(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 62 - Who is Bilbo?

================== Eldarin Calendar ===================
IC time is: Early Afternoon < About 1:08 PM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad
IC date is: 47 Ethuil
Moon phase: Full
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 142 o Yen 21, Nelandran o Endor
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RL time: Thu Jan 25 23:22:56 2001
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The mid-day sky above the cliffs is overcast, with a thin, high layer of clouds. The lower slopes of the Misty Mountains are just visible in the east, reaching up through the clouds. The moon is not visible through the clouds, though it should be up there in its full phase.

Front Yard
A few trees stand here, just in front of the Last Homely House. A pleasant meadow filled with gaily colored wild flowers stretches off to the north and west. Not far behind the house the trees close in to form a pleasant wood. The grass here is not so thick as the grasses further out in the valley, but several flowering plants grow in higher patches around nearby trees. Two paths lead away from the house, one southwest and one north. Down the steep bank to the south is the shore of the Bruinen.

A grey day hangs over the valley of Elrond, a hazy cover to soften the sun, casting only a bright spot upon the clouds, directly overhead. Though dampened by Arien's obscurity, the signs of spring still abound this overcast day. Late spring flowers nod in the gentle winds, scattered here and there about the yard, profuse where the light tread of elven feet tends not to wander.

And up from the river comes one now, spritely and silent of step. Her long hair hangs in wet tendrils, darkening her dress with it's river stains. Her skirts brush against the tall grasses, heralding her passage with a soft whisper. Though no crack nor twig nor turning of stone is disturbed by her bare feet.

Standing alone in the yard for the moment, is a white clad human. The human is not from the north, perhaps a man from further south... from Gondor. He leans against a staff in the yard, gazing towards the west. He turns slightly when a butterfly flutters past his face. He doesn't seem to notice the approaching elf as yet, however he does watch the butterfly with great intent.

Combing slender, white fingers through her damp hair, the elvish maid catches sight of the adan. Her hazel gaze rests upon the figure, curiosity plainly written upon her face. She leaps over a clump of tall grasses and flowers, landing lightly and with an uncanny grace. An unconcious act as her eyes never stray from that of the man. She comes to stop some short distance from him and continues her study in silence. Watching his facinated interest in the butterfly.

The man stands watching the butterfly. Suddenly it flies over his head towards the elf-maid, the human nearly falling over when he sees her standing behind me. As he grips his staff to prevent from falling, he inquires towards her. "I did not hear you approach... that was, suprising." When he regains his balance, he rubs his chin lightly. "I don't think I've seen you yet, but I haven't been here long."

The elf maid smiles, a soft smile, almost distant. And she lifts one arm, wrist arched gracefully to recieve the butterfly. The yellow winged creature of air and light breezes flutters to land upon her hand, folding and opening its wings thrice before closing them with a delicate shudder and then resting. She shifts her gaze to bring it once again upon the adan before her. In the soft accents of the Greenwood elves she replies, "Few can hark the passage of the Eldar when they wish to remain unheard." A slight frown, as if in thought rather than displeasure, turns down her lips. "Many of the Dunedain have been coming to the valley these past days....and yet, you do not look of those Northern folk nor of the Beornings across the mountains either."

"Tis true, I am not of the northern folk... though of the land of their kin I hail from. I am from Gondor, south of the Be... well, I'm sure you know where gondor is, you've probably been alive longer than my father and my father's father." The man then bows towards the elleth, "I am called Erutirn Calgar, a Swan-Knight of my home... though I have done naught to earn any similar respect from the first born."

"Gondor..." And wonder lifts her voice with that simple word. "You have come far indeed, Erutirn Calgar. Swan-Knight? A fitting title for a warrior. Remember grace and beauty even in the darkest affairs. And worry not whether you have earned First-born respect, for the entitlements earned among our own are carried with us in our hearts as is home itself." A troubled look passes her eyes and she flicks her gaze away, a mere moment only and it passes. She returns her regard to the man of Gondor once again and smiles, "I am Dineriel of Amon Thranduil."

Standing for a few moments, the man looks skyward. "Amon Thranduil? Yet I have seen you not there, nor here... did you come here before our company reached Amon Thranduil? Tis strange indeed that I saw you not there... we were there for some time. However, you speak wisely, for whereever there men of gondor go... we bring gondor with us, for the better or for the worse, it is not for us to decide which. I do, however, thank you for your kind words of myself and my order."

"There are thousands of elves in Thranduil's realm," Silvarion calls, as he steps down from the porch toward the men. "Though I doubt Dineriel was there when you were, it would be chance if you had met her at any rate..."

Glancing up at the sky, the Noldo shakes his head and says, "Good afternoon to you all. A pity the weather is not better for your stay here. I do hope, at least, you are finding what you seek."

"I have dwelled in Imladris since the autumn fall. You have been to my home? How fare my folk?" Dineriel inquires eagerly.

She turns at another voice, and laughs lightly, "True enough, mellon. My folk are many. Though I am a curious sort and would likely have sought these men upon hearing of thier arrival."

Upon the back of her hand sits a yellow winged butterfly, thusfar content to rest within her protection. She leans towards the gentle creature and whispers softly. The creature shudders to life once more and flutters off to hover above her head, circling three times before lighting upon the elvish maids damp hair.

Turning towards Silvarion, "Ah yes... tis a large people there, though many came and sought us in the hall for our people there... that's where I met Rhuarc, actually, since I was not in a condition to really explore when we got there." He turns towards Dineriel, "Well... Rhuarc is... strange, that's about the only news from your land I have... other than it is a beautiful realm and nothing bothers the elves living there." He watches the butterfly flutter from hand to head upon the elleth.

Silvarion draws nearer, nodding to the elven woman from the east, and adds, "I admit, however, I have not been to those realms for a great many years, and am curious what news comes from Rhovanion. My thoughts run too often to the West, and the arrival of Men in Imladris has stirred my thoughts to realms where I rarely give my attention of late. The East, and the South... Tell me, if you will... Are we remembered still in the land of Gondor? Surely, if you have come seeking us... Though I have been led to believe we are thought to be myth by many."

"Rhuarc was indeed a strange fellow." says a new voice, coming from a Gondorian making his way down the stairs. "When you return to your homeland miss," he says, looking at Dineriel with his one eye, "give my regards to Laerlinn. Tell her Morrandir wishes her well." He walks up to the group and stands next to Erutirn.

The Ndaedeldhrim maid laughs, a clear sound and lighthearted. "Thegor Rhuarc is irrepressible. You should count yourself fortunate that he did not play tricks on you."

Silvarion's question echos her own, still unanswered and she waits for the news of Rhovanion in silence. A silence destined to be shortlived when the second man of Gondor arrives. Again the unaccountable shadow rests so briefly upon Dineriel's features and she offers a sad smile to Morrandir, "Laerlinn is known to me and much missed. It may be a long time before our hands and hearts meet again. But I shall bring with me, your greeting when that glad time comes."

"News from Rhovanion? Well... I really don't remember much of that place, I was heavily injuried and knocked out rescuing Rowaen from orcs outside the elven lands..." Erutirn says, glancing towards Morrandir. "I fear Morrandir was injuired then as well, was it not in that land that you were injuried? I seem to remember you being as stuck in that hall as I was..." He turns back towards the elves, "However, such things are trivial. I know naught of news from that land, though if I did I would tell you. Well... Lady Dineriel, he did tell us this silly poem about this Bilbo stealing all of their fountains. It came to some shock to me when one of your kin from the havens told me that both this Bilbo and the Shire exist."

Morrandir laughs, clapping Erutirn on the back. "You are determined to get to the bottom of this aren't you?" He says with a broad grin. "Apparently Laerlinn has sketched him. We should have asked to see the picture. I am sure it would have been a perfect representation."

The soft whisper of skirts and light steps, barely audible to mortal ears, sounds quietly from the direction of the porch, where a tall elven woman appears. Placing the tambour frame in her hand on one of the porch's tables, Elrond's daughter steps closer to the railing and places her hands on it, watching the company in the Yard for a moment.

Silvarion seems somewhat surprised, but merely says, "Well... If you're not opposed to keeping still long enough to hear three versions of the same song and give your opinions, or to help with translations from six different texts in three different dialects of elvish... Then I suppose you'd enjoy meeting Bilbo for yourselves."

He laughs, then, and adds, "He really is quite charming, but a curious little fellow. By far the most clever and broad minded of his folk, in their idyllic and secluded little Shire." His gaze turns inward, and he smiles to himself without looking toward the porch.

From Front Porch, Rhythmic, gentle and ever alluring. The musical voices of elves spill forth from the porch and down into the yard before being swept away by the evening sky's gentle breezes. Soft and smoothing they are, even when spoken by a ranger, whose tall, slender silhouette fills the opened double doors, his calloused palms extending up in a mock gesture of defiance. The conversation, spoken in Sindarin, is of wine, and by the ranger's retreating footsteps, he seems to be losing an argument with a yet unseen host whose own words are drowned out by other Sindarin voices flowing freely from the house.

"It is Rhuarc's art to mingle truth with fancy, though I myself only know of Bilbo's homeland from tale." Dineriel comments softly, her thoughts elsewhere and soon revealed when she sighs and says, "Reports of yrch near the borders of my folk come all too frequently in these darkening days."

The daughter of the Greenwood glances towards the porch, the drift of voices having caught her attention and her gaze alights first on the Lady of the valley and she nods her head respectfully. "Heryn Arwen...and Estel!" she cries out, a grin curling the corners of her mouth.

"Yes but what /is/ he? A 'little fellow'. Forgive me, but what do you mean by this?" Morrandir inquires, itching the scar beneath his eyepatch. "Is he a dwarf? Or one of the second born so withered with age that he has shrunken down to the size of a child?" The squire now turns, noticing the pair standing upon the porch. Seeing the man he tugs Erutirn's elbow. "Look! One of our northern kin!"

"He resides here and not in his homeland? How odd..." Erutirn states, almost whispering the end to himself. He turns to glance at the porch, waving towards them. "Hail and greetings, though I know you two not!" He then turns back towards Silvarion, "So he really resides here? I must speak to him..." He glances back towards the porch, "So it is, Morrandir... and the answer you seek is hobbit, I believe that is what the haven elf told me. Hail kinsmen from the north!"

Turning her head slightly, as if to catch the voices from inside, Elrond's daughter smiles quietly to herself, but does not turn towards the door, instead straightening a bit and greeting quietly, though clearly audible to all, "Greetings, and a welcome to you, Men of the South."

Silvarion's eyebrows fly up into his hair, and he seems quite at a loss for words. "Withered with age? Good heavens, Bilbo is not much more than a hundred summers... At ten or twenty thousand, I certainly have not begun my decline." Rather than be annoyed by the suggestion, though, he seems quite amused, and more than one chuckle escapes him at the notion. "Bilbo, a wrinkled up elf! He will be amused by that. No... Bilbo is a Hobbit. Unless 'Halfling' describes him better, I'm afraid you'll just have to look for yourself. And," he adds, in a louder tone, "Good day, my Lady. And to you, Aragorn."

From Front Porch, Aragorn makes one last stand, placing both hands on his hips and leveling a defiant gaze at the still unseen Quendi, " Tis nothing to be ashamed of, vintner. Tis a fine blend ..." says the ranger, whose stubble-lined, scratch-marked face bears the look of a traveler oft found in the wilds of Eriador. " ...just not quite what the men of the Anduin Valley have produced ..."

The ranger's stubborn gestures suddenly dissipate into full-out running down the steps, his hands placed defensively over his head, as pieces of fruit begin being hurled from out of the house. One even skims the man's shoulder.

"All of your answers merely confuse me more..." says Morrandir, frowning slightly. "I shall have to see him for myself." He looks up at the pair upon the porch and bows to them. His eye widens as the ranger is chased off the steps by a hail of fruit, though he manages to supress a chuckle.

The white clad knight leans towards his countryman, "Perhaps, ..., ... northern ... ... ... ... with ... ... of... ..., ...?" He looks towards the other human, 'Do you need any help? It appears whatever you were talking about ending poorly for you.' He leans heavily upon a staff, again, as he watches the newly arrived man.

The tiny yellow butterfly, sitting upon Dineriel's hair like a jeweled pin, unfolds its wings of a sudden and flutters off into the waning light. Seeking its nighttime haven and perhaps a draught of necter ere it sleeps.

Watching the creature fly off, the Ndaedeldhrim maid's attention is soon brought to the Noldo beside her. No youngster herself, respect shines in her eyes as she regards the elder quendi.

So soon spoiled by peal of laughter ere she can speak as she sees the figure of Aragorn come racing down the porch stairs in a rain of flying fruit.

Stepping to the side quickly as fruit fly past her, Arwen raises her eyebrows and takes a few steps towards the door before deciding otherwise and following the Ranger down the stairs and into the yard, an amused smile playing in the corners of her mouth as she approaches the little group.. without a word, for now.

There is genuine mystery in this cloaked man of the north, for he not only leaps past flying fruit like a deer but even in retreat, raises a finger to the air in protest and even opens his mouth to speak, before swallowing his words as he notices the company, both arriving and peering curiously at him. To the former, Arwen, he nods, adding a wrinkle of a smile, and to the latter, a greeting and a warning, "Mae govannen, and stay away from the vintner."

"I regret," the old counsellor says, "That I must make my way inside for now. This is my excuse too often, I think, in the company of our guests, but my lady wife will be awaiting me, and I would rather not keep her waiting so soon again. All of you, though, please feel free to join us for the evening meal. We'll no doubt sup in Elrond's Hall, if we can find the Master and coax him to come along."

He nods to the folk from Gondor, and offers a slight bow to both Dineriel and Arwen with a soft, "My ladies," before making way toward the house. Passing Aragorn, Silvarion murmurs, "Gondor will wait a little longer... I think you treat well with these." With that last cryptic, unsolicited remark, he swiftly hurls up the stairs, clamouring at the angry vintners and waving for them to make way as he disappears into the House.

Such a gathering, still it seems not large enough, for another finds his way to the Yard at this hour. Though this figure does not run, or not even walk. Nay, his way is difficult, a continious stagger, and not a single step could be taken without the support of a wooden crutch, for neither his right leg or left arm moves in the slightest. There, the figure comes down the stairs of the Porch, seeking way towards the Garden. It is a young man, raven-hair, sullen-blue eyes, clad in clothes common to those being a Blue Squire of the Order of the Swan. One of the Secondborn, Men from Gondor, guests within the valley. And this Blue Squire seems to have received already more then mere hospitality. For a clean bandage is wrapped around his right knee, covering most of the youth's upperleg, though despite the thickness, the whiteness is blood-stenched.

With a soft grunt of pain the last step of the stairs is descended, the lad now moving slowly towards the gathered group. As he draws near, a greeting leaves his lips. "Good day..." So he continues, Rowaen of Nimothan, for it is he, still so clearly marked by the hardships encountered during travel.

The squire nods, and smiles. "Well met, and thankyou for the warning." He glances up at the doorway. "Long have we travelled and it is heartening to meet others with the blood of the fallen west." Morrandir regards this man with curiosity, yet the entry of Rowaen swiftly claims his attention. Though he does not give the Nimothan any words of welcome...

As the greetings persist, the ranger disapprovingly eyes a squashed grape that has splattered across his dark-hued cloak along the shoulder line, while he says to the Ndaedeldhrim, "Tis well to see you remaining in the valley, for one should see at least one spring-time here."

A twinkle of mirth shines in Dineriel's hazel eyes and she replies to the Dunadan chieftain, "I had hoped to see the one past but I was persuaded to return east and aid in a hunt."

Starting to walk towards the porch, Erutirn nods to Aragorn. "Well, you are well met and I thank you for the warning, however... I long for food and then rest, perhaps we will talk in a few hours past when I have had both?" He bows to the elves in the area, nodding at Morrandir. "Rowaen? Are you sure you will be alright out here? Oh well, if the elves let you... I won't argue." He then hurries past the injuried squire, avoiding the angry fruit throwing elves to encroach the porch and then enter the house.