10/23/2007

================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Twilight < About 8:52 PM >
IC day is: Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is: 26 Ethuil <Spring>
Moon phase: New <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel shines brightly well above the horizon in the
western sky.
IC year is: Loa 18 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3042>
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RL time: Tue Oct 23 16:57:37 2007
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Lawn

Here the stairway through the mellyrn meets the top of a mighty hill, opening out into the middle of a great lawn filled with blue and yellow flowers. At the center of the lawn stands a great shimmering fountain which falls into a basin of silver. From the basin flows a white stream of water out into a small brook, which then trickles away down the hill. Further north there stands a mallorn tree of such magnificent height that it seems to reach even to the clouds. A path paved with white pebbles curves around the hilltop, leading west and east from the stairs.

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The day closes as if it were the act of a play: red and pink clouds curtain the sky, fading quickly to violet. Below, the flowers close their petals in sleep, and the next act begins. Pale stars and pale waters dominate Caras Galadhon.

To the accompaniment of a harp. An Elf is sitting here, with the small, beautiful instrument in his lap, and as he stoops over the harp, he hums a low harmony. It is Maglind's voice.

'Tap-tap-tap'

The sound of something striking the marble steps rings out in the twilight, almost in harmony with the sweet sounds of the harp that drifts in the air. The tapping ends as the Tailor emerges from the stairs, stepping out onto the thick green lawn. In what seems a never ending journey, Galharth is out for his evening walk.

After a few steps onto the lawn, he catches sight of the edhel playing the music. A smile appears upon his lips and he changes directions, heading straight for the source of sound. "I'd swear that your playing has improved, Maglind. It's almost enchanting. Surely the Bards will have you one day." The clothier says as he draws near. "Mind if I listen for a time?"

From the north there comes the faintest of whispers, of lithe and nimble steps that skim across the verdant grass of the lawn. Surely neither the harp-song nor the melody of the Warden are missed by the keen ears of the song-loving Aluirwen, for the figure that appears from the north is indeed she.

Though the evening grows dim a spark of laughter yet flickers within her grey eyes, and briefly she dances, whirling about once afore skipping nearer to the harpist. The Craftsmaster is noted as well, and to the twain, perhaps, she dips in a graceful curtsey; though she has not yet spoken, this is perhaps her own greeting.

"They will try, but they will not prevail!" chuckles Maglind, interrupting the harp-song with brief laughter. A furtive glance spots the elleth, and the warden's shoulders droop. "But it seems they have found me. Alas. Good eve, Aluirwen."

Shifting his balance, the Tailor turns as Maglind greets the bard. "Indeed. Well met, Aluirwen." Galharth says with a smile. Dropping a hand from his staff, he motions towards the Warden. "Perhaps you could sing the virtures of guild life to Maglind here." Pausing, he glances at the Guard and then back to the Bard. "He seems to think that he's exclusively a warrior, and yet he keeps offering us a glimpse of his artistic talants with that lovely instrument." Again he glances towards the Warden with a more accusing glance. "I'd say he could learn much by becoming a Bard, much to the benefit to all."

"And in what shall we not prevail?" questions the linguist, who had apparently not caught the comment of the Craftsmaster. And mayhap there is a hint of disappointment upon her mien, that there is now speech in place of melody. Though it is possible this does not wholly disappoint a scholar of languages.

"A good even to you, Maglind.... Galharth," she replies, as her query is partly answered by the Clothier. The gaze of the elleth dancing between the two before deciding upon the Warden-harpist once more. "I was not aware that you played the harp, mellon. Or perchance the word of your talent had merely not yet reached mine ears. Yet, ai, indeed, I would say that you would much learn within the Glirdain, as do all students of our guild. Would a song perhaps persuade him?" The latter query seems directed toward the Craftsmaster, a sparkle of mirth, and perhaps even of mischief, to be glimpsed within her greyed gaze.

"The harp is my mother's joy," replies Maglind, shuffling awkwardly away from the silvery instrument. "But there is much to do as a warden. I do not know if I would be a good student..."

Galharth snorts, and it is a sound that surprises even the Craftmaster. "Of course you'd be a good student. Nearly all that you do, you literally throw yourself into, or in some cases in front of....." Drawing his free hand back towards his staff, the Tailor shakes his head. "Certainly there are thousands of years ahead of you to master whatever the Bards could teach you."

"As the wise Craftsmaster says," begins Aluirwen, mirth ringing in her voice, "I am sure that you would make a good student, if such is your wish." And then the voice of the linguist changes; the words are lilting, chanted, and perhaps so melodiously near to song that it might even seem a song.

"Poets willing, singers fair,

History and knowledge rare,

Dancers lithe and language true,

Song and wonder through and through."

The linguist stops, and laughs at her own verse, a merry sound. "Ah, but I am a scholar of language and not of verse," she notes.

"I did not throw myself into the river, Galharth," replies Maglind in protest. But he stops, and listens, his yellow head tilted thoughtfully. And when the linguist is done he returns with a verse of his own, delivered smooth and deadpan:

"Wardens rushing here and there

To write such verses do not dare

On errand or on border-watch

Lest deer or rabbit past their post."

The Tailor's mouth opens and clamps shut in surprise at Aluirwen's words. Certainly, at that moment there is no need for him or any other to speak, for it seems the Bard and the potential new Bard seem drawn to exchanging verse. He glances from the elleth to the ellon, then smiles. "I would interject my own verse," Galharth says with a chuckle. "Perhaps some mystical words that sing the praises of beadwork over silk, but...." he says, pausing as his chuckle grows into full fledged laughter. "..... but, I don't think it would fit in with the theme begun."

A challenge? Perhaps that is how the linguist sees the reply-verse of the Warden, and so, with yet a sparkle of amusement in her eye, she responds with yet another verse of her own.

"Wardens there shall always be,

But must it be the case for thee,

That you should speak so fair a word

And ne'er by others have it heard?"

A touch of light laughter again comes from Aluirwen, and she does seem amused at this game of verse. But the words of the Tailor draw her attention, and her eyes widen slightly as with some previous thought remembered, and as she directs her next words toward Galharth, there is a hint of query in her gaze. "Ah, to speak of crafts, mellon..."

To this the warden raises his chin: the challenge, if it can be called such, is accepted.

"I stay unnoticed. This is safest.

To flee from fame and elven-maids

I stay silent, and harp in shadow..."

"In shadow ... " Maglind murmurs, fumbling for words. But for now, it seems, he has been defeated. A laughing gaze now flicks to Galharth.

A brow lifts as the Tailor turns towards the Bard. "You wish to speak of crafts?" Turning as Maglind begins his verse, a twinkle appears in the Craftmasters eyes. "Ah, while no bard, my verses certainly make as much sense as those now sung." Tilting his head back slightly, Galharth slightly closes his eyes as his lips part and a deep rich sound beings for form. Soft and sweet, the ellon's love of craft comes forth in verse.

Long is the length upon first sight

cut to slender and delicate form

the pieces invisibly bound

It is for the first to dance around

Fashioned with beads and lace

tender song twines fabric in place

design unseen, yet clearly around

formed to bring forth pleasure

Mingle nature, hand, and song...

His eyes now open and his cheeks color slightly. "Well, I don't know about you, but I have the strangest urge to make a gown...." He says with a laugh.

The mirth of the linguist does not end, but only heightens at the verse of the Warden. The verses of the Craftsmaster, however, perhaps soften the amusement of Aluirwen, for they are surely spoken more in seriousness than were her own. Yet merriment remains upon the visage of the glirdan as the verses of the crafter end, and a light trail of her own laughter mingles with the laughter of Galharth.

"Great love have you of craft, my friend,

Your verses fair you should not end,

But speak, I must, of my new task:

If of your craft I might you ask."

Struck dumb for the moment, his lips mouthing words that are mute, Maglind stares at Aluirwen and Galharth. "My friend, I never knew you sang..."

Again the Tailor snorts softly towards the Warden. "What exactly do you think I do when I knit or crochet? And to be honest, you've never been present when I embroider." Galharth replies to Maglind's words. "And works such as the quilt, they take much out of my for I pour forth my very fea into song."

Turning his gaze to Aluirwen, he lifts a brow. "You have questions about crafting? Which field?" The clothier asks curiously.

"Indeed, I have questions!" calls the linguist, though her lilting words halt swiftly enough, perhaps as she reconsiders her words. "Or, one question, for the moment, is what I would mean, in truth." Here again Aluirwen pauses, a touch of thought upon her mien, a look which is quickly displaced again.

"I had wondered, Craftsmaster, if your talents were far and many. For I have need of something and who better to ask than the Craftsmaster himself!" There is surely a note of mirth upon her tone, and she sweeps into a low curtsey, an overly-dramatic gesture to accompany the mirth in her voice.

"Then she will have you sing a song," guesses Maglind under his breath -- though his voice is much too loud for elven ears.

A sudden expression of suspicion crosses over the craftmaster's expression, and he peers at Aluirwen for several moments before reponding. "If a question needs answering, the ask away, and if I can I will answer." Galharth says slowly. Glancing quickly to Maglind, a half smile appears upon the Tailors lips. "Nay, enough with the song tonight, or I will surely have need to make something later."

Perhaps the linguist notes the looks of suspicion, and perhaps this only serves to brighten her mood further. "Ah, but 'tis not so difficult a question, this question of mine. I had but wondered, as the spring continues and summer approaches..." The words of Aluirwen trail off, no explanation given for this seeming tangent.

"I seek a basket," she continues, words lilting as ever. "One rather large basket. About this big..." She pauses here, gesturing with her arms to indicate a size that would be nigh as large as she could carry in her arms. "As Craftsmaster, perhaps you might have some idea as to where I might seek such a thing?"

A ... basket. Maglind leans slightly forward, dumbstruck; blue eyes brim with laughter, shining like stars. But he, too, plots.

"I am unversed in the guild of crafters. But perhaps you could ask a vintner: he might coax the vines to grow over each other, forming a basket?"

"A basket?" Galharth asks dumbfounded. His answer, certainly a simple one, is delayed long enough for Maglind to speak. "A basket....." he mutters softly. Clearing his throat, he looks to Aluirwen, "Normally, our basket weavers provide baskets." Nodding to Maglind he smiles, "And while some spend time at the grape vines, plucking the most post fruit bearing vines for their craft, the more consistent Basket Weavers spend time in the Carpenters shop. Try there and let them know I sent you."

Taking a deep breath, the Clothier backs away and bows his head. "Alas, I'll need to carry on my walk if I'm to have the strenth in my leg for other pursuits. "Be well this eve," he says as he turns and sets off down the stairs.

"Aye, a basket," echoes Aluirwen, heeding carefull the reply of the Craftsmaster. "Inquire there I will indeed do," says she, nodding toward Galharth as he makes to leave. "Farewell and fare you well, mellon, 'til we meet again..." So bids the glirdan as the crafter leaves, and the elleth and the Warden are the twain who yet remain. And it is then that she replies to the comments of Maglind.

"Ah, and know you such a vintner? For verily I would fain see such a spectacle as this: vines that weave themselves into a basket." There is mirth in her starlight-grey gaze as she looks to the harpist.

"I do not," replies Maglind, looking after the Master. "But Galharth will know. And perhaps you might visit the vineyard."

And he turns back to his harp, stroking the strings thoughtfully with slender fingers.