Sun Flet -- Dinlom TalanThere is a minor break in the dense verdant canopy overhead, allowing filtered light to spill through and illuminate the platform that was so artfully placed to capture the luxurious rays. A garden within a tree - plantlife in every form, from bloom to bush, hybrid to herbal, create an incredible haven for the soul in search of peace. Infrequent padded benches can be found tucked within the lush vegetation, while tall iron candelabras stand rigid and random among the numerous painted pots. Hovering just above the flet, fixed between a pair of mottled branches, droops a macrame 'hammock' that swings indolently in a faint breath of wind.
The early morning sun lights up the room, gleaming greenly on the plants the abound everywhere here. In the midst of the rioting vegetation, several enormous clay pots stand; tiny seedlings are just poking their heads above the dirt. And next to them sits Goerhim. One hand lays across the dirt, curling protectively, lovingly around the small tree. But green eyes continually dart toward the entrance, and he shifts impatiently.
And there at the flet's entrance, Anor's gleaming morn-rays, bright and glad at the coming of the new day, fall upon first a pallid hand as it grips the rope of a last ladder-rung, and soonafter upon hair of fair gold, igniting it to shimmering. For in but a few more deft steps does Rosgwaen appear, and his leathern-booted feet take leave of their rope perch and find new haven upon the wooden flet. Verdant eyes, sparkled yet unwarmed by the gleam of Arien's ship, find briefly the small plantlets that spring from pots seemingly too big for their seedling girth, and the hand that rests there upon one-- but soon the Knight-Bachelor's gaze shifts to follow the hand and arm to meet his cousin, and there lingers, and his head slowly tilts as if in query. "Mae govannen, Goerhim."
For the moment, Goerhim seems to have given up on his hoped-for visitor, for his head is turned aside, bent over the tree. Long red locks trail down his back. The sound of soft footstep brings his head up, and at Rosgwaen's voice, he whips around and begins to struggle to his feet. "Rosgwaen!" His voice is a little higher and shriller than normal and ill-concealed anxiety lurks in his eyes. "You came!" "Yea, cousin," comes Rosgwaen's soft reply as a phantom smile drifts o'er his mien ere leaving it again bereft of emotion. "I am here. How fare you of late? Does your crutch yet serve you?" A light breeze, swirling across leaf and bough and setting potted greenery to shiver, whispers fey and fleeting at the hem of Golfingund's cloak. Yet soon is it gone, and soon again all is still below the sunlight.
"Yes, it is fine. Thank you." Impatiently, Goerhim brushes this aside. "Rosgwaen, I need your help." He throws his head back, shaking hair from his eyes, which are unwontedly serious and focused. No dreaming today. Looking around cautiously, he appears relieved to see that they are alone. "Mother is very worried. Rhibi has been gone for several days and she doesn't know where he is." A dirt-stained hand clutches the aforementioned crutch tightly. "I know he is heedless and runs about the wood without thought, but ... have you seen him?" Worried eyes stare into his cousin's.
"Nay. I have seen him not..." From on high, somewhere far above hidden in gilded mellyrn-leaves, a bird lilts in glad song, and Rosgwaen's cold gaze shifts from Goerhim as he hearkens to its merry warble. Yet as he turns, the song is silenced, and eyes of chill verdant fall closed as if in thought. "Though not oft have I seen him ever of late, for the Wood is wide and chance alone might bring wanderers to cross paths." Eyes gleam with question as they open, and turn again to Goerhim. "Worry is writ plainly upon not your mother alone, mellon, for I see it in you as well."
Fretfully, the young forester turns on his crutch and limps a few steps, dragging his foot across the wooden floow with a scraping sound. "I do worry about him," he confesses. "And all the more because I cannot go and look myself." Frustration sharpens his voice, even as distress darkens his leaf-colored eyes. "That is what I wished to ask you. Would you ... could you look for him? Or .. or take me with you?" Pleading, he turns again to his cousin.
A sigh is lost as again the breeze murmurs against leaf and cloak alike, and a fair head is bowed in sorrow at Goerhim's last words. Long is the silence between the kindred edhil until at last it is broken by Rosgwaen, the soft assurance in his voice a contrast to the words of his cousin. "Fear not, mellon. For I shall search for him, and soon shall be be found." And ere Goerhim again might ask to accompany him, the Bachelor turns to depart as his cloak of changeling grey billows behind. And soon again do leathern boots and deft hands find woven ladder-rungs, and soon does Anor's light flicker in parting upon the great bow slung at Rosgwaen's broad back. Then the flicker dims, and he is lost to sight.
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