©
2003 I. Chishti
Merry Meeting
The silver light of afternoon spills through the many windows incised in the wooden walls of the humble BeorNing DiNing Hall. Myriad tables have been crowded with chairs and arrayed with earthenware plates and tankards to accomodate all, customary livery of pallid green replaced with creamy white. Delicate arrangements of late summer wildflowers have been crudely placed upon each table in a small cup of fired clay, and bits of faded ribbon adorn the backs and legs of each seat.
At the fore of the massive chamber is a lengthy slab of wood, cut from a single evergreen behemoth and set with places for some three dozen about its rectangular perameter to gather the most honored guests. Lanterns are placed atop the raw wood surface, illuminating a towering stool for the Laird of the inhabitants of the Village which casts a high shadow against the wall, it rests unclaimed. Servitors await against the walls, mostly young woman scarcely out of childhood, bearing baskets of brown-crusted rolls or great jugs of mead and wine; the hosts have arrived, as have many of their visitors from afar.
The door to the DiNing Room opens, admitting not only the sounds of the bar beyond - an inarticulate rumble of conversation and the clank and clatter of glasses and plates - but also several tall beings. Standing silhouetted by the light of the room behind, they appear more lithe and willowy then the humans around them. For indeed they are not human, but the Firstborn. Elves, cloaked in woolens against the winter cold outside and, as is the custom of their BeorNing hosts, clad in cottons and woolens as well, down to their very shoes.
And among them too, not easily discerned at first in the cluster of taller figures, are a few Dwarves, stout and brave, beards combed and freshly braided, they too shod in woolen boots and wearing not a scrap of leather. At the fore of this last group, a figure clad in blue walks, his mien commanding and sure. This is Braldor, son of Braldon, Military Advisor to Dain, son of Nain and King under the Mountain.
Duinlas, also, walks among the firstborn, his fair face smiling as he looks at the tables arrayed for a feast. He glances toward Idrendae, "It won't be long before you shall be back in our own kitchens now, mellon." His face is softened with the pleasure of the coming feast.
A young man stands upon the foyer as the doors open once again to admit more to the festive gathering, "Good afternoon friends," he says politely with a low bow to the assemblage of Elf and Dwarf, "please allow me to guide you to your seats." Nervously, he lifts a hand in gesture to the largest table, "Grimbeorn bids you welcome to our lands, and will be joiNing us very shortly." The lad turns and weaves his way through the midst of table and chair, ignoring the grinNing glances of his kinsmen that have found a place amongst them, and says to the gathering once he has neared the dais, "The feast will begin once everyone has arrived. You have but to ask the stewards," another gesture indicates the youngsters standing against the walls, "if you wish a tankard of mead or wine." Another bow, and he walks once more the entrance to greet others.
Following shortly behind the son of Braldon is an older dwarf, clad, as the rest, entirely in wools and cottons. His gait is strange and shuffling, unused to the soft grip of woolen boots and the extra feeling they provide. To his fellows he might appear an odd sight, wearing not a blade or ring of armor on his person. Instead he is clothed a creamy white shirt and dark green cloak and tassle. He bears a heavy brow and natural frown, but his gruff features brighten upon his entrance and a smile turns up the ends of his mustaches. Dorgin, son of Forgin and Veteran Warder of Erebor, weaves his way amidst the tables, finally finding himself a seat among a few other dwarven officers.
Sweeping the dust of the wooden floor, a woolen cloak of forest green dangles from the shoulders of a stout figure who stumbles through the door some moments after the rest of the group. The hems of his cloak have been lined in white, laced in gold, and clasped at the dwarf's broad shoulders by a silver brooch, revealing it to be a garment of fine make. To accomodate the mood of the festivities which the khazad pauses to behold, his beard has been braided into intricate locks and bound in place by small bands of gold, to fall down in golden-brown bushels about his knees. Were it not for this beard, and the long locks of his kin-hued mane, this form could easily be mistaken for a hobbit on accout of his miniscule stature.
Raven eyes swivel about in their swarthy sockets, observing the numerous tables, and in particular coming to a halt upon the table holding his kin. There do his wool-wrapped feet bear him in an ambled gait, weaving in and out of the table-strewn diNing room. "Hail kinsmen, friends, and hosts!" booms the dwarf with a deep and formal bow as he approaches the table, ere he scans the quickly filling seats in search of an open chair. "Will the Master Skald of the King Dain's courts be welcomed at this table?" Unveiled pride rings in his musical tone.
"Thank ye friend", Braldor calls after the BeorNing greeter. Sitting himself on a nearby chair, he motions for the dwarves that have come with him to do likewise. "I've heard the mead of the BeorNings is something quite good... I think I shall taste it and judge myself", he says with a chuckle to noone in particular. "Some mead over here!", he says, motioNing to one of the younger Men that seem to be there to bring food and drink to the guests of the BeorNings.
He seems about to ask something to a dwarf sitting beside him, when Thrak enters, and Braldor visibly relaxes. "Ah, Thrak! Come sit, cousin! We were saving a chair here for ye!", he calls to the elder dwarf.
"Mead?" Grimbeorn enters the diNing room eyes adjusting quickly to the light and first settling on the dwarves, his ears apparently easily picking up their conversation. He gives a small chuckle and shakes his head. "Perhaps food first, master dwarves?" he says, walking near to where they sit. "You've not our honey wine yet?"
Among the edhel of Imladris stands one of raven hair and broad shoulder. He removes his winter cloak and drapes it over a chair near the door and reveals himself to be the Hirdan Gondramind, herald of the noble house Menelmen. He is clad in simple but formal robes of safire blue, and upon the back, embroidered in silver, is the sigal of his house - the Ship of the moon sailing a sea of stars. His hair is tied back with a simple cotton rope, giving him a practical, workman like appearance even in his formal attire. He follows the servitor that has met him and takes the seat indicated, as do the other of the quendi. "Thank you my friend," he nods to human and then bows in greeting to those present. "Such hospitality is most welcome after such a long journey" he smiles then as the other quendi are seated around him.
Duinlas settles himself into a seat beside Gondramind, and his ears perk up at the sound of wine, a smile coming to his face. He casts a glance toward the dwarves, then back toward Gondramind, Silothiel, and the other firstborn. Duinlas' passion for wine is quite well known in the valley, and he most anticipates tasting some again.
"A honey wine?" comes Silothiel's musical but curious voice. "That does indeed sound delicious, eh, Duinlas?" she asks her friend with a wink.
In comes Thari, beard and hair done with particular care in a multitude of braids, and moustaches are stroked vainly by clever fingers. Swift steps bring the merchant toward the dwarves, and among them a seat is chosen. "Honey wine, eh?" This one seems taken of a fine mood, and a great smile is tossed up at Grimbeorn.
With no verbal response from the dwarven Skald, he inclines his head to the son of Braldon and assumes a seat in the offered chair. As he brushes the tight braids of his mane out of his face and adjusts the woolen cloak -- which he seems to comfortably fill -- about his shoulders, a young lass approaches him with an offered keg of mead. The frothy beverage is declined with a brief wave of his hand, however. An odd refusal for a dwarf to make.
His attention is thus withdrawn from the mead and focused before him to the inhabitants of the honoured table. Many faces fill his eyes with recognition and others with mild curiosity as he glances about at each of them. Strange as it is, it seems the wagging tongue of the Skald will remain silent -- that is, until Grimbeorn voices his query.
"I've not tasted the wine of these lands, master host," Thrak seems to speak softly, but the natural potency concealed in his throaty tones carries far, "and I'd be grateful for a small draught." Placidly, his eyes rest on the burly form of Grimbeorn.
Many a cordial wave or friendly smile is lifted to the Laird in his passing, some offering also a merry greeting. A constant din of conversation echoes in the Hall with the occasional chorus of human laughter. Suddently there arrives a clatter, cognizantly muted by careful hands, of great platters, wooden bowls, and broad dishes; emitting from a great procession of young men and women bearing food, coiling past each table like a smiling serpent of festivals. They stop beside the longest table first and array themselves behind the seated guests of honor, offering each in turn juicy slices of roasted vegetables, stewed fruits or tubers, rich loaves of bread, salads, pastries, and delicate bits of honeycomb. Flesh is conspicuously absent from the proffered spread.
Grimbeorn laughs some more at the responses of the dwarves, shaking his head. "Honey wine. Food of the bears," he grins. "Lass! Lad!" he then calls loudly across the room, waving his hand toward the servers. "Mead here for our guests. Never tasted mead," he clucks his tongue.
"Indeed, Laird, I believe some of us from Rivendell have also never sampled the famed mead of Beor," says Gondramind, incliNing his head in respect to Grimbeorn. He smiles toward Braldor and the other dwarves near the Thane, then sits back in his chair as the meal is brought. The smells are delicious. "Fit for king, would you not say?" asks the Hirdan, grey eyes twinkling mirthfully as he looks to the quendi with him.
Duinlas accepts every offered item of food, letting it pile upon his plate. He does not touch his food until he is sure there is no further procession of platters coming from the kitchen. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, speaking for the first time since he sat, "Truly blessed are those of the BeorNings who feast on such food. Thrice renowned are the kitchens tables of Beor, and now we see truly the reason."
Offering a deep nod to Thrak as the Skald joins the table of dwarves, Dorgin seems about to help himself to a mug of mead as the young man called over by Braldor approaches. But the deep rumbling voice of Grimbeorn is not one easily ignored. It draws the attention of the Warder as his hand sinks back to the table and he turns in his chair to eye the owner of the deep voice. Somehow, the feeling that he is looking vertical descends upon Dorgin. He nods to the BeorNing, uttering no words, before turNing back to the table and hugging a mug of frothy mead to him.
"In Rivendell? Thought you had honey wine there," Grimbeorn replies, turNing to answer Gondramind. He stands by, nodding approvingly as two servers arrive to set mugs of mead before Thrak and Thari. "Go ahead--taste it," he urges.
"Ah, mead! Aye, not bad, not bad. Perhaps I'll bring a bit of it home." Thari turns a smiling face to the server, and curious eyes to the plate, leaNing over and sniffing a bit. "Curious food your sort have here, curious indeed. But good!" is hastily added. A deep swallow is stolen from a mug, and the dwarf's head inclines toward Grimbeorn.
A large bite taken of a roasted pepper, a smile pulls Gondramind's lips and he chews quickly and swallows. "Do we? You must forgive me then Laird. I tend to find one wine I like and stick to it. Culyave for me when at home but here... " he extends his glass to the server "I shall be delighted to sampe this mead." He turns then to Duinlas with a smile and says in a low voice, "Indeed my friend you are right. The roasted vegetables are marvelous. Idhrendae should gleen the recipe from the cooks here ere we leave."
Duinlas hoists his mug, and looks toward the humans and dwarves with a curious eye, "Mead in Imladris? Not that I have tasted. Most our wine is from our vinters. They will not tell me the secrets to make my own. I wonder why." He then tilts the mug back to his lips and holds it there for some time. Then he drops the mug back to the table with a satisfied smile... The mug, of course, is empty.
The Skald also indulges himself in the served selections of food, shoveling in the variously prepared fruits and vegetables, but with a sort of polite manner nonetheless. LeaNing over to Dorgin, who is seated by him, he whispers words that are audible only to the keenest of ears, "I'd prefer a good plate of meat, but we must borrow their unique servings of vegetation for our own cooks," the breaths of a soft chuckle are stalled by his woven beard, "would you not say so?"
Thrak swiftly returns to an upright position as the strange honey mead is set before him in an earthen mug. Hesitantly, a calloused, ring-ornamented hand brings the tankard to his toiled lips -- and down his throat it is poured. A few brief gulps comprise the Skald's first sampling of the beverage, ere he withdraws it form his lips and wipes his mouth clean of its remnants. "Aye! Not a bad bit of mead this is. I often find the mead of men lacking, and though this is still, I fear to say, inferior to the khazad brews, it is quite good!" Following a satisfactory nod of his head, the Skald lifts the honey wine to his lips again, quaffing it for some moments. "Though, there could be some profit made indeed were I to let them sample dwarven ale," this last bit is spoken as a silent afterthought of ponderment.
"Sure, bring some home wi' ya..you'll have to talk to our brewer, though," Grimbeorn answers between mouthfuls of honeycomb. "There's a price for this stuff, ya know." Honeycomb finished, Grimbeorn's eyes follow the now empty platters of food, and he sighs. Finally, he heads toward his seat, grabbing a roasted pepper off his own full plate while he settles in.
The tinkling rattle of platters begins again as the servitors make a second pass, worming through the tables once again to begin the distribution of further morsels from the busy BeorNing kitchens, this time endless trays of many cheeses, some soft and white, others darker in color, some very dense, others pocked with many holes or oozing with a delicious milky ichor, others still are coated with crushed nuts or with bits of herbs. Finer bread is passed, some cut into thin slices and toasted with butter or coated with seeds, more still baked in the form of buns with hidden savory surprises.
Behind them follows an expansive tray bourn upon the shoulders of four men, upon it set a dish of wild mushrooms, river greens and a coarse, dark-hued rice. Two young women upon either side spoon its contents onto the plates of those who request it. The tail is formed by a trio of mentsrils playing together a jovial tune upon wooden instruments of modest make, one a small lute, another a hand-held drum, and the third singing in the guttural Eothrik tongue.
Duinlas eats his mushrooms quite quickly and sighs, as if knowing a greater appreciator of mushrooms is missing out. Then he makes a quick snatch from Dairwenraiel's plate and adds one of her mushrooms to his own plate.
The Hirdan lifts the mead to his lips, long ropey fingers wrapped around the mug, and samples a small taste. His grey, mist colored eyes open wide then in surprise and appreciation. "If only Tatharwen were with us and not in Mithlond...." he mutters. "This is excellent. And so compliments the roasted vegetables. Idhrendae, you must accost their cooks and swap recipes...." He stops as more fare is brought before them. And with an unabashed appetite he points to every cheese on the tray, to sample each. He is, in particularl, fascinated by the milky ichor of one. "We shall have to purchase food stores for the remaiNing journey home, don't you think Idhrendae?
Though at first tentatively, Dorgin begins to pick his way through an abundance of variously prepared plates with vigor. Steaming vegetables, both soft and hard bread, many cheeses of different size and color; each down the throat of the Veteran Warder, taken slowly so as to savor them. At Thrak's comment, Dorgin gives a gruff chuckle, nodding agreement to the Master Skald. "Indeed, I agree, master Skald. It is a pity that they do not hold with eating meat; I should very much like to see what wonderous things they might add to it. But I think there is quite enough to satiate our appetites, aye? Such a spread of food with no morsel of meat among it, I have never seen."
Grimbeorn pays closer attention to the food set before him than to the conversation that is going on. Still, his ears perk up at the talk of mead and trade. "Ah, you should speak to Lance or..." his eyes search the room, and he frowns. "Thorvald or Jolgeir...not here," he shrugs. Biting a huge chunk of cream-slathered bread, he says loudly to the room. "Lance is our mead brewer. Got the golden touch, that one does."
A sapphiren gaze lifts to the Laird from bloodshot eyes set deeply in a porcelain face wreathed in flaxen gold. "Thorvald is here indeed," bellows the owner of the voice with a scowl, though his tone is distinctly friendly, "and alas, the making of mead is the only talent my younger son possesses." In a corner sits the Blacksmith, alone, arms wrapped closely about his midriff, a blanket over his shoulders telling of the illness that plagues him yet.
The Hirdan flicks a playful glance toward Daiwenraiel as she steals bread from his plate. "They have plenty here to offer you mellon, no need to revert to theivery." And with that Gondramind casually leans across Duinlas and takes a bit of roased cauliflower from Daiwenraiel's plate and pops it into his mouth. Still smiling he turns toward Grimbeorn and nods. "Lance? We shall seek him out before we leave. For this is indeed unlike any brew I have ever tasted. And I must thank you, Laird, on behalf of the Imladhirm here present, for such a welcome as this. It is indeed warming."
Dairwenraiel grins. Then steals from Duinlas' plate as well. perhaps she's not steal so much as grazing within a broad range. Indeed, few plates pass her without being sampled. Miraculous, such a narrow woman with such a wide appetite.
Bobbing his head as he patiently devours a thick yet savoury block of cheese, the Skald turns to Dorgin and utters a full-mouthed reply, "Indeed it is. Were I to meet with ther cooks, I'm sure a decent profit could be made not only in our own halls, but also amongst the men of Dale."
"Such thoughts had already come to my mind, Gondramind," Idhrendae says, smiling slightly as he takes a bite of bread. "And I will make certain to find the ones responsible for this meal." He leans back slightly, looking upon all that is offered, before nodding slowly, as if his mind is only partly upon the questioned posed. "Aye, new stores are needed, after having come this far. I'll be glad to have more to work with, in the coming weeks." Finally, a decision is made, as the cook reaches for one of the cheeses the mason surveys.
Duinlas smiles and nods as Idhrendae speaks, "Make sure you get the recipe for this milky ichor plate... I would love to have it at our wedding. If indeed the chefs would allow me this honor!"
Grimbeorn salutes Gondramind with a wave of his mug, mead sloshing out over his hand as he does so. "I'll tell him," he nods. "He'll be glad to hear it--gladder if ya buy some!" he laughs loudly. "Though be sure you folks leave enough for me. Can't have honey-deprived bears runNing around, can you now?!" he grins widely, perhaps flashing just a bit more of his sharp white teeth than might be necessary. Still, his eyes twinkle in jest. Taking another piece of honey-soaked bread, Grimbeorn lowers his voice, turNing to those sitting closest to him. "Thorvald...blacksmith....son makes a fine mead, but he don't care."
A third and final time the troop of stewards pass from the discreet entrance to the kitchen, now bearing a spread of a different sort as the Villagers and their welcome guests begin to finish their meals and loosen belts. Heaps of candied fruit, caramelized with honey glaze and filled pastes of nuts, cream cheese custards baked into small earthenware dishes and studded with dried berries, and many baskets of fresh fruits besides. The trailing bards begin another merry tune, and some of the BeorNings begin to dance unobtrusively between the tables.
Dairwenraiel's lips part into a smile of delight as the sweets arrive. All else is abandoned, including good manners and proper bearing, as the elf maiden stands on her seat for a better grab at one of the trays. She drops back onto her seat with fluid grace, clutching a pastry that shines from it's thick honey glaze. The Hirdan can have his rocks, this tracker would cross mountains fro such sweets.
Duinlas glances sidelong at Dairwenraiel, but looks around to see most others aren't looking her way. He mutters and fills his own plate with amazingly delicious looking sweets.
"Oh my..." says Silothiel, as she pops a sweet into her mouth. "These are wonderful!" she says, top no one in particular, but keeps placing more sweets on her plate.
Two servitors cycle at length with heavy kettles of steaming tea smelling subtly of mint and rosemary, offering it in delicate cups to the denizens of the busy DiNing Room. As they do so, the music rises gently in tempo and many voices join in the singing.
A small girl, no more than eight years of age, steps untimidly toward the lengthy table and endeavors to clasp her hands about Thrak's luxurious beard to give it a gentle tug. She chirps something brightly in Eothrik with a beaming smile, apparently quite intent on dancing with the portly Dwarrow.
With Dairwenraiel there is no place. There is shoveling. The elleth 'shovels' sweets onto her plate. With a candied berry in her cheek, she says. "I must bring some home for sister." She beams to Duinlas. This is when the tracker is happiest, eating.
Jolgeir enters the DiNing Room having finished a task at the forge, which required his presence. Brushing his dark hair from his face, the eldest son of Thorvald scans the room and its occupants with a faint smile. Spying his father huddled in a corner, Jolgeir weaves his way towards him. As he approaches, he manages to grab a heaping plate of food and tankard of mead from a passing steward, "Father? How do you fare this day?"
"Pace yourself, mellon," Silothiel comments to Dairwenraiel. "If you keep going at that speed, I fear that you may explode." But her mouth is fulll of food as well; she is no place to criticize.
Duinlas glances to Dairwenraiel and shakes his head, "Really, dear, you would think you'd measure distances with more than a ruler. The sweets likely would spoil or be crushed by the time we reach home. We have a long trip, no doubt. You'd be better off eating them all yourself."
Grimbeorn groans, pushing back from his plate and scraping his chair loudly across the floor. "Enough," he says, waving off the trays of sweets and the offered teas. "Getting late, and there's things to do," he says, standing. He lifts his mug of mead, which is apparently still full. "Honored guests," he begins loudly. "Welcome to our lands. Eat well, drink well, fight well, as we say here." With that, he raises his mug again in toast, and downs the contents in one long drink. "And now, as I said, there's work to do, at least for me. Can't let the lands go unprotected at night." He moves away from the table, nodding to guests as he begins to weave his way out of the room.
Dairwenraiel, in a bizarre display of limber grace, folds around her plate with both legs up on the bench about her, one arm around her left leg, the other cradling her plate. She looks to Duinlas and wrinkles her nose. "They lasted during the previous journey. A little less then soft, but edible I assure you."
"I am better today than I was yesterday," the Blacksmith Thorvald responds to his son, visibly glad to see the lad, "how do you fare Jolgeir? You should have come to the feast earlier, by all accounts the food is quite good, though I have not the heart to eat myself."
"It seems that she has no trouble with that, Duinlas." Idhrendae speaks with laughter in his voice, though he is indeed in no position to criticize, as he reaches himself for a plate of sweets. "I think that these are the recipes that I should more actively seek, as delightful as the previous courses were," he says, with a grin to his companions, though his gaze drifts to Grimbeorn as he speaks. He nods once, respectfully and thankfully as the words are given.
Silothiel gives an enthusiastic nod in Idhrendae's direction. "A good idea, Bathron. If you were to make these in Imladris, it would bring much joy to the valley, not to mention myself."
Taking a seat at his father's side, Jolgeir nods, "I am pleased to hear such, father. Although your lack of appitite concerns me", He takes a sip of mead the sets his plate down upon his lap, "I would have come earlier, but I had to finish some work at the forge first."
"How is Dyenli?" Thorvald asks wearily, tugging the blanket about his shoulders more tightly to his flesh, "I have not seen her in days, and I worry for her." A lengthy pause, "I am thinking of getting her a gift, something to please her; perhaps a flute."
And may your beard grow ever long, as we say in my lands, Master Host!" With a jocud chuckle, Thrak stands, his chair scudding against the floor, and bows to the departing form of Grimbeorn. "And here's to your health," the cool honey wine is once again poured in streams down the Skald's throat, and at last set upon the table -- emptied.
Upon returNing to his seat, this dwarf feels a curious tug at his well-braided beard, and looks down -- or perhaps horizontaly, in all reality -- to behold the small figure of a female child, inquiring intently with her mirthful eyes for a dance from the Master Skald. At first, as the tug on his beard is felt, Thrak swivels about to snap gruffly at the source of this vexation. His mood is drastically altered however as he percieves the true motives of the small tugger.
"Hello, there," says the dwarf slowly in his baritone voice. His throat is cleared, a hint that he wishes to gain a few momenta of thought ere speaking again. "Though my words mean nothing to you, I will accept this dance. I'm afraid you will find I am a poor dancer."
Thus, without so much as peering around to see the odd glances thrown his way, Thrak rises and takes the child's hand. "Shall we?"
Fie-fye-fo-fum....with a fishing line swinging wildly as she swirls it in her hand, Ingnaur (Fear! She's one mean fisherwoman) walks into the Hall for the feast. A bully, you say? Hardly, she'd be the first one to hide under a table if a fight broke out, but really it's all in the attitude. The line really flies all over the place and it's a miracle she's not hit herself with it still! After giving Throvald a snappy nod of her head, she strides up to a back table where after slumping on the seat she watches the crowd; a dark and untrusting gaze especially locked towards the invading alie--err--guests.
Percieving that she has gotten her way, the girl stands on her toes, as even Thrak is tall to one of her youthful stature, to peck his ruddy nose with a childish kiss as a neice delighted with her uncle. Extended hands are ignored, and she clasps the two great braids of his whiskers in her own and begins a bouyant, bouncing movement in circles timed with the BeorNing music.
Jolgeir takes a bite of bread the nods to his father. After swallowing the bread, he replies, "Dyenli is well. She has been spending a lot of time at the forge, but I get the feeling she wishes to do something else with her life."
Duinlas slips from his seat with but a touch on Dairwenraiel's shoulder. He moves silently and obviously through the room, until he is but a few feet from Ingnaur, he waves a hand toward the floor where already a dwarf (if you can imagine it) dances, and he smiles, a beautiful visage formed many many years ago. His voice is soft and melodious as he speaks to the young human, "If it would please you, I would cut in between your fishing line and offer you a dance to such music as you have. It has been some time since I've had the opportunatey."
"So do I," the lad's father responds flatly after a stiffled cough. "What is it? She will not speak to me plainly of such things."
Dairwenraiel finishes eating and looks about the room with curious green eyes, mint and emerald in hue in the torches. Her chin drops onto her knee and her lips curl into a grin as she watches the child and dwarf whirl about. Her head turns at Duinlas' touch and she watches him move away for a moment before looking back to the dance floor.
Jolgeir shrugs as he devours more of the cream-laden bread, "I do not know the answer to that myself. She has made no mention of it to me either."
"Let us not talk of your sister," the Blacksmith mutters, "too much has she been on my mind of late in a sad light." The barest of smiles pricks his lips, and a weak hand falls to Jolgeir's shoulder, "Tell me, have you your eye on any of the lasses of the Village? Marriage is good for a young man your age."
A soft and warm chuckle of amusement rolls off of the dwarf's weathered lips and into his wagging beard as the child begins to twirl him around. "Easy there," he gently scolds, but begins to dance just as vigorously as the girl; His woolen cloak and beard wag about wildly with his swift and clever circular steps, flowing along in a jocund beat in accordance with the minstrel's tune. Accompanying the ever present mirth stamped upon his visage is the glint playing through his raven eyes, which gaze down in a cryptic manner at the small child.
Now finished with her meal, Silothiel watches with amusement the antics of the young girl and the dwarf. She contemplates going out onto the dance floor herself, but she has had little experience, and no one to dance with, after all.
The girl gives the elf a quick look-over and slowly an impish grin creeps up on her face. It is followed by hysterical laughing. She can't believe if the man is just drunk or if indeed his head was placed correctly on his neck. This person before her must be quite mad, or at least Ingnaur was convinced of that idea.
"My good Lord," she gives him a mock-curtsey, as a puckish glimmer plays in her hazel eyes, "I would dance with you. But alas, my fondness for my fishing net is greater and for you to come between us would be most unfair." The fisherwoman stands up and with sorrow weighing like a ton of bricks in every word, she says, "I'd therefore, with a heavy heart I have to decline your most kind offer..." and as an after-thought she adds, "..Your Lordship, of course."
Dairwenraiel has begun to watch Duinlas with amusement. Could she possibly hear the conversation in the corner over the happy turmoil of noise? The mirth in her eyes at the woman's reply hints yes. With a impish twist to her lips, the elf unfolds from her seat and stands, looking about the room, she looks for a vic...er dance partner. Wolves are less predatory in their gaze.
It certainly is a strange way of addressing Duinlas, and he shows his confusion on his face openly. In fact, he gives a look behind him, and around, and then furrows his brow, "Now, lady, surely you do not speak of me in high honor. I am but a singer in my valley. And while I occasion a standing ovation from time to time, I hold no lordship over any, nor ever will." He stands the same, "But nonetheless it seems the fair ladies of all lands reserve their hands for the most beautiful of men! But if it makes any difference, if you would not part with your net, bring it with us, it shall not hamper us."
"Merry Dwarf," giggles the girl to her partner in the common speech, obviously unfamiliar with it. "Happy!" She exclaims, following with greater articulation in her own language, spinNing a degree faster about the circumfrance Thrak's beard will allow, and tugging measurably harder as she does so. Tiny cork heels skip on the wooden floors and she lifts the two braids over her head, in the same motion spinNing around several times before stopping with the great plaits in a gnarled twist.
A figure approaches the seated Silothiel, a young BeorNing man, perhaps drawn as all young men are to lonely girls. Nervously licking his lips, wiping sweaty hands on the back of his trousers, the lad looks over one shoulder to look again at his wide-eyed friends standing at the other side of the chamber. In the common speech he utters almost not to be heard, "Pardon my Lady Elf..." He sighs, cheeks reddeNing, "May I have this dance?" The final word cracks torturously shrill.
Jolgeir blinks, "Me? Marriage?" he sputters, but quickly recomposes himself, "I do not have my eye on any yet, father. I have been much too busy in the forge where I belong."
"Come now," Thorvald insists, beckoNing with a hand, "there must be some girl that has taken your heart." He pauses a moment to think, supposing that if he guesses correctly Jolgeir will be more forthcoming, "Kayla perhaps?"
Silothiel smiles kindly upon the young man. But her look is almost in amusment, as he seems to be stresing so much over, what seems to her, a most simple question. She rises. "I would be glad to. But pray, what is your name? My name is Silothiel, if you want to know.
With light steps, fluid grace and a grin that would look better placed on a cat, Dairwenraiel walks towards the familial pair conversing the corner. Her a bright smile to both. "Would you dance?" She asks, her voice a touch sing-song with the accent from the taint of her native tongue. Suddenly she frowns. "Would we dance?" She mumbles in lyrical language. Her lips purse into a pout of thought.
"Jomund," the young man responds, his expression obviously surprised at the elleth's willingness. "Silothiel," he repeats softly, "that is a beautiful name." A genuine smile spreads his cheeks and a hand lifts for her to take, that he may lead her to the dance floor.
After some moments of the rare spectacle have passed, Thrak places the broad palm of a firm yet gentle hand upon the girl's slender shoulder in hopes that she will halt her energetic dance for just a moment, so that he can free the strands of his beard form its coils in her fist. At this same moment, the minstrel's present song begins to die down and fade out. Eyes still glinting as they rest on the girl, the dwarf reaches into the concealed folds of his cloak and pulls forth a flute -- of obvious dwarven make -- and holds out a palm to the musicians.
"Ho! minstrels, can ye follow my tune?" A few nods and shrugs from the instrument-wielding locals are the only response this dwarf allows, before he brings the pipe to his lips.
A swift, merry, foot-tapping tune suddenly springs forth from the both the dwarf's lips and his clever fingers, which seem to move across the holes in the pipe in a rapid blur of motion. All about the room toes tap, knees bob, and the dance pace quickens in general. The song could easily remind one of the mirthful burbling and leaping of rivers in the deeps of the earth, and of the shine of polished jewels. The dwarf plays on, the minstrels join, and the little girl begins to twirl in rapid, joyous circles. In the midst of it all, Thrak silently slips out of the room; His raven eyes still glisten.
"Why thank you, Jomund!" says the elleth. 'What a polite man,' she thinks to herself, and she takes the hand of the man so that he may lead her to the dance floor. "I'm afraid I haven't danced in a while, but I will have to do my best. But with this lively tune, I do not think that will be hard!"
The fisherwoman does not like it when the tables are turned around and her very own words are used to trap her. Still, Ingnaur maintains her calm disposition. Swinging the fishing line around a little more fervently, she says in the sweetest voice she can muster.. considering the stiff competition from elf nightingales that were all around, "Nay, I cannot even though your offer is most tempting." She shakes her head vigorously, backing her spoken word with overtly visual actions, "My fishing line is a jealous partner and if I get attract attention or dance offers from other men, and heaven forbid I actually accept such offers, it shall be very displeased. I would not like to draw his wrath; I earn my living on his kind mercies." Ingnaur bows, grinNing like a Cheshire cat, "But thank you for the generous invitation." Plopping down on the seat again, line twirling around her finger, she looks around.
Thorvald peers coldly at Dairwenraiel, the azure glint of his trailing her elvish features, smile fading. "I am not well," he answers her, perhaps perplexed, or even insulted by the query, though he looks to Jolgeir, "but my son is hearty and in need of an effeminite companion, of foreign extraction or otherwise." Softly to his Apprentice and son, in their mother tongue, he says, "Dance with her. We cannot risk offending the elves."
GrinNing a little less, though not for a decrease in joy, Jomund steps into a generous space between several tables already occupied by another young couple and offers his left hand to Silothiel, "Would that the music were not so fast," he says beginNing a pattern of steps conducive to the rapid music, "for I would speak with you. Tell me," there is some hesitation woven with his tone, "tell me of the land you are from."
Jolgeir looks up at the Elf maiden with an expression of near awe mixed with nervousness, "Dance? Us?" Not wishing to offend, he swallows and stands, "It would be an honor M'lady, but beware for I do not possess the grace to dance with any measure of skill."
Dairwenraiel ignores Thorvald's coolness. Note: Ignores. She seems well aware of it but of far to bright a demeanor to care. At Jolgeir's consent, that bright smile once again graces her lips. "Good! Show me how." Thorvald is rewarded for his grumpiness with that sunshine smile and a nod. As she extends a hand to Jolgeir. "I am Dairwenraiel, though your kind like to call me Dai."
Silothiel quickly falls into the rhythm of Jomund's steps, and she smiles as he asks of her home. "Home? I could tell you all about the lands of my home, but it would take more time than we have tonight, my friend. But, I must say, the gardens are beautiful, even in winter. There are no words to describe the flowers in Imladris, Jomund, which is why I tend to them myself. And the forests, the forests and hte trees are mighty, and they almost have a song of their own..." Her eyes now encompass a faraway look for a moment, and she almost loses her step in the dance. But quickly she is brought back to reality, and she smiles to the human. "I wish you could see it for yourself."
Jomund daydreams with Silothiel's words, similarly threatened by the possibility of loosing his footing. "However lovely your gardens are, they cannot be near to the fairness inherent to your face Silothiel." Meekly, he averts his gaze, unwittingly ceasing his efforts to dance as he tries to form the words in his mind, a stew of sheer ellation and bitter anxiety, "Your beauty has captivated me my Lady, and if it would please you, I will come to your country one day soon. Perhaps you will teach me the arts of tending flowers." His grasp upon her hands becomes very gentle, and despite the jaunty music, the young man moves closer to her, coaxing his steps into a slower dance, more rythmic and romantic.
Jolgeir glares at his father for his words, but says nothing. He returns his attention to Dairwenraiel and smiles, taking her hand in his, "I am Jolgeir." he begins, "Show you how to dance? I must confess that this is my first dance. I doubt I will make a good teacher, but I shall do my best."
Dairwenraiel grins. "To the student, the teacher always knows more." Her sharp gaze looks over the beorNing and she comments in matter of fact tones. "You are large for your kind. Are you a bear man?" The elf maiden looks over the dance floor then looks to Jolgeir for instruction.
Silothiel is indeed flattered by these words, but she grows slightly uncomfortable as the human tries to get closer to her, as she only thinks of him as a friend, certainly not in a romantic way. "Er, Jomund, I'm feeling a bit parched, why don't we have another round of mead?" She says, ever so slightly moving away from him.
Duinlas is not swayed by the excuses and seems to focus more on bringing this stubborn maiden to the dance floor. He crouches down in front of her, bringing his height below hers as he looks up, smiling, "Then, my lady. If you will not accompany me, perhaps your fishing line will dance with me," He gestures to the dance floor, "For as you might see, my partner is taken by a mere boy, and I shall be shamed if I was not able to bring such a beauty onto the floor." His voice is deep and melodic now, seemingly meant for only Ingnaur.
Thorvald returns the malicious eye of his son, calling after him, again in Eothrik, "Elves are witches boy. Be careful, for they are subtle, and wont to evil trickery." Haltingly he stands, his breath reluctant and weezing, to stride toward the grand ingress that leads to the lobby of the Inn. At length, he disappears without farewell.
"Mead? Of course," Jomund replies, letting the tips of his fingers grace Silothiel's almost imperceptibly as she moves her hands away, wishing that she would stay and dance with him. He trails her to the table she selects, jogging ahead to pull a chair out for the elleth, standing at its back, "One moment, I will fetch a tankard."
With careful steps, Jolgeir leads Dair to dance floor. He chuckles softly at her question, "You mean can I can I change into a bear at will?" He then does his best to dance while instructing the fair Elf. He looks over the others dancers briefly and imitates their steps.
Silothiel is almost amused by this display of affection, but she lets the man do whatever he needs to do, so that he is at least pleased. She taps her fingers on the wood of the table uncomfortably, as she does not wish to break the man's heart, btu neither does she want him stalking her all the way home.
Melodic schmelodic, all his music might as well dash against a stone wall, for the so-called maiden is a wolf in lambs clothing. Ingnaur sighs and looks dejectedly at Duinlas. With affront spelt out clearly in her tone she remarks, "Then I am only a second choice." Sighing even more deeply she parts with her beloved line and hands it to the elf. "You can have the line though; as I am sure it has a stronger heart and shall fare better without me than I will without it." With that the line is held in her fist and out to the elf to take if he chooses.
Dairwenraiel nods to the question, no guile in her demeanor. "Aye." The tracker follows the steps around her easily, without thought. One hand rests in the young man's the other upon his shoulder. Standing beside her, one might realize the elf is not as tall as many of her kind. Though far from diminutive, she's almost...'normal' by human standards of height.
Duinlas smiles happily, as if the line was his desire all this time. He speaks as he takes the line, "Truly a noble gesture for you," And then he steps back away from her. But still focused on her as he takes the line and twirls it around, he raises his eyebrow and thinks it could be quite dangerous. Yet he still takes the line and twirls it above his head, creating a cone around him. Then his feet tap, and his heels stamp, and he moves his other arm, and then the rest of his body follows, twirling opposite of the line. Yet if such action would make him dizzy, he does not show it.
Dairwenraiel sighs as her partner leaves with some babbling about forges, perhaps to follow after his father. The elleth paces back to the table and harasses the remains of the candied fruit.
Jomund soon returns with an earthenware tankard filled with the sticky fermented nectar, filled to the rim, "Here my Lady," he utters softly, letting the mug descend toward the tabletop, "would you like a plate of pastries as well?" His balance is imperfect however, the result of the mingling of discomfiture and exaggerated care, and so the rich contents spills over his fingers, endangering Silothiel's dress.
Cocking her brow and staring at the elf in disbelief, the fisherwoman thinks the chap had lost his mind. With a look of disinterested disdain at his foolish dance, she remarks, "I think my fishing line has seen enough dancing for the night. I think its time I retire him to the safety of my pocket before he is dizzy and unable to perform for me tomorrow." Ingnaur holds her hand out so that her line might be returned to her. Looking at the now available Dairwenraiel, she says, "Perhaps you have a more willing and eager partner for you dance now. I think your efforts are better spent pursuing her." She is not one for eloquent speeches and delicate words, her bark as good as her bite.
Silothiel chuckles slightly. "Oh my..." she says, and she moves to help Jomund clean up the mess. "Nay, Jomund, I'm afraid I must depart, I have other things to do back at the camp..." But seeing the hurt look in his eye moves her with pity, so in a quick, decisive moment, she unbraids the small, pale flower from her hair, and quickly thrusts it at the man. "Here," she says. "A flower of Imladris. Perhaps you will see the gardens someday. Farewell, Jomund, you have been very kind." She gives a quick smile, and walks out through the door.
"Silothiel?" Jomund questions desperately, forsaking the spilled mead and letting the tankard fall from his grasp where is shatters upon the floor, "I am sorry," he calls. His eyes fall nearly to tears, and he clasps the small flower in his hands, following forlornly the departed Maiden.