+elf time================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin>
===================
IC time is: Dawn < About 6:18 AM
IC day is:
Ormenel Heavens-day
IC date is: 20 Firith Fading
Moon phase: Last
Quarter HIDDEN
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is:
Loa 3 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor
RL time: Thu Nov 21 10:06:07
2002
=====================================================================
Vineyard
The rows of grapes you expect to find in a vineyard are not present here,
instead, the plants grow wild, among the tall Mallorn trees. Here and
there, many elves are harvesting grapes for the winery to the north.
Souhwards, the road you're on runs off to the feet of a young mallorn.One
elf farmer in particular stands nearby, working amidst the bountiful
vines.
Minual = Merilwen
Menegolf=Rosgwaen
Rorfimir=Gilrowen
Nelion=Hyardoel
Tossing a small shovel aside, Lothdaimoth straightens and stretches. All
along the few short trellises, dark dirt crumbles. "I will begin here," he
says to one standing near and nods at the hole he has just dug. One
dirt-stained hand pushes a strand of hair from his face, leaving behind a
brown smear on his forehead. And without waiting for a response, he heads
toward the waiting vines.
"Know you for certain the hole is of the proper depth?"
A stern voice and hard, neither high nor low and pitch, speaks now
these words. And should one hearken to them and turn to a tree nearby,
perhaps his eyes would fall upon their source: a wiry figure,
sharp-featured, dark-tressed, neither tall among his people nor overly
short of stature. And though, as he leans against the silvern bark of a
mallorn-bole, his posture seems perhaps easy enough, a certain wariness
about his remains. Arms cross, and blue eyes fall unerringly upon
Lothdaimoth as the hem of a cloak blazoned with a rampant lion billows in
the dawn wind. "A vintner is a rarity among our house, mellon-- do us
well, and ensure you do not bury your vines, nor expose their roots."
Quick and sharp is his speech... yet he smiles at the apprentice,
and his eyes are not unkind. (Menegolf)
Dirt-stained and smudged as the sometime-counsel is, a younger
Sinda waits beside the aforementioned vines, nodding once at Menegolf's
speech. But Nelion of Dinlom adds naught as his bare feet probe idly the
freshly-turned soil, releasing scents of earth to mingle with the smell of
morning dew. "Athrelei is still displeased. But then..." A long glance to
the trellises. He shrugs at the last, and kneels beside the bundle of
vines. "Have you set aside the half for the mellyrn?"
Eyes of silver fall in the direction of Menegolf as he speaks. These eyes,
which belong to a dark-haried maiden, are big and sparkle in the sunlight.
She is dressed in a garment of dark blue, and in her little hands she
carries a watering can.
Waiting then, as she glances around to each of the other gathered around,
she stands quiet waiting on to see what their next steps will be in
planting. (Minual)
Arms gently cradling several of cuttings and rootstocks, Lothdaimoth stops
and looks down. "Yes, see.." he nudges at the pile with a bare toe. "These
here are for the trellises. Those, for the trees." Swift strides return
him to the hole where he smiles at his kinsman. "I think so.." his voice
trails off as he crouches and places on slip of rootstock into the waiting
hole. "Yes... see, the dirt will come just here - below the bud." There is
a bit of question in the glance cast upwards.
And now does Menegolf cock his dark head in attention, keen eyes fixed
upon the holes dug before the trellises. "It is well then, Lothdaimoth."
Deft, sure steps carry the Sinda across the mould, the deep crimson and
gold of his raiment seeming to ripple and flow with each step. A nearer
mallorn now is approached-- and leaned against, arms crossed once more, as
if never had he left his first place of repose.
Little time is left for silence ere he turns to Nelion, a brief chuckle
shaking his slender frame, and his sharp eyes posessed of a sudden light
of mischief. "Some will be ever displeased. But what course then must we
take? Shall we wait until all minds are decided, beyond all doubt, or
forge ahead that we might try and test new ways-- for how but to test
might we know if they are to our benefit? Surely no decision is well-made
in haste... yet little haste is there in this." A nod to the trellises, a
glance to Lothdaimoth.
A tall, gangling figure appears on the road but for all his height almost
as barrel chested as the one he shifts from his arms and puts to the side.
Rorfinor, wiping his hands on his long leather apron, walks over to look
more closely at the cuttings. He stands scrutinizing them a moment before
nodding. Only then does he nod gravely to Menegolf and call out a greeting
to Lothdaimoth and Nelion. "A good morning to you. Well, so you have
finally begun the great experiment, looking around for the reaction of the
other present, "I see."
Beneath the golden canopy, among a group of silver-trunked mallyrn that
have no grapes already entwined about them, more elves bend and
straighten. Holes are being prepared in the soft loam for the other half
of the Imladhrim vines. And it appears they are nearly finished, for first
one and then another cease their work and drift over to stand beside
Nelion.
The young lady with the watering can gives a toss of her dark hair out of
her way as she places the can filled with liquid upon the earth. Even at
the light force in which is given as she sets in down, water still
splashes a little over the edges.A soft smiles rests upon her lips as
Minual turns to Lothdaimoth, "Do you want me to water each one of these
after they are in the earth?" She questions.
"Oh, aye," replies Nelion, now smiling at Menegolf, "Still..." Following
Lothdaimoth to the trellises, he pauses there, strong fingers touching one
lightly as though discerning if it does exist in truth. Thin brows are
lowered into a frown. "Is it true? Did our kinsmen build this...trellis?"
And he turns to Lothdaimoth, prompting for a reply -- but soon enough he
is distracted by another. "Aiya, Rorfimir," the Dinlom answers, mirthful
grin redoubling as though it never left his mien at all.
Lothdaimoth's smile widens. "Yes," he says yet again. "My cousin Rosgwaen
did build the trellising for me but a little while past. And being so
small an experiment," he winks at Rorfimir, "I think it will not take long
to be finished." Turning as another apprentice asks him a question, he
says, "If you could wet the bottom of the hole before the vines are
placed, and then come behind to water as well?"
With a nod of her raven crown, the lady apprentice picks the watering can
back up from it's place resting upon the earth. Minual then hurries over
to where the others are digging, the sunlight dancing all around.
"Aye." A firm response from Menegolf, and a broad smile is flashed first
toward Lothdaimoth, then Nelion. "Your very Indor. 'Tis true that even I
found these tidings strange to hear. Yet, it is so... and unless I have
heard awrong, he brought others of his house with him." A nod of greeting
is given to Rorfimir, yet soon the Raavindonserke's eyes dart between
sun-rays to find Minual. "Aye. Lothdaimoth's instructions are correct."
Darting between the rays of sunshine, the little lady returns to the
others with her watering can still in hand. Though upon her return, the
can in not as full as before. She stops and sits the can to rest upon the
gound and twists her long, raven strands of hair back out of her way, then
grabs the watering can once more.
A few steps lead her over to the new hole in which her fellow apprentice
has dug and in one swift motion pours the glittering liquid in the ground.
"The holes are dug," comes a soft voice. Twisting on his heels towards the
other apprentices who stand nearby, dark eyes seeking for the one who had
spoken, Lothdaimoth again indicates which cuttings are to be planted in
the accustomed way, at the base of giant trees and not upon flimsy
hand-built structures. "These are to go in them," he says before returning
his attention to the forlorn looking stem still held gently in one hand.
Muddy water splashes up, decorating his hands still further. And his eyes
fall shut, all his being now focusing on the small plant.
The apprentices begin to peel off from the clustered group, some gathering
up the half-pile of grape vines; others heading for more water pots.
`Rosgwaen, eh.' Nelion's brows rise in faint bemusement at the trellis --
then in a toss of his head, it is gone. He turns to Minual as the latter
starts to moisten the holes, then shoots a quick look at Lothdaimoth's
moving form. Quick, but considering; seemingly satisfied by what he sees,
the Dinlom vintner steps aside to come nearer to Menegolf's mallorn. "...
... well," says he in murmured counsel, then falls silent, a critical eye
towards the planting.
"He does well."
Arms folded across his chest, Rorfimir slowly walks out along the row of
trellises. He stops and examines one more closely and reaches out to give
the wood a shake to test its solidity. A grunt of approval for it when it
does not move. He murmurs, "They are solid." Then in a louder voice and
looking around to Lothdaimoth, "You say the Indor built these?" He walks
along shaking his head in wonder, "When does he find the time?"
He walks over to behind Lothdaimoth and stands hands behind his back
watching the operation closely.
"... ... ...," speaks Menegolf in return with a sharp nod toward Nelion,
voice no louder than the Dinlom's, yet soon once more his gaze flashes to
the dark-eyed apprentice. And his voice, when he speaks anew, is stern
once more. 'How many days have your seedlings gone unplanted, kinsman?' A
glance then to Rorfimir as the barrel-chested edhel tests the trellises.
"He does indeed."
It is a few minutes after this latest question before Lothdaimoth relaxes
and opens his eyes again. Several swift motions pile loose dirt around the
stem and pat it firmly into place. Then he straightens, absently rubbing
his hands along his thighs (and incidentally adding to the burden of dirt
already adorning his pants). "Since I returned from Imladris, Menegolf. I
remember not the count of days. But they have lain safely wrapped in the
coolest spot I could find, and I think they have come to no harm."
Kinsman speaks to kinsman, and so too does Nelion turn away,
shooting a sudden frown and a challenging glance to Rorfimir. "What does
`solid' have to do with it?" But his words speak to naught -- for in a
trice the other Dinlom is called towards the vintners planting rootstock
by the trees. Nelion shakes his head, briefly flitting between mirth and
disapproval at the vintner-counsel's mention of Imladris. He moves closer
then, inspecting Lothdaimoth's first planting.
Returning to her full height, Minual glances over to the others quickly
before she turns. The sun dances through her dark hair, as she takes her
watering can and goes back to water the ground where the other are
digging. "If you need me to bring the water back, let me know. I'll come
quickly." The bubbly young lady says to the those gathered before she is
engulfed in the sunlight.
"Very well. 'Tis good of you, Lothdaimoth, to bring new stock to our
vineyards. A pity you gathered no stock from the Greenwood in your
travels." These words to Lothdaimoth spoken; keen, blue eyes find Nelion
once more, the Raavindonserke's slight weight shifting against grey
mallorn-bark as he takes brief account of the Dinlom's countenance. And
the morning breeze grows stronger now, billowing wine-red robes and a
lion-blazoned cloak hem, a strand of dark hair blowing across Menegolf's
pale features.
"Perhaps water those on the far end once more, if you have not of late,"
he speaks to Minual with a nod. "A winter's wind can be drying indeed."
Nelion comes near, eyeing the now-planted stalk carefully, and Lothdaimoth
gestures to the rail just above the whip-thin stem. "As it grows, it will
reach to the top and then I will train the vines along the fence. So that
they stretch like so." Long arms measure along the trellis. "And the
grapes do hang below." His voice is respectful, quiet. Turning now to
Menegolf, he grins. "I would have liked to, but they make little or no
wine. Rather it is gotten by trade." Disbelief writes itself across his
face. "I did go to see their vines, but they are more fit for eating than
pressing."
A soft song rises from the flickering shadows beneath the mallyrn where
other apprentices work over the tradition half of this new field.
Lothdaimoth spares a moment to glance towards them. Apparently satisfied,
he moves towards the next hole readied and waiting, its bottom already
beginning to dry.
"Greenwood." Nelion merely sighs and shakes his head at the thought,
a resigned look towards journeyman Raavindonserke. "Vines from Imladris
are enough..." And here he quiets, eyes closing as he kneels beside
railing, touching the soil around the vine. Soon he rises, an arm brushing
against the nearest wooden trellis as he follows Lothdaimoth's
explanation. "And how long until the first fruits of this experiment are
readied? Do these grapes even grow as ours do?" He squints into the
sunlight, harkening to the other apprentices' song.
Crimson-draped shoulders rise and fall at the Dinlom's words, forging
once more a mien of wariness, almost discomfort. Yet it is not to Nelion
that Menegolf speaks, but to Lothdaimoth once more. "A pity. Vines from
Imladris then will have to do." Dark head tilted now, he watches the
Raavindonserke apprentice for a time in silence, or perhaps in wait of his
next words, as a group of apprentices nearby raise their voices in the
bright songs of things that grow from soil.
Lothdaimoth laughs. "Yes, of course. They are grapes after all. Merely a
variety we have not had before. They will grow the same as the others...
save for whatever difference more sunlight might bring." Eagerness for the
future result kindles in his eyes. The morning mist is completely gone and
the pale winter sun risen above the surrounding treetops to shine full
upon them. "I wonder how the wine will taste..." These last words are
softer, almost spoken only to himself.
The sun provides a hint of warmth amidst the coolness of the breeze -- and
Nelion's manner is warm too as he faces his fellow vintner, a half-smile
given for Lothdaimoth's soft words. He replies not, though it seems for
now the Dinlom approves of the counsel's speech, sharing the sentiment in
the brotherhood of their profession. Then the song from the other side of
the clearing fades, and he looks to the remaining unfilled holes. "How
many more cuttings are left?" he prompts, stepping back to leave the
counsel to his work.
The blue eyes of Menegolf mark each word passed between the Dinlom
and Raavindonserke-- yet no words does he now speak. For the group of
singing apprentices now motions to him, and the journeyman's own proud
voice rises in chant for a time... but looking ever upon Lothdaimoth as
the younger Sinda works. In time, Menegolf's chanting is ceased, and he
speaks anew. "Will you not sing with us, Lothdaimoth? Your young vines
would do well to hear your voice."
Withdrawn from his dream of the future, Lothdaimoth looks a little vague
at first, his eyes searching almost at random until they fall upon the
swiftly dwindling pile of vine. "Just these remain." And indeed, from the
original pile, no more than 10 or so rest still on the ground, unplanted.
Several quick steps bring him to them and back again, arms holding several
more of the twig-like cuttings. A happy smile lights up his face as he
kneels to plant again, until Menegolf speaks. And then dark eyes widen, a
faint hint of red stains pale cheeks and for the first time, he stammers a
little in his speech. "I - " Well, it would be a stammer, if more than one
word had been spoken.
Nelion grins and lifts a hand in what is meant as calming gestures. "Fear
not, Lothdaimoth. There is a first time for everything." He chuckles.
"You've learned the proper songs, have you not?"
And while Nelion chuckles, Menegolf laughs; a great, strong laugh,
mischievous and fond as he looks upon the colour that finds the
apprentice's countenance, and his arms cross more tightly before his
chest, though his back leans still against he mallorn-bole. "Come now,
Lothdaimoth!" he speaks, words quick and sharp as seems ever their wont.
"Would you not sing with your fellows? And if you have learned the songs
not, would you learn them now?"
The blush deepens, and Lothdaimoth suddenly looks very young, moreso even
than his scant 800-odd years would tell. "Y-yes. That is, I have heard
them, of course. I mean.." As if aware that he is almost babbling, he
clamps his mouth firmly shut and takes a deep breath before trying again.
"I would learn." A hasty glance is cast around the dappled sunlit
vineyard, and the realization that only these two stand close enough to
hear seems to calm him somewhat as well. Apprentices, the other workers,
all are far off and busied about their own affairs.
"Good," replies the Dinlom, giving Lothdaimoth one final, mirthful smile
before he kneels, leaning briefly on the trellis for support. "Follow our
lead." He looks up, nods to Menegolf, and softly starts to sing.
It is a simple, wordless song, repeating on and on again in small
variations of one short and basic theme: the season's cycle, spring to
summer, on and on until the fading, moving back from rhiw to stirring once
again. Nevertheless, it seems but part of something greater, by itself
still incomplete, waiting for the others to join in.
And with a last, knowing chuckle at the stuttering Sinda, Nelion's nod is
returned, and Menegolf's voice swiftly joins the Dinlom's. Their voices
now rise like the coming of spring's thaw, now fall as the seasons grow
cold once more, now rise again, as in time others join their lay, some
laying down their trowels for a time to hold the vines now in their hands.
And like this they continue, as Menegolf's blue eyes grow less piercing,
and he seems given wholly to song.
Until his strong voice fades from the lay, and turns to Lothdaimoth once
more. "Now, kinsman, raise your voice with ours."
Although hesitant to begin, at last Lothdaimoth joins softly in the simple
melody. His tentative baritone grows more confident (though not any
louder) as he follows the cycle of song. And after several repetitions,
with a glance to make sure he does nothing amiss, he begins to hum a quiet
harmony. And like the others before him, the music itself engulfs him at
last, until no notice does he take at all of those nearby.
Laid over the harmony, this last vintner's voice makes complete the final
harmony and chord. It rises still, and the freshly-planted vines do heed
their song. The wind stills not, and no birds take flight, and the sun
shines pale in winter still -- but the edges of the mounds of soil seem
warm to the touch, far warmer than the sunlight might explain. (Nelion)