Though the woods are dark, the moon is hidden and only the faintest trickle of starshine sifts through the vast leaves to the forest floor, another walks now among the great bolls and pillars of the Wood. Distant eyes focus on nothing that can be seen, at least not at first sight; and his dreaming face is pale and still. For Lothdaimoth moves not through the dimness of night, but through trees full-lit by a springtime sun. Overhead, transluscent green leaves unfurl, beneath his feet a golden carpet spreads and by his side a boy sings softly. Arinkalya walks past on her way back to the city and he seems not even to notice her, so lost is he in visions of the past.


Mae govannen and namarie, wrought in soft words, fade to silence as the glirdan turns about and glides away. The tauron straightens, gaze returning to the distance; perhaps keen eyes might mark now that she follows the movements of a thrush as it flits amidst the trees across the clearing. Then Lothdaimoth comes, and she bows her head a while at the sight of him, the flicker of a half smile on her lips; she greets him not. She merely watches now, grey eyes staying mostly on him, though she glances to the murmuring brook at times, measuring his distance from the stream.


The boy looks up, a radiant smile glowing on his face. His lips move in speech, but no words are heard. His companion bends his black head to listen. "Yes," is all he says, but a smile blossoms on his own face before he looks up. And the vision waves, thins. A dark branch sways, through the boy (who still talking and gesturing and laughing, walks on). But the light of spring is fading and Lothdaimoth is left again to the stillness of a dark autumn forest and the cool silvery light of the stars. His feet slow and he stops, looking up at the distant leaves.


Have they changed? If the moonlight hides the silver and the green, perhaps the far leaves might seem more golden for it, heralding the colors of the stirring. The seasons march in cycles, as they always have. Yesterday to Eldar might be spring, tomorrow, rhiw.

But like winter comes a soft voice, cutting clear across the night like the crisp, cool air before dawn. "The glirdain claim they find their songs like so." The elleth straightens, nodding once in elven courtesy -- and she smiles, though the tree-shadows fall upon her mien.


The last remnants of his dream drift away and there is only the dim and misty present. Lothdaimoth looks up, the smile still on his face, his eyes seeking for she who speaks. "Hyardoel. I have not seen you for sometime - no doubt you are busy with the trees, as I with the vines... and other things." A few steps closer he takes, pausing near a moss-covered trunk and reaching out to finger the bark with an absent hand. To her comment, he nods. "So my father and sister have told me.. How fare your days, mellon?"


She does not answer him at once, and continues still to watch him, as though seeking for some change upon his mien. The night wind stirs, and with it comes Hyardoel's voice, the forester's words a touch wary. "They brim with things left undone...not for the trees. You spoke of other things. My thought and my hands seem drawn there ever." But she shifts, now turning from her study of his face to glance again towards the sky. "My mother would agree with your kinsmen, then -- yet I have watched these long, and never have I seen here naught but leaves. Perhaps it is the memories they bring, but I do not often think to fashion them to song."


Dark eyes lift from idle study of the bark to find the forester's face amid the shifting shadows. "What things have been left unfinished?" The words are quiet and even, requiring no answer though they ask for one. "I sing but little.. still the memories come, and I am glad for them. Harder still would it be to lose the ones who inhabit them, if there were no seeing after." Something of the leaf-shadows seems to dim his eyes and he lowers them again to the moss-covered tree.


"A sapling, not yet fully grown; Licume's son. Fain would I be to see him come of age here...but I wonder that the end of our time grows nigh." Her gaze darkens, but only for a time; an errant moonbeam seems to kindle a spark amidst the shadows, and briefly her smile grows wry. "But come, 'twas but a while ago when Gil-Estel rose, and I do not care for shadowed things this night. You were dreaming of a fair thing when I saw you walk past; let us turn our thoughts to joy."


For a small space of time, the shadows remain in the minister's face and deepen there. But then he lifts his head and they are gone. "Of joyful things, I can think of few that are greater than the vines I brought from Imlad are full-come to harvest now." Of the 'few' that bring him greater joy, he says nothing, but a glow comes to rest in his face.


"Indeed? I know so little of your craft. It seems too soon ago when the -- cuttings? -- first were laid. We were called to thin the mallorn boughs then." The tauron's face glows not as the minister's does, but the soft words flow more freely, and she shrugs back her cloak as she speaks. "For the toeryn's part, we must gather more patience, it seems. The oak trees take nigh to half a yen."


"They will not come to full growth for more years still, and will bear for uncounted time beyond that; but the first fruits come swiftly. Or swift compared to oak." Lothdaimoth grins a little and shrugs one shoulder. "The wine made from it will not be so good. Maturity brings wisdom and depth and these all add something." Shifting a little, palm now flat against the tree, he stretches and tilts his head back again, seeking the faint pinprick of stars in the far-off heavens.


Moonless tonight, Arda returns to the time before Tilion rose in the skies and the field of stars are so brilliant that they seem to hang close to the treetops. Gilrowen paces through the dark, her feet unerringlyfollowing the path that glows palely. Voices, familiar to her can just be heard around the bend of the path but the words are indistinguishable over the chattering song of the stream spilling over the rocks. Dressed for a long stay away from the talan, she is shod in light boots, cloaked in grey and wears a simple grey gown. A pack, mostly empty rides slung over one shoulder and a walking stave over the other.


Hyardoel nods at the vintner's explanation, and replies, "I see...then mayhap it is only the span of time that sets apart the vine and the oak in this. The tree that sees more seasons yield wood stronger for it." A pause...then looks down, shielding a smile as faint amusement dances briefly in her mien. No sign she gives of sensing the approach of another, but speaks intently, "Tell me, Lothdaimoth, is it true that wine ages well only when constrained within its vessel? Does it decant better after three thousand years?"


Almost inaudible come the steps that bear Gilrowen closer, and Lothdaimoth dismisses them to answer Hyardoel's question. A faint hint of surprise tugs at his eyebrows at her sudden, perhaps unexpected, intensity, but he merely says, "It depends on the wine. Some only grow and are not fit even to drink until much time has passed. Others are at their best young, and turn thin and sour with waiting. Why do you ask?" Now he turns his head, black hair falling over one shoulder, to see who comes.


"There is a second kind?" A question for a question, and the tauron glances past Lothdaimoth to the sound of approaching steps as well. "There is one whose seclusion with her craft I once likened to the virtues of long-kept wine. Yet if with time makes flavor thin and sour with some...I can only hope she knows as little as I."


In a small clearing among the trees, starshine falls silver onto grey, and for a brief moment turns Gilrowen's gown and cloak to cobwebs and moonlight. A smile turns the corners of Lothdaimoth's lips upward and he calls out to her softly, "Mae govannen, mellon... " before turning back to Hyardoel with both frown and question on his face. "Is there ought wrong?" he asks, his voice a bare murmur among the whisper of branch and leaf.


Argent limned in starshine, Gilrowen guards her even pace until even with the two conversing on the path. Grey eyes flash and she unslings her pack letting it drop at her feet before speaking, "A very good evening to both of you. I knew you would wait, Hyardoel. How fare you? And what brings you to the Wood on this dark evening, Lothdaimoth?"


A bemused gaze from Hyardoel meets the minister's frown, and she slowly speaks a single word, "Nay." She shakes her head then, glancing back towards Gilrowen. "Mae govannen. 'Twas no burden, for I passed the time in thought." The jewelsmith is greeted with a raised hand and a nod, then a chuckle sets the forester's stance at ease. "My sister names my humor strange at times, Lothdaimoth. She speaks truly, I deem, this eve."


"I came to walk among the trees." Lothdaimoth grins at the jewelsmith. "And to think, and remember. No other reason." A swift glance back to Hyardoel and a dip of his head in acceptance. "And you, mellon? What brings a jeweler of such reknown to the woods on such a night?"


Now, it is Gilrowen's turn to look bemused and she cocks an eyebrow at Lothdaimoth and throws a quizzical glance at Hyardoel, a barely stifled smile accompanies her saying, "A jeweler of such reknown has need to cover her light and hide among the green distances furnished by the trees." A rare grin lights her face, "Did not Hyardoel tell you that we are going on a tramp in the Wood to look for certain trees and plants? Ah, we have not done that since we were but barely children."


"Indeed we do, and Elbereth send us more success than the last time." Hyardoel's eyes grow light with some private joke in the glance that she sends to the smith. "Lothdaimoth has the right of it, to walk for walking's sake...this is a fairer place to hide in than the jewelsmith's shop -- even for miirdain of beauty and reknown. Ah, but ere we ramble I must seek out Adlannon. He could not wait in stillness, and I bade him go." And here she turns, gaze searching the trees. "I shall return. Namarie."


As if Hyardoel's turning is a signal, ghostly figures appear between the trees and advance. Mirth poorly-hidden writes itself over their faces, but Lothdaimoth spares them only a passing glance. "Yes," he agrees. "Wandering here among the trees, it is fairer far than any talan; there is a beauty in it that shines even beyond the vineyards that I love." Almost absently, he takes a step towards Gilrowen, as if to whisper something secret in her ear. Around them, the ring of elves closes in, revealing familiar faces: Adlannon, Iaurhanc, and many others.


A quick glance around her suffices to tell Gilrowen that she has indeed lost the game though they had not counted on her being armed. For one brief moment she closes her eyes as if hoping that when she opened them the elves ringing her will have disappeared. Grey eyes open, she lifts the stave and holds it vertically in front of her and looks at it with a crooked smile - half longing and half-good humored defeat. She shoots Hyardoel a glance, "You'll pay for this." A mock glower is sent to Lothdaimoth, "You wouldn't dare handle ,'the reknowned jewelmith' ah, would you?"


'Tis not the elves alone emerging from the shadows; a hedgehog joins them, shuffling between a blacksmith and Adlannon. It waddles most ungainly, like the others of its kind, but unlike most does not dart back soon for cover. Black eyes peer up curiously, looking to Hyardoel as the forester gravely replies, "Ah, but Gilrowen, it is worth the price."

The ring of elves closes in; nigh shoulder to shoulder, they stop, leaving three in the center: Lothdaimoth, Hyardoel, the staff-wielding miirdan Gilrowen. "You do not wish it?" the tauron queries, brows raised up, "It is tradition. And in a setting far better than for mine." The cennan Istalir grins.


A broad grin on his own face, Lothdaimoth reaches out for Gilrowen's shoulder. "I think she should not object," he says sideways to Hyardoel. "A stream is at the very least non-staining... she did stand and laugh while they tossed me into a barrel of wine." The group moves as one, contracting around the three and moving them towards the water that glints and bubbles beneath the stars.The gurgling of the stream echoes about the night meadow.


The stave is clutched hard and she resists it being taken from her hands but once finally lets it go as a hand tugs. The mirdan closes her eyes and shakes her head no but the chuckle that escapes her belies the denial. The grin returns but her eyes widen in surprise when a fat hedgehog brushes her ankle, she relaxes and lets herself go limp all resistance crumbling under the force of circumstances. "Do your worst and you will pay for this latter. As you say, Lothdaimoth," a very mischievous glint in her eyes, "it does not stain."


"Elo!" cries the elf who holds the miirdan's weapon in trust, raising the walking staff high; and in like manner, though far gentler, and with more hands, the jewelsmith is swept up in a tide. Up again, in laughter, comes the staff-wielder's voice, and the night wind blends the glad tones with a song: a rousing beat that takes the Quendi ever closer to their accomplice, the non-staining brook. It is a short way, but the agile Firstborn lengthen their journey by marching 'round it with the miirdan still aloft.


The hedgehog watches them.


The crafters lower Gilrowen, swinging her once, then...SPLASH.


Grinning, nay laughing aloud, Lothdaimoth moves along with the other crafters, dropping Gilrowen into the crystal clear water. Then he jumps back, but not swift enough as a wave cascades over his feet and soaks his trouser legs. The staff is held out by its current (temporary) owner for the soggy jewelsmith to grasp and a great shout goes up, ringing from the trees and re-echoing through the woods.


Cries of triumph ring for the unbending Gilrowen, dubbed the unsmiling by other apprentices, who is laughing so hard that she can no longer catch her breath as she surfaces from the water. Black tendrils of hair hang wily-nily over her face and she sputters and brushes them back. The first thing she sees are the feet of the laughing elves and the black bead of an eye as the hedgehog looks on from between their legs.

Her stave is rendered a tool for a graceful exit from the water by Lothdaimoth and clutching it and his hand, she clambers onto the bank, water streaming into puddles at her feet. Seeing Hyardoel's laughing face she exclaims, "I seem to remember you in a similar condition once Hyar," the breathless laughter overtakes her again, "what is so funny about it?"


"I assume that I looked then as you do," replies Hyardoel, hiding one more chuckle behind a hand. "I have spare clothes in the flets above, if you have a need for it." The elleth struggles vainly to regain her usual composure, defeated by the twitching of her lips. Taking the grey mantle from her shoulders, she steps forward to offer the dry cloak to the smith.


She sluices water from her face and takes the dry cloak. "Ah, do you? Then, thank you." She looks about at the laughing elves and particularly Lothdaimoth, "I would like to thank you all for your kind graces. How in Elbereth's name did you manage to get such a crowd out here? You both have some accounting to do?" Trying to peel her wet clinging skirt from around her ankles she walks from the water's edge towards the flet.