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.
Contents:
Dinadir
Arwen
Menelýth
Huge Oak
Obvious exits:
North leads to Pasture.
East leads to Open Meadow - Valley Path.
South leads to Front Yard.
West leads to Meadow Path.
Lamathinn is the temp-alt of Ermithren.
[Menelýth]
Dusk lays its gently shimmering blanket of blues and purples and orange, across the Valley this evening. The winter days only move to enhance the white of the snow, and the caps of the distant mountains-- both bathed in the last ribbons of light from a fading day.
Trees, rather, one large oak tree stands out here; capped in white, and hemmed in piled winter snows, it stands looming quietly in the crossroads.
Should one watch, every now and again, a fleeting snowfall comes from the higher boughs of the oak tree-- and then a subtle shake of upper terraced branches. Should one watch closer still, perhaps two elleth might be seen in the woven netting of snow-covered bark-- cleaverly bearing the colours of camoflauge for snow and barked trunk.
[Lamathinn]
From the north a song approaches. It comes from the direction of the pasture, and sure enough, it has a pastoral theme. Sort of.
The song drifts in on the cold breeze, and talks about the warm coats of sheep. Then it tells about the woe and misery of these sheep, when they are forcefully separated from their warm coats, only to see the thieves wear their fur while they shiver with cold.
The song gets louder, and the source of the song can now be seen: the Lalaithdir Lamathinn, singing while performing the occasional dance step.
He stops under the oak tree, just as his song is lamenting the fact that the sheep are nude, too, but then he stops. Just in time, hopefully, to not embarrass whomever is up the tree.
[Arwen]
Embarrass? unlikely.
Nae the Lalaithdir is duly greeted as a ball of fluffy white snow drops out of the tree towards him; straight from the Heryn's own hand.
Grinning from ear to ear the Lady of Imladris peers down from her lofty perch before glancing mischeviously towards her dear friend Menelyth.
The snowball's trajectory is perfect - seen from the snowball's point of view, which has only one purpose in life - and it slips down the small space between Lamathinn's neck and his tunic.
A YELP, and then loud accusations about sheep. He is not looking up. Then he adds, "or is that you, Penniavas, or Mallenfaigliel, or.... all of you sheep and children together?
"No sheep up here, I fear," comes a smooth voice-- sprinkled with mirth.
The voice, with a hint of the Westron accents, belongs to the Sea-Elf Menelyth. Perched precariously upon the edge of a branch, she cuddles her knees to her chest, peering down upon the bewildered Lalaithdir Lamathinn.
"I fear the sheep are nestled quite warmly in the stables, none but us trackers," Menelyth pauses, regarding her mistress, "and us soon-to-be master trackers, in these boughs."
A grin spreads wide across the Tale-Weaver's lips.
"Ai," calls Arwen happily from her place in the sky (well almost!) "The only thing that is white and fuffy up here, is the snow!"
And at this the wayward princess shakes a nearby branch, its burden of snow dislodged to flutter down towards the ground and the Silvan below.
"But what a song to sing Lamathinn!" she exclaims with a cheery wink towards the lore-mistress, "It is just as well that the children are not present."
The snow lands on the Silvan, who makes a brave effort to show that he isn't surprised, startled or in any way disturbed. Even the undoubtedly familiar voice does not provoke a reaction. A rarity in the Valley, no doubt.
"No sheep?" He looks around. For some reason, he refuses to look up.
"Only trackers?"
He crouches carefully, scooping up a handful of snow.
"But tell me, master trackers..." The word master is stressed, while he drops the snow, takes off his woodman's cap and fills that with snow.
"Is it not very, very easy to be a master tracker...."
The snow becomes a giant ball.
"... when all the tracks are so easy to follow in the ... "
He launches the snowball UP!
".... SNOW!?"
Menelyth hops, rather unsuccessfully, in an attempt to avoid the incoming... upcoming... snowball. It manages a successful strike upon the belled sleeve of her raiment, depositing a light smattering of ice upon her clothed leg.
Though, the hop itself, is deliberately harder-- sending piled powdered snow downwards in all directions.
"I do believe," she murmurs, smirking while dusting herself off, "I said soon-to-be master trackers-- did some of the snow land in your ears?" The Mithlondhrim playfully jests, hopping from branch to branch in a circle about the oak's great trunk.
"And tracks in the snow are the hardest to work with, suprisingly-- for the wind makes wicked fun of fooling some into believing its sweeping steps are tracks of someone else..."
Lamathinn ignores the snow, twirls around, and takes on an exaggerated pose of deep thought.
"When following a man who walks backwards, will you approach his goal or his starting point? Ah, trackers... always following in the footsteps of others..."
"And who doesnt follow in the footsteps of another, at least some of the time?" challenges the Evenstar as she begins following the tale-weavers path through the branches, a second waves of snow falling in her wake.
"Name one person Lamathinn, just one."
"Methinks, Heryn," answers a now smiling Lamathinn, "the one to make the tracks on the virgin snow..."
Just to be on the safe side, he crouches to have some ammunition.
[Dinadir]
Walking in from the way of the front yard. This is a visitor to the valley he looks around at the surroundings, though he's been here many times he always likes the scenery in the valley. His foot falls are slow, but quick with ease with the sound coming in front of him. Dinadir walks towards the group but is silently watching for a moment.
"Everyone follows the footsteps of others-- the first to travel these paths are the Valar."
A gloved-hand grips a branch above her, Menelyth hoisting herself up near to the top of the tree. She settles, without causing an abrupt snowfall upon the Hiril and crouching Lamathinn.
Listening to his retort, the Sea-Elf grins wide. "There is no such thing as fresh snow-- for it comes from he who gave us life, or those that taught us to live, no?"
Espying a familiar face, Menelyth calls, "Hello, Dinadir! I did not expect to see any from the Havens here this time of year, save myself!"
"Did I not hear my point of view confirmed, just now?" the Lalaithdir asks, while a snowball appears from nowhere, traveling towards the traveller with a aesthetically pleasing arch.
"True!" chuckles Arwen on the passing of the sea-elfs words, "We are far from the first to walk any paths here, surely Lamathinn you did not think that just because there were no footsteps in the snow that you are the first to walk here?" she asks as she bounces gracefully from branch to branch, cloak floating about her.
Indeed the Heryn begins a second game, timing her own jumps so that she alights on each of Menelyth's branches just as the sea-elf departs until at last her companion stops and takes a seat.
"I do not believe you did," Menelyth says then, to Lamathinn.
Regarding the branches a moment, those which she has trod upon and those which are now sans snow-- the Loremistress carefully looks at the remaining branches. Pointing, she murmurs to Arwen, "You stepped there, and there, and up over there-- and left mark. But here, there and down there, you also stepped, and left no mark."
Standing, just to be sure, she nods. "This bodes well for your ability to leave misleading tracks, provided, you do not have an elven tracker! To elude those, I shall teach you other tricks..."
The Mithlondhrim guest looks to the sound of a well known voice to his ears. Dinadir spots a familiar face looking to him. "Aye mellon, we left in time to reach this shelter before the snow, but were delayed heavily in the Shaws." he says this not with sadness as he is glad to be here and that all made it. He walks a bit closer to the trees his boots barely crunching the snow. "How fare you?" with this he looks to the others "Well met all."
"My point, ladies, is that I needed to provide you with someone who didn't follow in someone else's footsteps... and you did just that, for me, in a most convincing way."
Lamathinn turns around to Dinadir, bows the trademark ridiculous bow with non-existent cloak-sweeping, and sees his snowball, sadly, miss its mark.
Arwen shakes her head strongly.
"Not at all Lamathinn," she calls from the tree branches, "And mashing your words together does not change the fact that you cannot walk where others have not sometime before, in physical, thought or deed... The world is too old for that now."
With a pleased grin the elleth shakes loose some more snow towards the Lalaithdir before she raises a hand in greeting to Dinadir as well, "Mae govannen."
"What next?" She asks of Menelyth with a warm smile.
"Who else has come?" the Sea-Elf asks of Dinadir, curiously. "What held you in the Troll Shaws?" A mark of concern creases her brow, causing her raven brows to dip softly.
Lamathinn is given long regard, though, the Hiril does well to answer the question. No more she adds to that-- save a snowball aimed deftly at the ellon's bowing shoulder.
"Well, if tracking the elves of the Golden Wood, seek the trees first-- usually, if they are not following the paths of secret they have carved over the ages, they will leave markers for eachother in the tree tops-- as is their way. The elves of Amon Thranduil tend to favour the rocky ground-- scuffs and scrapes, mainly..."
The Loremistress demonstrates upon the exposed bark of the tree, scratching at it and then rubbing to produce a faint scuff upon the bark surface.
Lamathinn is hit on said shoulder and falls sideways. From that position, he tries again.
"But... that means if the Valar walked first -- they walked first! That was all you asked of me..."
He starts to scoop up more snow, but displays a rare occurrence of common sense and drops it.
"Where would you walk that there are no tracks before yours?" Menelyth quips, piling up another snowball-- moulding this one-- countenance doused with askance.
Again the Heryn shakes her head, "Ai ai, but now you are using past tense, when I was speaking in the present -- most unfair of you, young Lamathinn!" Arwen teases as she holds out her hand to catch a falling snowflake, watching it melt to a tear of water upon the palm of her hand.
Her gaze drops to the bark as she watches the actions of the Mithlondhrim, eyes narrowing slightly as she commits the mark to memory, "Then I will learn both methods -- The markers of Lorien I am of course most accustomed with, but the ways of Amon Thranduil less so."
"Falamir told me of your travels," nods Elrond's daughter a sudden graveness surfacing within her mien,.
Menelyth pets Arwen upon the hand, as if to excuse herself-- such a formality should be done with bows, but such is their relationship that such can be forgiven with discression.
Swiftly, she departs the treetops, landing near Lamathinn-- but looking up at the Hiril with sure questioning writ upon her brow.
"Is the party... all with us?" Arwen's companion asks, carefully.
With a chuckle Arwen settles herself upon a branch, wrapping her soft grey cloak about her. "I make a habbit of questioning all who appear in the infirmary as to what they have been up to," she says in answer to the elleths unspoken question.
Dinadir looks to the lady of the land as she speaks of his injured kin "How is he mending "M'lady?" The warrior looks back to his kin. "All made it to the valley, but i'm afraid they were under my, fumbling care untill that point I hope I didnt do more harm than good." with this he walks closer to each of them and there tree.
"I regret shirking my duties as the party healer," Menelyth entones, softly.
"Of course," she offers the Hiril, a weak smile barely registering upon her mein.
After a pause, a rather uncomfortable one for the Mithlondhrim ex-pat, Menelyth finally says, "I am quite relieved that all arrived here alive-- your fumbling care must not have been as fumbling as you believe, Dinadir."
As light as a feather, Arwen slips down from the oak tree.
"Not at all," the Hiril intones softly with a cant of her raven-crowned head, "Your so called fumbling did a deal of good in fact, Dinadir."
Thought runs slip-shod in the elleth's eyes, which suddenly appear older than her years. "Though I must speak with father when I see him next on this matter."
Menelyth, usually careful with her display of emotion, looks at this moment-- spooked.
"Are the injuries that serious? Or the tidings from the Troll Shaws that grave?" she asks of Arwen, mainly trying to ascertain the level of injury her kindred have endured.
The words of both about his healing helping his friends brings the small smile back to his face. "Thank you both, I am relived as well that all made it." with this said the warrior looks to the scenery anothe brief moment. "What been happening in the valley?" he asks this and his attention is back on the two elleths. "The wounds could have been worse I still worry for the lady ranger a wound close to the spine under my care." he lets out a sigh "Activity was definately up when we were there."
Arwen shakes her head. "No, not so grave -- Falamir will soon be up and about I daresay, indeed he walked on in easily enough," she informs, "But any happenings in the Trollshaws weigh keeping an eye upon, especially with all the activity along the Bruinen of late."
A pause of quiet thought preceedes a glance towards the house, "Indeed I should probably speak with him sooner than later, if you will excuse me?"
"Of course," says the Narnathron, moving out of the Hiril's way.
"You and I shall talk, Dinadir. You might tell me tales of home, and I will tell you tales of this, my new home! For there has been much activity in Elvenhome as of late."
Seemingly more at ease, Menelyth invites both Dinadir and Lamathinn to walk with her through the snow-capped forest.
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