Nin

Of books and song

Infirmary
This room contains many bunks, placed around in an orderly fashion. Each bunk has thick blankets and pillows upon it. Some of the bunks are occupied, mainly with victims of accidents, although most of them are empty. The southern wall is composed mostly of windows, which are blanketed by heavy curtains that let through some light. On another wall is a large cabinet, contaiNing many jars, flasks, and other containers, as well as bandages, splints, and other first-aid equipment. Beside the cabinet, a small hearth burns intensely.
There is always a young healer or apprentice here, passing from bunk to bunk and verifying that everything is in its place. If you are in need of treatment, perhaps you could ask one of these apprentices to summon a healer.

Dusk covers the Last Homely House with a reddish gold taint, as the Sun finishes its daily trip through the heavens, and is almost lost in the west. The last rays of the sun slant through a window set in the Infirmary of Rivendell, bathing some of the elves and dwarves that lie in their beds. Some young elven healer apprentices scurry about, checking bandages, applying poultices, and tending to the wounded.

On a bed, a dwarf sits, apparently comfortably. His torso is bare, showing a bandage on his chest, one on his neck, and another one of his right arm. The bandages are clean, as they have been just changed, and also because the dwarf seems to be well on his way to health after his encounter with the orcs. Braldor looks out wistfully, his eyes lost in thought; and after a while he sighs.

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
As the light begins to slip out of the Halls of Healing, requiring the healers to light scented candles and dipping, flowerbud shaped scones on the walls, a graceful shadow slips in. While she wears a heavy cloak to chase the winter cold, she makes no attempt to hide her person, for the cowl is pushed back to reveal high cheekbones and a span of rippling caramel hair. She holds both hands before her, where she balances not one, but two small, leatherbound journals, a few pens, and a large stoppered jar of ink.

Nyashcala stops the apprentice to pass a few words, before the apprentice points down the sun-gilded hall to Braldor. The elleth smiles, moving to the bunk where the dwarf rests and setting her small pile down on the table next to him. "Good eveNing, mellon." She greets him as she removes her cloak to reveal a trim, dark blue dress and folds the cloak to the floor. Then she casts about for a free chair, still speaking. "I understand your wounds were more serious than I first heard. I thought I might come here in the stead of you clambering up the tree into our flet." Her chair finally found, Nyashcala turns to Braldor and smiles warmly.

"Mae govannen", Braldor replies, amiling to Nyashcala. "Aye, the healers say I must remain here still. Those orcs really put a hurt on me! But I feel strenght returNing, and soon I will be able to visit yer flet... whatever that is. I yearn to see again the caverns of Rivendell, and the fair valley! To sit in the Hall of Fire and have a smoke and some fine chatter, and to go to the Hall of Song, to enjoy the elvish voices as they rise and fall while recalling ancient events! But here I must still remain for a while", he says in a sullen tone. But he smiles again, and adds in a more cheerful voice, "But thank ye for coming to visit me. Yer very kind to come and visit a wounded dwarf, and share some conversation with him".

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
Nyashcala laughs lightly, a complex pattern of silver bells on clear water. "The flet is our home." She explains, arranging her skirt around her as she sits. "Some of them are very high in the trees, but ours is only eight feet or so high--Ansraer is feared of great hights, and I worry that Silithoer will fall off. But..it is like a small stage set in the trees, with walls and a ceiling, and a hole in the floor which you climb up through on a rope ladder." Carefully picking up the vial of ink and the pens, she sets them aside to pick up the top journal. "I hope that my conversation will be enough to whet your appetite for the ancient, Braldor! I know I do not make up for the chatter of the Hall of Song. But," She taps the journal for a moment before handing it to Braldor. The script reads clearly in both flowing Elvish Script and Stout Dwarvish Runes, "Of Elves and Adventure, of the Legends of Imladris." "I know it is not a good name, but I could think of no better. I wrote down some of my favorite tales, and then had a friend translate them on every other page. So you can share them with those in Erebor who might not know my language."

Braldor takes the book, runNing his fingers along the fine runes on the cover. "A great gift this is, Nyashcala of Rivendell", he says, tearing his gaze from the book and looking straight into Nyashcala's eyes. He then stands up, slowly so as to not unmake the bandage on his chest. The dwarf then bows low, gritting his teeth a bit, for the wound made by the orcish mace upon his flesh still troubles him a little. "I am deep in debt with ye, as well as the Loremasters of Erebor. This book I shall keep, and I and any descendants of mine will treasure it, as a bond of friendship between Erebor and the elves of Rivendell", he says. "If there is anything I can do for ye in exchange for such a gift", he adds, meaNing both friendship and the book, "name it, and I shall grant anything ye like."

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
Nyashcala beams in happiness, obviously well pleased that she has judged rightly in the choice of her gift. "It is little trouble, mellon, for such understanding. I find it often too little in the world--even from time to time in my own valley--and it saddens me." The elf runs her hands slowly down her skirt, smoothing it, with a soft, sad look in her eyes. "I will take your friendship to heart, Braldor of Erebor, without any return or gift in kind, for friendship across leagues is most important. However, for the sake of my art, I did have something in mind." She motions to the other journal, but does not pick it up yet. "If it is all right with you, I would take down some of the great and ancient myths of dwarvenkind, either by your voice or by your hand. I find there is a large...discrepancy...concerNing our possession of dwarvish lore..I would if nothing else put one of your stories to drum and tune. If it pleases, that is." Nyashcala ends with a smile, genuine and large.

Braldor's face lights up as he smiles. "Let no one say that the elves are not courteous to dwarves.. at least those of Rivendell! For here is one that is mighty and kind in both word and deed!", he says, as he bows low. "I shall reveal to ye anything yer heart desires anbout our Lore, my Lady. However, I must admit that I am no Lore Master, and what little I know of it has been taught to me from ancient songs and tales of my people. But what would ye like to listen about?", he says, as he sits again on his bed.

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
The drummer laughs, merrily, and she turns to retrieve her journal. She opens it, the very first page fresh and ready for notes, unstopping the borrowed bottle of her husband's ink and dipping the pen in it so expertly there is just enough ink upon the quill, not too much or too little. "Anything you would have me know, good Braldor." Nyashcala says softly. "I would know all of your tales, if I could, but it must be up to you to share those you have time for. Perhaps share your favorite? The best and most vivid stories are those told from the heart."

"Well, my lady, I must say that of deeds of long ago I don't know much", Braldor says. "But I know a song or two about Moria, for which the hearts of all the children of Durin silently yearn... and the yearNing increases with every passing day. Would you like a tale about it? Perhaps a song?"

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
"A tale would be wonderful!" Nyashcala says cheerfully, scribbling some sort of heading down on her first page. "I would very much like to hear of Moria. I only know if it in passing...I know that the dwarves left in some haste..." The drummer looks up, eyes twinkling, waiting for the tale to begin. SHe is obviously very interested, very excited.

"Well... there is a song, taught to young dwarves from their earliest childhood", Braldor says, as his brow furrows in thought. "I think I can sing it for ye, although my voice is not that of a Skald. Would that Thrak, master Skald of King Dain, was here. He would sing it best. But I must make due, as he isn't here". Braldor then looks away for a bit, trying to remember the words of the song. His voice then raises suddenly, a rich baritone:

"The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadows of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shiNing lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone forever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shiNing spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness swells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dum.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep".

Braldor then turns his gaze back to Nyashcala. "So are the halls of Moria in the memory of my people... filled with light and song; but now dark and silent. Our hope is that the lamps would be lighted again somewhere, and that the song of Durin's children fill the ancient Halls of our longfathers once again".

[Nyashcala(#9997)] For a long moment, there is only the frantic scratching of Nyashcala's pen, recording the words before they fade from her mind. The song recorded, she looks it over once, and then up to Braldor, soft features showing sympathy. She fans the feathers over the ink absently to dry it as she considers it. "What happened to the great halls? Why are there no more dwarves?" Nyashcala's eyes are all gentle confusion.

"Durin's Bane", Braldor says. "It drove us from the halls, after killing Durin, and his son Nain I. I know not what it is, though. Something dark and terrible, for the people of Khazad-dum were numerous and strong! Not even the Enemy could have invaded the halls, for the might of Khazad-dum opposed him, as many of the elves of Rivendell remember. But there's another history, about the Battle of the Dimrill Dale. And there it's said that Dain, son of Nain, smote the Great Goblin Azog, as the orc made for the safe of the caverns of Moria. And Dain's axe hewed him, and thus avenged his father. But he came down the Great Stair ashen, for he had sensed Durin's Bane. And even after that victory, we haven't gone to those Halls, for there it awaits us. And Dain himself said that some power, other than that we dwarves have, must enter Moria and rid it of Durin's Bane", the dwarf adds.

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
Nyashcala takes a few notes, her own face a bit drawn with seriousness. "Another power, other than what the dwarves have?" The drummer shakes her head sadly. "Then surely the elves cannot help you retake your ancestral halls. We all have our strengths, and the elves' are not the same as the dwarves', but surely there is no power we own that the dwarves do not have in some number." She shakes her head. "Noble Braldor, I fear that which claimed your great city must be naught but some great evil, some agent of the Enemy. I hope that one day your halls are safe..I might like to look upon them before I leave Middle Earth. But the days are growing dark and trecherous, and it does make me nervous from time to time."

[Duinlas(#27187)]
Having awoken at the sound of song, Duinlas listened with rapt attention as his friend sung the tale of the dwarves. It seemed familiar to him, yet he only now speaks, "Or perhaps Khazad-Dum awaits the changing of the world before Durin awakes and avenges himself. I know who would know. But it is not my place to suggest you speak to Hir Elrond about it."

"An agent of the Enemy? I do not think so... but some other Power, terrible and dark too", the dwarf replies. "For even as the enemy destroyed Ost-in-Edhil, Durin's Army came forth from the deep halls and made battle with the Enemy's forces, until Lord Elrond escaped with what could be saved of the elves of Eregion. And then Durin retreated, and the Great Gates were closed; and the Enemy couldn't tear them down, either by force or treachery. But 'tis said in the lore of my clan that we awoke Durin's bane, for we dug too deep into the sides of cruel Caradhras. But what it is remains a mystery to us", Braldor says, eyeing Nyashcala. "But I thank ye for yer kind words, Nyashcala. Would they become true, and that we can see the marvels of Moria without fear anymore".

Braldor then turns, as he listens Duinlas's words. "Well, that may be. But something other than the power of the dwarves should rid Khazad-dum of Durin's Bane, before we enter it. And maybe ye're right, Duinlas, and we should speak to Lord Elrond about this. But there are matters that require his attention, and ours, at the moment, like the growing Shadow of the Mirkwood. But once we deal with that, our mind will turn again to Khazad-dum. Maybe then will we seek Lord Elrond's wisdom and help".

[Benamar(#31197)] "Really, it's nothing - I told you that.." Says the first voice, a rich tenor, to another identity who is surely femiNine. There comes a slight pause and then the elleth answers "You should be more carefull, must I tell you that every time? I should have thought you'd have more care at your age Amar." Brief exchange over and the maker of the first sentence pushes open the wooden door with his shoulder and steps into the clean warmth of the infirmary.

The edhel that enters is just shy of seven feet tall and his shoulder length black hair verges on the untidy - though his grey eyes are crystal clear. Notable facts are that his clothes are smirched here and there with what looks to be clay and he has a slight, fresh, burn on the back of left hand. He looks around and then back at the door in a slightly reproachfull manner before he murmurs to no one in particular "You must forgive me mellyn, Benuial really does make something out of nothing these days.." He shakes his head and rubs a finger tip to the mild burn as his eyes fall on the Khazad in the bed.

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
"Many shadows, it seems, are looming over us of late." Nyashcala's voice is soft, almost distant. "I wonder when it shall be that the shadows are once again only those that are made when the Sun shines upon the earth." Then, she shakes herself a bit and writes a few notes around the margins of the songs, additions of the stories that Braldor is recalling. She looks up at the new arrival, and chuckles a bit. "Benuial often has her head so full of paintings she does not see the outside world quite the same. Mae govannen."

Duinlas smiles kindly at Braldor's words, "Precisely the reason I did not suggest you go to the Hir. But there are no others as learned as he in the valley. But perhaps we might corner Erestor. But loath are many to speak of ill omens in the valley. Though no evil enters," he smiles and glances at the newest 'wounded' entering, "We do not often speak of ill things. Perhaps a wyrm. Escaped from the downfall of The Enemy before Sauron."
Duinlas nods to Nyashcala, "But even as the sun rose, there was evil shadows in the world. I do not think we shall ever see evil abolished from Arda..."

"That I do not know, Duinlas", Braldor replies. "But I fear it might be something dqrker and more twrrible than a drake. For those we have battled before many times. But this... this terror we had never seen, either before we found it deep in the Mines, or after we fled from it. Of that I am sure", he says. "But I will wait for the day when Khazad-dum is again free, and filled with light and laughter. I refuse to beleive that we will not have victory in the end, against the Darkness. To think otherwise is to give in to bitterness, and that in itself is a victory of the Enemy. So cheer up, Nyashcala and Duinlas! For there is light abroad of this Valley!", he adds. TurNing to the newly arrived, he adds, "Well met! I am Braldor, son of Braldon of Erebor, at yer service". he adds a curt nod to his greeting, and a warm smile.

[Benamar(#31197)] "Yes, yes indeed she does Nyashcala - though I fear I was a little sharp with her. Alas.." Benamar says, his shoulders rising and then falling in a shrug "..it seems that my words are of little liking to the ellith of the Valley, though I never seek to cause offence." The clay smirched edhel's pale brow furrows slightly and he licks a finger and again rubs the burn mark. He paces across the room towards where the Drummer and the dwarven guest are to be found and then he pulls out a chair and settles upon it murmuring "In all honesty I only came to satisfy Benuial.." His smile becomes mildly sheepish before he looks to Duinlass.

"If there were no Sunlight would you still see the shadows?" The potter says and then quite frankly speaks his thought "I fear that one day that is what might happen, though I try and not let my thought dwell there.." It seems that this elf will ignore Braldor and the greeting but then, at length, he seems to become aware of the dwarf's greeting and he makes one of his own in simplest form "Well met then, I'm Benamar."

[Nyashcala(#9997)]
Nyashcala sighs, and then nods to Benamar. "He has quite the point. If there is no evil in the world, how will we know that we are the good?" She tugs at the end of her hair for a moment, in thought. "It is a depressing thing to hang upon. Braldor is right! There is light here, or is during the day. We should enjoy the Valley while it is here to enjoy."

Duinlas nods slowly, "I always enjoy the light of the valley. Indeed, I will work to spread light to all the free peoples of the world. But a long and slow task." he is silent for a moment before his lips curl into a smile, "Appropriate work for the Firstborn, I must say."

"Indeed, it might seem a slow and long task, but a rewarding one. For that is what we all should do. For dark thrives where there is no light, and when light appears, darkness recoils", Braldor replies to Duinlas. "And ye should indeed enjoy such a fine day as this. I would be outside, should the healers permit me to go. But alas!, I'm confined to this room still. I have enjoyed this conversation, and I thank ye all... but it seems that discussing this matters is has spent the energy I had". Although the dwarf's voice is still cheerful, his eyes show signs of weariness. "I think i shall take a little nap now, and recover my strenght..." Braldor's eyes, who had been drooping, now close, and soon the soft snoring of the dwarf can be heard.