Iron Box TP:  A Meeting with Master Elrond

Front Porch

The porch runs the whole breadth of the house and is a good 20 feet wide. Graceful white marble columns support the roof. The floor of the porch is built from large slabs of the same marble, while the walls of the house itself are of more ordinary granite. An intricately forged railing about three feet high runs between the columns, except where a broad stair leads down to the front yard. A few chairs and benches are scattered about, though they have no cushions. The light from the hearth in the Hall of Fire plays on the windows from within. The quiet buzz of summer fills the air, the warmth relieved on the porch by the cool stone of the house's roof and floor, and by the gentle breezes the porch seems to always have drifting across it. The great double doors of the house stand open, and from within can be heard the strains of song, or the music of elven voices speaking. Overhead, beyond the sheltering roof of the porch, the skies are crystalline clear.

"The wondrous tales are those most exaggerated, I fear." says Gandalf with a grin, "I merely have a knack for finding myself around those who do great deeds." He leans back now, resting lightly against the wall, and sets his pointy hat upon the bench next to him. At the statement about him being well met, the wizard exclaims, "I should certainly hope not! My time is dreadfully short, I'm afraid, and I imagine after talking to Elrond, I shall be off again. And I never have been one for much of a fuss with arrivals and departures." The mention of food, however, changes his tone. "I already nipped a little something on my way out here to enjoy the sunrise, but I thank you for your offer. But worry not, my good elf, by simply standing here talking to me, you are doing more than enough."

From the house--just beyond the porch--can be seen a rather short figure being accompanied by a rather tall figure. Well, not tall for those who inhabit the valley, but there is no denying that the Breeland girl, Malorie, is short.
And what seems to have been her 'accompanied' journey from the infirmary to the Hall of Fire is soon detoured to the porch, as--in an idle glance to that porch--the girl sees others in conversation. She stops quite suddenly and points. "That's..." she stutters, squinting her eyes as she recognises the one setting the pointy hat aside. "But that's..." Without another word, she opens the door and stands at the threshold--perhaps afraid to do much more.

An elleth of slender yet sturdy stature strides fluidly behind the girl, her green eyes shining with a quiet intensity. Inherent warmth and serenity are apparent upon Fenelin's fair elven features, though her jaw is set squarely in light of current duties. As Malorie's pace abruptly slows, the young guard's hand drifts instinctively toward the bow at her back. But before any reprimand that would otherwise come to Fenelin's lips can be uttered, her keen eyes catch sight of what has drawn Malorie's attention, bringing a curious smile upon her own lips as well.

Gwedhestel smiles and sits near to the imposing wizard. "Well, talk is what I seem to do well. It is unfortunate that you will not be staying long, but I have greatly enjoyed meeting you. My mother often told me tales of your deeds, or the deeds of those you had the luck to stand beside," she smiles over at him, "She is in Lorien, and so cannot meet you. Tis a shame." She leans back and looks up at the sky, "I believe clouds are moving in..."

From his place on the bench, Gandalf cranes his neck to see who else is arriving on the porch this fine morning. Though it's obviously not Elrond, he still studies the pair with both bushy eyebrows raised. Since, as the morning goes on, it seems that there'll be court held out here, the wizard rises and dons his hat again, setting his pipe by the wayside upon the rail around the porch. "Unfortunate indeed." he agrees. "But I was in the midst of some other pressing business when this more important affair came up."

Standing in that doorway is a guard in long red robes -- or so it seems, for the figure is absolutely still, as though he has nothing better to do than to stand beyond the threshold awaiting arrivals. With a nod to Fenelin, he indicates to the little woman from Bree's guard that he will take her charge. Perhaps he will be Malorie's escort to the Hall of Fire.

But then the imperially tall, red-robed figure with grey eyes speaks to the woman standing in the threshold, and his voice is... perfection is the only way to describe it. It is as though each word is a note struck on a perfect crystal chime, sonorous and resounding around the porch: "Malorie of Bree. How kind of you to join us. Please, have a seat," and he indicates a bench on the front porch. He looks now to the grey pilgrim, newly hatted. "Ah... Gandalf the Grey. Were you in a hurry, or would you have time to join us for a conversation?" So does Elrond Half-Elven welcome Mithrandir back into the valley of Imladris.

Fenelin smiles as warmly as one of her inherently serious demeanor would venture as the wizard peers in the direction of her and her charge. To Master Elrond she offers a respectful nod, her piercing green eyes of grass green cast politely to the floor. The sentry then steps gracefully to the side, lingering just inside the doorway should her services be requested anew.

The red-robed figure is as imposing as he is tall to the girl of Bree, who at first shrinks back--until she is invited to have a seat upon the front porch. She swallows, green eyes going wide, but sets her bare feet to the outer porch and towards the bench indicated. There seems a multitude of questions behind those wide green eyes, yet unspoken they remain as Malorie takes her seat and looks between the figures of Elrond and Gandalf.

Gwedhestel stands and offers a respectful nod to Master Elrond, then sits again. She remains silent and looks on with anticipation at the exchange between these two incredible figures.

With the arrival of Elrond, Gandalf's entire countenance changes, most of the mirth leaving it in place of seriousness. "Ah. Elrond." he says in way of a greeting, continuing with his reply. "My only hurry was to find and speak with you, but as it seems the finding is done without much effort, I suppose the speaking should come next." The wizard pauses as Malorie takes a seat in between himself and the Master of Imladris. "So, then," he asks, gathering his staff in hand. The Grey Pilgrim, it seems, is not one to beat around the bush, "What do we know? I fear the Wind Lord told me precious little aside from that you wished to speak with me."

Inwithil closes the book he was reading and steps forward on the porch. He bows respectfully at both Elrond and Mithrandir, he then steps back, to his seat in the background.

Elrond nods to Gandalf, "Indeed, good master Gandalf, I did -- and I do still. But you abide now in the house of the elves, and is it not always our way that answers are never as straightforward as the bowman's dart, but told through story and song? So, with apologies, will it be this morning." He sits across from Malorie, so that Gandalf is to her side and he is directly across, placing her directly between them. Looking about, he smiles at the sun. "It is a fair day for tales, I think." The light of the sun hits his jet hair and the silver circlet on his brow, surrounding him with light as he looks at Malorie with deep, grey eyes like fathomless wells of wisdom -- but also of warmth. His eyes speak volumes, as does his smile; he means the woman from Bree no harm. "Please, young Malorie, all are in attendance." He indicates the many fair faces -- her guard, Fenelin, Gwedhestel, the scholar Inwithil, -- and one old face, the wizard Gandalf. "We would hear the bird sing her song, tell her tale. How did you come to be on Emyn Melm. We are patient, and will hear every detail, if you please."

With a curiosity that lingers within hearts still young, Fenelin dares turn her gaze to the side, sweeping her green eyes slowly across the porch until she can see all present. The elleth's thin and wiry frame remains as still as a statue, but her face and eyes soften as she awaits the words so patiently coaxed forth from the young woman by Elrond.

If ever the young woman's sharp tongue has escaped her, it is now--and coaxed by recent events. And so it is almost meekly that Malorie clears her throat and digs her toes against the porch's floor as she shifts in her seat. The green gaze lifts to Elrond's own. "I am not much at storytelling, though I shall do my best," she seems to excuse herself at the very beginning. Another look goes to the Elves standing by as well, and then the girl begins...

"It was Malachi that got the group together. A strange one that, always travelling and talking about his books. He showed 'round some coins. Gold, with the profile of a faceless king, he said. And he promised a great treasure lay hidden in the hills beyond Bree." The girl sniffs and draws the cuff of her left sleeve to her nose before continuing. "I just wanted to get out of Bree, and a bit of treasure wouldn't hurt. Malachi kept talking about his studies, and I paid it little mind. Soon we got to the barrow, which is where it all fell apart."

Elrond nods to this and gives Gandalf a significant look, but for Malorie he has few words: "Go on. What happened at the barrow?"

"I know such is the case," replies Gandalf, shaking his head, "But I have spent too long amongst Beorn's folk of late, and I fear their lack of patience may have just shown that it has spread even to me." Looking outside, and taking his pipe in his other hand, he nods and states simple agreement with Elrond, "It is, indeed, a fine day for tales." When Malorie is invited to tell her story, he looks at her again with renewed interest, placing the pipe in his mouth as she tells her story. As she speaks, the lines on his face deepen as his brow furrows and his lips turn into a sort of frown. Though he catches Elrond's look, he says nothing, yet, waiting to hear the rest of the story.

When the wizard's pipe comes out, Elrond's smile grows broad for a moment as though this strange implement bears some secret significance -- and amusement -- between the two. But he does not speak, only listens.

"There were odds sorts in the company with Malachi," the girl from Bree continues--seeming an 'odd sort' herself. "But there was one that stood out from the others. A man named Reincus." She seems troubled a moment, gaze darkening, and twines the fingers of her hands together in a clasp. "He was nice enough at first.." She looks to Elrond but quickly lowers her gaze again. "And he knew what he was doing, but the more he spoke out, the more uncertain I was about him. He told Manfred and me to stay close in case trouble started." She nods, sniffing. "And we did. Well, just after reaching the barrow it did. It was dark, and sprung out o' the shadows came a figure. It attacked Reincus without warning, and he fought back." Malorie looks up to the Hir again; memories of the struggle make her eyes grow wide. "I tried to stop the fight. Gerthan did as well, but Malachi joined with Reincus and overcame the...your...comrade. They said it was a barrow wight. T'was Malachi that killed him. Meanwhile, they opened the barrow."

Elrond raises his hand. "Let us dwell on this a bit... Start from where the figure, whose name was Daegwedir, came forward, and take us through to when the barrow was opened." There is no animosity or sorrow in his voice, though the discussion is of one of his people who was slain.

During the story, Gandalf is silent. His staff is tucked into the crook of one elbow, and that hand twists together two bits of his waist-length beard. As it seems Elrond has heard the story before, and knows what questions he himself would ask, for the moment, he remains silent, aside from repeating the name, "Daegwedir." The wizard then settles against the railing, puffing slowly on his pipe to listen to the details.

Fenelin's wide eyes blink in what could best be described as disbelief, though more a jumble of confusion and suppressed emotion. The elleth draws in a quiet, controlled breath, evidenced more by the slow rising of her chest than a sigh. Her focus remains on Malorie, both out of duty and out of interest.

Fidgeting turns to trembling, and Malorie seems loathe to continue the 'tale'--especially this part of it. But a glance to the Hir serves encouragement enough, and with another clearing of her throat, she continues, if uncertainly. "The workmen had started to surround the barrow, pick axes and shovels and the like. I only saw Dae..." She seems to struggle with the name. "...the Elf after he'd leaped from wherever he was hiding. His sword was drawn and by the look upon Reincus' face struck true. Gerthan called to the Elf and wondered why he was attacking, but by then Malachi and named it a wight and lent his attack as well." Her voice drops a measure, and slows. "All the while the workmen were digging... I grabbed Reincus' cloak and he swung his axe at me and missed. I did no more after that." The whisper softens. "There wasn't anymore to do." She blinks rapidly under furrowing brows. "Gerthan was injured, too, but I don't know how. The barrow was opened soon after the other was dead."

Inwithil seems calm, but the grim tale obviously moved him deeply, and the sorrow of a kinsmens death is clearly visible in his expression.

A single sigh is all the sorrow Elrond allows himself to show at this tale -- except for to those looking at his eyes. For Gandalf and Malorie, there is a great reserve of sorrow there, and weariness, for it seems that this is a kind of tale and a kind of tragedy that Elrond has heard more than once in his considerable lifetime. "Very well. What was removed from the barrow, and what happened to it?"

From within the house of Elrond, Ansraer approaches the porch. In his hands he carries a book, and it is open to a page about two thirds of the way through. As he walks, he is reading to himself, carrying himself with slow, measured steps out onto the porch. Noting the several figures gathered, he pauses, finishes his sentence, then looks up and blinks. Mithrandir and Elrond together, listening to a tale from an elf Ansraer did not know. He closed his book quietly and dropped it to his side, stepping out of the doorway and craning his neck to listen.

Looking from Malorie up to Elrond, the wizard gives a sigh of his own. This is the part of the tale where Gandalf looks most interested, he leans forward a bit, waiting for Malorie's words. "Yes, Miss. Now this next part is very important," he says, almost father-like, "so please, tell us all you can remember, no matter how little it might seem."

The tightly-intertwined fingers of the Bree-girl loosen for a moment--long enough for Malorie to start tugging at her sleeves. She darts a glance to Gandalf upon his urging, and gives a troubled nod. "A box," she says, gaze once again darkening. "A black iron box. For all of Malachi's talk of treasure, that's all that was in the barrow." She falls to silence a long moment more, trembling no less than before. "To look upon it made you want to keep it." She shrugs, as if to dismiss that part of the tale. "But I wasn't the only one, they...they all seemed to want it."

Elrond nods to this assessment, "A feeling that, if only you held the box, you would have whatever you wanted. That it contained everything you ever needed for happiness; that you must possess this thing whatever the cost. Well... I suppose the question on everyone's lips is: who ended up with the box?"

Once more, the Maia frowns some, and his fingers begin twining larger sections of his beard together, and he shoots a pointed look towards Elrond, though once more, stays quiet, as his only question is asked for him.

Keen senses detect a new presence on the porch, though Fenelin affords only a moment's glance away from the teller of a story so dark. Each word draws the sentry's emotion closer to hand, though outward calm is impressively maintained. She dares not even the smallest breath as she awaits Malorie's reply to a question so plainly posed.

From the embrace of the front lawn, a relatively small elleth approaches. She carries herself carefully, as to not disturb that which is around her, and tilts her head oddly at the rather distinguished gathering on the porch. Nodding respectfully to her elders, Nyashcala moves beside the scholar, her expression one of badly disguised curiosity. In one hand she holds a woodframe drum and its beater.

Malorie nods in mute agreement with Elrond's words. "But it was not so easy as who ended up with it. Shortly after Malachi had it...it was his, he sais... the ground shook, and howls rose to the night. I never believed in giants or demons, but there they were. All trying to get to the box. We were trapped in the barrow, Malachi, Gerthan...me, and some others. Most of the men ran when they heard the howl. I heard them scream one by one. We fought from the barrow. Black-faced creatures. Somehow we managed to get out. But Malachi threw the box at one of the black wolves to ward it off." She reaches up to scratch at her head. "I don't know how I ended up with the box. It was dropped, somehow. And then Reincus told me to follow. We ran the evening through to the ruins of a tower on a hill. We hid there for days, but box or not, I didn't want to stay." Her gaze hardens. "He had tried to kill me once, and we weren't going back to Bree, he said. So I left on evening after he was asleep, and came upon the Elven camp the next morning."

Elrond leans forward, much hanging on this, clearly. And as he does, his grey eyes lock with her green. "So... this Reincus has the box?"

Inwithil looks very interested. It seems as if he is trying to recall all the knowledge he has about the Barrows, adn their unholy inhabitants. He obviously knows much of the creatures that normally exists in the Barrows, but doesnt seem to remember anything like the creatures Malorie described
Ansraer shrugs in response to Nyashcala's quizzical look, as though he's still not entirely sure what's going on, but then he turns back to listening to the tale, wishing he had a quill and parchment with him to write this whole tale down.

You sense: Elrond looks straight into the very core of your being. You can avert your gaze and hide your truest feelings from him, or keep looking in his eyes and let him know, for a fact, that you speak the truth.

"Very wise of you, Miss. And brave, as well." comments the wizard, repeating Elrond's question. "And now, this Reincus has been left with the box?" A languidly drifting smoke ring escapes the wizard as he fades back into thought.

"Yes." Malorie's soft, simply uttered reply is given in response to Elrond's query. Her green gaze does not falter as she looks to his own. Though in it holds all of the trepidation and fear that leaving Bree upon this 'venture' has held for her young soul.

As the woman from Bree speaks, Elrond's gaze remains locked with her own, and when she is done, he nods and leans forward, putting his hand on her shoulder. It is warm to the touch, supple. He continues to look her in the eye, and he speaks with his perfect voice, a small and welcome smile on his lips. "As Master Gandalf has said, you are very brave, Malorie of Bree. I am sorry if that you have had to reside for some small while under the scrutiny of guards. But you are free now. We will make sure you are safely home when you are ready to return, though I advise you wait some short while. You are welcome in this house, welcome to song, food and drink. I know your heart, after this ordeal, might call out for home, but I would counsel you to stay for a while, at least, for there are few of your folk who come any longer to the Last Homely House, and the memories of this place will serve you well for the rest of your days." And then he releases her shoulder and looks to the elves gathered around and says something in a strange and musical tongue. Yet, for some reason defying rational explanation, Malorie can hear the words as though they are sung to her, softly, by a bard leaning just by her ear. "(Sindarin) This woman may wander this valley freely, for there is not malice in her heart, and she is a brave soul. We should regard her warmly." Turning back to Malorie he smiles. "I wonder -- if it is not too much trouble -- would you be willing to describe this Reincus to one of the many artists in our valley?"

Inwithil stands up, and turns to Elrond. "Master Elrond, with your permission I will go to the library, and search the records for information regarding this box"

In the moment that the Hir touches her shoulder, Malorie ceases trembling, his words soothing and calm to her troubled mind. Unwilling--or unable--is she to look away in the span of his words, though the fear in her eyes subsides as waves to the sea. "I will tell them," she answers after a deep inward breath, and looks to the guard Fenelin who has brought her here.

Ansraer smiles to Inwithil. "Mellon, when you grow weary come seek me out and I will pick up the studies where you leave off. Perhaps together we can unlock the mysteries of this tale, hmm?" He smiles to Inwithil, then turns back, awaiting Elrond's approval of their plan.

Slowly, the Grey Pilgrim nods, watching both Elrond and Malorie intently. While Elrond speaks, he gathers his thoughts. After the Master of the Last Homely House has given the Breewoman his welcome, and her freedom, he adds his own piece. "I agree with my good friend here, young Miss. Right now, there will be few better places for you than here, though I doubt the elves would stop you should you try to leave." It seems something else is on his mind more pressing than a physical description of Reincus. "And before you do, my dear, I'd simply like to know but one thing but, you've answered enough for now, so I will let it wait for another time. For now, I would speak with Elrond, if he's not too busy to spare a simple traveller a few moments."

Nyashcala does not speak, a drummer and a singer she seems a bit lost here. Instead, the elleth simply looks between the speakers as the conversation moves, nodding silently as she interalizes it all.

Fenelin pulls herself up to her full slender height, though her shoulders and hands remain more relaxed than when she first joined the company on the porch. A subtle smile, both friendly and solemn in nature, plays at her lips as she nods in acknowledgement of the Herdir's orders. The sentinel returns Malorie's gaze with the same warmth, a light flick of a wrist inviting the her to stand. Thus the elleth and woman leave the porch, more as companions than as the guard and prisoner they were mere moments ago.

Elrond looks to the Inwithil, "The matter of the box has been exhaustively researched, Inwithil, but... if you would begin to dust off all of our maps of the area of the barrow and the lands south of the valley. There are many we must send after this thing. Also, if you might look into the name Reincus. I wonder at the nation that gave rise to such a name, for it has some foul sounds in it."
Fenelin walks through the large door and enters the house.

Inwithil bows at Elrond, and then at Mithrandir. He greets the remaining people on the porch, and departs

Elrond looks back to Gandalf, then. "Of course I have time for you, Mithrandir... for there is much we must discuss. Shall we adjourn to my study? Perhaps I might have some of the Culyave brought up? We have opened a new vintage from 18 years past and discovered it quite remarkable.."

Without even a hint of dismay at not being tasked to do anything, Ansraer turns to Nyashcala with a smile. "Shall we take a walk, then? I've found something that may be of interest to you, musically."

"Foul sounds indeed. I can't say I care much for the name." says the wizard, thinking aloud, "And I do hope that this Reincus is something of a fighter, as it sounds he may very well be." Elrond's invitation interrupts these idle ponderances, and the Istari takes his staff in hand. "Your study will do admirably, and I think a bit of Culyave would do as well, if it's not too much trouble."

"It is none, mellon. Then please, let us upstairs and speak." The Master of the House nods to all present and smiles. "Thank you all for your kind attendance." And then he glides into the house -- for his feet are not visible beneath the hems of his long, red robes and it does indeed seem as though he glides.

With a quick nod and dip of his hat's brim, Gandalf makes his way into the house after Elrond.

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