Elendor Info

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

(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 69 - Rockin' Rivendell

Short Summary: Bringing down the house in Imladris
Date (real-life): 2001-01-30
Scene Location: Imladris
 The night progresses on, as it has wont to do, but in this place the very essence of time seems to hold little sway, for the progression of night is marked only by the passing of the Moon through the nighttime sky. And here, in the Valley of Imladris, rest the camp of the Gondorians, people far from their homeland. And though they group together, there can be found in the camp, a small number of Eldar, along with those who are clad in the grey robes of the Northern Rangers, though they are few and far between.

Apart from this, the night rest quiet, and there in the stillness rest the Prince of Dol Amroth, son of Imrahil, calmly gazing at the night's sky.

Quiet, maybe, until a clear voice raised in song floats down on the wind -- from the north, the north, the rich baritone sings of a distant shore, a southern shore. It is the voice of the Lord Thorondur, and soon enough the man himself follows the song, wandering into the ground of the camp.

Pausing, he halts his song, and claps his hands loudly together. "Awake, awake you lazy lads," the Herald cries with a laugh! "Tonight we sing the Elves -- and this time I'll make sure of it!"

A head emerges from a tent, and looks about the camp. Presently a squire comes forth, clad in a white wolf-skin cloak. Morrandir. He stands, brushing imagined dust from the fur as he surveys his comrades. He raises an eyebrow as the Herald speaks, then makes his way towards him.

From his thoughts the Prince stirs, and rises to his feet, "Hail Merry Lord," he calls to the man, "If you lead, in song and path, then truly we shall sing with the Elves.."

"Awake my friends, let us make merriment this night, stir the sleeping, rouse the dreary. Stir thy hearts, do not be dreary.."

The light of the moon plays upon the face of the Prince Erchirion, his smile bright and clear, "..Come now you, who sit and ponder... join the song of Lord Thorondur.." And with this little quip spoken so merrily, the son of Imrahil takes a place at Thorondur's side.

"Now Princely words from Princely man -- but I will match them, if I can," the Herald returns to Imrahil's second son, his merry blue eyes flashing fey with a sprite's light mischief. Then does he turn to Morrandir, and that smile only grows.

"Have a care, squire," Thorondur tells him, "lest I think you a warg, and run you through. Now come! We have a short hike ahead, if we're to find the Hall of Fire."

The squire smiles, and stands at the Herald's side. "Are we required to sing Sir? The gruff voices of the second-born would almost spoil any song the elves may sing for us." He glances back at the camp for a moment. "Er...no offence to any of you..." He adds with a sheepish grin.

A nod, and a smile, then the Prince speaks again, "Lead on My Lord," he speaks aloud, then turns to Morrandir, "A song is a song, regardless of the voice, and while they may hear our words as harsh to theirs, we shall sing of the beauty of our homeland."

"Now away, let us go." And with that Erchirion turns to leave, his path and feet heading towards the Home of Elrond.

Then quickly Thorondur glances to his tent, and lifts a hand for attention. "A moment," he begs, and ducks within -- only to emerge, swift moments later, with a small harp tucked beneath his arm. Saying naught, only smiling mysteriously, he leads them southward then -- to Elrond's House.

(snipped -- travel along paths and into the house to the Hall of Fire)

Now does the knight from the South-Kingdom, tall and slender and fair, move towards the fire with an old, small harp tucked beneath his white-robed arm.

Bending down, he sets the harp there -- near the great hearth of mighty stone -- and moves first toward the wine cart as more folk file in.

It is the hour for stories, in Imladris -- and Thorondur Girithlin, Elf-Friend, knows it well.

The door swings open just enough to admit Taurindur, who pauses just inside, smiles slightly as he sees Thorundur, and looks about for a place to sit...

Drawing wine from a jug, and letting it pour freely in a shower of liquid rose into the crystal vessel he holds beneath it, Thorondur allows himself a secret smile -- a look which he directs toward Morrandir, his wolf-pelted squire.

Slight Sidial meanders into the Hall, and pulls back slightly at the crowd. But, sensing a story in the air, she comes in and finds a seat.

Sitting in a tucked away corner of the room, an elder dwarf pores over a sheet of vellum with various markings on it. One cannot make out any more from a distance, but Bifur seems to be engrossed in studying whatever may be on the sheet. Every so often a harsh, but rather subdued grunt escapes the old dwarf's lips.

Still looking rather sullen, Bronaduial slips into the room, taking a seat in a corner and curling into a small bundle, her book in her lap as she looks toward Thorondur hopefully, her grey eyes mournful.

The door to Elrond's much favoured hall swings open yet again this day, and this time it admits a figure clothed in white, tall, fair, proud, all of these things describe this Nethron - one of the fabled Healers of Elrond's house. Slowly, gracefully, Gilgwaith slips into the hall and rests by the fire rubbing his hands vigourously.

Another man of the south sits down upon a chair, eyes fixed on the Lord Girithlin. Morrandir gladly accepts the proffered wine, thanking the Knight with a smile and a nod. He leans back, and waits for Thorondur to begin.

Entering the hall as quietly as he can comes the injured knight, Erutirn. His brace oddly echoing in this most unusual of places, he quickly finds a chair so he stops his noisy escapades. He turns to watch the elder knight, however he glance strays to look at this hall more often than not.

Spotting what appears to him to be a comfortable spot, Taurindur moves toward the front of the room and then over nearer the corner. He looks behind him, to assure himself that Leniel still follows him, and then takes a seat in a rather comfortably padded chair richly carved as the likeness of an oak.

Coincidentally (or perhaps not) his selection places him somewhat near the moody looking Bronaduial.

An elder knight perhaps -- though he looks anything but, this fair man who strides now to the centre, and takes up the harp that awaits him. Without flourish or stylish pose, he merely runs his fingers in a single, smooth brush across the harpstrings--

And a rich, harmonic reverbation fills the Hall.

The knight surveys his audience with a smile both boyish and somehow, sad.

Now does the knight so oddly accoutred -- a Dunadan from the South, in the raiment of a Sinda lord -- speak at last, and on his voice is the unmistakable lilting accent of the Sea, and the shore, and the people of distant Dol Amroth.

"Greetings, friends; mae govannen, mellyn. I thank each of you for listening tonight, ere I begin -- I am Thorondur of Dol Amroth, and hope ere the night is done to know all of you in turn," he says. "My tale for you is a sad one in parts, but a special one, to me."

Appearing at the entrance to the hall of fire, a tall man with steady eyes and a somewhat stiff back pauses at the door to peer into the room. To those who have met him before, he is Tolaglar -- sometime Vagrant, and othertime wanderer along the Great East Road. From that safe distance, Tolaglar takes in the somewhat strange blend of people that have taken over this room -- the elves, the men, and the dwarves. Indeed, it is unlikely that he's seen anything quite like this. Usually it is just filled with elves. Blinkingly, the man listens to the single harp strum, and the genteel words of the Knight. Its then, that decision is made and the raffish man screws up his face to enter the fray.

Settling back in her cubby, Bronaduial listens with some trace of interest sparking in her eyes as she repositions a cushion, casting a fiercely protective gaze against anyone passing by and eyeing the cosy spot.

Now another spare motion of the hand becomes another grand note upon the harp, cascading and building as it washes across the Hall -- and sets an irrevocable image, an image of haunting beauty, in the mind as this place alone can.

An image of the distant shores of Belfalas: warm breezes of the Sea, and gentle strands, and soft grasses grown underfoot.

Spotting an unmistakable wolf-pelt, Erutirn moves as quietly as he can towards Morrandir. When he places a chair down next to him, he leans towards him: "... do ... ... Thorondur ... sing ... ... ...? I'm ... ... ... ... ... ... as ... ... ... ... ... around ... ...." He grins slightly afterwards, looking back towards Thorondur.

Into this pastoral image speaks a voice rich and sonorous, doubtless well-trained in the arts of projection and oratory. The words are in the Westron, that all might understand -- but seem to lose little of their beauty for it.

"In a place far from here, far in the South along the coasts of the Great Sea -- yet not so distant as to be too hot, or dry... there laid a pleasant land, blessed of the Valar. And within it dwelt a lordly people, skilled in art, and in craft, and the works of the mind and the hand. And though the fairest of all their works was a Tower of White, that soared to the sky on the shoulders of mountains...

"Most wondrous of all their makings were their children, for these were a fair and beautiful folk, and their children grew from boys and girls to quiet, crystal loveliness in time."

The Nethron, having usurped a goblet of wine from one of the hall-servants, now takes hold of one of the vine like mulling rods, for some moments it rests in the fire, reddening, becoming imbued with heat. The rod plunges into said goblet with an unmistakeable hiss. Quietly, the rod is returned to its place, and the Nethron takes a cushion, placing it against one of the pillars flanking the hearth, and drops slowly downward toward the floor.

Morrandir nods to Erutirn and points to his cloak. "What do you think?" He whispers with a grin. "It turned out well. Getting your clothes ruined can be productive can't it? If it weren't for all those rips in my sable cloak I am sure the Knights wouldn't have allowed me to wear a wolfskin."

He glances across at Thorondur. "And I am almost certain the Lord Girithlin threw away all of his clothes in the hope that King Thranduil would replace them." He chuckles. "But it worked."

As the golden song fills the room, Tolaglar pauses and squints once more at the singer. Several moments pass, before the vagrant gives his head a shake as if to clear it and continues on through the heavy press of individuals to the small table which carries the wine. Once there, he has little difficulty in comandeering himself a glassful.

"And of all these fair people, loveliest among them was a lady, young and unsurpassed in comeliness -- to where Men would see her in the gardens of a night, and cry 'Tinuviel!' in honour of her -- for so they said, that she might rival even Luthien."

And again, the harp is struck -- the note higher this time, and sweeter -- and maybe a nightengale's song is recalled, here in the echoes of Elrond's House.

Now the handsome young storyteller, this Knight of far Gondor, looks toward his squire, Morrandir, and laughs softly ere continuing.

The light of the fire plays soothingly with the shadows in the dim hall, and the reflections thereof glint softly in the eyes of Taurindur as he gazes, seemingly mezmerized by the speakers harp and voice as images are conjured into

his mind with a vividness that would make normal men whisper in awe about "magic".

"Now this maiden was the daughter of the King of that distant land, and she had a name: and that name was 'Inzilwen', which was Flower-maid in the tongue of her people. And she would dance in the gardens of her father's palace, each knight when the moon had risen and the stars themselves paid tribute.

"And so it was that she was dancing when a squire came thither, in service to the knights of her father, and he did see her. And he was not the first to see her so, this squire, but he knew that he loved her then, and yet--

"He was only a squire."

The next note struck is a sombre one, and seems to foreshadow sorrow--

Sidial nestles back into her chair, all of her attention focused on the knight, as words and harp tones draw forth images of beauty and sadness.

As he stops to listen some more to the tale of love and maids, Tolaglar, takes a long slow sip from his goblet. Squires and maids, there was something very familiar about this story. Quietly, he approaches the group that listens and watches the harp play, finding a spot not too far away from the door to finish his wine. Sadly, it doesn't take too long to finish what wine he has, and he is quickly caught by wanderlust once more. Setting down the goblet, the Vagrant makes his way out the door once again.

Until the voice rises again, clear and confident in the telling.

"Now this squire resolved that one day, he should win the hand of the fair Princess," Thorondur tells his audience, "though it seemed a hopeless and thankless task. So it was that he won his knighthood, and swiftly, and one day by the shore where the waves are but forerunners, heralds of the might of Ulmo, he found the Princess alone."

"Now the young knight's heart thundered in his chest, and hardly could he hear for the rushing of his blood and the roaring of the waves -- but to the Princess he spoke, and told his tale of admiration. And she listened, and turned to the Sea in silence, and the lad's spirits sank--"

Laughing at the squire's word, Erutirn flags down a servant so he can have a goblet of wine. He seems intent to watch Thorondur, but from time to time leans in to whisper to Morrandir. "... ... poem so far... ... ... ... that ... knight ... ... of is ... ... ... ... Girithlin?" When he gets his goblet he thanks the servant and slowly sips from it as he watches the affair.

Looking about, Bronaduial's grey eyes seem to darken. . .and at last she rises, still clutching her book, slowly making her way toward the door. . .where she slips out unobtrusively.

Draining his glass, Morrandir nods. "Perhaps, though the elements in this tale could apply to many." He looks at the servant, then exchanges his empty goblet for a full one. He then looks back at Erutirn. "Even me."

"But in that moment next did the breakers softened to a soothing rumble, and the Princess spoke; and though her face was turned to the Sea, her words were for his ears and not Osse's or Uinen's."

Then a hopeful note, and he says, "And so she spoke: 'Alas, my golden knight,' for his sigil was the golden sun, 'That your eyes should have seen my dancing, and loved me! For did you not think that when you stood with your sword, alone at the dawn 'neath the cliffs of m father's home, none might ever watch -you-?”

“Alas for us both, my golden knight, for I love you, and yet that cannot be.'"

As the story progresses, Taurindur smiles softly and noiselessly reaches into one of the pouches by his side. He pulls out a stiff sheet of vellum and a stick of specially fired charcoal with which he begins marking on the vellum, with a very slight scratching sound.

"For her father would not allow it, she said," Thorondur tells them, staring at the floor in the sorrow of his tale as he speaks; the harp echoes low, and sadly. "His daughter was meant for no knight, but the son of a king. And yet they two resolved to face him, and proclaim their bond before him -- and then they would see, what there was to see."

Now the harp is struck sharply, a discordant note and angered!

"And the king was enraged!" the orator cries, and stands like a sudden storm with the fury of his fiction; so swiftly he leaps to his feet! "Then he set upon the hopeful knight a perilous geas, to ride into the depths of the north like Beren before him, and bring him back word of a treasure long lost!

"For his daughter the Princess was called like Tinuviel, the King did say -- so like Tinuviel's, her hand must be won."

Sidial stirs slightly, pale eyes of sea green darkening as if waves before a storm, as mournful chords ring.

Now there is no note for a long time, and no tale -- only silence. Ere at last Thorondur sinks down to his seat, and rests again; and then with a note of uplifting harmony, the strings sing forth again -- and hope nestled deep within his own clear voice, the Dunadan speaks again, hushed and soft.

"So it was that the knight was sent forth, alone," Thorondur says, almost whispered; leaning forward toward those gathered, he makes as if sharing a secret. "Alone, with naught but his faithful horse to guide him. And so through many perils he came at length to this very House, and sought the wisdom of Elrond Half-Elven."

"... ... of ...... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... to this..." Erutirn whispers, still sipping his drink slowly. "... ... think ... ... ... ..., ... ... sun ... ... ... ... ... ... star, ... all." He sits quietly for a few more moments,
"... ... Thorondur ..., ... ... ... ...."

Morrandir chuckles, and shakes his head. "Just sit back and enjoy the story, Erutirn. All will be revealed ere the end."

"And Elrond said to the knight," here the harp sings with hope as the story goes on, "I can hear in your voice, Son of Men, the words of Elendil before you when he was borne out of Numenor's wrack on the wings of storm; and in your blood sings his songs, and mine -- for that is my blood, and his, and yours we all share. And you must be my Friend, and my Family's for it; for that I will tell you where your Treasure might be found."

"And tell him Elrond did."

Now almost laughing of pure joy with the delight of his story's hero, Thorondur's head snaps upward and with his audience he shares a radiant smile. "Into the West the young knight rode, down the Great East Road to the Tower Hills. And reaching Elostirion as the sun went down, he met the Keeper of the Tower there -- and alas! The gate was locked."

Now again, more lightly, the note of foreboding is struck.

"But the Keeper of the Tower held the keys to that place, and the knowledge that might unlock it. And he tested the knight, in the paths of mind, and heart, and soul -- and the testing ran deep into the night's lost, secret hours."

Here Thorondur pauses. Into the eyes of each listener he stares, ere going forward...

Rhunedhel quietly finds his way about halfway forward, seating himself where he can see the speaker.

With a few final strokes, Taurindur slips the vellum and charcoal stick back into his pouch and focuses once more on the storyteller.

The door to the Hall of Fire opens a crack. Just wide enough to let a young edhel through. He sits down quickly and quietly when he sees that someone is talking in the middle of the room.

Then when long moments pass -- or no moments at all -- the Dunadan's voice rings out again, quiet now but strong and sure all the same.

"At length the hints of scarlet dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, and the knight grew afraid. For only if he passed the tests ere the sun was rising would the Keeper give him leave to go within. Yet now as Arien came forth into the sky, the Keeper -- who was of the Eldar, and named Mithrial that means 'grey brilliance' -- laughed in delight. The young knight worried..."

The desert-clad knight falls silent at long last, prefering to watch Thorondur at this point. Erutirn's goblet nearly emptied now, but he doesn't move to refill it.

"But the Elf who kept the Tower waved his hand, and doubt faded. 'As ever she has, the Sun this day heralds the hope of all Men -- and as thou art a Man, let her be thy herald as well. Go within, fair knight, and win the love of your lady.'"

"And the young knight stood, and behold! The doors of the Tower were opened before him. So it was that he went within, and climbed there a winding stair...."

"He found there at last the treasure he long had sought," Thorondur says, weaving the words of the tale with a master's inflection, and a measure of something... more heartfelt.

"An ancient stone, and within it in legends, his people had seen the future; what was, and what is, and what might be. Yet he could not resist it, and looked within--"

Now the knight falls silent.

The harp is struck once more, and again, and a third -- in a mournful note, like a dirge.

The storyteller's head hangs low, and for an endless moment he does not lift eyes to his listeners.

Rhunedhel gives a bit of a rueful smile, as if the story reminds him of something.

Then at last Thorondur raises up his face, and in it are equal parts sorrow and joy; a quiet look, a countenance kept in serenity. "Within it, the knight saw himself returning, returning at last to his love."

"But only again to be sent away, and again, and a fourth time to war."

And the dirge is struck again, the slow sonorous mourning sound filling the Hall--

But beneath it a hopeful note rises again. And against that the tale-teller speaks.

A lithe shape quietly slips into the hall. Finding a story in the telling, Dineriel skirts around the edges of the gathering. Keeping to the flickering play of shadow and light that shrouds the walls. She leans against one such wall, and silently watches the storyteller.

"Yet then in the end, when all was done, and beyond the changed ends of the world... in a distant future that his eyes could not see, the knight knew he would be with his love. In the secret places of his soul, he knew this, as surely as if Eru had revealed it to him.

"The young knight wanders still, away from the shores of that beautiful land, and away from the arms of his Princess. But perhaps, one day -- one day in a future that no Man can see -- one day he might find her forever."

And with a last, drawn-out note, one of joy subdued but certain, the tale is done.

And so does Thorondur set his harp to the floor, and bow his head; dark hair tumbles forth from around his ears to hide his eyes, and his face. Silence descends, all in a moment.

Leniel applauds, smiling grandly.

Daedin waits for the rest of the crowd to react. After the clapping starts he waits yet another moment, then joins into the praise.

Rhunedhel nods his head, acknowledging the tale thoughtfully, though his expression does not change.

Morrandir faintly smiles as the tale ends, and wipes something away from his eye. A tear? He sighs and looks down at his wine for a moment. Then, he looks up at the Herald and claps, though says not a word.

Clapping at the finish of the poem, Erutirn stops whispering. "A glorious poem, Lord Thorondur... befitting our noblest of companions in the room." He has a few moments past set his goblet near his chair, he laughs slightly. "Perhaps the next time men from our home frequent this hall... they'll tell poems of our own quest, though that will most likely be many years past and the knights of my children's children's time."

Pale green eyes still dark with emotion, Sidial joins in the clapping.

A smile -- rather shy, for so bold a Man -- lights Thorondur's fair face as he lifts it at last. "I am honoured, for such praise from the Fair Folk," he says to all, and bows gravely -- ere turning for the wine-cart, and perhaps a respite now from the eyes of an audience.

The tale seems to have readily won Taurindur's favor, and he smiles broadly at its ending, though he doesn't join in the applause. Rather, he stands quietly and slips to the back of the hall, letting himself out quickly.

Rhunedhel rises then, and says softly, though his voice carries through the hall ... "A tale different than we usually hear in this hall, sir, and one therefore of interest for that sake alone. If hopes are fulfilled ... and all such visions carry their dangers ... then I wish that yours shall be in deed."

The late-comer, Dineriel, can only but wonder at the tales full story, but she nods her respect to the storyteller.

Pausing by the wine, Thorondur looks to the soft-spoken Rhunedhel, and smiles again; he lifts a hand to his heart, as if to speak with a deepened honesty when he says, "It is a tale I have never told before, good sir, and so, unworthy -- and yet I thank you for your kindness, and your wishes. Hope, indeed, is that special provenance of Men."

Rhunedhel laughs softly, then looks at the others. "But one tale deserves another ... if the folk here would welcome a short tale of memory not of hope, I can provide one."

Daedin stands, seeing Taurindur go and quickly excuses himself as quietly as he came in.

"I for one should welcome any tale," Thorondur answers as he lifts a glass of wine, "in which I am the listener, and not again the teller!" And with this kindly jest, he toasts the Master of Stories.

Sidial smiles shyly, and then excuses herself...

Thorondur suggests everyone stay... don't know when I'll ever get to see Rhunedhel's Harp again. :)
Rhunedhel laughs and wasn't even going to use my harp

Thorondur says, "Morrandir, Maernus... Rhunedhel and his infamous Harp are a piece of Elendor legend. :)"

Unfolding her arms, Dineriel pushes away from the wall and weaves her way through the room to the wine cart. Casual saunter turning more brisk as another tale is proposed and she with no desire to disrupt it with her passage.

Rhunedhel walks up to the front of the room, and stands by the great harp at the front ... not his battered travel harp, but one of those that comes with the Hall itself. He plays a short introductory sequence, music that evokes a time far off and far away ... it seems like night under stars.

Rhunedhel says, "Once, not so long ago, there was a realm far to the East, an elven realm hidden under the mountains, yet lit by sunlight filtering through crystal like a hidden rose. This was the realm of Gonnmar ... my home of old, and the last realm in that part of the world to escape the hand of the darkness now spreading far and wide." He pauses, and a few well-placed chords suggest a note both sweet yet melancholy.

The Dunadan from Gondor, young Thorondur the Elf-Friend who so recently concluded a tale of his own, stands near the wine unmoving. Rapt, his attention is fixed upon Rhunedhel and the song of that Elf.

Seeing another story begin, Erutirn has his goblet refilled. He moves to look at Rhunedhel, giving him his attention for the time being. He grins as he glances towards the new story.

Arriving at the cart just as the tale begins, the Ndaedeldhrim maid nods a greeting to Thorondur but speaks not. Instead pouring herself a glass of Elrond's wine and returning her attention to the new storyteller.

The squire stands, and looks from Rhunedhel to Thorondur, and sighs. "Forgive me Sirs, I...I must leave." He looks away quickly, turning toward the door. He strides away swiftly, pushing the door open in a rather rough manner. Morrandir disappears into the hall without looking back.

Rhunedhel takes a sip of his wine, and continues. "But alas, in the dark of these days no secret holds forever, and the hidden city was besieged by dark, grim-faced Men and yrch and darker things ... there was warfare in the caverns leading down to that realm, and ever their ghastly lord sought to find the city's exact location ... and thus was a siege that lasted year upon year."

Rhunedhel says, "And in that city there was one who feared for the future, and sought to learn what it might hold, and how the dangers of war could be averted. His name was Morfindel, a prince of that city, and one who had both dark tales in his past, and bright glories, and he had written the great poem, "The Fall of Amon Gil.""

The elvish maids full attention is drawn to the storyteller and his tale, the wine resting forgotten in her hand. Few stories has Dineriel heard of her kin from further east.

Rhunedhel pauses, taking another drink.

Arching an eyebrow as he watches Rhunedhel, Thorondur sidles slowly up to Dineriel. Softly, he asks her, "He is not of the Eldar, nor have I ever heard tell of his kingdom. Is he... Moriquendi?"

Rhunedhel resumes the tale, speaking softly, and yet every word is distinct across the hall. He strokes the harp as he speaks, each stroke now sounding like a march down a dark avenue.

Her eyes never leave Rhunedhel and her lips part some moments before they give forth words. And when there is a pause, she leans close to the Gondorian Dunadan, so that her words will not carry far beyond them. "I believe so, I have never met him. Though I have seen him about the valley, many times."

Rhunedhel says, "And so Morfindel went to one who knew him well, and they took counsel together, and she made a mirror ... seeming but a bowl of water, yet in it many things could be seen by one who had the will to look upon it. And in the mirror they saw the mountain broken, and smoke coming from its side, and the city despoiled and empty: and they feared that the city's doom was coming upon them. And so they took counsel with the king of that city, fearing lest it was already too late to turn that doom aside."

Slowly, Thorondur nods -- and in his eyes the wonder grows further, as Dineriel whispers to him.

As the squire leaves, Erutirn seems to have become rather quiet as he listens to the elven poem. He glances around, looking at the various occupants and then the surroundings of the place. He keeps his eyes in constant motion, though he appears to hear the poem in it's intent.

Rhunedhel pauses again, and now he takes a larger sip from his winecup. His tone is dispassionate, but not his eyes. And he continues:

"And fearing that some danger would come upon them unawares, they convinced the king that at the least a watchtower should be raised, high on the mountainside, which would tell them when the danger would come upon them. And an ancient tunnel for escape from enemies was reopened. And the war continued inconclusively, and the danger seemed as yet far away.

Rhunedhel pauses, then moves the tale forward with few, brief words ... this is no formal poem, this is more an elegy in prose, a simple, chronicle in its wording.

Rhunedhel says, "But that very tower proved their undoing, for by it the enemy learned of the city's location, and they captured the tower and though the gates behind were barred, they brought some strange power, and explosion rocked the mountainside, and so the city fell. It may be that the city would have stood yet for many long years, if hope had not outstretched its reach, and elves forsaking wisdom took the counsel of a fleeting vision. And yet, many escaped who might otherwise have been caught in its destruction, forewarned at least that the enemy was upon them."

The maid of Greenwood shares in the storyteller's silence for a moment. Then in her often quiet way, she speaks. "I have never heard tales from the east."

Rhunedhel quirks a small smile at that. "I could tell you many," he answers. "Both tales I have translated from the Avarin, and my own compositions, such as the "Redemption of Daeron".

"If only I had the time to stay yet a while longer," Thorondur laments, and sincere is the sorrow in his voice; he inclines his head to Rhunedhel in grave respect. "Surely are the tales of the Firstborn more moving than any of Men.

“But my time in this House grows short -- and my time on this night runs out. I must sleep, but I thank you all for this wondrous evening."

Rhunedhel bows as Thorondur takes his leave.

Clapping slightly, as the hall seems quiet, Erutirn watches Thorondur depart. "Where is master Bilbo? He has a tale of some strange battle," He laughs a bit, "And if it were not for the fact that well... he exists, I would scare believe anyone telling of a battle of five armies..." He trails off, "Of course, I'm sure all of the first born here have probably heard all of his tales before..."

A serious expression has Dineriel worn since entering this hall but now a warm smile softens her mein. "I would love to hear them.""Goodnight to you Thorondur Edrahil, " and the elvish maid briefly transfers her smile the man of the south.

Date added: 2009-02-27 10:36:39    Hits: 45
Powered by Sigsiu.NET RSS Feeds