Weather:            Clear
Time:                Nighttime <about 11 PM (time for a late night snack) >
Season:              Autumn
Date:               Hevensday - November 1, 3014

Real Time:          Thu Jul 02 19:51:42 1998
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(OOC note: Coreniir is a temporary alt created by Beladan for this RP.  Noelen is a temporary alt created by Nials for this RP.)

Coreniir sits quietly before the fire, the late air of autumn dank and chill outside the Barad Requain. The solitary Knight nods with familial affection to the squire, Noelon as he sips quietly from a clear crystal goblet. "Noelen, stop fussing about and find thyself a seat, for surely thou dost overtax my mind with thy to'ing and fro'ing." The fire spits in the grate and golden light reflects warmly of the tapestries.

Following his Lord Knight's command, Noelen takes a seat in one of the chairs that furnish the room. "Forgive my disruption my Lord," the young squire apologizes. Watching his Knight Master carefully, young Noelen awaits the next command to be issued forth.

The brands break on the fire-dogs, filling the air with a snapping and the heavy scent of scorched moss. At first the popping from the fireplace swallows all sounds, but not for long: another wooden noise, the tapping of a staff, resounds off the stones.

The evening quiet displaced causes a frown to crease the brow of Coreniir. Shifting in his seat before the fire, he looks to see who has passed into the sanctity of the Reqauin's retreat. His eyes glitter as they turn before becoming black as coal as the light moves behind him. Finding no purchase for his eyes, he rises to his feet to better survey the room.

The tapping's echo presses closer to the dome, and closer still. Impossibly long is the coming, and with each passing instant there is the certainty that now, now the source will be revealed... and each now that passes leads to another, and no peace for the searching eye.

And then at last a figure breaks from the shadows as though stepping out from behind a curtain: and in the one motion he is embraced by the firelight, and made whole with the chamber. Old is he, and stern: tall, and with eyes that glitter as the very coals that burn in the hearth.

The sudden movement of the Knight causes the squire to start slightly. Hurriedly rising to his feet, Noelen looks about the room for the being reponsible for the sound. "My Lord," the squire says quietly as not to disturb his commander, "What causes that sound? Who dare would come here so late at night?"

Coreniir glances quickly at Noelen before remonstrating him lightly. "Say not so that this one dares, brash squire, for thou hast beheld Mithrandir, friend to Imrahil and all Amroth. Indeed, the tap-tap-tapping of his cane is clue enough, and shouldst it not be so long betwixt visits to our fair City, I would have known anon it's steady rhythm." To Mithrandir he turns and bows, "Hail, Mithrandir. Fair is the eve that brings thee hither. How may I serve thee?"

Bowing his head in shame, the young squire goes to put another log on the fire. Turning back to the two men Noelen watches the legendary figure of Mithrandir in awe, muttering only a simple, "Forgive me my Lords for my quickness of tongue."

The answering chuckle is light from the wizard's throat, and carries a stern but musical tone as befits one whose throat is accustomed to the elvish tongues. Bristling is the beard, cragged the brows as this one answers: but there is a smile within his voice.

"I ask no service tonight," he says, "nor boon of any kind, save your company, good Knight. The night is long, and my thoughs make me weary: I would take my pipe, and hear the words of good men, and think a while of other things."

Coreniir laughs softly at the squires words, but the sound carries no sting of acrimony. "Thou wilt serve me well enough, my Son, as thou ever hast." To Mithrandir he speaks, his own voice timbrous and sure withing the resonant splendour of the Barad. "Wilt thou take not even a little wine for the chill of the night? And come hither, I prithee, and sit upon my chair that the fire may sooth thy bones even as good fellowship eases thy cares."

Moving at the Lord's unspoken command, Noelen fetches a tray upon which is a crystal goblet and a bottle of wine. Taking the wine to Mithrandir, the young squire holds the tray on one arm while pouring the wine in the other. As the wine fills the glass to fullness, Noelen places the bottle back on the tray and offers the goblet to the wizard before him.

"Befalas wine?" muses the wizard, stepping forth fully into the chamber then, and searching out the offered chair. "That I will take, for certain. Amroth's rock is ever a place of rest to me."

With a smile, he settles his bones into the chair, and withdraws pipe and small azure bag from the folds of his robe; and accepting the wine with a gracious nod, he begins to pack the pipe full with long and practiced fingers.

After the wizard takes his drink, Noelen returns the tray to where is had rested before. Standing near the wine, the young squire watches both men ready to refill their glasses as the need arises.

Mithrandir places the wine glass between the fingers of his right hand even as he touches the stem of his pipe to his lips, cradled in his left: and, looking about a moment, he nods to the Squire. "A twig afire for the bowl of my pipe, if you would," he says to the young man.

A warm smile of approval is given to Noelen before Coreniir waves him off on the errand requested and Coreniir moves to sit near to hand, his own balding pate a sharp contrast to the elder figure's silver gray hair straggling from beneath a blue brim. "Most noble, Mithrandir, Amroth welcomes thee, I am sure, as I do I." There is the most imperceptable of pauses "Yet, I wonder what great affair of state takes thee hither and yon with the land almost in the very siezure of winter?"

Coreniir laughs as he asks his question, "And yet, we have the better of thee, gentle sir, for we knoweth thee whilst thou dost knoweth us not! I am Coreniir Girithlin, Swan Requain, and this earnest young fellow is my squire, Noelen."

Nodding at the wizards request, Noelen walks across the room to the fire pit from which he draws a slender but long twig that has caught fire only on one end. Taking the twig to the seated wizard, the young squire offers it to Mithrandir.

Mithrandir accepts the twig, setting alight the weed which rests in the bowl of his short, stubby pipe: and in but an instant's time, the dried weed bursts forth with a thick bluish smoke that smells of earth and spices.

"You are well met, sir," the wizard notes to the Knight, handing the twig back with a nod of thanks to the youth. "I have come on business that is my own, but not my own: it belongs too to the one called Saruman, the White, greatest of my Order: and to all the free peoples, though they needs must know not of it."

Taking the twig back the fire pit, Noelen tosses it once again into the tongue of flames and watches for a moment as it is consumed. Breaking his stare, the young squire turns back to watch the two men and listen to tales of wizards and others.

Coreniir's eyes blaze at the mention of the Istari and he cannot suppress a childish smile of delight. "Him we hath heard of, though know him not so well as we dost thee." Looking to Noelen he says, "And learn here, squire, to not ask Mithrandir for his business for in answering he answers not!" Laughter, soft and melodic comes from the baritone chest of the Knight as he concludes.

Noelen smiles at the Knight's words, "It is as you say my Lord," the young squire says softly still in awe of Mithrandir's presence. His eyes too are a light with a boyish excitement at meating a legend.

"Such is the way with wizards," Mithrandir replies, taking his pipe long between his teeth. At the end of the draw, he sets it aside... and then releases a breath of the smoke that rises into the form of a huge ring of purest blue, and perfectly sails to the center of the dome above.

"But alas!" he continues even as the ring rises upwards. "I should wish to hear less of my business than yours, good Knight! For ever do I seek to know the lay of the lands in which I travel... and as I spoke earlier, I seek also respite from my own thoughts."

A cloud passes over the features of the SwanKnight before he mops his brow with his hand, wiping the oppression as much as the itch from his forehead. "Winter bites upon our heals, Mithrandir, and I fear more and more that this chill that dost ache and torement my aging bones has less to do with Northern Snows than Eastern Shadows.", he answers, glancing eastwards as he speaks. "The snows of winter will settle more on our souls and less on our shoulders, mark me in this."

A sigh escapes the old one, but he lets it not rest long upon his lips. Chasing it hence with the fortifying taste of strong wine and smoke, he but offers a nod in reply for a moment.

But then he adds a bit more, speaking less loudly but more sternly with each word. "It is the business East which takes me South," the old one says. "I have heard things of some concern: and there are those in Minas Tirith who speak of the sorceries of old being propagated again past the mountains of shadow."

A shadow crosses the face of the squire at the wizards words. Noelen says nothing though mindind his manners in the presence of superiors. The young squire continues to watch the two men for need of his service.

Coreniir shudders visibly in the hall, despite the warmth of the fireplace before him. "Forgiveth me, Mithrandir, if I spoke with over solemnity for the hour, and forgiveth me again if I turneth aside now from such talk, for I feel ... " The usually implacable Knight trails off to silence before looking to Noelen. "Let us refresh our glasses with the wine of Belfalas, all three, and drink to the coming of spring."

Noelen once again fetches the tray of wine, moving to each man to refil there glasses. First he pours for Mithrandir, then his Knight Lord, finally he returns the tray and pours himself a glass of wine. Taking it firmly in his hand, Noelen awaits the toast offered by Coreniir.

"To the Spring, then," Mithrandir replies, hefting his glass. "There is ever the mind of a man upon spring with the coming of winter: and yet recall, sir, that there must be a time of rest before the renewal. The winter must come upon us: but we shall weather it, and blossom again."

Coreniir smiles warmly. "Thy words are most like thy frame, Mithrandir; seemingly light and insubstantial, yet bearing the scrutiny of men and the weight of time." He looks to Mithrandir. "Mayhaps one day thou mayst return unto us, dearest kinsman, and tarry in peace amongst us in our spring. For she art most fair, our beloved land, in that rainment."

Mithrandir draws the wine deep within his form, accepting gladly the ruddy glow it brings to his aged cheeks. "Would that I could tarry a while, in most any place," smiles the wizard. "But such is not my way: nor has it been, in most of an Age."

The squire watches the two men in the conversation, his eyes on the wizard. At the toast Noelen places the glass to his lips and take a sip of the wine. Then he places the nearly full glass on the tray next to him.

Coreniir looks to Noelen, gesturing to him with his glass. "And such a life of inconstancy this one desires, Mithrandir. And in truth should have already, were he not so useful to me here. Still, my moon wanes as his waxes hot and I think it not long before his spurs and chain are set upon him in recognition of his honour and courage."

Noelen smiles lightly at the Knight's remark. "Only a life of service Lord Coreniir," the young squire replies, "not of inconsistancy." Still watching the wizard Noelen takes in everything about him as if storing it in his mind so that he might one day tell his children about the day he met the legendary Mithrandir.

'Is that so?' wonders the wizard aloud, peering anew upon the poor young lad who has been brought so under his scrutiny. 'A Knight of the Swan, would you be? Stand forth, then, and answer! For I have come from Minas Tirith, and from lands far beyond in the West... and I have a thought or two on what makes the mark of a man.'

'And the first mark is courage, perhaps: but it is far from the last. Speak, then, and answer if you may.'

And as he says such, the wizard's voice changes subtly, becoming the purest music: and yet it seems somehow as though it has changed not at all. "<Sindarin> How much do you **** of *** Old tongue, **** among so many men?" are the words. "<Sindarin> For it is strength of old **** is strength indeed."

Stepping forward at the wizards request, Noelen listens intently to the words spoken to him. As Mithrandir's speech move into that of the ancient tongue, the squire can pick out bits and pieces, but not the whole of the wizards words. "Your words have a deep truth set within them Lord Mithrandir," Noelen says as the wizard finishes, "Though I do not understand them fully, I do know full well that there are few who can still speak the ancient tongue." Turning his gaze to the Knight, "Had it not been for the tutelage of Lord Coreniir I too would have fit into that group."

Coreniir turns a slight shade of red, though from the wine, the fire's sudden flare or embarrassment none may say. "And even my grasp is poor, Noelen. Mayhaps if thou hadst sat under the tutelage of a better Knight.." His voice is whistful as he speaks, turning and awaiting Mithrandir's response.

The answer from the youth sparks a fire in the eye of the Istar, who rises from his seat with all exhaustion burned from him as if by a flame of white: a flame within, purifying and clean. With a move so smooth that it seems all but unnatural, suddenly a gleaming blade stretches forth from his hands.

Terrible is the blade upon the eye: beautiful but harsh, as the thunderbolt of heaven. Engravings dance upon her length, and she seems in the cold firelight to exude a glow of her own, so slight and bare as to almost be mistaken but for a sheen from the brands.

"You have begun well, then," the wizard's voice intones. "The Old is the source of the power that burns against the dark: never forget the firstborn. In my hand you look upon Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer, the very artistry of Gondolin: see in her and never forget the power of the Wise. Give your heart to it, and trust in wisdom over strength."

"It shall be as you say Lord Wizard," Noelen says in awe of Mithrandir and Glamdring. To stunned to reply further, the squire simply stares at the glow exuded from the blade.

Mithrandir bows his head; some of the fire seems to flow out of him, then, and the blade once more finds its sheath with the palest hiss. The old wizard settles down upon the chair again, and takes up wine and pipe... and he smiles at the youth. "Come closer," he says to the man. "For you shall make a Knight yet, I think."

Walking closer to the exhausted wizard, Noelen stares curiously at the man's form. "My Lord," he starts, "let me not keep thee from thy rest."

Coreniir pushes up from the fireplace and bows respectfully. "I stand night-watch at the Citadel, a singular honor, but a lonely one. Forgiveth my coarse depture, gentle friends." He turns, and drawing his cloak tightly about his, steps to the east and the bitter winds outside.

Mithrandir says, "Think nothing of it." The man chuckles, taking up his pipe to his lips again. "I simply conserve my strength for when it is needed, as a rule. So you speak a bit of the old tongue, do you? That is well and wise. What other things have you been taught?"

"Merely the act of serving others and few matters of diplomacy Lord Mithrandir," Noelen replies, "Along wth, of course, the arts of warfare." The young squire all but sighes the last word, "To which, I fear there is too much in this land. Though I know it to be necessary, I still yearn for a day when I can, along with my brothers in arms, lay down my weapon in peace."

The old wizard chuckles, shaking his head. "This I will advise, at least," he says. "Peace is a better than than war, by far: but never lay down your arms. It is said and truly that those who beat their swords into plowshares shall have no complaint when they are brought to chains by those who kept their swords. It is a man's duty to protect the weak: do not abdicate that, though you love peace best of all."

"I have never thought of that Wise One," Noelen replies, "I will remember your words of wisdom. But kindly Lord Mithrandir why does the ancient tongue hold, as you said, so much power over the encroaching darkness?"

"All the grim forces of darkness are but shadows of the true light," answers the Istar after a moment. "And the elves are the brightest and first reflection of the great creations. Their tongue is closest to the music of the Valar, and of Eru: and thus it has great power over the deformed, the vicious, and the fearful."

"You speak of the elves Lord Wizard," Noelen replies curiously, "though I have read of them in my studies of the ancient language I understand so little of the past and all that is held in the dim recesses of time. For truly I have spent many a hour pouring over ancient tomes to learn what little I have of the lost language, but I still cannot comprehend the true meaning of the words. And though the people of Dol Amroth worship the Mightly Lord of the Oceans, I fear that too few pray to a Valar they know nothing of." Watching the aged wizard, Noelen eyes grow curuios and hungry for the wisdom of the man before him.

Mithrandir inclines his head, thoughtfully. "There are many great works to be held in the library at Minas Tirith," he says. "Things you may not have here. But I commend you on your dedication to the path of wisdom: so many I fear trust to steel alone, and forget that true power lies within."

"I believe you are most correct Lord Mithrandir," Noelen agrees, "Many fail to note that steel is but a metal and weapons are but the shaping of that metal. Without the wisdom and the knowledge of how to use them, steel is useless." Watching the wizard ever closer, Noelen smiles briefly, "I, myself train with my weapon during the day, but before I rest each night I spend time in study. Though it is less than I like, I know that it is is better than naught."

"So you say," the wizard nods, "and wisely."

Standing, he gathers his staff, and sets aside his glass. The smouldering weed is set into the fire, and the pipe stowed safely away. "I must be off," he says, "But I take some heart in my going: for I have learned this night that Dol Amroth has a new guardian, one of promise. Serve your Prince and Lords well, young Noelen."

"As you have said Noble Mithrandir," Noelen replies, "It shall be, if ever you need my services know that you need only ask it of me."

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

The old one nods in recognition, and sets his staff before him. It is not long ere the clacking of wood upon stone heralds his departure: and it is in the dying shadows of dawn that he takes his rest, and vanishes.