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Elendor - Monday, September 04, 2006, 10:51 PM
Location:
Open Meadow - Crossroads
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 the meadow merges into fertile fields and pastures, and to there a path branches off from the east-west way. 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. Winter's grip lays on the meadow, the grass is mostly brown, save for a flicker here and there of green, as it rests through the cold months, and the large oak tree stands bare of leaves, branches pointing to the sky like fingers. The forests surrounding the meadow are likewise bare, save for the deep green pillars of the evergreens: cedar, pine and spruce..
Festivity now crowns this meadow. Tents, banners, edhil in gala array, the snap of silk cloth in the breeze, the tintinnabula of merry laughter.... Three silk tents dominate the meeting of the paths. Central among them, of purest white glittering with embroidered silver stars, is the coordination center for the Festival. It surrounds the great oak, drapes from its gnarled branches so the trunk of the tree seems wreathed in cloud. The second tent is of green and gold embroidered with deep red. Rich smells of cooking food waft out from it. To the south lies a third tent of blue and gold, silver embroidery running along the edge of the roof. The music of craftsmanship sings here, and any elf may enter and make dimensional poetry from wood, stone, metal or cloth. Finally, in the large open clearing, a great many flags and banners flutter and snap. The noble houses of Imladris have arrayed their banners as if for battle, but here it is upon a field of beauty, for honor and the grace of poetry.
Talroch(#21660OVnp)
Tall, proud, ancient. Wisdom and strength sit upon this noble lord in the form of grace and beauty. He is young and fair of face, and grey of eye, and they are ancient as they shine. Long is his dark hair, and as it falls about his shoulders, it is plaited with silver. He wears bound upon his forehead a green gem set in a silver fillet. He is dressed in somber black. The long tunic of rough linen falls to his kness and but for a pair of shoes of black leather, nothing else does he wear.
Celbadar
A tall man, true, but with shoulders stooped with weariness -- with care, with years, and with the mud-stained traveler's cloak and parcel. The garb beneath his cloak is equally frayed -- of brown homespun, or grey, a simple man's wear for a simple old man.
Kindly eyes of grey peer out from beneath a heavy brow, across which is strewn hair black as the raven's wing -- or that was, once, before his temples were peppered grey. His nose is sharp, his features angular and worn.
At his belt a long knife hangs, over his shoulder he bears a pack, and at his side hangs a small harp -- a rough thing, plain of wood, unadorned.
Saelwen
A pair of deep amber eyes glitter mischievously in this elleth's creamy complexion. Offsetting said eyes are long, dark waves that fall about her shoulders as a waterfall of the collective colors of summer in the evening light. Sprinkled among her locks, in sharp contrast, are tiny delicate flowers the color of freshly fallen snow.
Her draping hair cascades about her sloping neck, which is graced by a large sparkling gem set in silver. The airy fabric of her emerald green raiment sweeps across her frame, clothing her in the color of the forest.
Sleeves and neckline drape, glittering with tiny coloured beads and elegant embroidery in leaf-shapes. To top everything off is a thin silver circlet sitting lightly atop her head, in the shape of a sweeping vine.
Tirloth
Here is an elleth, of average height among her kin: neither tall nor short. Her build is of one who moves with the easy grace of the Quendi -- lithe and fluid. Bright eyes the color of grey stormclouds are deep-set into a long, angular face. Fine, straight hair of a warm brown hue is gathered into a thin plait, reaching the waist.
She wears a russet-dyed surcoat and cream trousers; the latter are tucked into well-worn boots. Upon her hands are equally worn gloves. A plain leather belt, from which hangs a small pouch, girds her waist. At movement's whim, ring mail peeks from under the surcoat. At times, she dons a brown cloak of homespun wool.
Thileithel
This Elf is tall, and lithe are his movements. The eyes are as the sea was in the moon-light of long ago, before the fading of the world. Mostly calm they are, yet when stirred they flash with the lightning of a great storm. Silvery black is the hair; it is cut short, a soldier's nod to utility. The Elf's face is slender, but the prominent chin and nose give the profile the quality of carven stone, ancient, yet timeless.
Worn is a midnight blue mantle of soft fabric. Around the square neck and outer edge are little embroidered interlocking ivy leaves of silver. The garment reaches down to the knees. The long shirt and leggings are plain white with no embellishment. Around the waist is a sea-grey belt. The shoes are of grey, supple leather, with silver buckles. On the right hand is a gold ring, its jewel an emerald of the deepest green.
Aurglaur
Of average height and wiry build, this elf maiden has an air of dignity and understanding about her. Her raven hair, bound in a long ponytail, frames a face of gentle features and clear grey-blue eyes. She wears a loose-fitting blouse of light lilac, and a light grey skirt embroidered with a darker lilac flower pattern. Small pads are bound just below her knees, and open tan sandals complete her accoutrement.
Elrohir
A contradiction is found here.
Tall is he, taller than the wont of men, and elven fair. Hair as black as a raven's wing is bound back from the finely wrought lines of his face, and the rumour of Earendil burns within his eyes; grey and changeable as the sea beneath a stormy sky. But some touch, too, of the Secondborn lies within this figure. Broad of shoulder, he wears strength like a mantle, carrying himself with an easy, unpretentious bearing.
Arrayed for travel with few trappings of station, he is grey trousered, wrapped within a cloak of shifting hue, with gleaming mail visible at the whim of the wind, and a slender longsword girt at his side.
Elrond
His face is ageless, neither old nor young; glad and elven-fair, yet carrying hi nts of the gravity and passion of the mortal race.
His hair is dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon his brow there gleams a circlet of silver.
His eyes are as grey as a clear evening, and shine like deep pools filled with t he light of stars, pools whose highlights and shadows stir with the memory of many things both joyous and sorrowful.
His is the thoughtful assurance and majesty of a king crowned with many winters. Yet he moves with the easy precision of a warrior in the prime of his strength. It would be hard to mistake him for any other: this is Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, mighty among Elves and Men.
Celbadar
A tall man, true, but with shoulders stooped with weariness -- with care, with years, and with the mud-stained traveler's cloak and parcel. The garb beneath his cloak is equally frayed -- of brown homespun, or grey, a simple man's wear for a simple old man.
Kindly eyes of grey peer out from beneath a heavy brow, across which is strewn hair black as the raven's wing -- or that was, once, before his temples were peppered grey. His nose is sharp, his features angular and worn.
At his belt a long knife hangs, over his shoulder he bears a pack, and at his side hangs a small harp -- a rough thing, plain of wood, unadorned.
Sidhel
You look at a quite tall Sindar-Elf, dressed in white and blue. Under a precious blue robe with embroideries of roses and broad seamings of swans, stiched with silver thread, he wears a short white tunic which is decorated all over with horizontal lines of fine embroideries again, showing tree leafs and breaking waves by turn. His trousers are of flawless white silk. In Elvish terms he might be young, but he has seen most of this age. On a closer look you can see that he wears a pair of light and delicate auburn suede slippers - and where his right hand aught to be there is but an empty sleeve.
He has a serious look in his face, with a clear expression of nobility, which is even supported by his majestic movements and his precious clothing. The long black hair s only held by a slender silvery circlet, a masterpiece of Elven jewelry. It is formed of pairs of tiny swans, that face each other. His eyes sparkle in an indistinct mix of grey and blue and clearly reflect the pride of the noble House Narthanaer.
Scene:
Stars. Ancient, bright and sparkling do they sit in the skies above Imladris tonight and even Gil-Estel, the light of the Two Trees, Earendil's gem, flares there to greet elf and man.
Around the oak tree, that many of the firstborn remember as a small sapling, a large and merry cowd has gathered, for a time of celebration has come once more, the Bereth in Elenath. Light shines through the delicate white fabric of the central tent and it makes the embroidered stars look like they cast the shine themselves. Soon, very soon now, this festival will be declared open.
Fashionably late, as he is on occasion, Elrond strolls up from the direction of the house. He is dressed in his normal fashion, though elegantly, and makes a line straight for the base of the oak and the white star tent. As he goes, he murmurs soft greetings to each ellon and elleth. He seems somewhat abstracted, as if half in thought even as he walks and greets those on the field.
From the direction of the house approaches a small cluster of elves in a finery of velvets and silks, their jewels sparkling in the starlight and yet not to outshine the brightness of their eyes. Their speech is light with festival gaiety, and marked with the tones of Lindon. "An archery contest there is, beloved, and yet no horseback event," Maenyn is relating to her husband. "Then you shall have to practice that rarer gift of yours, mellon, that of walking on two legs!" calls one of the other Mithlondhrim with general laughter.
The pace of the group slows as they near the Great Oak, and the servants of Cirdan disperse lightly into the crowd alongside their eastern kindred.
Being of Nos Narthanaer, Tirloth wanders about the crowd with a platter balanced on each hand, offering wine and morsels of food.
Somewhat away from the bustle by the familiar oak and the specials pavilions set up for the Bereth, rather under the open sky where she has a clear view of the eponymous stars of this special Imladhrim festival, there stands Aurglaur, gazing up, and especially to the West, where the last remaining light of the Two Trees shines bright, Earendil. There is joy in her eyes at the sight and the feeling of kinship and comraderie that pervades every nook and cranny of the Valley now. She is dressed as usual, unlike so many in special finery, for she is always ready to return to her beloved flowers when duty calls. Yet, swept up in the spirit, in the beauty of this night, perhaps she lets escape a touch of regret from the depths of her eyes, for this night cries out for one's finest attire to contribute one's share to its magnificence.
Thileithel isn't above serving as he carries a tray among the gathered Elves. It bears many goblets of wine. Some are red, others are white, others are clear like water, but far more potent. The gweithir smiles as he offers the wine to ellyn and ellith. Just then Elrond arrives and the old Sinda smiles slightly, not missing the master's mein. Slipping through Elves as easily as he would trees, bushes or battling orcs, Thileithel holds out his tray and drops his head in greeting. "Something to drink before the ceremony, my lord?"
Elrond smiles, greeting Thileithel. "Serving wine, are you?" he says with a wide grin. "Then it is surely of the highest quality! Of course!" And he takes the wine, saying softly as he does so, "We should talk a moment, if Sidhel is available. Are Talroch and Martion about?"
The gweithir notes, "I have tasted them all to ensure their quality." He smiles merrily and then glances back in the direction of the tree. "Lord Talroch is by the oak. I know not where the herald or Fithurin's champion may be found. Perhaps Martion has run afoul of the ellith again and seeks for his trousers up in yonder branches?"
Many have gathered around the oak tree; many beneath the pavilion, and many without; many, who have come for celebration, for happiness and cheer.
Many of the Elder race, but among them one, at least, who is not. Bedecked in simple brown, hair speckled black and grey, Celbadar stands at the crowd's edge and, starlight glittering in eyes bemused, observes.
As if the Master's words had reached him from afar, Sidhel comes out of the central tent, dressed in blue and silver. He casts a knowing look to Talroch as he espies him in the crowd and then he approaches the two, Elrond and Thileithel. "Greeting, Herdir, Gweithir," he speaks softly. "All is prepared. We need but Rhunedhel's Herald now." And he cannot help but grin at the Host Lord's last comment.
Elrond laughs lightly, noticing Maenyn standing nearby, and tilting his head toward her. "You have come to the valley at an auspicious time!".
Meanwhile, Martion appears as if to order at Thileithel's quip. "Champion," he says drily, "and I still have my pants." Indeed, they are an item of special magnificance this evening, as if Martion had dressed to please ... well, at least one elleth, we can be sure.
Soon one more being adds to the group gathering in the festivites, or at least, the beginning of them. This elleth is an Arphedil of one of the least represend Houses at this Ceremony, Nos Forodren. Liltdis Saelwen approaches quietly, reguarding those in attendance with feigned interest. The attire upon her clearly shows her attention to detail. Standing just outside of the tent, her amber eyes espy all about.
Near the flap of the great festival tent stand Maenyn and her husband, awaiting the call for the ceremony to begin. "There is Sidhel, approaching Lord Elrond, who is herald of his house and somewhat responsible for all the merriment," she tells him. Following Sidhel's glance towards Talroch, she goes on in a lower tone, smiling wryly, "And that, I suppose, is his lord. Who looks quite in need of festival cheer."
Elrond's greeting catches her in her observations, however, and the horsewoman and Telur, her husband, reply with a low curtsy and bow respectively. "It is our honor, Lord Elrond," Maenyn calls across the din. "The blessings of the Valar be on all the great houses of Imladris."
Thileithel balances his tray on one hand and with the other gives a general wave to those who have approached and been approached. "Come, mellyn, let us go to the tree and speak with Lord Narthanaer and learn what wisdom he might care to impart upon the assembled Eldar this evening." The gweithir turns and begins twisting his way towards the great oak.
Elrond smiles to Maenyn and waits for the other leaders of the festival to enter the white tent, nodding and smiling at various elves as they pass by.
Martion follows Thileithel as he makes his way toward the oak.
As the focus of all nearer eyes is inevitably drawn to the simple grandeur that is Elrond, so does Aurglaur further off, among many other Imladhrim and guests, realize that her Herdir is now present, and her eyes are drawn like every other. No longer a thought for her dress, nor even in this moment for the stars above. With Hir Elrond present, the Bereth in Elenath full ready to commence in truth.
"Champion, of course. Forgive me," replies Sidhel and he nods to Martion. "Let us go then and meet Talroch." With that he follows Thileithel, making his way through the crowd. A merry smile goes to the guests from Cirdan's realm and to others from Imladris whom he knows well.
Saelwen recieves Thileithel's smile with one of her own, greeting him with a smile as he passes. Sifting through the crowd visually, she spots Aurglaur and proceeds to walk closer to her, her elegant dress swaying. "Greetings mellon. I see you observe Hir Elrond. He is quite noble this night, is he not? I am quite anxious for the ceremony to begin. Once it has commenced, it is a signal for many wonderful events to take place in later days." The Liltis pauses to fix a loose flower in her hair.
Elrond turns after the others and enters the tent. His presence is understated and his dress simple if elegant, yet something about his manner draws the eye, and indeed many have turned to see what he does. If someone were to stand there, they would know simply from watching that Elrond was lord here, and that his people loved him.
Lord Talroch stands with goblet in hand chatting amiably with an elleth of dark eyes and and lashes who wears a fillet of silver bound upon her brow. The Elf-lord relates an anecdote of some kind and the elleth smiles at Talroch's clever recitation. Just then Thileithel arrives. Not bothering to give his lord and kinsman a bow or even a nod, he instead gives Talroch a sharp look along the lines of 'guess who's coming now'. Lord Talroch and his elleth-friend exchange pleasantries before the Elf-lord calls, "Lord Elrond, faithful friend of Narthanaer. A good Bereth to you... and you as well Martion." At this last mention, there is a subtle smile.
As her husband is drawn into conversation with some of his Imladhrim friends, Maenyn wanders a few steps aimlessly in the crowd, her hands clasped before her and eyes alight as she observes and listens. Starlight and the flame of torches draw blazes across her dark hair as she walks. Stepping near to Celbadar, the horsewoman pauses. "You are solitary, friend- perhaps a guest in the Valley, as we are?"
At a little distance, a flustered elleth pushes back her unruly dark curls, two high spots of colour in her cheeks as she hurries toward the crowd; late, late, late. The sharp scents of the infirmary cling still to the crimson cloak curling around her frame as Ailiell slips within the bright-gathered folk.
From the riverside, hoofbeats patter a percussive beat beneath the music of voices.
Drawn to the Herdir as a moth to light, Aurglaur walks light-footed toward the tent he is just entering. In doing so, she comes upon Saelwen, hearing her gretting at the same time. "Saelwen, mellon! He is nobility itself, and the centerpiece of our festival." Aurglaur embraces the elleth in half a hug, her left arm weighed down with a rather large basket, a kerchief draped over the top, hiding its contents. "Liltdis," she laughs, "do you think it is too early to start giving gifts? Before the formal convocation? You know I have one for you!" And she lifts the kerchief just enough to peek inside and seeminly confirm it to herself.
"I am."
A quiet response from the elderly gentleman as Celbadar offers a tilt of his head to Maenyn, a smile flitting across his features. "Weathering the winter winds in the warm welcome of the Valley. And you are...here for the festival?"
Elrond turns toward Talroch now, and approaches him, Martion seeming to do his best to disappear in his general ambience, an attitude quite unlike him.
"Greetings, lord Talroch," Elrond replies. "A good Bereth to you as well. I trust your house has prepared well this year? For the winners this year will no doubt be called upon to best other elf-homes at the Bardic Congress here next year."
Smoke pours from Mt. Doom as the Dark One's evil sorcery lags the game.
The smoke clears as good triumphs and the database saves.
Sidhel smiles faintly at Talroch ere he tends to a solemn elf at the rear entrance of the tent. A few low words are spoken, then the other leaves the tent. Sidhel looks at the gathered lords and notables then. "They are ready," he explains. "May the Bereth be a success once more." A glance goes to the nosy Aurglaur is regarded with an amused look, ere he returns to Elrond and the others.
A wide smile creeps onto Saewen's lips as she chuckles. "Always the giving spirit, aren't we, Aurglaur? It is sweet of you to desire to give gifts out, this early, indeed." A slow shake of the head shakes tiny flowers stuck in her hair. "Though I'm sure that you may hand out your gifts as soon as you like, if you cannot possibly find the patience to wait." The Liltdis' eyes twinkle in a jovial manner."
Thileithel stands around beside his lord and upon the gweithir's shoulder Lord Talroch firmly sets his hand. "I have high hopes for the congress. I was disappointed in the Golden Wood, but hopefully at home our performance will improve." Glancing over at Martion, the Elf-lord adds, "Perhaps Fithurin's apprectice will conceive something? Such competition might very well stoke the fires of Thileithel's creativity?"
"Well," Martion replies, "I might have a song or two in me, and I am sure that Ailiell will, also." He pauses a moment. "Have any of you seen her about?"
"We too are wintering... and wintering, it seems..." Maenyn answers Celbadar, some unexplained irony in her voice at the reply. "Though Imladris makes as fine a place for resting as feasting." Observing the man's attire more closely, she goes on, "Was Imladris your birthplace or do you come to it only lately as a haven from your travels?"
"Alas, the competition has yet begun, Herdir," jests Sidhel. "They cannot even wait for the official beginning. Mayhaps it is time to announce the Opening now?"
Inserting himself into the conversation as deftly as he did the crowd previously, Thileithel nods slowly, studying Martion. "You and Ailiell and perhaps even Averiel... I await you all. It will be a contest of great skill and ability. As for the elleth, perhaps she wandered off with Gondramind again?" The gweithir says this with a knowing smile as if he knows better, having gazed over the crowd not moments before.
Aurglaur laughs, almost conspiratorily, with Saelwen's response, and starts to put her right hand into her basket, to find what she wishes to withdraw from it. But as she is doing so, still not at the tent but in view of its open front, a glance she notices, hard to interpret, from Sidhel within, and, hand kept in the basket for now, she points Saelwan toward Sidhel with but a slight upward nod in his direction. "Did you see that? What is he so amused about?"
"By all means," Elrond replies to Sidhel. "Announce us." He smiles a small smile.
Distracted from the mysterious basket, Saelwen turns in the direction which Aurglaur has previously pointed in. "Hrm..." The Liltdis eyes Sidhel with curiosity. "Yes, I did see it, I do believe, though I'm not sure what he might be amused about." Saelwen raises an eyebrow. "Though ere curiosity overtakes you, I do believe that you should ask him, not me. Or perhaps you could ask him later, if you wish."
A silver-peppered brow rises as the irony does not pass Celbadar by. "I was born in the north," his reply, quiet voice tinged with amusement. "And only recently enjoined my travels. But the chill is no treat for old bones." Indeed? Starlight glimmers, humored, in his grey eyes. "And whence come you, Lady?"
Tirloth slips through the crowd inconspicuously, balancing two trays on one arm to tap on Thileithel's shoulder. "Uhm. Gweithir, do you have some culyave to spare? I'm running low here."
Thileithel offers Tirloth all he has left, setting them one at a time on her tray wherever there are empty spaces. The last culyave he keeps for himself as he smiles at the elleth and then takes a sip.
Hoofbeats resolve themselves into grey shadows, and shadows into horse and rider all silver and black. The newcome pauses at the roots of the road, bending his head to speak with the groom who has run lightly to meet him.
Sidhel turns towards the entrance, makes his way past Aurglaur and Saelwen until he reaches a small stage that has been set up between the tents and the banners. Slowly he climbs the stairs to the stage and as he has reached the platform, a lone voice begins to sing in the woods to the west, not loud, not soft, but crystal clear. A wordless song that drifts across the meadow. And Talroch's Herald raises a hand as if to hush the crowd.
Maenyn studies Celbadar's expression with impassive curiosity, and her nod at his reply is an intellectual assent and expression of politeness more than empathy. She knows little of either chill or old bones, after all. "I am from the Havens far to the West," is the answer for her part, though further reply is cut off as the song for the festival is raised. Turning, the elf woman falls silent and fixes her gaze upon the platform and on Sidhel.
Replying again with laughter to Saelwen, Aurglaur mockingly admonishes her, "What, mellon? And take all the fun out of imagining? Not yet... let us rather think of myriad possibilities.... But... did I hear above the many conversations a word that our Herdir shall soon give the Bereth formal commencement?" She is about to babble on, unstopping, when she sees Sidhel, just having now walked right past the Liltdis and her (!), ascend the stage and with his gesture call for silence. Her voice drops to a whisper. "We shall have a good view! And I think my gift must now come after the formal beginning, in spite of myself!"
Elrond turns, prepared to come out of the tent on Sidhel's word. "Martion, Talroch," he says quietly. "Let's be ready."
Talroch sets his drained goblet down on Thileithel's tray, offering his friend a smile in thanks while the gweithir smirks but says nothing in reply. The Elf-lord moves to stand beside Elrond while they wait for their introductions.
"Thanks," whispers Tirloth, and creeps quietly to the edges of the crowd.
Saelwen just replies with a grin at Aurglaur's antics, shushing her with a look. Silently, the Liltdis watches Sidhel and the nearby tent with curiosity.
And no more does Celbadar speak: as the song drifts over the crowd, a smile lights his features -- no irony, no bemusement, a simple smile, and for a moment lines of age soften.
"Mellyn!" Sidhel's voice drifts across the meadow. "The tide of giving and receiving has come. Rejoice now as Nos Fithurin and Nos Narthanaer will offer your their greetings. Rejoice now, for the master of this valley will greet you as well." Then he steps into the background of the stage.
Elrond walks forward now, with Martion at his left, Talroch at his right, coming up onto the stage. He walks slowly, allowing time for the audience to see them and to become silent. After several moments he is standing on the small stage, looking out across the crowd.
The lone singer in the west is suddenly echoed from the east as Martion and the others leaves the tent, then two other voices join in from north and south and so the song frames the festivity from all four directions now. The volume increases slowly as the three approach the stage.
Aurglaur accepts Saelwen's admonishment, and remains silent for to hear the Lords speak. She cannot resist a wink though, that almost breaks her smile into giggles. But as the Herdir ascends the stage, she is awed into rapt attention, merriment forgotten, and the swelling of joy only increased by the rising song.
Saelwen pokes Aurglaur in the side as the Herdir appears, causing the Liltdis retract her finger to herself at watch with awe with revered silence.
The rider lifts his head, gazing for a long moment on the lantern-bright glow of tent silks, then swings himself silently down, leaving his mount in the groom's care. Weatherstained and travelworn, he strides toward the back of the gathering, wrapped in a cloak of changeable hue; changeable gaze fixed upon the Herdir.
Maenyn's glance falls briefly on the half-elven prince newly arrived, and a moment longer on his mount as it is led led away, before returning forward towards the ceremony dais.
"Welcome, kinsmen, allies, friends," Elrond says formally. "For this festival, the Bereth in Elenath, we celebrate the stars. Talroch for Nos Narthanaer, and Martion for Nos Fithurin will deliver the opening invocations."
He smiles, gesturing with one hand. "I shall say no long words. May this festival be one of great rejoicing!"
Lord Talroch steps up and nods to Elrond before surveying his audience as would a king his people. "Let us all turn our eyes upwards to the stars of Varda Elentari, Elbereth Gilthoniel and raise up our voices in praise and thanksgiving for her works and the works of all the Valar." Concluding his remarks, Talroch looks over to Martion to see what he will say on behalf of Rhunedhel.
A slight figure clad in green slips in amongst the crowd, the Nethril Elingail released from her duties just in time to see the beginnings of the festival.
Within the press of finely-clad fairfolk, Ailiell rises to her toes, peering quietly around another's shoulder with her lip between her teeth.
The Imladhris and many guests filling the meadow are as silent as the stars as Elrond speaks and as Talroch calls upon the Valar. As silent but filled with as much beauty, and reflecting upon one another deep-felt awe and joy.
Only the four singers accompany the speeches, now soft and subtle again. Sidhel's gaze drifts towards the newcomers as he skims the crowd and with a content smirk he notes the arrival of the one rider.
Standing quietly for a moment, Martion pauses, then his voice rings out across the gathering.
When Anor shines
we all rejoice
In light who brightness lives in green
-- But Varda made them,
molded stars
To sow in heaven
a song of light
Harmonies unfolding
in the heavenly realm
A chorus in darkness
calling forth joy.
Let us rejoice
in the joys of heaven,
Starlight strung out
restoring hope.
Martion bows. "Let the festival begin!"
Thileithel smiles and downs his wine in salute to Martion. Things are well in hand now.
Aurglaur wants to shout in response, seconding Martion's command of commencement. But his exquisite song, the presence of the Herdir, the stars bespangling the deep, black sky. Her voice is choked with emotion ere ever she begins.
On the outer fringe, the traveler's bearing is written with longing, weary and glad and wistful. His gaze full of starlight, and fixed on his father, Elrohir slips like a shadow through the merry meeting.
Martion seems suddenly to notice Ailiell's presence in the crowd, despite her being barely visible over heads and shoulders, and he leaves the dais, walking toward her location in the crowd.
At Martion's last words a multitude of voices from afar join the four, repeating his theme, and so they shape a perfect circle of song around the merry Eldar.
Saelwen herself is also moved to emotion by the scene of the striking song and the view of Varda's masterpiece hung in the sky. Her eyes move towards Aurglaur beside her, but speechlessness seems to take her over as she stands just listening.
Ailiell ducks behind the sheltering shoulder, running a hand quickly over her hair - then grimaces at herself in utter exasperation and steps out to meet him.
Lord Talroch slips down from the dais as well to greet his Narthanaer retainers who have gathered close by on this high day.
Thileithel stands beneath the dais, watching the merry making and holding his now empty goblet with a mock-depressed air. Dark thoughts are crowded out by the sight of a certain shadow making its way through the crowd and in that direction does he wander to head off said shadow.
A goblet of wine is offered to Elingail by one of the crowd, but the tiny elleth simply smiles wryly and shakes her head.
Elrond is standing still on the dais, speaking with a few well-wishers, as yet unaware of Elrohir's arrival.
Maenyn lifts her voice along with others to hail the festival, easily picking up the tune, her jewel-green eyes lighting with its infectious merriment. After some moments of singing, she then turns to Celbadar and lowers in curtsy. "A joyous feast I wish you, good sir. May I have your name? I am Maenyn, daughter of Belaeges."
Sidhel follows his Lord but soon he breaks away from the group of retainers to approach the guests from the Havens and the Dunadan. "May the stars of Elbereth shine upon you tonight," he calls out with relief and joy.
Falling in beside Elrohir as ghost-like as Elrohir himself makes his way through the crowd, Thileithel offers jovially, "Son of Elrond, greetings this evening. You've arrived just in time as is your wont."
Martion approaches Ailiell, and smiles an impish grin at her. "There you are!" he says. "You have hidden well this evening. I suppose hide-and-seek is a game you favor?"
His is no elven voice, but fair enough -- and softly, as one conscious of his failings -- Celbadar's voice joins the others. For a time. And when the song fades from his lips, he returns laughing grey eyes to Maenyn.
"Maenyn, daughter of Belaeges -- well met. I am called Celbadar, Elegold's son, and if the feasting is delightful as the music of the Valley, I cannot think how it could be otherwise."
"Fair words, Celbadar of the North, and fitting. We are well met indeed," Maenyn returns, straightening and giving Sidhel a welcoming smile. "One ceremony behind you, Herald, and only a few dozen more to go," she jests.
Conversations quietly begin again as the moment has passed, though in passing it still touches every heart. And the touch is prolonged by the refrain of Martion's song, encircling the meadow. Now Aurglaur too turns her head to Saelwen to speak, but instead there issues forth a sigh, an deep, accepting, emotion-laden sigh that shares her soul with all who have gathered for the Mereth i Thegraelenath Arnoediad. She shall contribute her full share of laughter to the Bereth over the coming days, but for right now, deeper feelings control her.
"Ai, this has been the most important one, I would say," replies Sidhel. "Greetings, Dunadan," he offers then. "Have you too come to praise the stars and make merry? Elendil's kin is ever welcome in this vale."
Elrohir blinks, focus diverted, then smiles slow as thawing and pushes back his hood. "The sweets are untouched and the wine flows free?" His strong, gloved hand clasps the Gweithir's shoulder. "Well met, Thileithel."
"You know full well I do," Ailiell returns, a smile crooking in return. She looks the Raud over for an assessing moment, dark eyes bright. "It was a beautiful invocation."
Thileithel shakes his head. "I know nothing of sweets, but the wine can be easily found should you wish for some. Long as it been since we've seen you. Welcome home."
"To praise the stars and make merry," confirms Celbadar pleasantly, with a greeting nod to Sidhel and a spread of smile lines about his lips at the other's jest. "And, if it be allowed, to listen with great joy to the merriment of others."
If it be allowed? His eyes dance brightly with good humor.
A nod follows a chuckle and Elingail tiptoes to whisper something in her friends ear, dark eyes all a-twinkle.
"Too long," the Herion agrees, smile slipping. "What news of home? Peace and feasting, I hope."
The gweithir shakes his head somewhat. "Much has happened of late, but nothing out of the ordinary. In time you'll learn all from your father once you've closeted yourselves in his study." Thileithel smiles slightly at this upcoming event. "If you hurry and meet with him promptly, I will all the sooner learm the results of your mission."
"For sure it will be allowed," chuckles Sidhel. "Go and join the festivities, mellyn. Feast and dance and talk, if you will."
"Do not fear, Dunadan," Maenyn returns to Celbadar, echoing Sidhel's words. "Elves shut ourselves in secret councils only half the day. The nights are for song, and we do not keep most of those secret. You may wish we had, when you hear the same song on the fiftieth round-- or so complain some of your kin. Though we may still ourselves long enough to hear some long-forgotten tale of the Northern Kingdom of men or of Westernesse." Eyes glittering with interest, Maenyn gives notice that she would welcome such a yarn.
"I should never tire to hear the same strain repeated," laughs Celbadar, his laughter -- like his voice -- gentle, and soft. "Or to complain, so long as the singer bore the patience to play it often enough that I might come to learn it. A song is warm company on a cold, empty night--"
Thileithel looks up and sees they have reached the dais. "I will inform the kitchen to prepare more to be delivered to your chamber so that you may gorge yourself at your convenience." This last part is conveyed with a smile.
"I should never tire to hear the same strain repeated," laughs Celbadar, his laughter -- like his voice -- gentle, and soft. "Or to complain, so long as the singer bore the patience to play it often enough that I might come to learn it. A song is warm company on a cold, empty night--"
"--but pray, I am bid join the festivities. Let me not offend my hosts by refraining."
With that, and a slight parting bow, he slips away to join the fun.
Maenyn curtsies once more, her eyes thoughtful a moment as the melancholy words of the Dunadan turn in her mind. Yet then she wanders too close to a circle dance of ellith and is swept into its midst by insistent hands and laughter. There is little question of this night being either empty or cold for anyone.
Elrohir flashes a warm, if distracted smile, the dust of a long road darkening the creases. "Better. You know me well." He dips his head in excusal, and slips around the edge of the dais, rather than climbing atop and drawing attention.
As the refrain is picked up by new voices and others cease to partake of talk and drink and merriment, Aurglaur finds her own to join in the paean to the stars. An unremarkable voice among the Imladhrim, but were it heard alone on a quiet night by aught of the Second Born, well might they think it divine. As her turn at the chorus ends, she listens to snatches of conversation that speak of the mission of a Herion. But she is Losalthor and Echdis, others there are to fret over the news and problems of Arda. She brings her shield and strong sword whene'er called upon, but for now she shall partake of the festivities and mingles back in among the flowing bands of merrymakers.
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