Smithy
A large room with a dirt-packed floor and well-ventilated roof housing the many
smelting furnaces and forges used to make every manner of metal good for the
elves of Lothlorien. One large furnace is positioned along the northern wall of
the room, and another along the southern wall, each with heavy iron kettles for
smelting the various ores used. Forge areas are dispersed in the interviening
space, accompanied by cooling troughs of water, metal molds, and an array of
tools for handling and working the metals. Along the back walls are shelves of
raw materials and hanging or laying in racks are the finished products of the
smiths' toils - glittering swords and spears, armor of various make, and other
smaller items.
At each corner of the bustling smithy is an arched doorway. Above each are
guilded plates in sindarin script signifying, clockwise from the northwest,
Pottery Shop, Bakery, Jewelry Shop, and Wood Shop. Also, in a nook in the
middle of the back wall rests a rope ladder that mounts upward to the crafter
telain above.
Heat. It is the overwhelming sensation here in this, the citadel of
metalworking within the hill-city of Lothlorien. It weighs upon the air. It
thickens within the lungs. It drips upon the face as warm honey upon the skin -
both pleasureful and yet disconcerting.
Apprentices and journeyelfs walk purposefully hither and yon. Their energy is
as palpable as the heat, and yet their gate is controlled, for ever are the
smiths mindful of safety and certainty. In front of the northern hearth a small
knot of leather-vested workers are gathered, huddled as it were about some
particularly curious, troublesome, whatnot, project. In the midst of the
animated gathering is the craftmaster, alike to the others in raiment, yet
clearly different in so many ways. He nods sagely as the discussion flows, only
speaking occasionally to add this or that ingot of skill.
The blast of hot air coming hard upon the coolness of early spring stops
Lothdaimoth in the doorway. His soft grey shirt almost immediately begins to
cling to his body; black hair hangs limply down his back. After a pause, he
begins to make his way through the busy room towards the door to the woodshop.
Dark eyes scan the room with some interest, but more to keeping himself out
from underfoot; until they light on the craftmaster and he stops again nearly
as abruptly as before. When more steps are taken, it is obvious he has changed
his destination, for his path now leads directly for that small group. Pausing
just outside the wall of elven crafters, he looks across many heads, trying to
catch Aegraum's eye.
The discussion amongst the smiths cascades from one edhil to the next, each
providing some opinion on the strength or weakness of a particular course of
action. At a momentary pause, one of the journeymen turns from the bright red
of the hearth and notices the visitor. Nodding as he pulls away from the
conversation, he greets you, "Mae govennen, mellon. I am Turondil. May I help
you?"
"Thank you. I was hoping to speak to the craftsmaster, but it appears he is
busy...?" Lothdaimoth's voice slides up in question and he turns his gaze back
to Aegraum for a second before looking again to the journeyman. "I can wait."
And he settles his stance a little more comfortably.
"Just a moment," commands Turondil, before turning back to the knot of smiths.
He works his way through the gathering and, as he reaches the side of the
craftmaster, bends to whisper a word or two into his ear.
Aegraum nods, raising his eyes now to gaze upon the Prefect, and with a final
warning about annealing too rapidly, detaches himself from the discussion and
approaches you. "Good day, Prefect," offers the noldo, inclining his head
formally, "come, let us speak where it is not so hot." He motions toward the
arched doorway that leads to the bakery, the only of the main portals in the
Smithy standing open at the moment. As the door is neared, the heat subsides
noticeably, beaten back by a gentle breeze from the causeway to the bakery on
the other side of the great mallorn at the center of the craft guild complex.
His face impassive, yet still ruddy from his recent activities, craftmaster
arches a brow with curiousity and gestures solicitously, "What would you have
of me, mellon?"
No words are spoken by the prefect until he also reaches the relatively cooler
area at the bakery. And there, he visibly becomes more comfortable. Physically
at least, for it is still several minutes before he says anything at all. "I
have been considering some things..." he pauses again and then gives one
shoulder the barest shrug. "I wanted to speak with you about becoming a
vintner." His dark eyes are shuttered, the emotions behind them locked
carefully away. "I have already talked with Erinstar, he has given me
permission to spend some of my time away from the Arnpand. If you will allow
it." A smile, small and mirthless though it may be, tugs at his lips and warms
his expression a little. But whatever thought crossed his mind to bring it
remains unspoken.
Aegraum, too, takes his time, raising a hand to rub absently at the ridge of
his jaw as he considers the Prefect's request. "Glad I am to hear that you have
spoken of this to the Herald," he replies finally, the golden brows now
slightly furrowed as he continues to ponder some internal matter, "for surely I
would have naught to say were it not so."
"And as you have done so," he continues, voice raising slightly as he
transitions to a less pensive mode, "I find myself sensing the clarity in your
spirit on this matter. So tell me, Lothdaimoth nos Raavindonserke, what is the
desire of your fea in this? What song does it cry within you to take you from
the council rooms of the Arnpand to the fields and presses of the vintners?"
And now the manbedir looks away, eyes seeking the middle distance, they focus
on naught but air. A small furrow appears between his eyebrows as he considers
his words. At last words come, slowly and almost hesitant. "I find much to
interest me in my work. But... lately the world seems very chaotic and there is
so little I can do. I feel a need to find a greater connection to something of
order to - to bring balance to my life." Now his eyes seek Aegraum's, something
of his inner unhappiness showing in their depths. "As for why the grapes, I
think I cannot tell you. Only there is something in them that speaks to me."
Again he shrugs and smiles wryly. "I can't explain it."
"The guild is no pass-time, mellon," responds the noldo somewhat reprovingly,
though his face is still devoid of emotion. "If it is a diversion you need, I
am certain that the wine masters would accept your occasional assistance with
gratitude. Entrance to the Gwaith-I-Thein, however, requires a committment - a
committment to serve the Wood as you serve your own spirit." Eyes like the edge
of the golden-hilted blade at his side peer searchingly at you, now, blue-gray
and sharp as the eagle's beak, seeking within you (as some say is the gift of
the princeling's line) for the intent and desire that lay there. "Would you
swear oaths to this committment, Prefect?" he asks finally, the intensity in
his ageless voice deafening. "This I must know, e're I address your request."
Dark eyes meet the craftmaster's blue ones unflinchingly. "Yes." The single
word stands alone, filled with the integrity that is at the core of
Lothdaimoth's being. And it is not overborne in being joined by others. "A
diversion is not what I seek."
Long moments more does the craftmaster stand without word, eyes wide open and
yet somehow shrouded, as if not really looking *at* the other. Eventually,
though, he begins to nod, his eyes slowly returning to the here and now. "I
believe it is so," he mutters finally, though to whom may be debated.
"Swear to me then, Lothdaimoth nos Raavindonserke," intones the noldo, the
clarity and intensity now firmly returned to his demeanor, "that you shall give
unreservedly of body, mind, and spirit in the service of the Lady and the Wood,
and that you shall pursue this desire of your fea to its destined end, for none
yet stand in these lands who may see every end to every beginning. Swear these,
mellon, and you shall have entrance to the guild."
Lothdaimoth stands quietly under the other's scrutiny whether he is looked at
or through, until the craftmaster begins to speak. Then each word spoken is
listened to intently, weighed against the memory of other oaths spoken and
binding; and at last the manbedir nods once, a confirmation of his decision and
desire. "I do so swear. Whatever the ending may be, I will serve both Lady and
Wood, withholding nothing that is mine to give." His voice is steady, certain.
"Then it shall be as you desire," responds Aegraum evenly, quietly - the words
spoken as if leveling a doom upon the intended recipient. He allows a small
smile, though, and laying a hand upon your shoulder adds more warmly, "Welcome
into the brotherhood of the guild, mellon."
Warmth from the hand on his shoulder eases through Lothdaimoth's shirt. And
finally the smile he offers in return reaches his eyes, lightening them of some
of their grief and returning some measure of joy. "Thank you."
Aegraum nods once more then, the smile quickly receeding as other matters filter
back into his mind. "Now, if you will pardon me, mellon," he offers, beginning to
move back toward the operations of the smithy, "I must see how the others have faired
in my absence. Namarie"
"Namarie." Lothdaimoth remains where he has stood all along, thinking for long
minutes before finally making his way back through the heated, crowded smithy and
out the main entrance. His original errand in coming here has apparently been
forgotten, for not even a glance is sent towards the woodshop as he leaves.