The Silliest of Hats
Infirmary
This room contains many bunks, placed around in an orderly fashion. Each bunk
has thick blankets and pillows upon it. Some of the bunks are occupied, mainly
with victims of accidents, although most of them are empty. The southern wall is
composed mostly of windows, which are blanketed by heavy curtains that let
through some light. On another wall is a large cabinet, containing many jars,
flasks, and other containers, as well as bandages, splints, and other first-aid
equipment. Beside the cabinet, a small hearth burns intensely.
There is always a young healer or apprentice here, passing from bunk to bunk and
verifying that everything is in its place. If you are in need of treatment,
perhaps you could ask one of these apprentices to summon a healer.
Rhulalaith stalks into the infirmary grimly, his bright eyes flickering this way and that. In his hands he carries a harp; he is dressed in flowing robes of bright scarlet; and atop his head sits a hat like a sock, from which many red tails hang, each tipped with a tiny silver bell. "Are they sleeping?" he whispers.
Harchdolas is sitting at a small desk near the edge of the infirmary. "It is to be hoped so," he observes drily.
"I am most irate," Rhulalaith confides, shaking his head so that the tails flap and the bells jingle. "Most irate. Such irresponsible behavior."
Harchdolas raises his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he seems vaguely amused and tolerant.
As many prone figures as fill the beds of the infirmary, there is one that stirs restlessly from a place along the wall. The Miruvorthaer Eryndae lays not atop the mussed sheets of her sick bed, but rather sits straight in stillness. Her eyes gaze absently between the drape of a curtain and the window sill, a sliver of light illuminating a blank look upon her face. Though words fill the heavy silence, the lady stirs not from her vigil of the afternoon beyond.
"Going -into- an orc-cave," Rhulalaith mutters. "Suicide could not be more directly attempted if one were to try." He shakes his head. "Well. I must serenade the wounded in hopes that they'll get better and wiser."
Sitting near the edge of the beds by the herb cupboard is Naurelin. A blue glace is cast at Rhulalaith and a smirk plays at the corner of her mouth on seeing the attire he is dressed in.
"You seem ready in full costume to perform something for us mellon?" she smirks.
Rhulalaith nods deeply, bells still tinkling. "Indeed, mellon. I have a simple and humble song, a song befitting a bard cheering on the noble warriors returned so recently from bright and brilliant, bloody, b--" He pauses to think. "Mmm, blasted battle? Yes, that'll do. My humble song's humble title is ..." He pauses, taking up a playing stance. "NEVER DO THAT AGAIN."
Harchdolas grmphs softly to himself. "If your audience is unappreciative," he observes, "Do not say I did not warn you."
Legs dangle limply over the side of her bed without touching the floor; thus almost childlike does the aged elleth appear, her shoulders lifted gracefully nonetheless. Though pale is her skin, Eryndae's eyes shine brightly with thoughts unseen, turning curiously to Rhulalaith. As one cheek turns away, the other is seen to bear a deep, but nicely healing gash from chin to cheek.
"Dear master Harchdolas," Rhulalaith observes, "It looks to me as though I have a captive audience. All the better, since I must needs share this meek and lowly song of mine, this least of songs, with all in this infirmary."
Harchdolas chuckles grimly. "Aye, but one with many defenders. Rouse them at your peril." But he seems, still, oddly amused.
"You'd need a gag to silence this song," Rhulalaith promises, frowning. His fingers begin to pick lightly at the harp, producing soothing, tinkling music. It goes slowly to a lower scale, yet retains a certain bucolic, springtime quality. Not too ominous so far. He begins to sing wordlessly, his voice meshing perfectly with the harp music, perfectly pastoral.
Pale fingers smooth absently over the crisp white gown as Eryndae's chest rises and falls in a shallow, rasping sigh. Thus far the edhel's harpsong would seem to her liking by the softening of tension around weary eyes.
Rhulalaith's music becomes hymnal. In a high, clear voice he begins to sing ... the tone and timbre of his voice are soothing, but the words, perhaps, are less so:
"Here sit fair Elves both bright and bold,
Who went into a cave.
Despite the warnings plain to read,
They went into the cave."
Naurelin raises a brow upon hearing the Lalaithdir's words and an impish twinkle shines in aqua eyes while she continues to grind a few herbs in the mortar.
The gentle melody of Rhulalaith's song continues. Technically speaking, it is executed flawlessly; his voice slowly rises, peaking.
"We should not touch the world outside,
Nor hunt in caves and deeps,
Nor waste our lives for glory's sake;
Allow the world its griefs."
Rhulalaith's voice becomes gentler, softer, almost caressing. There is definite emotion, now:
"Why risk our lives in others' strife?
Our duty is to be.
Leave mortals their mortality,
And Rangers in the wilds."
Harchdolas turns two pages at that.
A faint furrow upon her brow fails to clearly mark the Miruvorthaer's sentiment beyond the weariness that lines her features. Neither disapproval nor appreciation surface celarly in her countenance, but if anything, she remains attentive. If Eryndae has anything to say, it remains in silence beneath the Lalaithdir's song.
Passionately, Rhulalaith's fingers dance over the strings of his harp; the music does not speed up, but its breadth of notes does increase. His voice becomes more forceful, more vehement, still sweet and pleasing to the ear, but driven with emotion:
"O selfish elves, why take such risks
With your immortal lives?
Is glory such a splendid thing,
As gashes in your sides?"
Not amused at all, but instead, a little flustered by Rhulalaith's song the healer turns to the songster and says, "Jester, do you come here to add salt to the injury?"
A sharp glace is cast at the the edhel who sings, a frown spreading wide on the Arnethril's face, as she continues grinding.. this time however more pressure is applied on the stone as the pestle continues to pulverize her leafs in round movements.
The Lalaithdir ignores Naurelin's protest. Throwing up a scarlet-clad arm, he lets the harp-music hang in the air, but still sings; his voice conveys sadness, deep worry, and no small dose of anger. It begins to sink from high and clear to deep and throaty:
"Think how your friends are full of grief
And weeping at your bed
Yes, you came back living, but you
Could have come back dead."
Harchdolas raises his book so that it covers his face fully. If anyone happens to look his way, they may notice some slight movement behind the book.
Elethin dances into the scene immaculate and resplendent in white and gold, with brightly kept flowers strewn through her golden hair and a luxurious smile on her face. Her feet are guided by the rhythm of the harp, and her body accompanies with an effortless grace. There is a large white basket on one arm, full of preserved flowers. Her expression slips as she becomes aware of the words, but she continues to paint her own art as she moves through the room, weaving a more untrammeled joy from the music of the Lalaithdir's instrument.
Sleeve slipping downwards as he plucks at the harp once more, Rhulalaith falls silent. His harp-music rises in bursts, falls in waves, seems to shimmer. Slowly it calms, momentum decreasing, until it is slow, sedate. His voice rings out again, seeking out a middle-range between deep and high; it is a curiously blended, soft sound, like a voice of reason after the Lalaithdir's clouds of emotion:
"Dear friends, I beg you pity me,
And stay within the Valley.
Leave orcs their dens, and trolls their holes,
And stay within the Valley."
On hearing the newest rendition of the Lalaithdir's song, the Arnethril immediately puts the mortar and pestle aside on the night table. "Enough! They lie here sick and some are far to frail to even respond. You will not come here and pour water all over the Nethordur's countless hours of labour only to have the sick fall more ill with your jibing!"
"Leave them be and let them gain their strength to recover fully. When they are well and after they leave from here, you can taunt them all you like." From the hint of irritation in her tone she does not look amused anymore.
Harchdolas turns another page in his book. His face is utterly invisible.
Rhulalaith lowers his harp, rounding on Naurelin. "Your gentle treatment, mellon," he observes mildly, "Will so endear them to your care that our dear friends will seek out danger for the chance to experience once more your treatment." He sighs. "I count those here my friends. It is my duty, as friend and as Lalaithdir, to show them their errors. I must save their lives."
Between the conscious occupants of the room, annoyance and amusement are clear in some faces as response to the song, both spoken and unspoken. Yet the face of the Silmaethor remains strangely serene, silvered eyes drifting slowly from the singer back to the window, until Naurelin's outburst draws them back to the present. "A lovely song no less," she murmurs, notes of casual musing lacing the smooth timbre of her voice. Indeed she seems as one partial to the melody, yet indifferent to the words.
Naurelin says, "You may show them their erring way when they are well enough to appreciate your ministrations. This is not the right time. " She walks towards Eryndae but continues speaking to Rhulalaith, "Though I see your concern for their well-being is genuine, to rebuke them now would be unwise as any negativity of thought or action will work against their fae, turning back the clock on their road to recovery by countless times.""
"Your task is a necessary one," sings Elethin as she continues to dance through the room as if the song still played. "But of all the sins that any among us might be guilty of, you chose glory?" She begins placing flowers on and around the cots, dancing the while. She looks at Naurelin, not wishing to gainsay the Arnethril. "Your wit is sharp, but your mark is not true. There was no hope for glory here, only a wish to deny the orcs under Caradhras an easy access to Eregion." All her words are sung, a bright melody despite the words themselves.
"I seek to instill in them new appreciation for what they have here," Rhulalaith maintains. "Gentle mellon, if my chiding causes pain, it is as the herbs that healers use are bitter going down -- but quickly blossom into health and wholeness. Still, if you think it unwise ..." He spins about as Elethin begins to sing. "You think so, sweet elleth? Let us discuss this, then, one fool to another!"
The silent edhel sneakily opened one eye and peeped upon hearing the Lalaithdir's comments. But quickly goes back to his meditating..
"Appreciation..." Eryndae mutters under breath, bright-eyed and clear of thought despite the haze of reverie descending over her. "What lies within that is not brought about from protection against that which lies without?" This, the lady's soft inquiry, holds not the seriousness that might be expected of such matters, but rather more of the aloof feel of both her perceived mood and distant appearance. Though as Naurelin approaches, Eryndae's gaze lifts to her, a strange, awkward humility lighting argent eyes as the healer steps closer.
"That is why we have Rangers," Rhulalaith declares, setting down his harp. "And going into an orc-hole -- that is madness! What if you had perished?" He shakes his head, cap jangling. Producing a string of green beads, he proceeds to toy with them absently.
Naurelin looks first at the jester and then at the nethordur. In an ambivalent voice, soft but sharp she addresses Rhulalaith. "My herbs work with the fae not against it to bring about healing. If you two wish to discuss..or argue the merits of going to battle against yrch, you shall conduct it outside, for the Halls of Healing were not meant to be a counsel chamber." She looks to Eryndae, a soft smile gracing her lips, and sitting by her bedside she examines the bandages that are put on her.
Harchdolas puts down his book. "Aye, Rhulalaith, best to continue this subject elsewhere," he says drily. His eyes though are dancing.
"I shall defer to your wisdom, Master Harchdolas," Rhulalaith declares. "And once they are recovered, in the name of laughter, please send them unto me for a stern, if comedic, reprimand. I shall then paint the Hall of Fire blue, with a little luck."
Absently extending her leg to the Arnethril as many times before in recent hours, Eryndae bares a gruesome wound upon her upper thigh. The vintner and warrior then returns her focus to Rhulalaith, cool yet somewhat apologetic, perhaps. "Madness? Perhaps," she concedes at length. "Though not without reason or merit, even as good intent falters and strength fails. We have only the strength to try, and to grow the wiser for it." These words hold the strength of resolve and calm that she so often shows, though hang not long in the air before the elleth returns to her former silence.
Naurelin says, "But since you are here, Lalaithdir, do not let you visit pass without achieving any purpose. Tell our ailing mellyn stories, poems, songs that might uplift their spirits! Bring laughter to their worn faces..." An impish grin curls the edges of her lips as she turns her countance towards the jester, "..as surely you know the magic of laughter and the blessings of a smile."
With a fresh towel in hand, she dips it in the mortar with the freshly ground herbs and applies it to Eryndae's wounds.. soft and gentle is her touch, like the warm summer breeze."
"Master Harchdolas, what if they wish to speak to me?" Rhulalaith wonders. Then he shrugs, peering at Naurelin. "I do not know if forced levity would be healthy for -my- fea, mellon. Laughter is my element, but a laugh that stems not from truth is no laugh at all. It is a cough! Very well." Removing his jester's hat, he dons another hat. A silly hat. An -impressively- silly hat.
"Aye! More song!" cries Elethin gaily. She still dances as if there were music in the room, brightening the room unhurriedly with her flowers. Seeing the Lalaithdir's new hat, she laughs hard enough that she has to stop dancing. "Brilliant! Marvelous!" she barely manages.
Harchdolas rises. "I see you have the matter well in hand, Naurelin," he observes. "I must go consult the library for that herbal remedy we were discussing."
"Everyone wants a silly hat," Rhulalaith declares primly. "For my hat's the only hat that looks like a mat."
Naurelin continues applying the slave to Eryndae, a sardonic smile creeping up on her lips, as her face reddens with either rekindled emotions or the cold morning air. "A lot of us do things even when we know they might not please us or are healthy for us.. yet, do them we must for that is our profession." the healers responds, quietly, to Rhulalaith.
"Only a fool would try to teach a fool how to be foolish, mellon," Rhulalaith murmurs. "Truly foolish of you. I dub you a fool." Removing the silly hat, he tries to put it on the healer's head.
Eryndae meets both Elethin's cheer and Rhulalaith's hat with a rueful smile, weak and fleeting though well meant. She does not flinch at the Arnethril's touch, though the Lalaithdir's approach with clear intent widens her eyes considerably.
The healer tosses her head about, only slightly, to resist the attempts of the jester to place the hat on her head. After a hearty laugh she says, "A fool I am." She winks, "If by your reasoning, you scold our mellyn for going into battle in vain search of glory, then a fool I must be to try and heal them so that they venture out yet again."
She picks up a stirp on clean gauze, white like snowdrops, and wraps it around the Vintner's thigh. On belatedly realizing she was setting the jester off again, she bites her lower lip and closing on eye she sighs out of regret.
"So we agree, sweet mellon," Rhulalaith declares loftily. He turns toward Elethin. "Your turn."
Elethin stands still, tall, bright-eyed and smiling to make a man's heart skip. "Already?" she asks. "Very well, but you must promise that you will play a dancing-tune after." She waits gamely for whatever comeuppance the jester has decided on.
Naurelin smirks and continues to apply fresh salve to the gruesome gash on Eryndae's face.
Removing from within his robes an outrageous tiara, Rhulalaith attempts to put it upside-down on Elethin. "Let it not be said that jesters are nt generous gift-givers!"
Though no stranger to wounds, be they of battle or heart, Eryndae breathes in sharply as Naurelin tends to her face. A moment passes ere her grimace fades anew, and when it does, a faint smile is its replacement upon pale lips. The lady's eyes sparkle even more brightly than the curve of her lips would foretell. Perhaps the Lalaithdir's antics are enough to push pain from heart as the Arnethril's herbs do from limb?
The sweet, raucous music of Elethin's laughter swirls through the room as she is crowned, after a fashion. She whips herself back into an exaggerated composure, arching her eyebrows and turning her nose up. "You have pleased me, my loyal subject," she intones down to Rhulalaith. "As a token of my gratitude, I shall spare you from the dungeon for a spell." She saunters through the room like an arrogant queen, staring down her nose at the patients - but her lips are quivering. "See," she turns, taking the room in with a grand sweep of her hand, "how they all prostrate themselves before me!"
"Lalaithdir may not be imprisoned," Rhulalaith declares, gesturing grandly. "We are fools, and as such we have certain privileges. We can laugh at monarchs." He performs a reasonably adroit bow, having apparently toyed with the idea of a somersault and discarded it in the midst of preparing to leap.
Setting the mortar and pestle aside, the Arnethril directs a nethrodur to come with a cup of clear liquid in which are seeped a few bluish green leaves. From table nearby, she picks up a bottle of golden honey and stirs it in the glass. Naurelin looks to Eryndae and smiling warmly she says, "I shall leave you to rest, but remember to drink this liquid before you fall asleep again. They shall alleviate any pain and help in binding the wounds." A passing glance is cast at the jester and his antics, and Naurelin she smiles, amused.
Naurelin tends to the injuries on Eryndae.
A new chuckle meets the air with sweetness and sorrow in a clear-ringing tone. Weak though it may be, Eryndae's mirth tempers anew when the band of sunlight from the window falls again across her pale face. The smile remains, though this recurring glimpse outside brings a muted haze over the elleth's joy. "Thank you, Naurelin," Eryndae murmurs humbly, taking the proffered concoction and setting it upon a nearby table.
Walking quietly into the room, Fendinen looks amongst all the wounded with a sad frown. He looks to his fellow quendi with a nod and a rather soft, "Mae Govannen." He continues to scan the room as he approaches his mellyn.
"You say that," Elethin allows grandly, as she brings the liquid over to Naurelin, "but as my subject you exist on my whim, and if you believe that your role protects you," she sets the bowl down. "More the fool you." Rising again, she confronts Rhulalaith. "If you would live, you would... stop looking at me like that! It is so hard to keep a straight face when you look at me like that!" The facade crumbles under the weight of laughter she can no longer contain./
Rhulalaith slips a hand into his robes, whipping out a pink bonnet and rounding on Fendinen. "Cease moping ! Desist! At once!"
"Put on this bonnet," Rhulalaith suggests authoritatively, shoving the pink bonnet at Fendinen. "It's a requirement!"
Looking down at the bonnet, Fendinen stifles a chuckle. "Who else here has the bonnet, may I ask?" He looks about his fellow quendi and then back at Rhulalaith.
Assured in the fact that Eryndae looks a little more better than before, and certain that the jester and his revelry would entertain, amuse and lighten the spirits of those who lie recovering in the infirmary, the Arnethril quietly slips out.
"It's a requirement for YOU," Rhulalaith insists, glancing at Elethin for moral support. "Isn't that right?"
A slender hand peeks from beneath the sleeve of Eryndae's crisp white robe, lifting to push aside the curtain and allow a wider band of warmth and light to fall across her bed. New arrivals to the room turn the elleth's head once more, though her face leads her eyes away from the window with much difficulty, it would seem. Tugging absently at the edges of the bandages Naurelin has just refreshed, the vintner and warrior follows the Arnethril's exit before her eyes fall still upon Rhulalaith, Elethin, and Fendinen.
"Certainly! A necessary thing," Elethin seconds enthusiastically. "Absolutely!" She nods vigorously enough that the tiara falls off her head, and she finds herself grabbing for it before it lands. Agile as she is, she succeeds, and hands the thing back to Rhulalaith. "I believe this has done its work, mellon."
His eyes going wide, Fendinen looks to Eryndae for support. "Please say I don't have to do this..." He gives a desperate smile to Eryndae, his eyes filled with some worry.
"The healers say so," Rhulalaith declares, taking the tiara from Elethin and plopping it, still upside-down, on his own head. The bonnet remains extended ...
Though hers rises not as the voice of mercy, Eryndae's response to Fendinen is one of wry apology. "I am neither lady of the hall, nor master of these festivities, mellon. Look not to me for support, but rather to the Lalaithdir for mercy," she chuckles, a gentle flush spreading through her pallid cheeks as life bubbles through her words for a time, weak and soft though they may be.
"I am merciless," Rhulalaith promises quickly.
Fendinen sighs heavily, as he takes the bonnet in his hand, and, with obviously no experience, pulls the hood of his cowl up, and puts the bonnet on backwards. "Is this better?" the hooded figure says, holding his hands out to the side with a shrug, the bonnet clashing HORRIBLY with the rest of his green and brown clothing.
Passing Naurelin under the doorway, the Lady Arwen arrives in a faint whisper of cloth on stone. Her eyes sweep over the room and those gathered, a slight smile appearing on her lips as she does so. Even she seems to be amused by the jesting, although it is no secret that the Heryn has been dark of mood since her brother's injury.
"It's beautiful," Rhulalaith breathes. "What wondrous and fashionable attire." He winks at Elethin. "Does he not cut a dashing figure in that bonnet? And do I not cut a dashing figure in my scarlet robes and mighty crown -- inverted, of course, for I am, after all, a fool?"
Startled by the Heryn's entry, the hooded figure bows, the bonnet flopping onto his face, covering the hole in the hood. He grumbles slightly, but remains bowed for a moment before straightening.
"They fit you as well as your own skins," Elethin laughs. "Nay, better! Ah, Heryn." She bows elegantly, if somewhat abruptly. "Your brother recovers very quickly, and his spirits have been high."
"Ah, then it would seem your fate is sealed, Thandir," Eryndae muses, her voice heavy with a gravity that is not difficult to feign in such a mood. Though whatever jest she might maintain in countenance alone is replaced with a meeting of concern and weariness at the Heryn's arrival. A glance to her own bandaged thigh leads the Miruvorthaer to think better of rising, yet the nod she offers Arwen is respectful nonetheless.
Anorril interrupts saying, "I'm sorry if I'm being rude, however I am greatly interested in the welfare of those injured in recent events. I think that to help lady Eryndae's recovery I would be willing to also wear a bonnet if the lady should will it."
"Why, Heryn, I am speechless," Rhulalaith exclaims. "I must look so foolish, garbed in this quaint attire!" He cannot help but giggle. "Or perhaps absurd. Do I quite manage absurdity, I wonder? Tell me, Heryn, if I wax not over-loquacious ..." Wasn't he "speechless" a moment ago? ... ".. which of us looks sillier!" Rhulalaith gestures at Fendinen.
The salaphir muttered something under his breadth. Few save himself heard his remarks.." and this infirmary might soon find lack in salve and such if such talk continues.." When he saw the Heryn arriving out the corner of his eye, he stood up only to bow slightly with a nod.
About to answer Elethin, it seems, Arwen shuts her mouth again to hold in her answer as she is addressed by the jester. Strangely, the question seems to bring a smile of not joy but rather sadness to her face, and she shakes her head. "Perhaps there are others better equipped than I, Lalaithdir, to answer you this. The Miruvorthaer, certainly, would have an opinion that is worth hearing. It has been long since someone wore a hat to make myself laugh, and there are others who seem to be more in need of cheer than I."
Raising his head to look at Arwen, a hooded figure, looks over to Eryndae, the bonnet flopping around backwards. "Is it me?" he says, a slight grin visible underneath the cowl's hood.
Amusement lifts Eryndae's slender eyebrows at Anorril's offer, this sentiment mirrored in her voice as well in her address of the Angdan. "Amongst bonnet and crown, lady and fool, you seek the one in robes and bandages to see the deed be done?" Kindness lines her smile to soften her questioning, here broadened to all with Arwen's words. "A smile comes more from the fresh air that friendly company would bring. For that all are a blessing."
"They are sleeping," Rhulalaith mutters, adding, "And I am forbidden the least absence of cheer in these halls, lest I hurt the patients with my dour countenance! So, Heryn," he continues, eyes aglitter, "If the jester must suffer levity in silence, 'tis your duty to be of good cheer as well! If even the jesters are compelled to laugh, how much more yourself? O! The oppressive good cheer. But tell us -- someone -- anyone -- who looks the sillier, he in his bonnet or I in my crown?"
Arwen smiles faintly and shakes her head. "I have found some jesters more ready to laugh than any other would." she answers, not unkindly, "And I have seen jesters weep while there were no tears from others. There is such a variety of emotions that can be brought to light by a good fool." There is a brighter air about her, however, as she waits for the crowd's judgement.
"There are few fools more the fool than I," Rhulalaith agrees pleasantly.
"Few?" chuckles Elethin. "I would say none!" She flicks the tiara on Rhulalaith's head from the back as she floats past. "Do you have a hat for our Heryn?" she asks, her face the very picture of wide-eyed innocence. "I sense that, though she is not wounded in her flesh, she too could use some laughter."
"Grim though it may have been, I rather prefered the song," the Miruvorthaer says before nodding to Arwen in a silent agreement, her broken at length by a shallow sigh. As Elethin and Rhulalaith step lightly in their merriment, the dim room indeed finds warmth with their voices. Eryndae, however, fades in and out of a weary wistfullness, one that now seems to captivate her more fully. Silvered eyes fall to the honey potion Naurelin has left for her, and a few sips now are taken.
"In the halls of Imladris," Rhulalaith chants, "With great craft and pomp, there was crafted a Silliest Hat. This Silliest Hat is the pinnacle of the peerless craftsmanship of the wise Lalaithdiri. It is concealed within my robes ... even as we speak." His voice has become a touch singsong. "If the Heryn wishes, I can give her this silliest of hats."
The hooded figure with a bonnet looks over to Rhulalaith, and removes the bonnet, handing it back to the jester before pulling off his hood, letting long, sandy-blonde hair fall to his shoulders. "As much fun as this has been," Tellenistron Fendinen says, "I really must be getting back to work." He moves to the door, bowing to Arwen as he gets closer.
"Please, there is no need." Arwen holds up a hand, although the smile does not leave her face. "I would hardly be worthy of wearing it now, as my fooling time seems less than I would have hoped for." If there is a deeper meaning to her words is not possible to say, "But I will wear one gladly upon my next visit, if you leave it here for me." With that, she nods a polite greeting, and leaves.
Rhulalaith nods sagely. He slips ... something ... out of his robes, covers it with a handkerchief. "Touch not!" he bids. "For the Silliest Hat will make all who touch it look very silly! I promise you this."
As the gathering within the infirmary begins to dissolve further, Eryndae finishes her healing potion before laying back down in her bunk, movements ginger and slow though graceful. Her eyes return to the window and its widened patch of sunlight streaming in, though the gleam in their icy depths is faraway in its focus.
Anorril says "Namarie mellyn. I find that it is time I let lady Eryndae rest and recover."
Rhulalaith spins about, moving towards the door. "I have work to do," he announces airily. "The Hall of Fire must be painted bright green!"
Elethin watches the Heryn leave, and her look becomes thoughtful. Setting aside her basket, and leaving her errand incomplete, she walks out after Arwen.
Dunedhelgur stood up and stretched... took a step forward and bravely volunteered himself. "May I try it mellon?"
"At your own risk," Rhulalaith calls.