Festival of Spring
[Faelwine (#31903)]The sun has sunk below the mountains in the west, a low cloud covering darkening the sky to murky black. Yet no dreary eve is this: the sweet scent of new grass is in the air, and the folk of the Mark are mirthful with the festivites to welcome in the spring. Upon the lawn before the Meduseld, pavillions have been erected in neat rows, pennants streaming on a light breeze, torchlight making the scene warm and welcoming. Under one large pavillion, tables have been set for a glorious feast, and most of the guests are drawn thither now, though drink and treats have already been made available to all by the number who hold tankards in their hands, and the children who cluster together, savouring sweets.
At one end of this pavillion, a dais has been set with a table perhaps for the King himself. Near to this, yet to the side enough to make no presumption, Faelwine sits, watching as laughing, mirthful folk file in, a wistful smile upon her lips. Before her is naught but a cup, though it is filled with a golden mead. She traces her fingers around the rim idly, content to watch and listen.
[Ceredir (#1394)]It is a cleaned up version of Ceredir that now strides across the festival area, cup of mead in hand. No longer in greens and browns, he is clad in a cloak of rich red velvet, a deep brown tunic, and pants of the same color. His sword and boots are the same, though the boots have been cleaned and polished, and the young man's face scrubbed and his hair washed and carefully combed. He seems well pleased by the change, for he smiles as walks toward Faelwine. "Lady, your Lord is not coming to the festivities? He would be sorely missed and truly, he would also miss a sight for sore eyes," he says, eyes twinkling with warmth and mirth as he gazes on the woman.
[Theoden (#15851)]The air is filled with music as well, bright and lilting, flutes and harps mingling with the singing. Hraefengar sits on a stool just to the right of the dais, along with a number of other men and women with instruments, another older man, and a teenaged boy. The scop is dressed finely, though the clothes seem some loose on him, and he wears a winter cloak.
As the Gondorian enters the pavilion, heads turn, and many eyes regard the man curiously. One that watches, and then draws close, is one of the huscarls clad in mail well-burnished for the occasion. "Your pardon, young sir," he says softly, his Westron heavily accented, "but weapons are not permitted here, not born by those from other lands nor by our own folk. If you will entrust your blade to my keeping, I will lay it in a safe place, and bring it to you when the night ends." Yet the manner in which he holds his hand is no request, though his words and smile and eyes are kind.
From the Meduseld, golden light pours through the doors as they open, and from them comes the royal household, clad in a finery of spring colors. Theoden comes last, and he smiles, and reaches into the basket a page carries, and he hands sweets and small trinkets to the children, "giving gifts as a king aught," murmurs an old woman, watching. The king's face is visible in the torchlight, and as he bends to the children and speaks to him there is a quiet pride and joy in his expression.
[Faelwine (#31903)]Faelwine looks up as Ceredir addresses her, and she returns to him a warm smile. "Good even, dear friend. Forgive me, I should have told you that weapons were not permitted... but it is as he says, your sword will be well safe." Thus she greets him, then glances towards the gathering of musicians, and nods her head, . "The Lord Hraefengar is there, attending to his duty. He shall sing for us tonight." Her gaze lingers there upon the scop for a moment, a light in her eye for him, though the sudden spilling of light from the Meduseld bring her attention back "Come, please, do join me! Here is Theoden King," Pausing, she watches the old King with the children, and the smile in her eyes deepens, but she breaks her gaze away from him to beckon to the Gondorian. "The feast shall begin, soon."
[Ceredir (#1394)]"What's this?" Ceredir asks, a slight tilt of his head as he looks between huscarl and Faelwine indicating his confusing. It takes a moment or two, but then his face clears as he seems to understand, and he quickly unbuckles his swordbelt. "Of course, yes, here it is. Your pardon--had I known, I wouldn't have worn it in. But then it is not the good lady's fault, but my own," he says, fixing his smile again upon Faelwine.
Swordless now, he sits next to the woman, his eyes searching the dais until he finds Hraefengar. "Ah...I hadn't thought to look for him there, but it is good--I would like to hear his songs now that he is home and rested. He is better, yes?" he asks, a brief flicker in his eyes at the question, as if there is deeper meaning in hte question. Still, Ceredir can't help watch the activities here, eyes in particular on Theoden.
[Theoden (#15851)]Hraefengar's voice lifts in song, clear and rich, a merriness in his voice seldom heard in the Stoningland. The words are sonorous, the tongue of the Mark, strong and yet filled with a strangely simple gentleness. The old man beside him lifts his voice in a counterpoint harmony, and their fingers seem to dance upon their lyre-harps, while the youth beside Hraefengar plays upon a small hand-drum.
The huscarl smiles and takes the blade, giving a slight bow at the waist. "Thank you, good sir," he murmurs, and departs through the crowd, carrying the blade as though it has some great lineage, to be cherished and kept safe.
Theoden advances across the lawn, going slowly as people, especially children, flock about them, and he does not stint on attention, freely speaking to the youngsters, hugging a girl here, lifting up a boy there, that he might look tall over the heads of those gathered. And the king gives generously, though to the adults it is tokens rather than trinkets, bearing images of cloth or seeds or other useful things. But as the king progresses, servants come and begin to set food upon the tables, fresh bread and butter, jams and marmalade and honey, new cheese and pickled vegetables. Upon each table is set a pitcher filled with frothy milk, with a bowl of a mixture of nutmeg beside it.
[Faelwine (#31903)]As the song begins a bright smile lights Faelwine's features, carefree and mirthful. She reaches for some bread and cheese, and takes and empty cup and pours some of the milk into it, sprinkling the nutmeg over the top. "A feast to celebrate the arrival of spring" she explains gladly to the Gondorian. "And with it, the sowing of crops, the warmth upon the lands, and the whinnies of newborn foals at their dam's sides. Please, do help yourself!" She lifts the cup of milk to her lips and sips, savouring it with quiet yet complete delight.
[Ceredir (#1394)]"He has a fine voice, m'lady!" Ceredir says, draining his mead quickly and holding his cup out eagerly for a server to refill. Eyes shining--for once, no anger in them--the scout truly seems to be enjoying himself, lost in the festivities. "I'm surprised to see your king up and moving so freely with his people, taking part in the festivities. Our steward is not known for such," he notes. "But then these halls and the open air...." The scout grins and, setting mead aside, he pours himself the mare's milk, sprinkling it with nutmeg, following Faelwine's example. "They make one feel so...." Whatever it is that he is about to say is lost as Ceredir takes a hearty sip of the mare's milk--and then, face souring, turns and immediately spits it out on the ground, choking. "What -is- this?!"
[Theoden (#15851)]A young lass in her late teens comes towards Faelwine, dressed in a gown of soft blue. It is fitted tight to the waist, showing her young curves, and her flowing golden hair is unbound, garlnaded with flowers. She leaps back at the spitting of the milk, and her eyes go wide, and an expression of horror comes to her lips. "It is precious!" she cries, speaking in the tongue of the Mark. She stares at the patch of ground where the milk is soaking in, and someone hands her a bowl of clear water to pour over it. She bites at her lip, then looks at Faelwine, not knowing what to say.
The king has reached the pavilion now, though here he moves more slowly, for the crowd is thicker, and he does not stint anyone on attention. His eyes are shining, and some people reach out their hands just to touch his clothing, and he turns and takes their hands, young and old, smoothed and calloused, clean and not-so-clean all the same. He speaks softly, and many turn away smiling, or wiping at their eyes, for the scion of Eorl is well-loved.
[Faelwine (#31903)]For a moment, the horror, too, is in Faelwine's widened eyes, but quickly she regains herself and shakes her head to the young lass, replying to her in their own tongue, "He does not know, not yet he means no offense, please, forgive him." Looking back to Ceredir, she speaks again in Westron, ver voice kind yet instructive. "Lord Ceredir, it is mares' milk: the most precious symbol of this festival. If you find it ill to your taste, no one shall force you to partake, but many here will take high offense to see it treated irreverently."
[Ceredir (#1394)]Cup of the offending liquid in hand, Ceredir stares blankly at the local girl as she speaks to him--clearly she is upset, but the scout is unable to make out why. "This??" he then says, incredulous, as Faelwine explains. "Precious??" He blinks, staring at the milk and then Faelwine, and then sitting heavily back in his seat. "Forgive me, Lady," he sighs, all joy at the festival having faded. "It would seem that there is nothing that I can do without causing offense." He sighs. "I should probably leave as soon as Daerien delivers his message."
[Theoden (#15851)]"Forgive me if I spoke harshly," murmurs the lass, speaking in Westron now, the words heavily accented and slow, so that they might not be completely easy to understand. "I am Silfled, daughter of Herestan, grand-niece to the scop Hraefengar." But her eyes go to the youth seated beside the scop, and her expression brightens. "Welcome to the Riddermark. May I sit beside you?" The youth near the dais misses a beat and the lass flushes and looks down. Her gown, while not completely immodest, is clearly fashioned to entice young men, or perhaps one young man. Yet she shakes her head at the Gondorian and reaches a hand to his arm. "Please, do not be upset. Come, you are a guest and shall be excused. Not many people saw." She speaks softly to the one who handed her the bowl, evidently explaining things in the Eorling tongue.
Theoden comes to the table again, and he takes the hand of one young girl, obviously poor, and with a nod to her mother, leads her to the table. He sets her down in a chair beside the high-seat, and then looks out over the crowd. "My people, and friends, please take your seats. Winter is once again behind us, and tonight we celebrate." He takes up a golden cup that is filled with the frothy liquid, and he raises it high. "May the earth be blessed and bountiful, and the days be joyous. May the herds be fertile, the horses be fertile. May our luck be good, and wyrd be kind. May we prosper in health and joy. Hail!" He lifts the cup to his lips, and drains it in one long drink. Then two young women enter the pavilion, clad in pale green, leading a milk-white mare with her belly quite round. Theoden lifts the little girl, and someone presses a garland made of simbelmyne into her hands. With the King holding her, she drapes the flowers over the mare's neck. Then she is placed gently on the horse's back, and the mare is led around the pavilion, and many of the young woman reach out to stroke it.
[Faelwine (#31903)]"Hail!" Faelwine softly echoes the King before sipping from her own cup. "Please, Silfled, do join us," she answers, and her lips flicker in a smirk as the young musician misses a beat. "But mind that you do not get young master Feorran in too much trouble, hrrm?" Turning her head aside, she offers a smile to Ceredir. "It is alright, truly," she assures him in a murmur. "You have done well, thus far, and few will hold a misunderstanding against you." She falls silent as the mare is led forth, watching wistfully, and there comes a faint sadness to her gaze. As the mare is led by, she, too reaches out to let her fingers trace the creature's soft coat.
[Ceredir (#1394)]The many charms of Silfled do not go unnoticed by the young scout, and he regards her with a warm smile, shaking his head at her words. "No, Miss, the fault is entirely mine. I am shamed to have been so rude to my kind hosts, and especially so in the presence of two ladies of such uncommon beauty. But I trust that Lady Faelwine, and now you, Lady Silfled, grandniece of my dear friend, will instruct me better." He taps the seat besides him. "Please, join us, and tell me of your lands and your customs." Ceredir watches the horse as it is quietly paraded around the room, noting Faelwine's expression with something of concern in his own eyes, but also a flicker now and then of a more calculating look. He inclines his head toward the other girl, as well, speaking to her in low tones as the festival continues, asking her to describe what is going on, what is being said, and what the various foods are for or what they taste like, often trying to make light of things so that the girl might giggle or laugh--Ceredir's eyes all the while also lit with good humor and perhaps--for those who would know him well enough--no small amount of lust.
