

[Muriel(#10077)] "Gondor? Of which afar land is that?" questions the lass, questions seem to be of favourite to Muriel. "I have not heard of the name before sir. Interesting it seems, of many lands do exists, on unheard names they thither, of different people and looks they bore. Do forgive me for not knowing of your land sirs" says her again, sincerely apologetic, nodding to the healthy one, dressed in such a knightly manner, herself attentively perceiving his words, nodding gently to him. Words seems to exchange more now that all teh company has introduced themselves, and as the injured Rowaen begins to speak of teh dark ones, a sudden shiver begins to veil the dwarf, her brown eyes darkening, a fear seems to shadow her suddenly as memoirs begins to flood down her mind. Not long for she shakes them away, turning back to her ever cheerful self, a smile slowly blooming upon her soft rosey face, a sign of herself warming up to teh strangers before her. "Would you like some ale?" asks her again suddenly, offering her drink suddenly to teh men.

Amano laughs not at this, strange as it may seem to him for one not to have heard of Gondor; yet a smile quirks at his lips, as he concurs, "Aye, many strange lands, that in my home might be deemed but legend, and things of tales merely to regale children with. Gondor is a fair land, but far South, and it will be long ere we return; and places of peace seem few and far between, and the folk who dwell in them are wary of even the simplest travelers, though perhaps we are not exactly quite that." He tilts his gaze at the Khazad before him, assenting to the courtesy with a nod of his head and a smile.

"I would be pleased to have drink; indeed, it is for that reason I brought with me yon canteen," he gestures, to the wine that had been placed beside one of the tents. "But I will taste of the ale, for I have not had any since leaving Dol Amroth many moons ago. My thanks, indeed." He accepts the proffered can graciously, pouring a little into the cup he had brought with him, and taking a sip.

Almost disturbed is the glance the Nimothan grants the other two, only half-hearing words spoken he raises a brow, uttering a wondering: "Hmm?" Twice he blinks, blue searching for a moment in doubt, as if words now being recalled from his memory, to find out what is to be exspected of him. And only when Amano accepts some of the ale and speaks his words in reply, then the blue twinkles, and recognition is Rowaen's part.

With grace he gestures with his right hand, declining the kind offer made. "Ah, my thanks for your considerate thought, yet let me not rob you of some fine ale. The brew is not to my liking, as is all that holds alcohol and blurr's one's sense and judgment." Smiling a faint grin, he eyes his friend as he drinks his ale.

[Muriel(#10077)] Extending her arm again, Muriel takes the can back into teh safety of her hand before she turns towards Rowaen and offers him as well. Seeing his decline, she nods, before uncapping the lid, taking a small sip off the bottle. "Ahh, 'tis the ale of the best of its kind in my land sir" says her to Amano, smiling still, nodding her approval of its taste, before her lips part to speak again, "hope you would like it" continues the young one still. She fitgets with the lid after the sip, turning her gaze back upon the men, her brows curving slightly, as if pondering upon their words before, only then to speak again of the thoughts boggling in her mind. "Yer land down south sir? We have been through south when we first embarked on this journey, down to the land of teh mountain men, and further south for we had lost, yet we hear dnot of Gondor before." says her. A shrug leaves her then, tucking the thought away, before a smile breaks again upon her face as she continues with her questions, "Why are you so far up north then?" questions her again, unbothered of what this may sound to them bigfolks.

If he was not so swift in wording his appreciation of the fine brew, Amano's expression after the first sip is evidently more than satisfied enough. His breath slipping past his lips in a sigh of contentment, he grins, wholeheartedly, "Tis as you say, a finely malted bitter, more than enough the equal of the finest I have had in earlier days." He drinks of the ale, not thirstily, but steadily, and after that long draught, his keen eyes note his friend's grin, though he might have heard, as well, his speech.

"So it does, Rowaen, but if one cannot drink wine at a host's table, or in making merry at a festival, without disgracing himself, one would be lacking quite a social virtue," chuckles the Isilrim, leaning back on his heels. "But I digress; as to the why of our journey here," he once more directs at Muriel, "it is to speak with the Master of the House; and I sumrise the lords we followed in this riding will soon be seeking an audience with him. We shall yet see what else comes of it, and till then, we are partaking of this House's hospitality and finding it not lacking in the slightest."

[Muriel(#10077)] "Ahh, indeed." nods Muriel at the lengthy explanation given to her by the knight, her eyes beaming with sparkle for he does seem sincere in teling her of their reasons to journey far away from one such great land. Yet, it is just a sparkle, for no one is sure what she is thinking, yet she shows no hesitation to his words just a simple nod before her attention, the forever short of span, turns into something else.

"Been months, even so a year I have been away from my home, I miss the mountains." says her slowly, her eyes glazing into teh farway, even though they seem to peer upon teh knight named Amano, yet they see through him, partaking a sadness though after a while it vanishes again.

"Your men seems injured, I am a healer, I could help if you need my service" says her, again her attention diverts to something else. "Oh, you are not afar from teh land of the elves I must say, just a few distances away. They gave good food" says her girl again in a grin.

"Ah, what is this with all the talk of healing every day, it makes me even more weary!"

Did Rowaen speak in a kind manner before, now he resorts to almost growling, though the risen 'anger' is not directed at a person, more to his injuries in general, "Hours, days go by and each time it is the same comment, of me needing 'healing'. Frankly I am quite reluctant towards it by now. For have I not been 'healed' thrice now? When is one 'healed' enough? What wrong lies there in awaiting recovery, seeking to expand the limits, caused by the injuries," as sudden as the ire rose, so sudden it fades out again, seemingly a flaming candle extinguish by a gust of wind, fierce in vision, yet unstable in the end. So Rowaen continues on a more softer volume, "All I require is some peace, to advance in mine own recovery, away from those keeping me reminded of my injuries, what limitations it brings... One quite helpless still, as I now, such a one finds no pleasure in being talked off in such manner... Quite wary I am myself of what I can do and can naught, it leads to shame and the feeling of being looked upon if others speak of it... And to one of the House Nimothan, perhaps t'makes it even worse..." Silence, almost strange after the flow of words, nonetheless Rowaen speaks no more, resting his head quietly against the Oak behind him. There he closes his eyes, for a moment all forgotten.

Perhaps knowing full well his friend's sentiments, the tall knight says naught to acquiesce or disagree, merely stating, his grey eyes unusually calm as if he had reined in his own impulse to comment on the matter, "In kindness and concern, not necessarily pity, are those offers made, Rowaen, but perhaps we would do the same were we faced with another, whom we had the power to give aid to. But peace, at the very least, we will not lack for in this valley." If his words did not find surety in the tranquil light of his glance, or in the calming beauty of the flower-strewn fields and the simple song of the birds, perhaps that claim might ring false, and be surely made hollow elsewhere.

Turning to Muriel, he gestures, as if he were done with his own views on such a reaction on his friend's part, and asked pardon; but by his quiet mien, he awaits her own speech.

[Muriel(#10077)] A smile braces her young face as Muriel peers upon the injured Rowaen kindly. She nods to him, her gaze tender, yet she says not a word to him. Only then the words from Amano graces her, that she smiles to him too. "It is alright sir," adds her suddenly, "it shall be alright, the wounds shall heal, though it may take sometime but it shall" quips her softly. There she lets the matters end, not partaking more in it, just slowly turning the point to another view.

"The house of the King Elrond is not so far in teh distance, perhaps you and your men would like to camp there? I could show you the way sir." says young Muriel again.

[Gileithien(#27981)] A slender figure appears at the edge of the meadow, pale as sea-foam, and seeming at first as transient; seeming blown on the breeze it drifts, rather than walks, inot the meadow, gliding through the grass instead of upon the paths. Soft music surrounds it, the voice young and elven. Soft the words sing of the growing trees, of the grasses and of the flowers. An elven-maid dances through the meadow as she sings, welcoming the spring back to Arda. And then she stops, really hearing the voices for the first time, and she stands poised and silent, like a doe about to flee, her grey eyes wide and startled.

"I did not meant any in regard to the dwarven lass, Amano."

The voice comes cold, though it lacks not the coldness, Rowaen opening eyes again, glance resting upon the figure of the Knight. As if to show his regret for words, apaprently misinterpreted, the Squire smiles towards Muriel, granting her a firm nod. "Worry not, Muriel, your offer was kind and considerate, at least in that you differ from several other's," blue eyes turn ablaze now, a mysterious glint flickering high and fierce, and the words lower a degree in pleasantness, "Those called brethren, seeing naught a difference between pity and compassion. The first I despise, the second I understand and am willing to undergo..." No more words the squire speaks, for at the first sound of a sang words, immediate he falls silent. Still he moves naught, almost a pillar of salt, afraid to step away of the certainty of the Oak.

[Muriel(#10077)] The dwarf nods to Rowaen words, shifting her balance upon her soles, rocking upon them slowly, the movement making her look as if nervous or bored. The smile still adorns Muriel's face, and her face still bear no sign of distress nor boredom as she turns from one man to another. After sometimes, she speaks again, "You know where to find me if you need help with tending to your injury sir, I shall be around, just ask one of my kin and they know where to find me" answers her back. "I found plenty of food in the elves' house, I do think they sleep not, peculiar being they are I must say, and peculiar behaviours too." mumbles her suddenly, "you may want to rest there, but never unweed their flowers nor greens, then they will be angry, for I fear them not" grinsteh young one suddenly.

Unlovely might, to those who hear it, the voices of Men be in comparison to the singing of the Elves; and so it seems, Amano's words are stark in the stillness that comes after the song unfinished, clear and quiet as his strong voice may be. No other thought perhaps does he give the matter that had been spoken of ere the arrival of the elf-maid, or no longer willing was he to discuss it further to bitterness; in either regard, he remains not still, nor wordless, diverting his attention to the dancer who had stopped stock-still in the midst of the field of grass and wild flowers.

"Surely," he muses, "alike to the dances of Spring in the festivals at home in Belfalas; yet we have not quite dancers so light of foot." Inclining his head in a token of greeting, Amano steps forth from beneath the lowering branches of the tree, that in evening seemed but to darken the skies, and not to give shade, his booted feet rustling in the grass over which the elleth had danced.

"A good even," he offers to her, respectfully bowing his head once more. "Perhaps our paths have not crossed ere now, and so I say unto you, well met; if you would wish to join us for a few words at this early evening hour, please do so. I have spoken to but few of the House of Elrond, and twere merely opportune meetings, as this one might be."

[Gileithien(#27981)] The maiden smiles slightly, shyly, at the human's words, still poised as if for flight, though her eyes now glitter with curiousity as she regards the three. "Bright even to you, and may the stars guide you,' she says at last, the words as hesitant as they are formal. "I ask pardon, if I have disturbed.... I only meant to sing the springtime..." she bites her lip and takes a step backwards, shaking her head.

Wry is the grin in reply to the words of the dwarven lass, Rowaen turning a moment more to her small shape. "My thanks, Muriel, and should the need occur, then I will be sure to ask for you. As for your other kind offers, I am afraid our superiors will decide on that, even on the part of 'pulling weed'." The wryness for a momemt leaves the Nimothan's lips, making place for a grin of a more pleasant nature.

Only then Rowaen aswell turns fully to the newly arrived slender form, one of the Eldar inhabiting this valley of Imladris. Calmth dost not leave his expression, as he grants the elven maiden a nod, though still there lies within respect, for those Firstborn. "A good day indeed, and worry not, as my friend spoke, we were holding mere converse, no disturbance is caused."

Looking away now, Rowaen takes a step sidewards, dragging along almost the right leg being limp still.

[Silyaistya(#6229)] From across the wide meadowlands, a tall elleth comes into view. The soft starlight illumines a slender form shrouded by a long flowing cloak; the hood of which is thrown back, which allows the young elleth's hair to fall down her back. In her arms, as ever, is her beloved harp, which rarely leaves her side. Seeing the assembled group before her, she pauses momentarily, then continues onward. "Mae govannen, all!

"Nay indeed, I would agree with Rowaen; rest comes in many forms, and it is what many in this company have sought beneath the Oak over yonder, and never would I regard the song of your people as other than fair," Amano says gravely, his grey eyes alighting upon the swan brooch that the elf-maiden bears, in fashion seeming similar to the swan blazoned upon his tunic; and the Isilrim's brows knit for the barest of moments ere another of the folk of Elrond's House passes by. His smiling response is in the same tongue, strange perhaps upon a stranger's lips, though not unheard of within Rivendell. "Mae govannen, and a good even."

[Muriel(#10077)] Muriel was about to speak again, yet her words were hindered and come to a stop as suddenly Muriel realises the presence of another person nearby. She spins on her heels then, peering towards the oncoming figure, as she makes up to an elf. This leaves Muriel with a sigh, a sudden change in her expression, teh smile fades as she watches her silently, nodding her greetings to her, yet not as friendly as towards the humans did she extends them. Sh emutters something underneath her breath, yet inaudible to even those near her, as she watche sthe elf proceed closer to where they stand.

Another Firstborn, another cheerfull, and another greeting granted. Again Rowaen inclines his head, showing his respect to those that came before the Race of Men, still he shares their moods naught. T'is only brief he grants his eyes, icy-blue, a glimpse of the fairness of the elven maidens, for how swift they trail off, seeking the darkening of sky. Almost longing the gaze now turns, and a silent muttering leaves his lips.

"Stars... soon they will shine bright and peacefull, the moon a trustworthy companion..."

[Silyaistya(#6229)] The elleth looks around her at the assembled guests of the valley, and with all the courtesy and grace of her folk says.."I meant not to disturb such a fair gathering of folk. I will make my way onward, if my presence offends?" Her eyes scan the folk, noting the dissaproving air of some, which comes as a shock and surprise to her, not being accustomed to unhappy greetings from any visitor she has yet met in the Valley.

[Gileithien(#27981)] The shy elleth nods slowly, seeming yet not quite at ease, though her smile warms. She turns to the other elleth and smiles, calling out to her. 'Mae govannen," she says, her boice soft. And then she turns back to the dunadan, her eyes grave. "Fair perhaps, yet it is for the earth I sing, and not for mine own ears... nor for anyone else's, yet they be free to listen. For it is a young thing, in the spring, and...' She blushes and shakes her head.

The frowning of brows, it is the first movement that comes from Rowaen, in wonder he turns to face the latter of the elven maidens. "Nay, you disturb not and none, as I spoke to the other of your kin, t'is mere converse that holds us here, untill pleasant song combined itself with the scent of life and the season of Spring. So feel indeed free to stay and converse yourself, for an honor it would be." Ending his speech, once more the lad turns grave, the blue of his eyes a steady icy surface, free of all emotion. Weary comes his sigh as Rowaen suddenly stirrs in his silent pose. Painstruck turns his expression, clouding the lad's fair complexion, and swiftly he lets himself fall down upon the softness of the grass. Without a word his right hand moves to hold steady his limp right leg, stretching it in full length.

Laughter may not come easily to the cool mien of the Isilrim, in many a time unperturbed by aught many others had to say, what laughter he had spared only for those whom he held as friends; yet now there is but the hint of light amusement in his countenance, that could not go unmarked by any who knew him. "In this, Imladris, or so named, Rivendell in the tongue of Men, the earth blossoms indeed, and it may be for the songs given to it. Generous it is," he gestures to the flowers and the verdant grass, "and I see quite well the why of your singing. Perhaps if I were but gifted with the voice as among one of the Eldalie, I would sing, too." He smiles, before glancing at the Nimothan, his attention diverted by the other's fall.

"Rowaen, are you all right?" he inquires concernedly, bending his step swiftly to his friend's side.

[Muriel(#10077)] It can be seen, on the face of the young khazad, that she truely could understand not, a thing of why such matter of beauty, spring and nature be of much important to the elleth. Yet says she not of how her feelings were, though upon her face, the peculiar feeling felt inside her can be seen clearly. Upon then she shrugs, before turning back to the humans before her, that she bids slowly to depart, "Sirs and elf, I do need to be off on my way now. My folks will be looking fo rme, and if I had not wander this far alone, I would have not met you. It was such pleasure of meeting you Southern men, and I hope we shall have more encounters again in near future. Dear elleth, I bid you greeting and farewell too, Mae govannen to you" bids her in such fluency that is strange to hear from a khazad's lips. Yet she stops it there, not another word but a smile as she trails off again towards the place she once came out from, teh grasses upon, waving slowly to those aquaintance she left behind by teh tree.

[Silyaistya(#6229)] Silyaistya's expression softens at the two fair speeches, then she rushes to the side of the fallen lad. "Are you wounded? We can take care of whatever ails you in the house.." Worry and concern cross her fair countenance as she kneels by the fallen visitor.

How swift the young Nimothan lets go of his leg then, gesturing in a dismissing manner. "Aye, Amano, pay no heed..." more words seem willing to come, yet the turning of face to the colour of ash-grey prevents any of such intensions. Instead an agonizing grunt comes from the squire, now closing both blue eyes, and heavy rest his teeth upon his lips, the flesh already turning quite pale...

Still, the Nimothan, strong and many times stubborn in his ways, within he finds the strength to continue. Grinding his teeth he speaks with apparent difficulty. "On... second thought... I fear... t'is something... the.. matter... weight and ... cut.. bone, t'does not... offer a stable... stance.." Heavy is the moving of his chest, using mind and will to fight the stings within his leg.

[Silyaistya(#6229)] Keeping her distance, seeing the Nimothan's face, she says to his companion.."If he is wounded, we should take him to the Healer's Hall, where he can be tended to." Only concern and genuine worry exist on her fair countenance as she watches the struggling from a few paces away.

[Gileithien(#27981)] Compassion and distress mingle in the first elleth's eyes, and Gileithien stands mute for a moment, her young face troubled. "Shall... shall I fetch a healer?" she asks, her voice tight with worry.

Brooking no argument, the tall knight's voice cuts through the evening air with knifelike precision, stilling what other else might have come from his friend. "Aye, in that they are right. It does seem we shall have to do such, and bring you to be tended with more care than you have been giving yourself lately, Rowaen. There is need now for concern, and attention of one versed in healing." Punctuating his words with a quick gesture to the other men, he has them fashion a makeshift stretcher from the other tent poles and implements that had been packed upon arriving in the Valley, with a speed that was startling. When the carrier is ready, the youth turns once more to the ailing squire. "I hope," he utters dryly at the last, masking his own worry, "You will not hold it against me to have your dignity infringed upon Rowaen. But we must needs bear you thither, or you might tax yourself."

[Silyaistya(#6229)] Sighing with relief, and giving a small nod to the tall knight, she says.."I will go ahead of you to the Healer's, and warn them of your approach." A smile and gentle glance, she gives to the first elleth, as she turns toward the House.

Moments pass, till Rowaen opens both eyes in sudden flash, a meaningfull glance then is Amano's part. Despite his pain even then the Squire succeeds in keeping up a look of calmth, not in the slightest troubled of what happened. And Io! There he even offers a wry grin, eyes venturing skywards. "To the House... and then... miss the.. stars... nay dear maiden... I think...not ... the pain ...will ease in a few..." Yet a in how many 'few' Rowaen can not say, for he sudden bends forward, struck by a heavier surge of agony. And if there was breath left within his longues, now all is knocked out by the sudden burst. All the Nimothan dost now is grasp for breath... and so when Amano acts in the lad's interest, not a word of protest comes, not even a disapproving glance. All Rowaen gives is a faint nod, right hand pressing tighter upon the leg... for already his eyes have seen what others might not... red spreads from the knee, dark of colour, stenching the pure white of his garment. Thus willing the Nimothan moves not as hands reach to lay him upon the stretcher.

Despite the suddenness and brusqueness of Amano's manner, it is with care that he aids the men in placing the wounded Squire on the stretcher, the leg given but a sharp glance for the stain of crimson spreading slowly upon the white fabric; and taking up one end of the stretcher himself, the young knight glances to the Quende that had remained, somehow managing a stern calm that had stood him in good stead many a time, by his manner, his voice gentle. "I ask thee, lady, if you would lead the way, for the halls of Elrond's House are not yet clear to my memory."

[Gileithien(#27981)] Yet if the remaining elleth is unaware of the fresh blood, the dunadan's agony does not go unnoticed by her-- how could it?-- and her eyes daken, and then she sighs. 'The stars... are precious to us..." she murmurs, and then bites at her lip, thinking, remembering. Remembering when she was but a child, and she carried a dying bird home in her cupped hands. Remembering how her mother had sung to it, quiet, soothing words, easing its fear... and perhaps its hurt. With a sigh she closes her eyes, recalling, if not the words, the intent, and a soft, wordless melody comes from her lips, wild and free and yet gentle. And yet she startles at the standing human's words, and her voice falters. "Pardon? Oh... oh... yes... forgive me..."

What the elleth was attempting, seems unknown to Amano, and but a curious glance does he give to the elf-maid, wondering perhaps at the soothing melody that he had interrupted. "I am sorry, forgive me, mellon," he murmurs, before the men set out for the healing halls, with the stretcher held between them, trailing in the maiden's wake.

[Gileithien(#27981)] Hanging her head, her cheeks burning in embarrassment at what she had tried to do, the elleth glides silently along the path now, towards the House of Elrond.

Date added: 2009-02-27 10:17:43    Hits: 29
Powered by Sigsiu.NET RSS Feeds