(Archive) - Hail Valgrim!

Late is the hour, and dark is the chamber -- dark, save for a few guttering candles burning low. All shed their meager light upon a single place, a reading-desk, where sits the shadowed form of the Lord Girithlin.

Clad all in his customary white, the Dunadan lord is bathed in the warm, ruddy glow of the candlelight -- poring sleeplessly over some ancient tome.

The guttering candles that spot the shadow shrouded wall dance light upon the ceiling and stone. Like the long dead ghosts that live in these books, the ethereal flames and their reflective shadows dance dimly against the walls.

Seated at one of the couches, his long legs sprawled out over the plush fabric, Valgrim reads. Though hes behavior can just barely be described as reading as the night air forces his eyes closed periodically. He usually snaps them open with ferocious speed, but his reading clearly has sufferred since the page has not been turned in some time.

A moment astir -- the Herald lifts his glance from careful study. Curious, his eyes trail in the darkness to Valgrim, attention hovering about the seated squire in a mild show of surprise. And then he speaks, the first sound of any substance in this room in hours.

\"Still here, Squire? I must say, your diligence impress me.\"

Raising his large, calloused hand to his eyes, Valgrim rubs at the long eyelashes and the heavy lids, as if the motion could wipe the sleep from his brain. Like a cobweb spun about the squire\'s mind, he finally glances up to match the face with the voice, and a light seems to drown his face.

Then, as if the master of the web has taken control, the spider that is Valgrim\'s mind moves into action. \"Yes Lord. Just doing some background reading. For what purpose do you invade the shadows of the stacks this evening?\"

\"Invade? Have I not been sequestered here for hours?\" The Herald laughs, his weary visage made more bright in the night by a flash of his quicksilver grin. Sighing, hands behind his head, Thorondur stretches back. \"Better I wonder what it is that -you- study, Valgrim. I had not thought you a scholar, truth be told.\"

Like a confused fly for a moment, truly caught in the sticky webs of confusion and exhaustion, Valgrim does not respond. Yet as his weary eyes gaze again at the book in his hands, his memory seems jogged and he turns the dusty tome over in his heavy hands.

His voice is large, but tinged with the weight of the stars and the long night. \"As you know Lord, I do work for Lady Ivriniel from time to time. Something that requires a thorough knowledge of the tools of the trade. In addition I find the myriad philosophies of life to be intriguing. Though tonight I must confess to studying history and heritage. Whether these things make me a scholar I leave up to those more wise than myself.\"

\"Not a scholar, perhaps, but a better squire than you might otherwise have found yourself,\" the Herald states. That ghostly trick of the light -- that smile upon his lips -- broadens briefly, ere he laughs again. \"If you mean to serve the House Girithlin nobly, such things will do you well indeed.\"

Pointedly now, Thorondur looks to Valgrim -- a study, a contemplation.

Gweneth has arrived.

Nodding in response to the Herald, the dancing shadows flicker off his face and paint his features in alternating light and shadow, like fluidly moving prison bars. He drops the heavy book back into his lap, a barely visible cloud of dust rising from the old tome, the motes lightly dancing in the torchlight.

With the Lord Thorondur expecting a response, Valgrim remains seated at the couch and clears his throat, piercing his exhaustion for a moment. \"Thank you Lord. Was there anything you wished to discuss at this late hour, or are you too engaged in your study?\"

Lazy, the idle wave of the Herald\'s left hand as he stands from his reading-desk -- dismissing the previous object of his attention. Instead does Thorondur now bend his focus upon Valgrim, and that smile becomes hidden and secret, a confidant\'s smile. \"Perhaps,\" he says, and no more. The word falls unaccompanied.

Though there is no sound of the door to the Library opening, all at once, like a silent specter, the Lady Gweneth appears. A nightgown of the deepest crimson silk on her person, barely opaque enough to only show her silhouette with a matching robe of satin covering the nightgown. A half empty snifter of brandy hangs lazily between her fingers. She glides towards one of the bookcases, coming into view of the two men, her slippers shuffling softly over the floor. If she sees the duo, she makes no note of it, her free hand flitting across the spines of the books, mumbling to herself as her hands run over the titles.

The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

Tired and weary with the tasks of the day, the energy seeps from the squire\'s massive limbs like a rain pool draining via a tiny rivulet. Barely visible but lasting nonetheless. His chest rises, like the bellows in the forge, and the air escapes slowly from his lips. It hisses across his teeth, interrupted with the sudden appearance of the Lady.

Ignoring the maiden for a moment, Valgrim returns the stare of the Lord Herald, and opens his mouth, hesitating for but a moment. \"Lord. Am I to guess the topic of discussion, another test to evaluate my mettle, or will you tell me what you wish to speak of?\"

\"I\'ve given you little enough to guess with -- so I think you may disregard that possibility,\" Thorondur answers the squire, his eyes sparkling, dark jewels lit in the candlelight with silent mirth. \"But look now -- is this the Lady Gweneth?\"

Not once does that expression -- that appearance of clever expectation -- alter or change. Rather does the Herald\'s grin almost gain in delight. \"Good even, my lady. And a boon indeed, your coming at this hour. Tell me -- which of your seamstresses is the most skilled?\"

The Lady Bragollach spins on her heel, her hand at once going to her chest in fright, \"Oh, Lord Herald, I did not see you there.\" There is a pause as she realizes his question, \"Oh, well, I..,\" she clears her throat, her hand reaching around to pull her robe closed, \"Indeed? The most skilled, I really could not say. They all do such fine work,\" she finishes, tying the font closed.

\"Valgrim shall be needing one,\" Thorondur states, unequivocally -- and, one might assume, unexpectedly.

Expecting a trap from the Lady after his rude departure, Valgrim hazards a glance at the scantily clad woman. His eyes linger upon her for a moment, but like a rat darting between the cat and the trap, Valgrim looks again back to Thorondur, intrigued by his words.

\"And why would I need a seamstress of the Lady Gweneth, Lord?\"

Casually, his tone as blithe as though he were simply discussing the weather, Thorondur Girithlin waves a hand toward Valgrim -- the left, again -- for the lady\'s benefit. \"The blue stripes,\" he tells the squire. \"Unless you\'ll be sewing them on yourself?\"

A smile slowly curls on Gweneth\'s lips, \"Perhaps he should. Who knows? It may increase his dexterity with his hands,\" she offers with a bit of mischief to her tone.

Gasping for breath, nearly like a dying warrior, sucking for air, Valgrim coughs into the still night air. His eyes widen with surprise, and the exhaustion seems to fly from his face, burning in the flickering flames of the library, its wings consumed in the heat.

His large hand raised to his mouth, covering it in disbelief, the squire tries to speak. Yet the muffled sounds that escape from behind his lips are not recognizable. Quickly moving his hand to permit the clear words access to the fresh air, Valgrim blurts out. \"Lord. Thank you. I did not think myself ready for this honor. I only hope my actions are worthy of the title.\"

\"If you were not yet worthy,\" answers the Herald, his tone level -- a marked contrast to Valgrim\'s, \"then you would not have received the honour.\" And with that, Thorondur raises a palm in the squire\'s direction, as if in blessing or benediction.

\"Valgrim, so do I, Thorondur Edrahil hir Girithlin, hereby name thee squire of the Blue cloth.\"

His hand darting to mirror the Lord Thorondur, a younger version of the Knight perhaps, Valgrim raises his hand. He gathers his composure, drawing a deep breath that sets the dancing dust motes into chaos. With a flat, but honored tone, tinged with the seriousness of the scene, Valgrim responds.

\"Lord Thorondur Edrahil hir Girithlin. I Valgrim of House Girithlin do hereby vow to serve my Lord, Prince, and Gondor to my death or dishonor.\"

That seemingly done, Gweneth lifts the glass to her lips in her on toast to the pair and turns round, her eyes going back to the spines of the tomes lining the walls....