Field Hospital
You are in a small clearing cut into the thickets. All about you, the bushes and trees grow thick and unwavering, blocking out most of the sunlight and dimming the atmosphere. Despite the lack of sunlight or moonlight, the clearing gives of a calm, quiet, secure feeling. Here is where the Cuigrithweg have made their Field Hospital. Several woven mats are laid about on the ground in neat rows and a pair of small chests rest at the north side of the Hospital. High above the mats, a large tarp is strung to provide some shelter on the off chance that it should rain.


The sun has just risen, lighting the undersides of a thin layer of clouds that blankets the winter sky. Quiet enough to be unheard even by elven ears unless they be within the infirmary itself, mirth weaves itself into the air. A small group of elves is sitting near the edge of the clearing - one of them leans against a tree with both legs stretched out straight. Bottles of various shapes and colors are stacked precariously about them; some are full, others empty. Lothdaimoth is apparently well enough for visitors.


coming into the field hospital to check if any of his friends had been put in there since he last arrived Nibimacarion noticed someone with both legs broken in the corner, he quickly walked over and said: "hello edhel, what happened to you ?"


The dawning rays crown a golden head emerging from the wood. At home in the greenery, Khwestolor steps into the clearing and smiles at the gathered elleth. "Mae govannon, mellyn. I've been wandering the wood, looking for some inspiration for a song. Might I join you for a bit?" With eyes alighting on the injured Lothdaimoth, his face takes on a compassionate cast. "Perhaps I might lift some spirits while I'm here as well, no?"


The foliage is disturbed momentarily as an auburn-haired elleth enters the Field Hospital. Vinyatal's step is slow and meandering; she seems to have no great motivation to go anywhere quickly. Upon seeing the little group, the weaver approaches, a raised hand and a murmured, "Mae govannen," her greeting.


With a determined countenance, yet a depth of sadness that seems boundless, the healer Llenelwyn, whom some may know as the late Mithryn's mother, comes finally upon the group. A frown tugs at her lips and she plants hands on hips, "Why is the patient not in bed?" Her scolding is soft, tinged with some warmth.


Lothdaimoth looks up with a smile. "Nothing much," he says cheerfully. "I am told a good portion of the mine roof fell on me." Dark eyes glance around to the others. "Have some wine?" He holds up a bottle invitingly. "There's plenty."

A slightly mischievous, slightly guilty look crosses his face at the healer's query and he looks up at her with a hopeful smile. "I am tired of being in bed. I have been no where else for much too long." A stubborn glint sparks in his eyes as he turns towards Khwestolor. "A song would be very welcome - to go with the drinks my friends have brought."


Khwestolor smiles at the injured Lothdaimoth. "I think that might be arranged for such a brave soul to dare the wrath of the healers." A mischevious gleam winks from his dark eyes. "And perhaps the vitners here would be so kind to refresh us afterward, eh?"


nibimacarion looks at the wounded man, then responds "no thank you, i'm currently on duty protecting the field hospital from any possible attacks" , then points at the longbow on his back and the fact he is currently in his Order clothing


With a patient motherly sigh, Llenelwyn kneels down beside Lothdaimoth and checks his wounds while he makes merry. Her eyes are warm, if deeply sad.


"Of course! Of course! Plenty for all!" Bottles clink together, sending blue and green and yellow rainbows across the clearing, and sloshing just a bit. "Help yourselves, there's enough for everyone." The vintners nudge each other and wink. "We made sure of that."


Lothdaimoth leans back against the supporting trunk and nods to Nibimacarion. "Very well then. But if you change your mind..." He glances over at Llenelwyn and says softly, "The leg," a gesture with his head indicates which one, "still hurts. The other is fine, though they say I should not walk on it just yet."


Mostly ignoring the merriment to attend her duties, Llenelwyn inspects the leg. Gently, of course. Unwrapping the bandages, she sets them aside and calls to an apprentice for clean dressing and bandages.


Khwestolor nods sagely to Lothdaimoth and the healer. "My gift is not for healing, but many songs have been known to soothe the spirit if not the body. This is the first song I have written as a Glirdain... I pray it aids you, mellon."

As he lovingly raises a simple traveling harp to his arm, Khwestolor gazes forth with shining eyes, lost to the world around him. They swirl with currents of a vision known only to him. Resting his fingers lightly on the strings, he coaxes forth trickles of a haunting melody that grow and burst into being like raindrops from leaves. His fingers waft gently along the simple harp, almost as if he were trailing them in a stream.


The boisterous vintners still at the music, even the branches that sway in the chill winter breeze seem to stop and listen. One young girl, brown haired and brown eyed, lifts a beckoning hand to Vinyatal. "Come, sit with us," she says softly. "Would you like a drink?" Then her eyes are drawn back to Khwestolor and the harp and she falls silent.


The haunting melody turns with a living force to a warm timbre. Soothing tones cloak those gathered in soft folds of sound. Kwhestolor draws his breath and the power of his vision consumes him. A glowing melody emerges, warming all with swelling embers of voice...

"'Cross mountain, dale, broad plain and sea
do Firstborn children grow.
From sunder'd past the kindred Three
no common home do know.
Yet through them all a thread does wend
Alike in all but name.
To some a boon, yet more a friend,
To some a horrid bane."

As the verse continues, the melody sparkles with intricate ornamentation, graceful and fragile as forest wisps...

"For feather breath of beauty's touch
In folk or crafted art
Ignites in all a singing torch
To match that in their heart.
Of body fair and spirit deep
Are all the Quendi kin.
The same they seek to hold and keep
As fills their hearts within."


Lothdaimoth forgets the hands that work at his injuries;forgets the pain that comes, gentle though they be; forgets the winebottle held loosely in one hand; and stares raptly at Khwestolor. His eyes go distant, seeming to see things that are only in the thread of the music.

Khwestolor begins the refrain as three melodies emerge, entwined in harp and voice. Like autumn leaves of an ancient mallorn, they are vibrantly disparate, yet joined by the spirit of their whole.

Forever Quendi hearts are bound
In music wondrous, glorious sound!
From ages past the strains do soar
That join us all forevermore!"


With a sombre air, the Knight-Bachelor with bow in hand, makes her way to the field hospital. She has wondered how the Minister Lothdaimoth is after the collapse in the mines, and has ment to visit..becoming to busy with other affairs as of late. Striding up the hill she sees a gathering of people, a song on the air echos in her ears with a bittersweet tune. She smiles as she approaches with caution, hoping not to disturb that which goes on. Aerwaen's grey eyes source the surround, happy times go here. Coming to a halt, she looks around; she says to anyone who will listen. "Mae Govannen, mellon nin...happy days are here indeed!"


noticing someone aproaching from behind nibimacarion turns around and looks into the face of Aerwaen, which he had met before and gives a small salute "mae Govannen Aerwaen"


In spite of her work, which continues deftly once she has clean bandages, Llenelwyn listens to the song and a smile comes to her face. She sways gently to the music, letting the tune guide her and lift her sadness at least a little.


Eyes afire with his vision, Kwhestolor is oblivious to the new arrivals... a breach of etiquette he would normally be mortified by... As the strains of sound converge to the second verse, the confluence of the three melodies surges forth in bulwarks of unified purpose...

"Each blood a chord, each soul a tone
Wings forth in music free
That owns all Arda as its home
In ageless melody.
As danger looms a chord is struck
When Firstborn kin are nigh,
For sorrow blooms as rose fresh pluck'd
That any theme should die.

To aid another calls the song
Of every elledh fair
Their spirit urges labor long
The elf-theme to repair!"

The achingly lovely marriage of pure emotion and intricate sound coalesces to an encompassing cloak of warm tones. The final refrain wings from Khwestolor's voice to waft about all in celebration...

Forever Quendi hearts are bound
In music wondrous, glorious sound!
From ages past the strains do soar
That join us all forevermore!"

The last strains flower to brilliant chords, trailing away to a warm silence. Khwestolor bows his head for a moment in reverence and glances up, the radiance of his vision shining forth.


The sound of jollity youthful careens through the air on batied breath sails as this Edhel makes his way across the forest. His feet tumbling onto shoots of grass, each blade-tip with toe-butts and carefully avoiding small insects that gallavant in their whimsical way of feeble-wit and little caring. As the dawn toasts his skin with gentle softness- as a lover kisses a forehead with care.

Perhaps the world has tired this creature, or he grows tired of it, as he does not seem to hold as much love for the look of the trees and the enviroment around him as you might expect. Perhaps the colours of excitement have become a long, low monochrome. His ears are rasped upon by a song, even this early in the day. His hoode face exudes an expression of weariness- for while the petals of verse are blossoming sweetly, he may be allergic to early spring pollen. But he is here for a draft, a drink of anything. Even the sensation of wine would survey his lips well, and set itself on a path of orientation uon his tongue. Which even now offers a greeting as he crosses the thresh-hold. "Hial." his voice spills as honey from an upset jar into the paws of a clumsy child, each syllabus licked and tweaked as carefully as such a child who sniffs their fingers for sweetness. (Megorhand)


Becoming embarrassed at the salute, the Knight-Bachelor Aerwaen blushes slightly as her eyes flint over the Squire. "Suilad Nibimacarion. Well met, tis good to see you again." The Knight-Bachelor dons the garb of the Order, as a quick visit to the Minister Lothdaimoth before returning to duty is what this appearance sees. A smile exchanged she excuses herself from the Squire's presence, and makes her way to the cot the Minister rests on.


Rising as the song fades into the morning air, Llenelwyn drifts slowly back to the hospital proper. If one were watching, they would see a tall edhel join her, in the garb of a Knight-Warden of the Order. They embrace tenderly, then depart together, towards Caras Galadhon.


Bottles slide unnoticed from fingers gone limp. Each vinter's face is turned towards the singer, and each has gone blank with listening though a different emotion sparks in their varying eyes. Here, a tear glimmers; there joy spills unhindered. For a long moment after the song is finished, they are silent and then the same girl as before sighs almost inaudibly and bows her head.


Lothdaimoth is drawn back from his trance to find his leg newly-wrapped and the healer gone. The smallest of frowns flickers across his face and is gone and he looks up to see Aerwaen approaching. "Mae govannen, mellon... would you care for a drink?" A swift glance downwards assures him there is still a half-full bottle in his hand. "Your companion there said me nay," he adds, nodding to Nibimacarion.


Khwestolor's eyes slowly lose their radiant, far-off look as they refocus on Lothdaimoth. "It is my hope such a song of brotherhood will buoy your spirit. I know it moves me to play it. I would I could stay to sample these kind vitners' wares, but I must away to see to a lesson. I am still a learner, you know." Grinning at his handiwork, Khwestolor turns to leave.


Not seeing Lothdaimoth in a cot, she turns about to see him propped up against a tree, many mellyn present. Hearing the given greeting, she walks a few steps with a warm smile, and lightly bows to the Minister himself. "Mae Govannen, Lothdaimoth. Tis good to see you well! Forgive my late visit, for things have kept me busy in the City for a few days. I have been meaning to check on your health, as last time I saw you was at the bottom of a collapsed mine. You're appearance of peace is well met mellon nin." At the offer of the fine wine, she smiles appreciatvely but holds up her hand in protest. "Nay I cannot I am afraid, for the Lady Knight Armiel permits those of the Order to drink nothing but tea or water! Pardon the rudness for so, but tis an order." Nodding her head in appreciation, she notes the exit of the healer and the Knight-Warden. She sees a familiar ellon, that of Megorhand and grins. (Aerwaen)


"Thank you... thank you..." a chorus of soft voices follows Khwest out of the clearing, and slowly the sounds of laughter and merriment rise again. One elf leaps to his feet, holding a bottle on high and crying, "Where wine and spirits freely flow, we will always go!" He stops and laughs at his own wit; noticing someone else in that minute, he waves to him. "Come join us, mellon!"

"You are no bard," teases a companion and snickers.


"I... forgot." Lothdaimoth looks down at the bottle he holds by its slim sinuous neck with a suddenly somber expression. "You were there?" he asks at last shifting his shoulders against the bark of the tree. "Tell me what happened, if it will not bring you distress." And quieter, much quieter, he adds, "I cannot remember." His free hand lifts to his head and touches the all-but-faded mark on one temple. Some little time later, he lifts his eyes again and they roam around the small cheerful group - somehow it seems he is no longer part of them, though he has not moved. And his glance alights again on Nibimacarion. Gently he says, "No matter if you will not drink, mellon. Sit and join us. Nothing will come past the guards at the borders, you can relax your vigilance. Though I am sure it is much appreciated."


The ellon sniffs the air majestically, before his delicate hands rise to draw down the hood that traditionally guards his features from the wine-fashioned eyes of his present company. "Sit? I shall not sit, simply grant me the curse of a glass of wine." he says, his voice like a spider on a harp as it gyrates airly from one tone to deeper and back. His eyes glimmer with age as his hand dives like a kingfisher set free to trout-water to a goblet. He raises it to his lips gently, and sips with eloquent jolts of energy. He nods sollemnly to Aerwaen. (Megorhand)


Looking curiously on the Minister, Aerwaen nods and takes a seat beside him. She looks to the ground a slight, and then back to Lothdaimoth. She chooses her words very carefully to hinder causing him destress.
"Indeed mellon nin, I did not expect you to remember much. I arrived as there was news that the mines were unstable. All of a sunder, the collapse occured as you and my Kinswoman Gilrowen were inside. Along with Knight-Bachelor Tiridor and Squire Cavarnofinwe, aided by Knight Legarwin, we worked to make an entrance, to rescue you. We got to the bottom and there was ruin but no death thankfully! The Knight-Bachelor took you over his shoulders for your leg was gravely injured, and climbed the ladder. I took of Gilrowen, with gentleness as I suspected she may have broken ribs. You were indeed unconcious for the events, that was a good thing; the pain of your injuries was evident even in your slumber. Do not feign for not remembering, such things are not needed of memory."
A hearty smile and a hand on the Minister's shoulder, she comforts, hoping that this has not done more ill than good.


The Ellon finishes his goblet with baited breath, and sets it down. He then turns slowly on his feet with the grace and patience fo a lfower turning to the sun. And he peers past the shadows of bark-shed and roots, into the forest. Adjusting his staff by his side, he wanders into the wooded oblivion ahead. (Megorhand)


Without waiting for a reply, Lothdaimoth turns his face from Nibimacarion. His eyes alight on Megorhand and gravely he watches as the other leaves. What thoughts might be in his mind are well hidden, as he listens to the Knight bachelor's tale. "I remember darkness," he says slowly. "And..." an oddly intent listening look tightens the small muscles around his eyes, "Something falling..." Automatically he looks up, but there is nothing - nothing but tree limbs swaying gently in the wind.


Aerwaen nods to Lothdaimoth, his bare recollection of the events as she tries to piece them together. "Dark it was, Lothdaimoth, down there. I imagine that the something you speak of falling was perhaps a beam, for many fell and one landed on Gilrowen. But worry not about those events, for they have passed. You sit in the land of the living, different in no way from those of us here that breathe, or even those over there who merrily seek company under fruitful wines. Perhaps you still require healing of the emotions, rather of the physical. My appologies if that was forward or in bad taste, but a look of almost despair hinders in your eyes, the quite words you utter shrowded in such. Rest easy, Minister, for no longer should you despair in any sort of darkness." A deep breath and a sigh come from the Knight Bachelor, as she tries to comfort the Minister in his lost memories. It wouldn't pain to forget, she thinks.


"No..." Again Lothdaimoth looks up, and again he sees nothing unusual. But his voice is perplexed and for a moment he is quiet, searching the fragments of memory for an elusive thought. But it is gone, and he sighs. "Thank you, mellon, for your kind words. But I would not be so rude as to drink when my companion could not join me." He smiles at her.


She smiles and laughs, waving her hand in protest. "It would be more rude of you not to partake of your wines Lothdaimoth, in my presence! Do not worry about rudeness, for you are entitled to such delights now that you are able to source them." Grey eyes warm with well thoughts, look curiously on the Minister. Something remains unsaid perhaps, something wishing to be aired and broken free like that of a nightengale in flight. Aerwaen adjusts the quiver on her back a little and murmors. "There is something..that bothers you, perhaps Lothdaimoth? If it is anything to do with the accident, then please, I pray you ask. If I can put your mind at ease I will."


nibimacarion turns around and leaves quietly, slipping away into the woods


The sun climbs higher into the sky, disappearing behind a flat white shroud of overcast. Lothdaimoth leans his head back against the tree-trunk and stares up through the shifting canopy of branches and leaves. Long fingers absently caress the glass bottle he holds. "It is.." he begins and then stops.

Before them, the vintners lean together, their heads nearly touching and drop their voices to whispers. Now and then a bright eye peeks out from the huddle, touches upon the oblivious minister and his companion, and disappears again with a muffled giggle.

"I cannot remember," the minister finishes with frustration. "I just begin to think of something... something falling in the darkness and then it is gone. And," he adds almost tentatively, "I keep thinking of a cliff. Yet.. we were underground, in the mines?"


Aerwaen nods, recoiling her head and bowing in thought, her grey eyes flint to the memories of the scene that sit emblazed on her mind. A gloved hand goes to her chin as she ponders more of what the Minister should know.
"That is correct Lothdaimoth, underground in the Mines of Lorien. There were reports that the mines were unstable, and I assumed you went forth with Gilrowen to inspect them such. There were miners in there at the time who escaped safely with our aide also. The falling you perhaps think of is that of rocks and beams, for they did come down either on top of your or with you, I am not certain. When we reached you, the Jewelsmith was calling to you vaguely, with you groaning in your forced sleep, the injuries you sustained were not evident in the darkness. Do not despair, should the memories be willed for recollection they will return, this I am certain of."
The elleth's brows furrow a slight, perhaps thought of what comforting information she could reveal to the Minister to calm his frustration. Sighing deeply with a thoughtful air, she adds with a murmor. "There was no cliff, perhaps a level from the ground that you may have been on saught you to think this? There were two ladders on two levels, and you and my Kinswoman were both on the lowest depth of the mine. Perhaps this is the thought that strays?"


Distant but growing nearer by the moment a clear melody begins to enroach upon the Hospitial.

"...Traverse the morning gold,
Athrada e aur col,
Meadows green and earth growth old.
Parth calen a amar galas brun.
Forsaken darkness and its gloom,
Eglan fuin a yes maur,
Sunlight strong brings its doom.
Aur bell tog yes amarth.
Heavy heat gives way to breeze,
Long brass anno pad an hwest,
As sunlight dances upon the trees.
Aur ganna am e galadh.
Though the night seeds soon glisten,
Ind e daw eredh glin,
I seek that this song you listen.
Im cened sen glir gwaith lasto.
Though darkness threaten to claim your cheer,
Ind fuin talt an anira gelir,
Lorien's woods are always near.
Lorien tawar uireb gell."

With the verse of his tune complete, the courier is now standing just beyond those gathered about Lothdaimoth's tree. The Laiquendi comes bounding up through the thick of the woods and bows deeply to the minister then turns to greet the others in turn. "Mae govannen a Maer dana, mellon. A fine day it is. Unless you speak contrary to prove my mind wrong, Minister."


Lothdaimoth furrows his brow, and then shrugs resignedly. "It does not seem so to me," he says, "But it could be as you say." His mouth is open, as if to say something more, when the knot of vintners in front of him comes undone. Bouncing up, each with a bottle in hand, they step towards him, grinning. "What you need, mellon," one says in a deeper voice, "Is an aid to your memory!" He holds up the winebottle and tilts it. A sparkling arc of red splashes down onto Lothdaimoth's head. "Perhaps it was raining?"

The others converge, then open, still laughing, to allow Glintholgoll to join them. The minister looks up at one of his couriers, red drops trickling down his cheeks and plastering black hair to his skull. "I am not so certain, Glintholgoll," he says dryly. But a smile quirks his lips and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.


"It could.." The Knight-Bachelor stops as wine is tipped from a sparking bottle, on top of the Ministers head. She grins immediately, as she puts a gloved hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle her laughter. She looks up to see a courier join their company, with a half laugh she greets him. "Mae Govannen indeed mellon nin, you come at an interesting time! For it appears wine is such a sacred gift, the Valar lets it rain down on blessed heads!" Not able to muffle her laugh with anything, a melodic tune of amusement escapes the elleth's mouth as she looks on the Minister, sagely shaking her head.


Pulling his hood over his head in mock gesture, expecting rain, Glintholgoll's laughter joins to the mirth. "A vicious storm that would be to weather long. The roars of drunken mirth replacing that of thunder in Lorien. A sight and sound to be had." Tossing back his head to allow the hood to fall back to his shoulders the grins a wicked smile. "So what news, Minister? I know I have been long idle in study, but I come again to meet the calling of the courier. Mind you this news of a wine storm should make for a song come next feast."


"News..." Lothdaimoth pushes a damp lock of hair from his eyes and wipes a red smear across one cheek. With a slightly ironic glance down at his bound leg, he says, "I hear that the mine has caved in. Or some of it." He waves off the other vintners, who sink to the ground again, still laughing. "Lord Celeborn has journeyed to Imlad at the request of Lord Elrond for a council. A crafter of Dinlom has been slain - seemingly by one named elf-friend - and the knight warden Aurmith has gone to seek him... Caelwen plans a terrace of mosaics before Dinlom tree..."


Having too much knowledge about certain aspects of the Minister's brief update of news in Lorien, Aerwaen nods to that of the courier, a seriousness look upon the elleth's brow. She adds her own recourse. "Decree's, slayings, quests..much lays in unrest in the Wood as of late mellon nin, you approach at an interesting time. Many are away from the borders, those who went hither some now return mamed. The Minister here and my Kinswoman take course of injury..much does go on." Keen eyes of the Knight-Bachelor search the courier's face, not with hostility but laced with a warmness for new mellyn.
Turning back to Lothdaimoth, Aerwaen speaks again. "I suspect the cliff you speak of is perhaps one of the levels you fell Minister, for that is the only explaination that I can forge from the information I have. But look not warily upon that above your head, nothing will fall upon it anytime soon. Savor perhaps, the wine of the Valar." A warm smile, hoping for reassurance beams from the face of the elleth.


"You have never been one to blunt news, Minister. Why you have such a following of Laiquendi that find ye above those of your house. How is it that your leg came to injury? For make it certain, you are not injured for ye seem of mirth. Thus I leave that only your leg came to harm. Or perhaps this is all a show as you have company most valiant with knighthood among us." The playfulness of Glints words mean no harm but still carry some note of repect although they do mean to ruffle the Minister.


Lothdaimoth looks down at his leg again, this time examining it as if he has never seen it before. "Nay," he says quietly. There is a pause of some length, filled by the chatter of elves and squirrels. "But it matters not." Suddenly, he seems to realize he has forgotten to reply to the courier's first question. Looking up abruptly, he says again, "The mine caved in. Some of it caved in on me. Or so I am told..."


Aerwaen feels somewhat helpless, as the events that have transpired for the Minister regarding the mines leaves him despaired with his loss of memory. She rests a hand on his shoulder and turns to the unknown courier, to provide explaination.
"Minister Lothdaimoth here and the Jewelsmith Gilrowen went to the Mines of Lorien, after a report they were unstable. Woed be, that the mines collapsed around and on top of them. That is why you see the Minister's leg injured, and a slight of trouble remembering events he has had. I was one of the rescue party, and I took that of my Kinswoman Gilrowen, to the top where light blazed. This is the first time I have seen Lothdaimoth since that fateful day, and it does joy me to see he is doing well."
She smiles on Lothdaimoth as she removes her hand, and places both cupped in her lap. She quirks a brow and adds. "As for other news, should you care for a regail from the perspective of one such as I in the Order, then it shall be gladly spent. Ill information sees many misgivings as of late..." The grey eyes of the elleth flint slightly, with a dawning of such things.


Glintholgoll frowns while looking with appreciation at the wound on the minister's leg. "Odd, but it would seem that although your leg shows injury, ye memory seems hindered. I would not be the one to place the jest in what so easily could be strung together by any simple elf. Tis good that ye came out of the mine with thy life. Who could replace thee in skill in the court, I hate to think." Looking at the knight a moment he looks back down at Loth, "Correct me if I am wrong, minister, but I fail to recognize this face with a name. Who is this noble warrior that you meet in conversation?" Glint's eyes sparkle with mischief.


"The roof caved in," pipes up a voice from behind the courier.
"He was gravely injured," says another, lighter and interrupted by a gurgle. One by one, the vintners speak of the minister's injuries. "Both of his legs were broken."
"And some of his ribs as well."
"And a great stone hit his head. He is lucky to yet live."


Lothdaimoth ignores them all, save for a faint hint of red that colors his pale cheeks. "This is Aerwaen, Knight bachelor," he says to Glintholgoll with as much dignity as he can muster, drenched in wine and surrounded by half-jesting friends.


Aerwaen's eyebrows raise as she hears the regail of the vinters. She murmors "Such active imaginations.." She shakes off her focus on the drunk ones, and returns it to the courier. "Aye, I am Aerwaen, well met." She looks to the Minister, shaking her head softly. "Lothdaimoth, do not ponder their ill-informed words. They are worth about as much as the dirt that falls from my trodden boots. Things will return to normal, this I can promise mellon nin. It will take a bit of time granted, but should those memories lost that you seek be ment to be saught, they will return. Be joyus that you are able to be in company of friends."


"The minister has always been thickheaded enough to ignore my insults in the past, this just proves the point. I dare say." The laiquendi lets out a burst of laughter and pats the minister on the shoulder. "Fear not, Minister. I'll keep thy secret to myself and perhaps a song in future feasts pending that you remember not that it was I that made such a jest first." Turning his full attention to the knight he beems pleasantly. "Mae govannen to ye of the Order most valiant. It appears the Minister has also forgotten to introduce myself to ye. I am Glintholgoll o nos Laiquendi, courier for the ages to the court. Tis a great pleasure."


A hand creeps again to his head, and the frown grows on Lothdaimoth's face. Glintholgoll's jesting goes mostly unheard, as does Aerwaen's attempt at reassurance, and his eyes are lost in some realm of thoughts unspoken.


"We are not ill-informed," cries the youngest vintner fiercely. "We spoke to the healers and they told us of his injuries." She turns an indignant shoulder towards Aewaen and tilts her bottle back to drain the dregs.


About to reply to Glintholgoll, Aerwaen's brow quirks with a fiesty reprise from an unnamed vintor. She states rather sternly. "Aye, I think your affairs would be better spent with wine bottles and grapes, young elleth. Leave healing and those accuracies in truth to those who seek them.." Muttering to herself, Aerwaen looks up to the courier. "By me, forgive me for my rather..blunt, introduction. Let me try this again. I am Aerwaen o daernoss Aderthad, obviously you see me as that of the Order, Knight-Bachelor to be precise. And alas, valiance eludes me, the most I can hope for is pride!" She chuckles somewhat and continues. "Indeed, tis good to meet you also, pitty that it had to be under such circumstances as that of injury, no matter, mellyrn well met indeed." A smile breaks on the face of the Knight-Bachelor, a weary eye still cast on that of the young vinter.


Raising an eyebrow in interest, Glint looks hard at Aerwaen. "Do not seek after pride. Pride mingles with arrogance far too often and has the the cause of far too much bloodshed. Nay, if you must seek after anything thing, be it honor that you stalk in your duty." Glancing down at the Minister nearby he speaks with a hint of amusement in his voice. "May I sit, Minister? Or shall I await till ye can remember thy former courtly manners to grant such to those that have been standing all the day?"


A deeper, graver voice speaks up now. "Nay bachelor. Be not too swift to chastise others for inaccuracy when you do not know the truth yourself." The master vintner, all levity wiped from his face, says, "It is true what she says. Lothdaimoth is fortunate to live. Had he been struck but a little further to one side, his head might well have been crushed." A stern look is leveled on the courier as well. "It is no odd thing that some memories have been lost."


Lothdaimoth looks up, startled again. "My apologies," he says. "Please... sit and join us." Weariness drags at his face and he shifts his leg a little.


"Honor..perhaps. Honor should be within in one in any right mind should it not mellon? To breathe is an honor, to blink to feel. No more or no less honor comes in this calling, so be it either pride or valiance one strives for? Not to worry about growing rude or uncouth, my lesson has been learned well with a quest that taught me a many different thing. Tis a different..life, as that of the Order. Example being, the Minister here. I can take the roll of aiding him, but then also attempt to take the role of comfort, producing knowledge he unwillingly forgets. Tis an interesting mix none the less."
Taking heed of the Minister's repremand, the Knight-Bachelor nods, her brows furrowed some what for she feels she forgets something about the day. There were the Squires, the Knight in charge, the Jewelsmith, the Minister himself and a miner. She shakes her head trying to think of what the Minister could regail to remember. An inquisitive expression drops on her brow.


"Well whoever is more able to tell the tale,
bring it hither before I set sail.
The mine colapsed with surely more reason.
Tell me the news before it change season.
Gone have I been for many a day.
Many a year without much say.
If one of ye would speak hense fact,
and fill me in on all that I lacked." Seating himself comfortably upon the ground with his cloak tossed neatly under him the courier grins at his quick verse and the knight's words. Looking up at the hint of sunlight that breaks through the canopy warming the ground, Glint adds, "So who shall produce to news I seek, the knight most brave or the servant meak?"


Lothdaimoth closes his eyes and rests his head against the tree trunk that serves him as backrest. "Let her speak," he says tiredly. Fine lines of pain tighten his forehead. The same vintner who had spoken up in chiding of Aerwaen lets sharp brown eyes rest on the Minister's face. He says something low to his fellows, and almost to swiftly to be seen, bottles vanish into sacks and the crafters are on their feet again. One of them lays a sack with 2 or 3 full bottles cradled within down beside Glintholgoll; a few others approach Lothdaimoth. "Come," says the deep gravelly voice. "You grow weary and should rest again. We will help you." And supporting him by shoulder and arm, they half carry him the few steps to his cot, where a white-clad attendant hovers.