================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Midday About 12:35 PM
IC day is: Orbelain Valar-day
IC date is: 39 Rhiw Winter
Moon phase: First Quarter VISIBLE
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 3 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3027
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RL time: Sun Dec 15 20:51:54 2002
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Relatively barren of activity are the well-polished plankings of the great
talan of the Gwaith-I-Thein this day, perhaps in response to the efforts of the
guild-folk in the past days of the congress. A few repose here and there,
however, and a small meeting appears in progress at the large gathering table
near the massive bole of the mallorn. Along the edge of the talan opposite the
pathway entry a faintly flickering luminescence radiates from the
tapestry-shrouded office of the craftmaster.
A soft clinking echoes up the spiralling staircase, a few moments before the
nearly-silent pad of footsteps might be heard. Into the room then walks a tall,
black-haired edhel carrying a few bottles under one white-clad arm. His steps
take him towards the curtained-off corner, but he makes a small detour, setting
the bottles down on the great table. Several more strides bring him to the edge
of the tapestries and he hesitates before calling out softly. "Master...?"
"Come, mellon," is the response from behind the hangings, the voice clearly
that of the craftmaster.
Lothdaimoth pushes aside the curtains and steps inside, letting them fall
heavily behind him. Dark eyes go at once to the craftmaster and, "You wanted to
see me?" he asks. In the light, his white shirt shimmers faintly and the pin at
his neck gleams silver.
Leaning back in a chair before the craftmaster's desk, one ankle propped up on
the other knee, there is Iaurhanc. His long arms are folded across his chest,
and hazel eyes go up to Lothdaimoth. He nods slowly, and just once.
"Indeed," is the distracted response from the golden-haired edhel at the broad
desk directly in front of the entry curtain. With a final notation on the
parchment at his fingertips, the craftmaster glances upward, iron-blue eyes
glimmering with even more intensity than usual thanks to the strange radiance
of the crystal brazier at the side of the office. Upon a plain, tri-legged
brace does the device sit, and upon it's outer surface, a multitude of angular
facets catch and refract the light of the flame (if indeed that is the source
of the light) within, splashing it about the colorful tapestries as if a score
of torches were strewn randomly about the room.
"Thank you for joining us, Lothdaimoth," begins the noldo, his eyes flitting
momentarily toward the master vintner as he eases back slightly in the
tall-backed chair, "I hear your name upon the lips of many these last weeks,
mellon. Some speak of your artistry in the vinting of wines, others of your
deeds in the service of the Royal Court." He pauses thoughfully, taking a drink
from a small goblet at his side (as if in afterthought) before adding, "You
have my congratulations, mellon."
While waiting for Aegraum to finish, Lothdaimoth's eyes go to the odd brazier,
Iaurhanc, the desk and then back to the mastercrafter as the latter begins to
speak. A faint hint of red might be seen to creep up his cheeks, even through
the strangeness of the flickering light, but his voice is even and quiet.
"Thank you. I..." but words fail him and he falls silent again.
"My congratulations as well, Lothdaimoth," Iaurhanc adds behind the
Craftmaster's word, and a second nod is eased from his brown head. Slow and
matter-of-fact, his words drawl out. "Your plants have been taking well to both
the mallyrn and your new trellises. I have seen you at work with them. You have
an affinity for the vines." His eyes are steady on the young edhel.
"Tell me of your new vinyard, apprentice," commands the craftmaster after
another sip from the goblet, "I have seen them myself, and master Iaurhanc has
obviously spoken well of them, and yet I would hear your mind." He steeples
long fingers under his chin then, arching a glittering brow, "What is your
observation of your new plantings, and your... advancements in the art?"
"Thank you," Lothdaimoth says again, smiling a little at his kinsman, when
Aegraum's requirement brings his head around again. A fine line wrinkles
between black eyebrows and he is silent for several minutes, eyes turned
inwards. "They grow well. The roots are strong," he says at last, slow and
thoughtful. "I think it is too soon to see what differences there might be
between those on the mallyrn and those around the fencing... they like it
here." One shoulder lifts in a minute shrug and his lips tilt half-smiling as
he looks up. "I am not so good at listening yet, but I am learning." And again
a flush tints pale cheeks. "I have learned the songs as well. And something of
winemaking, though in truth I have amused myself with that side of the craft
for some time."
Iaurhanc sets his foot to the floor now, leaning forward to prop elbows atop
knees. "Aye, that is right. Your wine was popular at the tasting, was it not?"
A smile begins to spread across his face, wide and wry. "The malindaer. 'Twas
good to have wine of Lothlorien tie for first place." He chuckles, deep in his
chest.
The noldo seems to agree with, or at least accept, the apprentice's
explanations, nodding slowly (though his face is, as ever, impassive) at the
other's words. He glances toward Iaurhanc then as the master speaks, the barest
hint of a smile pulling half-heartedly at the edge of his mouth.
Taking the line of conversation along a different curve, though, Aegraum asks,
"And what of your experiences within the guild, Lothdaimoth? Clearly you toil
greatly, perhaps the moreso now, in your duties within the Court - do you hold
your place among the guild-folk with the same reverence as that of your
ministerial seat?"
"The Lady holds my oaths. And in my heart neither has been superceded by the
other." His tone is sober. "But they are different. I serve in the Arnpand in
the place given me, and as best I am able. Nor will I ever give less."
Lothdaimoth pauses a moment. "Master Iaurhanc has said that I have an affinity
for the vines. As I told you when you allowed me into the guild, they call to
something in me. If I never become more than apprentice, to come and go at the
beck of all; if you asked me to leave my apprentice-ship for my other duties
were too great; still I would come and work among the vineyards when I could."
Once again he shrugs as if mere words can no longer express his thoughts. "I
love the grapes, Master."
Iaurhanc's study of Lothdaimoth has become piercing, a startling contrast with
his usually placid expression. "You have grown with the vines." His words are
slow, even for him, as if thought and ponderance is laden with every syllable.
"You have drunk deep of the teachings we have given you, and you have
outreached your original supports already."
A third time he nods, as if to himself, and half of his earth-brown hair slides
before a shoulder. "Lothdaimoth o nos Raavindonserke, do you agree to take the
oaths of the journeyman?"
Turning to look at his kinsman, Lothdaimoth's hair slides black across his
silvery shirt and he pushes it back absently. At first he just listens, but
then his eyes widen and he glances briefly back at the craftmaster. "Yes.
Gladly. If you think I am ready?" His voice rises in question. "It has not been
so very long..."
"As you have said, Lothdaimoth," replies the craftmaster as he raises from his
chair, "there has long been an empathy between you and the fruits of the vine.
And now, that empathy is translated to works." He glances briefly at the master
vintner as he moves slowly toward the dancing luminence of the crystal brazier.
"Iaurhanc and I have no doubt of your burgeoning skills and your dedication."
"And so," continues the ancienct edhel, his voice modulating slightly with
increased formality, "Do you swear diligence and gentleness as you begin to
instruct others in your craft, even as you yourself still strive toward the
mastery your spirit demands?" ...The glittering of the lamp seems to strengthen
in response to the noldo's intensity.
Surprise is gone, uncertainty with it. Lothdaimoth's eyes and face and voice
are sure. "I swear." Even the strangeness of the lamp cannot take his gaze from
the master's face as he says these few words.
And Iaurhanc stands, his form unlengthening to an astonishing height. Slowly he
steps toward the brazier, yet his long strides carry him quickly there, his
eyes never leaving his fellow Vintner. "And do you swear dedication to the
guild as you now are entrusted with the great responsibility, and great joy, of
admitting others into the fold of the Gwaith-I-Thein?" His voice is deep and
each word seems to mark jealously its own moment in time.
Lothdaimoth's eyes go in their turn to Iaurhanc. "Always I have been dedicated
to the guild and those within it. That will not change. To this also, I will
swear." The flame of the lamp lights up his face with its pale solemn lines.
"And lastly, mellon," says the noldo, his pale face alit with the now-furious
adulation of the crystal's light, "though you have been called not days before
to utter oaths of the same intent, still must I ask, indeed require, do you
renew your oath to Lady and Wood, to serve faithfully and genuinely as you
persue your craft?"
"I will serve the Lady and her people and my home for as long as life is in me
and time permits. Until the day I die, go oversea, or Arda itself comes to an
end." Lothdaimoth's gaze goes back to Aegraum, flickering just a little down
towards the light.
Darker than the Craftmaster, it would seem the light of the lamp ignores
Iaurhanc-- unless one were to look at his eyes, which flicker with a flame of
green and gold as if the Silvan elf's very soul would escape through his eyes.
"Then may all in this Wood, from the fences to the rivers' joining," booms the
deep rumble of his voice. "Know that Lothdaimoth o nos Raavindonserke is
instilled with honor and has accepted the rank of Journeyman of the
Gwaith-I-Thein." His grin returns, and the fire in his gaze now burns with
pride over his young kinsman.
Then Aegraum too offers a smile, though more reserved, born of acceptance and
approval. "Well done, journeyman. All of the guild rejoices."
The smile kindles an answering one on Lothdaimoth's face, but for the moment he
is silent. And still. From his low boots to the silver clasp at the base of his
neck, nothing moves save his lips as his grin grows wider still. Until at last,
"Thank you," he says and bows his head a little.