4/4/2008

================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Evening < About 6:14 PM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 26 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 19 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3043>
----------------------------------------------------------------------
RL time: Fri Apr 04 16:04:57 2008
=====================================================================
Long Lawn
You stand amidst a long lawn of shining grass. It ripples in the gentle river breezes like tresses of golden hair, sprinkled too with hundreds of golden elanor flowers which radiate with the light of the sun. The eastern edge of the lawn fades into a white-stone beach, lapped upon by the deep and dark waters of the broad Anduin river which flows from the north, continuing southwards forever onto the sea. Joining the Anduin directly to the south is the Celebrant river, which hurries towards you from between the groves of Mallorns to the northwest. Northwards, the lawn is bordered by a high green wall of dense forest growth. With your sharp elven eyes, you spy a small recess in the wall, perhaps a passageway which leads through it.

Contents:

Aluirwen

Ship Wreck Figurehead



The crisp scent of autumn blows along the breeze that flows with the river as the last rays of light flicker in objection along the mountain range to the west. Birds chirp joyfully as they move from the grass to the trees, gathering food and blades of grass. A delicate tickle of cool air within the breeze signals the coming winter, and it seems all within nature responds. Save for the sound of wildlife, and the gentle lapping of water against the shore, there is silence on the long lawn this eve. Upon the shore, a lovely teal green robe, and silky white shirt sit upon the shore beside soft leather boots.

Wading into the water, wearing only his trousers, the Clothier Galharth sweeps his hands through the water as if greeting a friend. Pausing a moment, he glances across the river to the opposite shore. The moment is short, and when it ends, the Tailor dives into the water, disappearing into the deep dark waters of the Anduin.

But for the washing of the river's water upon the shore, the lawn would be silent, indeed. Even the steps of another must be silent, or are perhaps are merely masked by the Tailor's diving, for as Galharth dives into the Anduin, green-slippered feet are there at the shore, standing just beside the teal robe, as if she had been there all along.

Nigh like a phantom of sorts is the linguist Aluirwen, her bearing solemn, wreathed in both silence and stillness, save for the way in which the autumn breeze coaxes her gossamer shawl into its embrace. In her hands she clutches a small drawstring pouch, but her eyes are cast toward the river's water, toward the place where the Craftsmaster has disappeared. And those same, greyed eyes are expectant, mayhap patiently awaiting the reappearance of Galharth.

Quietly separating from the high wall composed of trees, a grey cloak meanders along the grass. Its attempts not to be seen take little effort, for the green lawn waves and dances to the breath of autumn, and the cloak is lost among that verdant sea.

Moments pass, and in that time it seems that the cheerful chirps of the birds fall expectantly silent. Light flickers and fails upon the mountain range as the dying embers of day give way to night. As the water smooths over and no signs remain of the Tailors existence, a sudden burst comes forth from the river!

Water splashes upward, arching from hands reaching towards the surface. A blink in time passes and a silvery head follows as Galharth bursts from the surface. Gasping eagerly for air, the clothier wades gently upon the rivers surface, focusing not upon the shore, but upon something held within his hand. Holding it up to the light, something twinkles in the last ray of day's light.

The expectant gaze of Aluirwen finds indeed what, or whom, it has watched for, and yet even then the linguist does not move, does not speak. Moments pass where she but watches the approach of the Tailor, and only then she does make her presence clearly known. She bows her head, visage shadowed both with the coming of night and a tint of sadness, and she clutches her pouch more tightly. And then a greeting of sorts she lends to Galharth, the sound of it softened and meek, like a melodic nigh-whisper.

"Craftsmaster..."

Shiny things from the river: this draws the interest of the ellon in the cloak. Stepping from the lawn onto white-pebbled shore, the grey figure stands there, watching in silence.

Holding something up over the water as if to view the item in the last glimmers of light, the sound of someone speaking startles the Tailor as Aluirwen's words reach his ears. The item, and the hand that holds it disappears quickly into the murky surface of the water as he turns towards the sound. Even at a distance, the Crafters startled expression can be viewed. "Well met," he calls out over the water as he moves to swim towards shore.

Nearing the shore, Galharth rises up slowly as his feet touch upon the river bed. His eyes flicker between the Loremaster and the Marchwarden, before he asks coolly, "How might I help you?"

Again is the linguist found motionless for a time, as if it takes great courage of her to do what she does next. Her head yet bowed toward Galharth, she deftly opens her drawstring pouch and produces from it a small wooden ring. This she presents toward the Craftsmaster, holding it between her thumb and forefinger.

"A long road have I trod in order to find you, Craftsmaster. But I am sure, now, that it is the road that I must tread, no matter what I might find when I reach the end of it." She pauses, and all about her becomes still once more, even the breeze lending her shawl a moment of respite. And when she speaks again, perhaps a hint of wavering might be heard upon her lyrical tones.

"This ring... I cannot bear to wear it until I have begged your forgiveness."

No word gives the marchwarden to the tailor; only a desultory nod and the brief flicker of downcast eyes reveals the coolness of his mien.

But Aluirwen's plea -- this, perhaps, is something with which Maglind finds objection. He takes a step forward, one hand raised, lips parting in a frown.

Galharth's lower lip quivers with uncertainty as the badge of the Gwaith-i_Thein is revealed. His gaze moves slowly from the ring to the Loremaster. His head tilts slightly and confusion reflects within the Craftsmasters eyes. "A crafter serves the peoples of our land. Dedication and selflessness is the way of the artist and creator who bears the title of Crafter," he says softly. "While I serve our guild as Craftsmaster, this does not imply that anyone serves or owes me anything." Pausing a moment, he gaze wavers towards the Marchwarden, before quickly returning to Aluirwen. "No one owes me anything, and none should expect or require forgiveness from me." Frowning deeply, the Clothier adds, "Tell me, what has brought me to this impression that you require forgiveness?"

But the confused mien of Galharth, the wordless objection of Maglind: Aluirwen does not see these things, for her eyes are ever turned down toward the stones underfoot. And yet, despite this, there is little pause before she replies the Craftsmaster, words that ring with usual musicality, and alongside it there is perhaps a touch of urgency in the swift words.

"But there is, indeed, something which I owe you, Craftsmaster. On the day that you gave me this," says she, extending her hand a touch more toward Galharth to indicate that she speaks of the ring, "you had accepted my request to join yourself and the others crafters in gladness. And yet, all that I gave to you in return was hurt." Here, again, Aluirwen pauses, but it is here that finally she raises her eyes from their downward-bound gaze. The briefest of moments are these eyes turned toward Maglind, and it might even seem that the linguist is loath to look to him at all; finally her gaze settles upon Galharth and there it is openly regretful.

"'Twas by my words that a rift drove itself between two whom I deem were once friends. And for that, Galharth... For that, you have all the apologies that I could ever utter." These words spoken, the gaze of Aluirwen drifts toward the Anduin, an expectant tension in her bearing.

Gildor approaches the long lawn silently enjoying the walk, but only hears pieces of the words spoken. The voice is well known to him through his visit in the woods. He stops at the entrance where the scene comes into view, the noldo doesn't move forward immediately thinking himself to be intruding. His gray eyes scan trying to get a feel for what has taken place

"No! But," is Maglind's objection, delivered rather hastily and forcefully; and he tries to gentle his voice now, looking rather taken aback at himself, "why so harsh upon yourself, Loremaster?"

Indeed something does flicker in the Craftsmasters eyes as Aluirwen speaks, but it lasts only a moment before he bows his head as if to think. "Any hurt that I might bear in regards to personal matters does not touch the GWaith-i-Thein." Moving fully from the water to stand upon the rivers edge, Galharth looks up. As he does, any emotion that might have been is now buried as his eyes cast their gaze upon the Loremaster. "One can not mingle the needs of our peoples with personal or private agendas."

Turning now towards the Marchwarden, the clothier's crystal blue gaze holds a slight hint of coolness. "I hold no blame over the Loremasters head for any feelings that might have been bruised by the actions of another. Worry not, Maglind."

"Then let there be no question as to what I ask! Aluirwen, elleth of Lothlorien, asks... nay, begs the forgiveness of Galharth, ellon of the same Wood!"

The outburst of Maglind is ignored by the linguist, at least for the time being, for the whole of the attentions of the elleth is upon Galharth, save for a brief moment where her gaze flickers to her ring, which she returns to its pouch and pulls the strings taut, as if to hide it from view would remove what hindrance it seems to now present. The eyes of the linguist upon the Craftsmaster are saddened, fretful, regretful, ever-pleading, the same as her first words. And only after moments of this does Aluirwen finally heed Maglind, and this same gaze does she turns to him, though her words are softer.

"Maglind... my apology to you yet stands as well."

A sigh comes from the guard's tightened lips, an echo of whispers following: "Why be so unkind to yourself? It was not you who brought upon this rift, but me."

It seems an unwilling burden for the guard to raise his eyes to Galharth, but he does so: blue searching for blue. "It is my turn, perhaps, to cry regret."

Dripping with the cool pure water of the Anduin, the Tailor shakes his head. "There is nothing to forgive, dear lady. You've done me no harm. In honesty, there can be no harm to help another learn the truths of this world." Taking a small step towards the elleth, the corner of his mouth rises slightly. "I swear this, Aluirwen, elleth of Lothlorien, you've caused me no hurt to regret." Bending his head forwards slightly, the clothier continues to peer at the Loremaster. "If you've done something that I've not yet learned, then I suppose we can discuss that when we are all have equal knowledge."

What warmth might have been extended, hangs resistant as Galharth turns towards Maglind. "You? Nay, I brought it upon myself." he says flatly. "Fool that I am, I likened us as brothers and friend who might share joys and sorrows for the benefit of us both...... again I say fool, for that is precisely what I was shown to be. Lacking of trust, of sharing, and indeed, any form of connection that might be considered close. Nay, Maglind. Not your fault but my own, and I thank you for setting me straight." Holding his gaze a moment longer, the half clad Crafter tucks the article in his hand into his trouser pocket. "Now.... if you will excuse me, I'd like to inspect a few more things upon the sunken ship." Turning, he takes a step towards the water, but seem to hesitate.

Quieted words are those lent to the warden on the part of the linguist, words that are yet washed with sadness. "But were it not for me, perhaps this rift would never have come to pass..." It would seem that Aluirwen truly does think herself responsible.

And yet, with the words of the Tailor, the greyed gaze of the elleth rises again to him, a touch of something nearly openly hopeful to be glimpsed therein. "Nay, there is naught more..." she replies quietly, and her hopeful gaze continues, just until the touch of warmth flees from Galharth. And at that moment, there is the first step that Aluirwen has been seen to have taken, and it is taken backward, away from where the conflict churns. But Aluirwen is not so taken aback that she is found wordless, and the words that she speaks are quieted, sorrowed anew, and surely directed toward Galharth.

"But then... then, you would have me be blind to the conflict I see before me?"

"Aye, a fool," replies Maglind, his muted, placid tone belying the limbs that stiffen, the lip that trembles, "to think that the actions representing friendship would come to anything other than naught. It would be best to forget the ill-fated catapult, and our journeys, and the cursed knife in that wreck -- what have you found tonight, Master Tailor? -- for the value you might have seen in me is now void."

"The troubles at the borders you might put behind you as well," the marchwarden continues, eyes wavering to the river and beyond. "I am returning to those borders now, Craftsmaster. Should you meet an enemy there in your wanders, sir, I will come to your aid, but only for my duty to Lothlorien -- nothing more, if that is how you wish it."

Turning with great haste, temper flashes in the Tailor's eyes. "I admit I am the fool, so at least you can show some honor and keep your taunts to yourself!" Color rises upon Galharth's cheeks, and his chest flares with the drawing of air. "Return to your borders, if that is your will, and carry with you a good laugh at one who so foolishly thought himself your friend!" Ignoring all else, the Craftsmaster turns once more to move with less grace into the water as if it might save him from further embarrassment.

The eyes of the linguist turn between the two, first to the marchwarden and then to the tailor, and then back again, as if she knows not what to make of this storm that has not only been brewing but that now lashes out. Another step backwards takes she, clutching her drawstring pouch, tension in all of her bearing.

For a time she is speechless, Aluirwen, again found lacking her beloved words. But then her eyes settle upon the warden, plainly sorrowed.

"Maglind..." If there was more to this phrase, it is left unfinished.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Maglind retreats. "As you wish," he says quietly to the waters.

Turning away, he faces the loremaster. "Aluirwen," replies the guard calmly, though a master of language such as she might sense surging current under glassy ice. "I have misled, it seems; worry no more, for I doubt you will see such an exchange like this again. And wear the ring. It is a symbol of your many achievements."

He strides away, but one glance ventured behind his back.