Newly-risen this day is the glad Ship of the Sun, newly-sped from its Eastern port to cast its bright wake down upon the Golden Wood, the Valley of the Singing Gold. Yet few rays there are pierce the veil of thin clouds that hover now above the mallorn-tops, changing bright rays into dull glare, and little light filters through cloud and newcome leaf to illuminate the Gathering Talan of the Great House Raavindonserke below.
A shaft of light, perhaps, ventures now and again to break from its prison... yet still this day is darker than some, and bright lamps are set alight by the Galadhrim in their gathering-flet, swaying now and again in a gentle breeze. All seems now quiet, all seems at peace. And but for now and again the lilt of fair elven voice from the telain above, this day the Talan of the Lion's Heartblood seems all but empty.
Althea steps out of her office into the large common area, taking a moment to peer out of a window into the newly born day.
Some of the murmurings heard from above grow louder, resolving into familiar voices. Lothdaimoth is evidently spending some time with his parents, for his is the loudest - even a few words can be distinguished. "... in a few ... of course..... Mother."
Sitting with crossed legs, comfortably folded upon a large bright blue pillow with crossed legs, Knight Vinyarod looks over the journal he written during his trip to Beorning. A light chuckle emits from his lips when he reads a passage in the journal. Pulling the journal onto his lap and reaching forward slightly to take his cup of tea in hand, the Knight smiles fondly at what appears to be pleasant thoughts. The little activity that takes place around him appears to go unnoticed as he slowly turns the page to continue reading.
The patter of quick elven footfall is heard from the stairway. Soon enough the owner of this sound is seen as Caelwen alights on the flet. She pauses a moment there, head slowly turning to face where Lothdaimoth's voice may be heard. A smile alights on her features, and she begins to follow the sound. She waves to Vinyarod as she passes him, but gives little notice to the other elves around.
Althea glances up at the ceiling as she hears Lothdaimoth's voice and chuckles softly, shaking her head. She moves away from the window as Caelwen steps lightly down the stairs and she calls softly "Mar govannen and good morning."
A lighter voice rises and falls, scolding perhaps? For Lothdaimoth's deeper voice is compounded of a fine blending of amusement, affection and exasperation. "Yes, yes," he says at last. "Do stop worrying."
No call, no words, no song disturbs the Knight, until a passing figure brings the earthy scent of clay to tickle his senses. Now distracted, Vinyarod glances up to chatch sight of an elleth as she passes. Suddenly, recognition crosses his expression and a slender brow rises. "Caelwen?" He moves his lips to speak more, but Lothdaimoth's discussion catches his attention and he tilts his head curiously to hear more. The words 'Do stop worrying' stike an odd cord with the knight and he sadly drops his gaze and withdraws back to his journal, this time without an expression of amusement. His curiosity over his friend's presence is quickly forgotten as he returns to reading.
The Dinlom Indiri stalls near the Raavindonserke Indiri. "Mae govannen," Caelwen replies, her eyes cast to the ceiling even as Althea's were. A pause, and a wry smile twists her lips. "Mayhap I will not visit Lothdiamoth /right/ now..." she says, mirth dancing with her words. "I am sure to be included in Aunt Lothelei's lecture, aren't I?" She grins to Althea.
The morning breeze whispers through the leaves, gusting now and again-- little more than a gentle early-Summer's wind, warm and seemingly kind, setting the glowing lamps of the Galadhrim to swing gaily from the boughs.
And though little in Middle-earth might be finer than those things of elven-craft, even Quendi craftsman must at some point be new-come to their trade. And so it comes to pass that in the talan of an new apprentice lampwright-- not far from the main gathering-flet-- by a stroke of ill chance, the wind gusts too strong, and fair craft fails.
For here does a large lamp, broken from its hangings, crash to the ground with the shatter of elven-glass, its oil spewing forth onto oaken floor and woven rug, tapestry and cushion and mallorn-branch... and where oil falls, bright fire soon follows, flickering red and blood-crimson as it rises from spark into tongues of flame.
Althea laughs softly "Oh yes, must..." She pauses and tilts her head as the sound of glass shattering reaches her ears "What was that?" And then the first tendrels of smoke reaches her.
The higher voice has risen as well, perhaps trying to override her son's attempt at calm. "I don't see why you need to go gallivanting off all over Arda anyways. It's bad enough that Tiina went and /married/ out of the Wood." Disapproval darkens Lothelei's voice. "There's nothing out there you need to see. Dwarves and other filthy creatures." And an audible sniff accompanies her words.
Caelwen shrugs, head tilting late after Althea's words. "I do not know. Something breaking." Her grin grows wider, eyes twinkling. "Mayhap the potters will have more work while I am away, eh?" Again her gaze flicks upward, with a wince at the further speech. "Ai, I am not going up, for certes. I have been getting enough of those type of lectures at home. Poor Lothdaimoth." And then, her nostrils flare. She asks quieter, "Do you smell something?" An uncertain glance to the other elleth, and she flicks a look around the common area to study the other elves.
Althea turns towards the room where she heard the glass breaking "Aye, I did, and now I smell smoke." She frowns "Perhaps you should intrupt your aunt and Lothdaimoth now." It is couched in polite terms but there is a sence of an order about it. She then turns to Vinyarod "Knight Vinyarod, come with to see what fell."
Smoke now begins more clearly to rise, grey tongues twining with the boughs and branches above, spurred on from below by the fierce crackle of flame. Further now it spreads, following the course of oil-trails from the fallen lamp, testing wood and bough with red fingers ere it hastens forth, bright and seeming almost to hunger. No heed pays it to the voices of Quendi, this unseeing, unhearing force, and no heed pays it to where it spreads. For upon a branch it runs now, up into the higher boughs, and new trailers soon are put forth toward the edge of the great Raavindonserke talan.
Glancing up at the tingling sound of breaking glass, Vinyarod furrows his brow. He listens carefully for something that would offer a hint to what's happened. Keen elvish hearing catches a sound that can only be described as a breathless whoosh. Hearing the words of the Gowythden, he closes his journal and unfolds his legs. Caelwen's words follow, bringing forth more concern. "Mia isn't cooking is she?" Vinyarod asks as he turns his head towards Althea and Caelwen.
Rising to his feet, the Knight bows his head towards his senior. "Aye, I will." Standing to full height, wearing not but his trousers and a tunic, he steps forward with bare feet. "Lothdaimoth!" he calls out loudly, "I need your help cousin! Come with me!"
Right behind Vinyarod's shout comes Caelwen's. "Lothdaimoth!" she cries. "Aunt Lothelei! Come down here quick!" A flicker of light catches the corner of her eye. She points to it, speaking quickly and walking toward Vinyarod. "No! Look look there! Fire! It's burning this talan!" She looks wildly at the flames so bright and fast, and simply cries again, panic rising in her voice. "Lothelei! Aiya! Lothdaimoth!"
Running feet sound overhead, and Lothdaimoth appears in the doorway but a few seconds after. His dark eyes scan the room rapidly, landing on the flickering light of the greedy flames almost at once. He too is barefoot, clad in no more than pants and shirt. "Caelwen. Go up and help Mother get out. She will not want to leave her silver. Make sure no one else is unaware of the fire." With these quick instructions, he is after Vinyarod.
Althea need to take only a few steps before seeing the rapidly growing tounges of flame. She spins on her heal and cups her hands to her mouth shouting out "Awake! Awake! Fire!" She grabs a tablecloth to smother a tendril of flame that is creeping towards them and shouts "Grab buckets, bring water from the fountain stream. Even as she speak Quendi start running down the stairs, cluching their belongings and many of them carrying empety buckets as they dash off to the stream.
Unyielding, unheeding, the fire now grows, consuming all in its path. A single fire-finger smothers and reduces to no more than thick smoke beneath Althea's tablecloth, but three more now are come to take its place. Indeed, the talan of the apprentice lampwright, the first site of the blaze, is now half-consumed by the hiss and roar of bright fire. And now do the great flames stretch more fully to the main talan itself, for one edge of the Gathering Talan is lost now to sight, sheathed in hungry orange-crimson and billowing grey.
A glance towards the direction Caelwen indicated causes the Knight's brow to furrow deeply. "Fire...." he hisses with deadly calm. Moving quickly towards a large window, Vinyarod grabs the frame of the opening and leans outwards. His free hand goes to the side of his mouth and he emits a call of an owl. He repeats the sound forcefully, bringing forth the sound of a strangling owl. It was not his intention, but smoke made it otherwise. Evenso, the sound was enough to alert all Guard within the city to come quickly. Pulling himself back inside, he coughs lightly. "Smoke.... we'll be down before the fire reaches us."
Hurrying back into the Talan center, he grasps Althea by the arm. "Go...... leave with Caelwen and the others. Alert the city! Warn them and send help. Run screaming if you must, but do so coherently!" With an uncommon action, the Knight scoots the Gowythden firmly towards safety.
"Lothdaimoth! Unroot the plants! Let us throw the soil upon the fire to take its breath away." Vinyarod calls out hoarsely as an order, falling into habit of his position and duties. "When that fails, take the rug and we'll beat it back until we can no longer breath it's foul breath." In a swift motion, the fair haired ellon, unroots a delicate plant set along the side of the gathering hall and lifting the pot in a flowing move, he launches the moist soil flying into the flames.
"I heard, child. I'm coming. Help me gather up my things." The silversmith's voice a little louder than Caelwen's.
Not stopping to answer, Lothdaimoth immediately snatches the first available potted plant and pulls the roots from their sheltering soil. Even in his desperate haste, the plant is treated with some care - tossed gently from the talan to land (hopefully safely) out of doors and out of reach of the leaping flames. The remaining contents of the pot are dumped on the fire, even as the first of the buckets of water arrive from the stream. As water splashes across the wall, steam joins the smoke, making the air thick and nearly unbreathable. Holding one arm across his face, Lothdaimoth reaches for the next pot and then the next, as he frantically tries to keep the fire from spreading further.
As she feels Vinyarod's hand on her arm, firmly pushing her towards the door Althea turn to say something, but is cut off by an attack of coughing as the smoth swirls around them. When she is finaly able to speak she says "Nay, nay what will it look like when the Indiri of the House flees for her safty, abanding her fellow house members." With that she turns away as the first elves reapear with buckets full of water, splashing on the floor as they rush them over to the flames and start flinging them on the burning walls.
Quelled now is the fire's rage beneath the soil thrown upon it, yet at the water now and again it spits when oil is met, and hisses, until at last smoke and steam rise from charred, blackened oak-wood, pillows reduced to brittle black, woven wall-hangings singed and burned. And perhaps, for a time, it seems that the battle in the main flet-- indeed, in part of the absent apprentice's flet as well-- might be all but won.
But lo! for on a mallorn-branch above the smoke burns bright still, and on the talan's roof as well is there flame, dangerously close now to to a second lamp... and with a second crystaline shatter, spewing glass and oil almost nigh to where those brave edhil now stand, a small bough above is burnt through, and bough and lamp both fall to the talan floor, kindling the blaze anew.
Battles are won and yet others remain for while the flames of the fire flicker there the war rages on. Black fertile soil flings forward to smother the destructive wave of flame and just as it wavers it's last dance the cracking sound echoes through the Talan. Ducking his head on instinct along, Vinyarod turns to catch sight of the branch fall. "Look out!" he calls too late. The tingling sound of shattered glass fills the air, followed by a mighty roar as newly fueled flames leap forward.
A quick scan of the gathering hall reveals a dwindled supply of plants and dirt. "Hold the water till we bury the fuel!" he calls out to several elleth who hurry forward with buckets. Stooping without hesitation, the Knight pulls a small rug from the floor. Racing foreword, he swings the heavy fabric over head and swings forward to slap down the flame. His bare feet tingle as glass and wood nip at his heels, unkindly reminding him of his folly to be without boots on this rare occasion. "Let us hurry! If more of the tree is affected it will take more of the city!"
A coughing fit erupts from upstairs, almost lost beneath the roar of the flame. Soon after the crack of the branch and lap falling is heard, a pair of ellith join those still rushing to leave. Caelwen holds firm the upper arm of the shorter, dark-haired Lothelei, and flings her own forearm over her face, eyes watering at the steam at the smoke. She rushes her across the common room and toward the door, unheeding any complaints now.
A precious piece of silver falls from Lothelei's bulky armload and bounces across the floor. Turning back, she would almost rush after it, but Caelwen's grasp is too tight; and the two disappear from sight.
Lothdaimoth's black hair whips around as he turns, looking for - another blanket! It is thrown across the oil-fed flames, a second flung over the top; and with a hasty scrub at stinging eyes, he grabs a bucket of water to toss on the roofing. His breath is ragged and occasionally hoarse coughs punctuate his efforts.
Althea lets out a cry as the branch comes crashing down triggering more flames. She looks up and groans "It's on the roof now!, quick, get ladders!" She darts out side, breathing deeply of the fresh air and then snaches up a bucket and runs to the stream.
The fire growls, rushing with the speed of a darting snake, smoking, smouldering... Yet between the triple assault of blankets, soil, and water, the blaze that covered nigh a quarter of the talan floor now seems verily to abate, only a weak spark now and again left to defiantly challenge these edhil with their makeshift weapons. A hiss of steam marks water's arrival at the roof-fire, for indeed it is only the roof now that the flames still lick and dance upon in their witless fervor, like a last bastion-fortress of some embattled army. And here still they consume, moving more tentatively now along branch and rooftop, charring aught in their slowed path.
The Knight's cough is now dry and seemingly nonproductive. Indeed, it seems as if his very breath is being smothered as he struggle to do the same to the flame. Once more he brings the rug up and then down upon the hissing flames, beating them down as if it were Yruk before him. Steam hisses above as the water quenches flame and below, weak flickers remain. "Bring the water!" he calls out, the words uttered do so with great irritation to his throat and Vinyarod coughs harshly. Stubbornness keeps him in place and again, although with little grace, he brings the rug up over his shoulder once more, slapping harshly at the flame.
The fiery-tressed Cennan reappears at the doorway, each arm weighted down by a heavy bucket, shoulders slumping. Caelwen hurries across the room, precious water sloshing in streams over the sides of the buckets, then pauses, bracing herself, ere flinging the cooling liquid in turns high above her, arms strong from her work. She coughs convulsively several times, soot and ashes clinging to her skin and raiment. A quick look around-- Lothdaimoth first, then the others-- and she rushes toward Vinyarod, one foot crunching a shard of glass beneath. She hops once in pain, then grabs the sleeve of his shirt. "Stop, stop!" she coughs, ducking to keep from his flying rug. "You must get some air!"
Althea returns from the stream, lugging her bucket. Ladders have been set and elves are nimbly scambling up and down carrying buckets of water to throw on the licking flames. Althea hands her bucket off to one of the elves and steps back inside to make sure that the flames are out in the common room.
Slowing, tiring; wearied by more than just the physical activity, Lothdaimoth continues to take buckets from anonymous black-smeared hands and throw their contents towards the ceiling. Each time he is a little slower than the time before. His face is nigh as dark as his hair now, leaving odd pale holes where eyes and teeth gleam out.
Dropping the now damp rug, the Knight's shoulders slump as he chokes out a cough. Watery eyes release cleaning tears which unknowingly leaves a fair trail down his cheek. He opens his mouth to speak, and releases yet another cough. Again he tries. "Thank you Mellon." he chokes out. Walking away from the remains of the fire, Vinyarod stops at the table and oddly, the journal he'd been reading earlier lay clean and untouched. Stooping, he picks up the book and slowly makes his way to the stairs. In an instant he disappears.
And quickly, for so many edhil turn now a hand to it-- yet not, perhaps, as quickly as it was sparked-- the fire at last is quenched, its blaze quelled to no more than smouldering steam, its bright flame vanished into last trailers of smoke. And though the talan is destroyed not, the damage left behind is great: the oaken floor of one-quarter of the talan is singed and blackened, walls and private telain above show marks of dark smoke, rugs and cushions are burned, and the sky can be seen in places through the great roof above, obscured only by wounded mallorn-branches. The worst of the damage, perhaps, is in the apprentice's flet, where the first lamp fell. About all this is a layer of thick mud formed by water and thrown soil, sparkling here and there with the glitter of broken glass. Yet the fire is no more. And most of the talan is saved.
Up now the talan ladder a figure comes clad in the simple raiment of his shop, tall and golden-tressed, his unblackened skin seeming here perhaps a foreign thing. A single water-bucket he carries, hurrying beyond his wont-- yet when his unshod feet find at last the talan floor, he pauses, the chill of his green eyes surveying the scene. For long Rosgwaen speaks not. And then, at last, his voice soft: "The smoke I saw rising through the trees... yet it seems I am come too late." A glance to his sister. A glance to Lothdaimoth. And he is silent.
Caelwen looks around, a bit dazed although less blackened than some. She limps toward her brother, then rests a hand against his shoulder to brace herself as she balances on one foot, pulling a shard of glass from the sole of the other. Again she gazes at the ruin, then calls out, "Lothdaimoth? Are you all right? Your mother is safe... although she was awfully worried about her things." She chucks the glass-shard aside, and stands properly, although favoring her right foot a bit.
A little blankly, as if now that the fire is out he is not sure what to do with hands that twitch to be moving, Lothdaimoth looks over at Caelwen. "Oh." Then, feeling this is not enough, he adds, "That is good. Thank you." The dropped silver cup catches his eye and he starts towards it, limping a little and wincing as glass shards scrape his bare feet.
Althea looks around in dispair "Our home! How will we ever fix it?" SHe looks up at the holes in the roof and the burned Mallorn beyond and shakes her head. She closes her eyes and sighs deeply and then straightens turning her gaze on the gathered elves "Mellon, this is blow, but we will recover. We will have craftmen and foresters working on reparing our home. If any are injured, please seek out out the Healers. While we wait for our Talen to be repared though, we must scatter at least temportarly. I shall seek housing for ourselves and our belongings in the other Houses.
A strong arm is wrapped by the Indor about his sister's shoulders and back, supportive but not over-firm, as a verdant gaze watches her tug a glass-shard from her foot. And perhaps it may be that here, in smoke-choked aftermath of flame, some rumour of his mood, some unvague hint of concern, might be read at last in the depths of his eyes.
Eyes which rise now to the Raavindonserke Indiri, as a solemn nod is given at her words. "This plight is not unknown now to the Gwaith-I-Thein-- indeed, hewing wood with my fellows was I when we Thevryn saw first the smoke. All is not yet lost..." His eyes turn from Althea, searching blackened plank and flame-licked wood. "What is gone can be built anew."
For the birds here still sing in boughs far above, silenced not by smoke nor steam. And above them all, the clouds part at last, Anor's bright rays shining upon what will not for long be ruin.