A Friendly Challenge: Part I
OOC Note: After reading this log, take a look at A Friendly Challenge: Part II. It's a continuation taking place a couple of IC days later.
Open Meadow
This is a broad meadow, carpeted with grass. A huge oak stands in the midst of the meadow, a path passing close under its branches. The old oak looks like a pleasant place to pause and rest. The path itself is hard packed earth, clear of stones. Off to the north, trees grow more thickly as the meadow merges into forest. You can see where another path intersects the east-west one, heading off to the northeast, where through some trees you can see several low buildings. To the south is the House, and southwest is the bridge. In the west a stand of birches grow on the slopes before the cliffs. The colours are those of early autumn, rich greens starting to fade into brown or gold or umber or orange. It's the time of the harvest...blackberries are thick in the tangles of bushes at the edges of the meadows.
Dusk falls in muted purples and reds over the fading grasses of the far-reaching meadow, the only sound a dry rustling as a surprisingly cool autumn breeze sweeps in waves through the surrounding forests. Beneath the great oak shadows heavier fall, such that broad leaves of a fading gilded green cast a thick darkness beneath its canopy...a perfect place for someone to hide.
Yet the only one to be seen over the golden softness of meadowgrass is a slender lady lying flat on her back, locks of gold sweeping haphazardly around her shoulders and face. The latter is a picture of serenity, willowy lashes in a gentle caress of pale cheeks as her eyes lay shut to the deepening sky above.
Pottering along in the dusk, Gibli comes stepping cheerfully along the path. His hood is down, black hair showing, and, wonder of wonders, there is a flower in his hair! The Dwarf seems to be thinking about something, for he strokes his beard and every now and then scratches at his head. He is definitely preoccupied, and seems completely unaware of the decoration on his head, as he stops under the tree, gazing before him but without taking notice.
Even beneath the gentle serenade of the night wind's song, no footsteps go unnoticed to keen elven ears. Eryndae's eyes blink open wide to the sky, though not long do they linger in study of the silver pinpricks beginning to appear in the deep indigo of night. Once the approaching footsteps have fallen silent, the elleth rises to her knees, now visible above the meadowgrass from the waist up. Her eyes sweep to the shadows beneath the tree, and indeed a sparkle of curiosity akin to starlight appears therein.
Gibli has not caught sight of the elleth as he stands, still silent and unmoving, under the tree. Lost in thought, one hand strays over his beard, tugging and scratching as he struggles to think or remember something. Suddenly he sits down, dropping to the grass with little care, and pulls a pipe from his belt. Glancing around, and seeing no-one nearby, he lights the pipe and begins smoking in the darkness.
Striding along, with a long wooden pipe in his mouth, Nwurvor blows smoke rings in the air as he walks. He seems not to be minding much as he takes a stroll. In his hand is a black wooden cane, with a metal cap on the tip and a bejeweled handle. His eyes wander and catch Gibli under the tree, at which time he speak out, "Hey Gibli...did you come out of the house to have a good smoke too? I've seen that those elves don't care much for it...bah..how can you not like pipeweed..." The Senior Merchant shakes his head with a short chuckle.
A great cough suddenly comes from the boughs of the huge oak, and a male voice cries out, "Ach! What is that horrible stench in the air?!"
"Evening, Nwurvor! Aye, I came to enjoy a good smoke when there ain't know elves to be seen." Gibli chuckles. "I haven't had a good smoke since this morning!" Then suddenly comes the cough and call from the tree. At the sound, Gibli hurriedly takes his pipe from his lips and snuffs it out. Looking upwards, surprised, almost afraid, and searching for the owner of voice, he calls, "Hello there! My apologies, I did not realize ye were there!"
Two sparks of light leaping out in the darkness beneath the great oak bring a notable lift to Eryndae's brow, the voices following after all the confirmation she needs in discerning the two newcomers as dwarves. Making no further efforts at remaining silent, the vintner and warrior stands and brushes a few pieces of grass from her emerald skirts, calling out a greeting to the pipe smokers as she approaches. "Good evening, friends...and as long as you refrain from lighting the oak aflame, then surely no complaints shall be heard."
Yet ere these words fall silent on her lips, a voice from above draws her focus. "Or perhaps I speak to soon?"
"No complaints? Ha!" Linnuial cries again, from the tree, with nothing but his dangling legs visible to most. "No offense was taken, Master Naugrim, but please keep that foul air away from me. Indeed, I now wonder if it is that smoke which causes your bodies to fail after long years."
Taken back the the unseen voice, Nwurvor raises and eyebrow, and glances all about him, "What in the raven feathers is going on? Unseen voices..." He then turns as he hears another voice and peers at the now visible elf, "That is good to hear..." He calls out, "Was that you at first...or is there another elf abroad?" His eyes then peers at shadowing figures dangling from the tree, "Who goes there? Is that tree relaxing up there or just have fun in hiding?"
When Eryndae speaks behind him Gibli spins, eyes wide. With his right hand he slaps his forehead, and then turns back to Linnuial in the tree. "Aye, forgive me! Truly, looking in the tree didn't occur to me..." This last he says to himself, as if he was warning himself to be more careful next time. Once more looking upward, "Do my ears deceive me, or is that Linnuial I hear speaking from above?"
"Not abroad, nay. But rather *aloft*, it seems," Eryndae mutters in reply to Nwurvor, a dry smile lifting her pale lips as her steps bring her just beneath the eaves of the great tree. Her delicate nose wrinkles noteably as she catches of whiff of the dwarves' pipeweed on a gust of breeze, but no hint of her distaste finds its way to her words when next she speaks. "'Tis no occasion for forgiveness, and yet it is yours just the same, Gibli."
Away to the north, shrouded in darkness, an Elven figure comes down the path toward the Meadow and the Great Oak. His clothing does little to draw attention himself, the only object which would is a silver badge upon his chest; it catches the light of the stars once in a while as he walks slowly down the path. He stops a few paces from the tree to watch the Dwarves and the Elves present converse.
Seated among the roots on the far side of the Oak, Celebaelin keeps quiet as she hears the speech among the others nearby. Her nose had wrinkled at the scent of pipeweed smoke, and she was grateful to hear the indignant shout from Linnuial above. She herself would not have objected loudly, though she felt the same distaste as the other, because such is not in her manner, and because right now, she prefers to remain somewhat hidden. The only indication anyone is where she is is a faint skritching sound of a blade across wood as she works on a block of wood with a pattern lightly engraved upon it to resemble a grape leaf.
"Aye...it seems..." Nods the dwarf as he peers into the tree...tho Nwurvor continues to smoke his pipe. He stands several feet away from Gibli's position and seems content, tho he does give them the though of blowing the smoke rings to his side, rather that forward towards the elves. Grumbing a bit as he shakes his head again, "You elves don't smoke, drink wine instead of ale...you are missing out on life's pleasures...especially dwarven brewed ale!" The last part with a long breath of satisfaction at the thought of ale.
Linnuial chuckles lightly before dropping deftly from the tree onto the ground. "Pleasure, from inhaling ash and fume? Or drinking bitter, bloating ale? I think not." His mouth remains open as he prepares to continue speaking, but the skritching catches his ear.
Slender arms fold loosely across the Miruvorthaer's chest, more a relaxed stance than a defiant one. "I confess that I have never sampled this ale you and your kin hold in such high esteem," Eryndae intones softly beneath the whisper of oak leaves. When they fall silent once more, the sound of scratching catches her attention as well, though a pointed glance to Linnuial is her only initial response.
"I do not suppose you have tried the wines you seem so eager to dismiss? If not, perhaps you and I might each try something new in coming days...?" This, her implied invitation to Nwurvor, is spoken in a slightly louder voice than necessary to reach their immediate company. "The first harvest of the year is complete, and the second is soon to follow....very soon." These last words are pointed, and ice grey eyes drift from the dwarves to the tree trunk as a smirk appears on Eryndae's lips.
A sigh comes from Gibli as he feels more at ease now. He smiles at Linnuial as he thrusts his pipe stem-down behind his belt, and grins at the elf's answer to Nwurvor. Stepping out from underneath the tree, he nods a greeting to Eryndae. "Thank ye, Eryndae." He looks aside, and then back at the Miruvothaer. "Aye, I should be more careful where I smoke!"
Holding the block in one hand, Celebaelin carefully tries to work in the vein pattern through the center of the leaf. Perhaps somewhat foolishly, she holds the knife such that the slight furrow she is carving runs perpendicular to her hand, and when the blade tip reaches a tiny knot in the wood pattern, it slips and neatly punctures Celebaelin's index finger. She emits a surprised squeak and tucks the bleeding finger into her mouth, groaning inwardly at the red drop now centered on her leaf carving. She looks around nervously, hoping not to have attracted attention.
A snort comes from away to the north as the Elven figure rounds the tree into the presence of the others. "Don't inconvenience yourself, cousin. The Dwarf ale is a draught that is not for more refined palates." Thileithel looks down at the Dwarves keenly. "Perhaps you should find Master Bilbo if you wish to indulge your smoking."
Looking over towards Eryndae, "Well then...I admit, I haven't tried much of your wine...and it so happens I brought a small barrel of dwarven ale from the caravan, I thought I might need it." Nwurvor grins towards the elf, definite acceptance to the invitation at the exchange of liquor. Taking a few steps, out of the trees shadows, the gems on the Senior Merchants cane shine in the moonlight, and he blows more smoke rings out away from the group. Sneering at the other elf that was hiding, "Bitter ale? No dwarven ale is bitter! It is the finest ever made..."
A brow arches at the squeak, and Linnuial rounds the tree to investigate. "Who's lurking about?" he asks, gaze finally settling onto Celebaelin, sucking her own finger. The other brow rises now, and he just stares blankly for a moment, before grinning. "It seems the Parvasson has the strangest habit of us all."
Also intrigued at the sound from behind the tree, Gibli steps around to get a better view. A chuckle comes from him as he sees Celebaelin sitting there, and he shakes his head. The flower still remains in his hair, and he seems just as oblivious of it as before as it waggles at the movement.
Thileithel turns his full attention to Nwurvor. "You have a cask of this ale?" he asks rather sharply. "I would taste this ale of yours, and you shall taste the finest wine in Master Elrond's cellar, then we shall see which drink is fittest for a king, Elven or Dwarven!"
The Parvasson looks up at the sound of the words and widens her eyes. She pulls her finger out of her mouth and examines her cut, noting red fluid welling from within the rupture, and sighs, squeezing the finger in her other hand, which has long since dropped the knife. Apologetically, she looks up at Linnuial, murmuring, "It's not whittling, but it will do." She blinks at being discovered a few moments later by her earlier conversational partner, then stares at the dwarf's head in the darkness. What is that in his hair? Her eyes focus in on... petals?
The mention of wine and ale floats past his ear, and Gibli turns from the discovery of Celebaelin to take part in the conversation. "I too have not yet tasted this wine, but I must admit to enjoying the smell. Indeed, I doubt it could surpass Dwarven ale in it's goodness, though."
As he blows smoke rings past the trees shadows, Nwurvor looks at Gibli, and squints his eyes, tilting his head awkwardly...shouting, "Gibli! What in the bloody raven feathers is that upon your head? I've never seen such a sight on a dwarf..." He shakes his head in disbelief, hoping it is something different. Those his attention is diverted as he hears the challenge, "OH? I would like to taste the /finest/ wine you say you have...and I'll let you taste the ale I brought.../then/ we /shall/ see..." He retorts at the elf, grunting at the thought of liking wine more than ale.
Eryndae's words continue those of the Senior Merchant, and yet her eyes are with Thileithel. "...as far as ales go, to be sure. Yet I assume things are with ales as they are with wines - a matter of taste." Calm and warmth prevail in her features, yet a light furrow upon her brow hints that perhaps this facade is not so easily maintained.
At Thileithel's proclaimation and Gibli's response to the challenge, however, a new gleam alights in the Miruvorthaer's eyes. "Though perhaps if all are willing, this might indeed be an interesting occasion indeed. What say you all?"
Linnuial shakes his head at the offer, holding up a hand. "I am afraid I cannot get heavy with drink at this time. I have Thandirs to frustrate." Then, turning toward Celebaelin, he adds, "As for you, perhaps more dagger training is necessary before you continue your craftwork. Although I must say, if you are as fierce against the Enemy as you are your own finger, then I pity our foes."
A broad grin breaks whitely through Gibli's black beard and the Dwarf laughs. "Aye, what reason have we to say no?" Then as Nwurvor shouts, he looks startled and a hand goes to his head, descending back to his face with the flower held in his fingers. His eyes narrow, and he scowls blackly, as if a thundercloud has covered him. "What misgotten son of an e--" Gibli breaks off suddenly, remembering the company he's in. Then suddenly he laughs and throws the flower to the ground, his anger past and the sun shining cheerfully on his face once more. "Let us taste this wine, nay?
Just as he turns from elf to elf at the challenge, he hears the words of Celebaelin, "Did you say whittling? Do you carve wood over there? I am a wood merchant, I carve canes, mugs, puppets, and all sorts of things, in fact if it can be made from wood, I can carve it!" Gloats the dwarf proudly, as he puffs out his chest, and snuffs out his pipe, placing in within his cloak. Then returns his attention, "Yes, yes...All I got to do is go get the ale, or fine one of my apprentices to go grab it from my chest."
Thileithel calls to a squire who unfortunately is passing by at the moment. "You there, ah yes, Aerandir, listen to the Master Vintner my cousin here and she will tell you which wine to fetch from the cellar."
Celebaelin looks up from her bleeding digit and sighs again. "Actually, Hirvaethor," she says, tightening that hand into a fist while the other hand fumbles with replacing the blade in its sheath, "Perhaps I require a bandage before more dagger training. And I should think that the aim of said training should be maiming others, not myself," she finishes with a groan. She turns her head at the sound of the dwarven woodcraft merchant's exclamation and stows her carving under her knee, hopefully well hidden from view.
Though she somehow maintains the poise and grace of a steward of the Last Homely House, Nwurvor's confidence stirs Eryndae's own. With a firmly set chin, the elleth straightens and bends her gaze on the dwarves, her smile unable to hide the mischievous, competitive twinkle brightening in her aged eyes. "Indeed we shall see soon enough! But alas, it is with a heavy heart that I am unable to attend this noble competition. I must retire to the house. Though trouble not our young friend here, cousin. I would be glad to send one of the Seinthaer back with a few casks of my finest Culromenlin."
"Hmm, let me see...I saw him around here while I walked out..." Says Nwurvor as he walks over towards the house, then spots one of his apprentices on the porch, "Hey Thimbli, Go fetch the small barrel from the chest! And bring me my mug..." After calling out to the dwarf, and with a grumble, the other dwarf is soon off into the house. Nwurvor then starts walking back towards the group, "In a few minutes the ale will be here..." His head then turns towards the elf that was whittling, "Why don't you come over and show me? I've been looking forward to seeing some elven crafters work...and I hear there is a exhibition around the house too."
Disregarding Eryndae's recommendation, Thileithel sends off the squire to fetch the culromenlin. "Be quick about it, Thandir!"
Slowly withdrawing from the company in the direction of the glow of firelight within the House of Elrond, Eryndae's last words are to Nwurvor and Gibli. "Though by no accounts is this a withdrawal of my offer! I do hope you will be so kind as to save a few sips for me." Thus with quickened steps, the Miruvorthaer sets out into the night toward the house, pausing only to offer Celebaelin a casual nod, as if she knew the Elisthir was there all along.
Gibli has been listening with a grin on his face, and now he breaks in on the talk. "Aye, this competition sounds most interesting indeed! But excuse me, please, I have remembered I have something to do for a moment." He hurries off, muttering something to himself. The flower remains on the grass, a white spot among the green.
After a bit, a young dwarf comes running down with a small barrel in his hands, it is Thimbli with the ale. Nwurvor grins, "Ah, good Thimbli, now where's my mug?" But is cut off as the mug is handed to him, "Ahh, you are a good apprentice.." He turns back towards the group, "The ale is here, the ale is here!" And all he does is wave to the leaving dwarf, "I'll make sure you get a taste sometime..."
"Oh," Linnuial says, blinking, before withdrawing a small cloth that appears to be clean from his tunic. "Here. Wrap it tightly 'round your finger." Stepping back, he nods to each of the Dwarves. "I must also retire for now. I look forward to hearing the results of this contest."
Thileithel waves to the squire as he returns with a wine steward, each carrying a bottle and glasses. "Over here under the oak," he calls to them.