4/3/2008

Theatre
A fine wooden archway teeming with thriving flowering-vines graces the entryway to the Theatre, and the carpet of this place is wrought of soft blades of grass. All about are tall, well-manicured hedges, higher than the heads of elves, unending but where they meet the bole of a mallorn-tree. Opposite the archway rests the stage, and various lamps of golden light are set upon it and about it to provide better light to any performance that might take place there.

Above, the boughs of grand mallorn trees seem to intertwine to form a canopy overhead, but one that still allows sunlight, moonlight, and starlight to glimmer through. Heavy marble benches of the purest white are set in straight, neat rows, beginning near the stage and stretching almost to the back of the theatre. There, instead of benches, a few round tables of the same white marble are scattered, and three wooden chairs are set at each.

Contents:
Galharth
Galadriel


A golden morning upon the Golden Wood; dew is upon everything here and a thick layer of morning rist is rising off the grasses under the sun's new light. The mist brings a weight to this place and while birdsong can be heard beyond in other parts of the city, here all is still.

Within the quiet theatre now appears a new character: it is the Lady Galadriel, caped in dark green against the morning chill. She stops in the midst of the open expanse, facing the stage and the trees that frame it. She seems expectant.

The squeek of a wheel, and the soft hum of a gentle melody, all follow the entrance of the Lady as the Tailor Galharth enters the Theatre dragging his cart behind him. When coming to a stop, his head rises as if to search for someone, but instead finding the unexpected. "Well met, Lady Galadriel." The clothier says with a smile.

Turning and moving to the back of the cart, he bends to begin rummaging through the packages as if seeking one in particular. "Tis a lovely morn, is it not?" he asks, though to no one in particular.

One might, indeed, wonder what the Lady expects, her eyes upon the stage. A performance, perhaps? Or perhaps it might seem that the Lady will be the audience to a performance-of-sorts in either case. For from behind the white curtain that hides the back part of the stage from the front, a bit of shuffling might be heard, and alongside it a melody: one that is wordless and that wavers between sadness and some measure of gladness.

It may be the words of the Tailor that make the song of the unseen singer fade, for after they would be heard, a hand is seen at the edge of the stage, pushing back the curtain to reveal the linguist Aluirwen, her greyed wide as it falls upon Galharth. And yet, her eyes quickly fall upon the Lady, and the linguist steps from behind the curtain, alights from the stage, and a few steps whisper in approach toward the twain.

"Well met, Lady," says she, bowing her head in greeting. Yet she offers no greeting to the Craftsmaster?

"A lovely morn, aye, though it is lessened by having to end such a beautiful night." The voice belongs to Earsul, and comes from ground level at the back of the amphitheatre where he sits cross-legged in the dew-flecked sward. "I hope the day finds you well, Lady Galadriel - and you too, friends," he adds, seeing others arriving apace. "The bards begin their rehearsals early, I see."

Galadriel looks over her shoulder at the arrived tailor and she smiles a little at him, "A lovely one indeed, mellon. And how fortunate that you have arrived, for I am in need of a...." she pauses before uttering a word that seems too heavy for such a bright morning, "witness." Her gaze finds Earsul now as well and she offers a familiar nod to her Counsel. But whatever this 'witness' is for goes untold at the appearance of Aluirwen. "Lady linguist," says Galadriel by way of a greeting, "I was told I might find you here." If she notices that Aluirwen does not greet Galharth, she does not show it.

Finding a package, seemingly at the very bottom of the cart, the Tailor lifts it easily into his arms. As he rises, he catches both the Linguist's words, and those of the Vintner.... nay Counsel. There is no smile offered to the Scholar, but one rises quickly at the sight of Earsul. "They are not alone in their early start...." What more might be said is lost as the Lady speaks again, drawing all thought towards not so much the words but their manner of speaking. Taking a step forward as if to deliver the package to the stage, he hesitates and flashes a glance from the Lady to the Scholar.

Nioniel hangs back at the archway of the theatre and watches the goings on for a little while in silence. As easy-going as things might appear, to the seamstress there is a hint of tenseness in the atmosphere - especially between Aluirwen and Galharth. Finally working up the courage, Nioniel steps into the light and comes forward, respectively, nodding to each in turn with a timid smile, "Good morning."

Stopping near the stage, a puzzled glance darts between all present as if to ask if anything is the matter.

A sidelong glance is cast toward Galharth, even as the Lady speaks, the gaze of the linguist plain with sadness and fretfulness, and then she presses her lips together, turning her eyes downward once more. But as Galadriel addresses her, the grey eyes spring upward once more, a query to be read within them.

"Aye, Lady Galadriel?" she questions, a weak smile at her lips, her eyes flickering toward the appearance of Nioniel for the briefest of moments before settling on the Lady once more. "You... sought me, milady?"

Turwaithiel had been skirting around the building when the sound of voices with in catches her ear. After a pause out side she rounds the corner and heads to the door. Moving towards the gathering she pauses wondering what has taking in the scene.Its seems that she may have interuptes something, she spots the closest body and heads towards them. Approaching Nioniel, she leans in closely and asks quietly. "What ever is going on?"

A lone blade of grass protrudes high above its fellows, having somehow escaped the attentions of the gardeners. Earsul regards it for a moment, weighing its fate. Decision reached, he plucks it carefully, almost gently, so that the lawn is perfect once again. Winding the grass stem around his finger, he looks back to the unfolding scene in front of him, though his attention has never left it.

Galadriel notes each elf present with a flicker of that ancient blue gaze, but stops at last upon Aluirwen again. She walks slowly towards the elleth, but taking a rather wide circular path; the slowly dissipating mist making the Lady seem ethereal and disconnected from the ground. When at last she stops her circuitous route near Aluirwen, she is now in a position to face both the bard and the others in the glade. "Indeed, I have sought you, Aluirwen, for your names continues to reach my ears of late. Most recently for a performance you gave some nights past; a performance laced with sorrow - or so I was told - and that following this you bestowed a new rank upon the Minstrel Thorhur." The lady narrows her eyes first, then raises them to the Glirdain flet above. "There have been whispers that you yourself may be abandoning your position in the guild." It is steady eye now with which Galadriel watches Aluirwen, critical and curious at the same time.

With a quivering lip of uncertainty, the Tailor moves quick and light afoot towards the stage. The wind briefly bows, setting a strange whistle into a now strangely quiet Theatre. Dropping the package on the stage, Galharth appears almost cowardly as he quickly retreats behind his cart just as the Lady speaks.

At the Lady's final words, the Clothier gasps audibly as his eyes grow wide.

Still completely puzzled herself, Nioniel turns toward the newly arrived Turwaithiel, and shakes her head briefly. Whispering back, she says, "I very much wish that I could tell you - but I can't understand it, myself."

Looking at Earsul as he brings the lawn to perfection, the elleth seems even more confused - if that is even possible.

Listening to Galadriel speak, Nioniel's reaction is suddenly changed and very much akin to Galharth's. She gasps, and her hand brushes her cheek. Looking at Aluirwen in shock, she cries (quite out of turn) "It can't be true, mellon!"

Turwaithiel pauses to take in the news. She does her best to set her face in a neutral expression but a moment of shock before she manges it. This is indeed news and unexpected news at that. She wonders what the reason behind this could be but she holds her tongue on that matter if she were meant to know she would have. "This is indeed unexpected and a bit shocking. But I am sure you know what your doing."

The greyed gaze of the linguist follows the Lady, indeed, in all of her otherworldly course, but when Galadriel speaks of her performance, these same eyes seek the grass once more. In her bearing now there is little but meekness and fretfulness, a bowed head reminiscent of one who bears some guilt; the critical, curious gaze of the Lady she does not see, but perhaps it is felt well enough. And it is long before Aluirwen replies, a tense pause before her words, quieted, come.

"I cannot deny it, Lady... You do speak the truth... My most recent performance was not one filled with mirth, and 'tis true that I named Thorhur a Minstrel..." The words trail off, lost in the morning mist. Yet they are not the last words of the linguist. For her eyes fly upward with all haste, and there is something pleading in her expression, a nigh desperate tone in her swift speech.

"But these rumors, Lady... they are not true!"

Drawing herself up tall and straight, the Lady of the Wood lifts her chin and continues to study Aluirwen as she speaks, it seems, to gauge the truthfulness of her words. "Not true?" she repeats, and her eyes travel to Earsul at the far end of the lawn. "It seems a wickedly loose tongue is at large in my court," she muses, her tone implying that no answer is expected. She then looks again upon the woman at her side, "I am glad to hear this is not true. And I myself have sung a sad song at times. You are then committed to the post and guild? Would you promise that to all witnesses present...for they seemed quite taken aback by these false rumors."

Drawing a hand to his lips, as if to cover any words that might pour forth in shock or confusion, the Tailor's brow furrows deeply, and he too turns to glance at Earsul. Blinking several times, Galharth returns his gaze towards Galadriel and Aluirwen. Indeed, it seems that voices in the trees are now silent, watching and listening with such focused attention, all would certainly hear a pin drop.

Blushing deeply at her outburst to Aluirwen, Nioniel casts her own gaze down to the ground and folds her hands in front of herself meekly. Listening silently to Galadriel once more as she should, the elleth glances up with a puzzled expression again ... but this time, there is annoyance mingled with it. As if to ask who would dare spread such rumors, she looks between Galharth and Earsul, and then rather hopeless shrug, her eyes return to Turwaithiel.

Earsul can but raise his eyebrows in surprise. "Your court is full of loose tongues, my Lady, as all good courts should be. It is just a matter of choosing which to heed, and when." He shrugs, and lets his blade of grass fall back down to rest with its fellows. "On this matter, however, I have heard nothing."

Turwaithiel looks about the gathering for a moment before staring towards the middle of the area with out making eye conact with any one member. She knows of course that there will always be rumors but she can not help feelin glad that she did not start with this one. She gives the group one last look before saying anything. "There will always be rumors as long as there are those willing to listen to them. But I can say I do not know who started this one."

"Aye, 'tis true," replies the linguist, and although such things as stirred in her previous words are somewhat calmed, her expression is yet pleading, as if begging the Lady to believe her denouncement of the rumors. Aluirwen clasps her hands before herself and bows her head slightly, though her eyes are yet turned upward toward Galadriel.

"I would promise it, nay, swear it, Lady. It has never been and is not my intention to forsake the Glirdain," says she, her words such that all in the theatre might hear them, and within them is a musical note more usual of her alongside the same touch of pleading as lies in her expression. Yet here her gaze falls toward the ground once more, her words quieted again. "And it troubles me that there are rumors that speak of such things."

"It is well," replies Galadriel, still grave.

As the sun rises higher, the mist is all but gone, leaving the small company in what is now a bright glade of verduous light. The Lady herself seems to shine the brightest as tendrils of sunlight get caught up in her long tresses and cling to her shoulders. She withdraws a hand from her cloak and reaches out to place it on Aluirwen's shoulder. It is a trick of leaves above perhaps, but the light around the Lady seems somehow to reach out and rest upon Aluirwen as well now. "None shall doubt your words, sister," she says quietly. "And it just what I knew I should hear from your own lips. That is why I have brought you something." With both hands now she brings forth an object, hidden till now among the folds of her cloak.

It is an amulet of muted gold. On one side is blue stone, carved into the shape of a star and set flush with the gold. On the other side is carved the Sindarin words, "Write and sing the breathings of your heart."

"Aluirwen o' Dinlom, I name thee a Master Linguist and Loremaster of the Glirdain," Galadriel intones, then unable to restrain herself any longer, bursts into smiles and reaches out to hang the amulet upon Aluirwen's neck.

An expression of relief is quickly overtaken with sincere joy, as the Lady's words are heard. Lowering his hand, the Tailor calls out, "Congratulations Aluirwen! Certainly the Glirdain will benefit with your guidance!" Drawing his hands together, he offers a warm series of claps to express his praise for the appointment.

The light of the Lady, whether it be a trick of the light or no, does rest upon the linguist, and her gaze is again swift to raise itself from the ground at up toward the Lady, even as the amulet is hung about her neck. Within that gaze there is surprise unrestrained and yet a gladness that seems to have conquered what worriedness was there before. A smile finds itself at her lips then, genuine and gentle, and a soft wash of rose colour brushes its pink across her cheeks.

"I... I..." The words are yet softened and waver a touch, the student of words seemingly without the object of her study. "I thank you, Lady Galadriel," she finishes finally, bowing her head. "I shall put all my efforts to accomplishing my duties."

Looking mightily relieved, Nioniel's eyes close for a brief second, and she breathes a soft "whew" to herself as Aluirwen swears that she will not leave the guild. Rumors can so upset the balance of things ... But none the less, the seamstress remains silent.

As the solemnity continues and Galadriel speaks, bringing forth the beautiful object to place 'round the linguist's neck, Nioniel's hands cover her lips to stifle a delighted gasp. Her eyes sparkle with joy for her friend's sake and she beams at her in quiet congratulations. Then, taking cue from Galharth, she too begins to applaud as Aluirwen accepts her promotion with grace.

Galadriel leans forward and lays a gentle kiss on the Loremaster's forehead. "I know," she says simply and then retreats, allowing the others present to bestow their congratulations upon the deserving Aluirwen. If anyone should care to take notice when the excitement has lulled, they would find the Lady gone.

Earsul's smile is wry, as he realises that the entire intrigue of the morning has been of Galadriel's own making. He shakes his head, and easily raises himself to his feet. Smile now full and heartfelt, he walks towards the stage, adding his voice to the chorus. "Congratulations, mellon, the honour is well deserved."

Turwaithiel gives a smile and nod to the new lore master. "Well, this was unexpected but I can not I say it was not undeserved. Truely I can not think of any one who deserves it more."

The newly-made Loremaster smiles toward the words of the Lady, and presses her lips together as if stifling some trickling of laughter that longs to escape. Yet it does not, and Aluirwen turns to look upon the others who are in the theatre, bowing her head a bit as if a touch abashed at the applause and words of congratulations.

And yet, as her gaze falls upon the Craftsmaster, perhaps the previous mien of Aluirwen returns to try to overcome this new joy bestowed by the Lady. Despite this, her eyes linger upon Galharth for a moment before her steps trail in the same direction as her gaze is cast, and these whispering steps only quit as they near him.

"Craftsmaster, I..." Again the linguist seems without her words.

In the cheers that echo in the Theatre after the Lady's announcement, the Tailor moves to the front of his cart and slowly turns it around and heads towards the archway. He hears not the Loremasters words, but instead, resumes humming softly to himself, disappearing along the roadway.

Grinning up at Aluirwen still, Nioniel ceases her clapping and chuckles, "Congratulations, mellon. I am so very glad for you ... " She pauses and watches Galharth turn and leave abruptly and chuckles. Turning back to Aluirwen, she smiles warmly, "You deserve it - and I shouldnt worry about living up to the title at all. No one could do it better than yourself, I think."

Then, she turns to leave herself, giving a wink in Aluirwens direction: "I should think this calls for a bit of a celebration later on, dont you?" And with that, she leaves the theater with a light and airy step.

Turwaithiel nods in agreement. "Alas there are things that need my attnetion. But I do wish you the best with your new post. I did mean it when I said I could think noother better." With she turnes to follow the others out.

The sun hangs low in the sky, sending slanted rays of light upon the wood of Lothlorien, a light that falls upon the leaves of the mellyrn and makes them brighter and yet more vibrant. And here, upon the Golden Roadway, that same light falls upon the waters of the fountain, flashing and dancing upon the surface along with a few stray leaves that have fallen into the fountain's pool.

And into this play of light there appears a shadow: a dark-tressed elleth clad in deep green who appears from the archway to the theatre. A gossamer-seeming shawl of green to match her gown does Aluirwen wear, and her steps are a touch swift, a bit rushed-seeming, as she moves further into the courtyard. She clings to a small cloth pouch, made of the same green as her garb, and darkling tendrils of her hair trail out behind her as she moves.

Also entering the area of the fountain is another figure. The only sound that might signify his approach is the soft thud of his cane upon the stones. His head is bowed slightly, and his eyes are upon the ground. It seems as if he hums a soft tune, although if he is, it would be nearly imperceptible to most.

Slowly though, the Minstrel's eyes rise. They come to rest upon Aluirwen. Immediately, they begin sparkling, and with a solemn smile he walks forward a step further but says nothing.

Gildor has been sitting near the fountain a while this day parchment in his hands. If one would look close enough they would see a detailed map of this region of middle earth. He looks up as a few enter the courtyard, the sea-elf finds his feet quickly smoothing his cloak down upon his form. The heru's gaze falls upon each and gives a nod in turn.

Gildor has been sitting near the fountain a while this day parchment in his hands. If one would look close enough they would see a detailed map of this region of middle earth. He looks up as a few enter the courtyard, the sea-elf finds his feet quickly smoothing his cloak down upon his form. The heru's gaze falls upon each and gives a nod in turn.(repose)

Her bare toes step lightly, swiftly, on the road, and nothing is heard of them. The Elf crouches poisedly as she strides, almost as a cat hunting a mouse. Her gaze is as a hawk's, following slight movement in the grasses, oblivious to the presence of others.

The steps of the linguist lead her toward the fountain, where she espies both Gildor contemplating his map and Thorhur. At the sights of them, however, the swift steps of Aluirwen halt abruptly, and she brings her cloth pouch yet nearer to herself, as if she would seek to protect it from the two. Yet, her eyes dart toward the movement of another among the grasses, but quickly return to the two before her.

She perhaps seems to hesitate, the linguist, but if it is on account of only one of these two or both of them, it is not entirely clear. "Good day to you both," she greets, the words quieted and yet melodic.

Thorhur looks up with a smile. "Ah, my dear Linguist! How are you this day?" All hints of their past meetings are gone from the Sentinel's face as he approaches Aluirwen slowly. His eyes sparkle as he stares at the scholar for a moment, then steps back. "I have not seen you for a few days, Aluirwen. I hope you are well."

The noldo stows the map back in his bag held on his side. Gildor's bright grey eyes scan each but the words of the elleth brings him back to her. "Indeed it is a fine day mellon, was just going over my maps a bit." the sea-elf looking to the ellon. "Well met." his voice springs out but his footfalls are towards the elleth.

The linguist yet seems hesitant, yet holding her cloth pouch near to her, but she manages a small smile to the minstrel, nodding toward him. "Aye, I am well..." Here Aluirwen pauses and her visage changes to one that questions, as if she puzzles over something. "You... have not heard?" she queries, dipping her head a touch as if slightly abashed.

The words of Gildor she hears as well, then, and she turns toward him, the query remaining in her gaze. "Your maps?" she begins, clutching her pouch a bit more tightly. "Then... you plan to soon depart?"

Out of nowhere, an elleth appears on the Roadway. Approaching Thorhur, she whispers something, then waits for his response. The sentinel answers back with a whisper, then turns to Aluriwen. "I have not heard..." Thorhur begins with a furrowed brow.

"Alas though," he continues, his voice lowering, "There are things that must be attended to immediately I am afraid. Apparently the healers would like to look at my leg once more." With a wave, Thorhur departs with the elleth, wondering what it is he did not hear.

"I do not belive I have heard either." the elf-lord says with laugh though his eyes moves to the pouch which the elleth keeps moving, it doesn't go unnoticed but he doesn't say anything of yet. Gildor shakes his head in response to the question asked. "Nay, not immediately."

"Ah, then..." But the linguist is not able to finish her sentence before the sentinel is ushered off by the elleth, and she presses her lips together in a moment of thought, a pensive frown upon her expression just until she returns her attentions to the sea-elf. And seemingly to the latter of his words, she nods once, but she also replies in words, her tones hushed, a touch of sadness lingering just upon the fringes of them.

"There would be two things I might tell you," she begins, her eyes falling to the stones underfoot. "But the first... I question whether or not I truly tread the path that I wish to tread." Her eyes rise once more to Gildor, expectant, as if she presumes that he will understand her words.

Understanding at the elleths words crosses the noldo's face, but he quickly shakes this and is back mearly to his straight face. The sea-elf is silent for another moment but speaks this time his voice lowerd as to only let her hear his next words. "... ... brought about ... ... ... thought, ... something ... ... place?" Gildor finishes awaiting the response of the elleth