Of Sheep and Music
Participating
Players: Iavasuial
Branch
Participating
Cultures: Dale..folk
Northern
Rolling
Grasslands
You stand
amidst gently rolling grasslands that run between the Lake and the leviathan
TheSun
hangs slightly above the western horizon, and the dark purple shadows reach
toward the east. You see the Moon making an early appearance in the clear
Autumn sky.
A late afternoon sun shines down upon the
grasslands, each stalk casting its own lengthening shadow as the minutes pass.
Already is the moon riding an ever darkening sky, and perhaps if one looked
hard and long enough, they could begin to imagine the first stars. All should
be peaceful in the last of the autumn sun's rays. Unfortunately, perhaps, it is
not.
Startled and nervous sheep have retreated to
the far southern corner and bleat nervously to one another from where they
stand and huddle. The cause of their distress? A great bird; an Eagle, stands
hunched over a pile of red and white. Fleece stained crimson, there is little
that remains of what was once a sheep.
Every so often the feasting avian stands to
her full height to flick that proud head about, casting amber and green eyes
across the field. Alert she is, but prepared for flight, should the need arise.
"Can't
you mangey scruffy no-good lolly-gagging stupid sheep figure out I'm trying to
/SLEEP!?" The voice ... well, the voice is one that /might/ have been
melodious, if it weren't sleep-addled and groggy. A rich barritone-tenor,
filled to the brim with irritation and ire. "What's your problem,
an..y..." The voice's owner comes out of the middle of the heard of
bleating sheep, pushing them aside to see ... that. "Wow." Actually
the correct finish should have been 'way', but Branch Jephries seems to have
forgotten that. "Gailinn is going to be so mad at me when she finds out
about this," Branch murmurs under his breath. "Uh ... hello there!"
Branch falls down onto his bottom and just stares at the Eagle a moment,
letting it eat in peace, for now. "I wonder if this is one of the Eagles
from the west that Regel's always prattling on about." For now, he's quite
content to just ... watch.
The very
second the voice reaches the Eagle, she's straightening again from the meal.
Eyes narrow and a flame of wariness alights. A very quiet hiss escapes from
within that beak, and silently does she watch the man's approach. Seeing him
sit and advance no more, the head tilts to the side and then ducks to tear
again at flesh. After all, she'd want to eat as much as she can before being
shooed, or further interupted.
After some moments of eating in silence, she
again lifts her head, looks to the man with eyes full of intelligence and
curiosity and, after wiping briefly-crimson stained beak on feathers beneath
her wing, she parts that beak and from within comes a voice gravely and low
(though feminine- revealing her to be a female of her species), thick with a
strange accent that would make any further words difficult for most to
understand, "Hello."
Branch's
mouth opens, and then his teeth click shut. Well there's the answer to his
question. "Uh .." What does one say to a giant, talking eagle?
"Hi." Well there's a start. The sapphire-eyed human reaches up and
scratches at his blonde hair a moment, then laughs. "Welcome to Esgaroth.
Um. As a member of the town council, I should probably be asking you not to eat
that sheep. After all, we sorta make our livelyhood from those sheep." And
the fish. And the fact that every merchant in this part of the world comes
through here. He won't mention those, though. "Anyways, if you don't tell
my wife I'm out here, I won't go find the guards to have them chase you away.
Deal?" He grins, and his sapphire eyes glimmer with more than a hint of self-assurance.
Something of faint amusement finds the eyes of
this Eagle as she watches the man and his speach. Once does she nod her head in
response to his welcome. "Thank-you.... I should not eat this sheep? I was
hungry, and it was ill. And lame. But I will stop, if you wish." There seems
little point in stopping now, though- the animal is little more than bones and
entrails. She's done a rather thorough job, so far. "You are like the men
of the Bear of Erebor? You donot eat these sheep? You claim they belong to
you?"
A puzzled pause follows, and she clicks her
beak in thought. "I will not tell your.. wife.." And then something
lighter finds the tone of her next words, "I would begone before your
guards returned."
"Yea,"
Branch intones, staring briefly at her wings. "Yea, I'm sure you would.
And actually we do eat these sheep. Sometimes. But we also keep them for their
wool. Makes good clothes." Branch grins and tugs at his shirt, then
shrugs. "Guess you don't really have use for those, though. Anyways, go
ahead and finish your meal. Far be it from me to make an Eagle go hungry."
And she did say it was ill and lame. Maybe it was. Branch yawns and moves over
to lean against a rock, then pulls a small set of wooden flutes lashed together
from his belt. "So what brings you so far East?" He asks, and then
blows on one of the flutes. It produces a dull, reedy sound, and then he pulls
it away from his mouth and frowns at it. He pulls out a knife, next, and begins
to carefully--ever so carefully--trim at the wooden pipe.
The feathers along the Eagle's head and neck
ruffle, exposing more scattered reds and golds, though whatever thought she is
having remains hidden. "Ah. Yes, I understand. But no, I have no need for
such things," Almost without meaning to, she twists her head around to
preen beneath her wing though it lasts for but a moment; perhaps she intended
only to demonstrate. "I thank-you, though I shall-not finish while you
remain. I have met some Secondborn who feel squeemish about such things,"
'Squeemish' is apparently a difficult word for the bird; screeched out so it
hardly resembles the original word by the time she's finished.
"Many things bring me here. It is
long since I have landed near this place..." She trails off, much
distracted by the flute. "It is a strange thought. I could not make music
or sounds from that. I am not right." Perhaps her meaning was lost in
translation. Apparently sometimes she has trouble expressing herself fully.
"You
are not r... oh. You mean your beak won't let you form the right posture to
make music," Branch looks up at her and smiles, briefly, then goes back to
trimming the pipe. "Well welcome back, then, I suppose. My name's
Branch." He brings the pipe back up to his mouth and briefly blows across
the pipe. Seemingly satisfied, he moves on to the next. A blow, a frown, and
then he begins whittling. "Anyways, if you want to make music I'm sure I
could figure out a way to get an instrument you could play." He looks up
from his whittling briefly to her beak, pondering, and then looks back down at
his flute. "At the least," he resumes whittling, "you could
learn to play drums, if not a wood-wind or a stringed instrument."
.
"Yes," The Eagle's reply is simple,
and too the point. Perhaps she would have returned the smile, if she had lips.
"Thank-you. I am known by my kin as Iavasuial, though maybe that shall be
difficult for you to pronounce.." Those predatory eyes watch him and his
instrument, curiosity therein,. "I do not think I am supposed to make
music. Only listen to it. I do not think any of my kin are designed to make
music, even with drums. But I do not mind. It is enough to listen, and to
watch." And watch she does, as though his fingers (each movement followed)
were to be her next meal.
Branch
sets his whittling aside just long enough to repronounce her name.
"Iavasuial," he says once, and then he repeats it. "Iavasuial.
It sounds similar to the language of the Noldarin ... Quenya," he says,
then shrugs and eyes his flute again. "You like listening to music? Or are
you just saying you're not sure your race is only good for that?"
Iavasuial nods her head in encouragement.
"It is in the language of the Firstborn. It means Light of Autumn,"
And here she opens one wing to display autumn-feathers. "Branch," She
returns to touch briefly on a previous thought. "It is a strange
name." Almost a question though more of a statement to herself, she opens
the beak to mutter the name again to herself. "I like listening to music.
I'm saying also that I think my kin and I cannot make music; only listen to
it."
The
whittler inclines his head. "Yea, I thought it might mean that." He
smiles up at her, and then goes back to his whittling. "If you'll give me
about five minutes, here, I'd be happy to let you be the first to hear what
this set can do." It's a set of pan pipes, and he's nearly got it
perfectly in tune. How he knows what 'perfectly in tune' means may be a
mystery, but Branch has never failed to tune an instrument perfectly, even when
tuning involves such precise and careful scraping of wood-shavings. "Just
need to finish getting the pitches right." He tests out this pipe, finds
it right, and moves on to the next.
Brief puzzlement flares in her gaze, but those
thoughts remain again unspoken. "I would like to hear that." She
replies, honesty in her tone. Almost excitement is hidden there. Still does she
watch, as if to study and memorise every detail of pipe-making. Of course,
she'll never use anything from this lesson--how many times would an Eagle have
to make pipes? "Pitches? I don't think I understand, though it sounds good
in my ears."
Branch
chuckles softly and continues his whittling. "Trust me, if I were to try
and play you a song on this thing right now, you'd wind up screaching at me and
flying away in pain. If the instrument isn't tuned right, it sounds
/awful/." Says the man who thinks a single scrape can ruin the
instrument's pitch forever. He's really picky, you see. "By changing the
length of these pipes, though, I can change the pitch ... the note. See
listen." He blows on each of the three already tuned pipes, sounding out a
beautiful, reedy doh-reh-me. "Hear how it's three different notes? One a
little higher than the next? If I don't tune it right, it won't sound like it's
the proper 'next' note."
"I would not." Iavasuial replies,
almost defensively. "That would be rude. I would wait until you had
finished, and tell you it was terrible. Then you could fix it." OF course.
That's logical, and blunt. Intently she listens to his explanation, and then
finally appears to understand. "Oh. Well, that sounded nice.." A
pause, and she gives in, "I don't think I understand entirely about music.
But it is well, if it sounds beautiful. Oftentimes I land in the realm of the
Lord Elrond, and often find music of the Firstborn there. But I expect the
music of Esgaroth," She stumbles over the name, "To be beautiful,
also."
"The
music of Esgaroth isn't nearly as beautiful as what I'll play for you,"
Branch replies as he moves onto his sixth pipe. There are seven in total.
"See, I'm not actually from Esgaroth, although I've sorta bene leashed
here by a pretty lass." He winks at her, then absently rubs the back of
his head. "I'm from Bree ... Combe to be precise. But Bree's the closest
town on the Great East Road from there. Anyways," he moves on to the last
pipe, "we 'secondborn' as you like to call us aren't quite as
pretty-voiced as the elves. But we make do."
"I have never heard the music from
Bree," The Eagle comments, clicking her beak once in thought. "Is it
fair, then? I know where Combe is. A long distance from here..." The
question is left hanging as she continues to watch his carving. "What else
should I call you? Are you not Secondborn? But what you say is true, they speak
more beautifully than your people; their language is not so harsh, but I do not
mind either. There are Secondborn who are soft spoken."
"Most,"
Branch says, "including the firstborn elves, call us Man." He winks
at the eagle, then finishes carving the pipe. He gives a test of each one, on
up the scale, then nods. "Anyways, it is a long way from here, and it was
a long time ago. And I appreciate the soft-spoken comment. Now ... for some
music." Branch puts the pipes to his lips, and then begins to blow a long
and doleful tune. With only those seven pipes, he manages to pull off a tune
filled with vibrance, movement, and melody. It's nothing fancy, and yet it has
a life to it ... a magic to it that even the elves might appreciate.
"Man... It sometimes sounds strange to
say Man. Maybe one day you shall go back to Bree, then." An idle comment,
and she falls silent to await the music. As it begins, feathers ruffle and she
remains silent save to click her beak once, and then again. Silent still as she
awaits the end of the tune, head tilted to the side as if it would help her
hear.
Branch
plays on for several minutes, the bitter-sweet melody seemingly as endless as
the wind. Perhaps that's what it seeks to mimic, the winds of time and of
change. The seasons as they pass from year to year. Whatever it mimics, the
music clearly has an effect on its player. By the time the song is done, his
face is no longer smiling and detached. Instead his eyes have darkened, and his
brow has lowered. He's broody, silent; morose. He remains silent as he puts the
woodflute down, and doesn't look up to the Eagle.
Silent remains the Eagle, though not so
overcome by emotion is she. After a few more moments of silence, feathers being
ruffled by a faint breeze, Iavasuial finally speaks. "Your music is certainly
rival to that of the Firstborn..." Quiet and warbled are her words, as
though not entirely sure she should be disturbing his thoughts. If this was her
line of thinking, she certainly seems to forget it quickly, for, watching him
closely, decides to take two steps in his direction. "Branch... are you
well? I am sorry if you did not wish to play..."
Branch
sighs and tosses the pipes aside as though they're meaningless. "No ...
I'm ..." Ugh. "I'm fine," he lies, pushing himself up from the
ground. "Look, I'd better be getting home. I've kept you from your meal
long enough. Please don't eat any more of the sheep in this field. Although if
you want, the dwarves up north have some cows that are good eating, I
think." Branch reaches down and grabs for the pipes. Much as he might like
to break them for reminding him, he knows he can't do that, and nor can he
leave them here. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Iavasuial." He
sounds less moody, now, but it's probably just an act. "I need to get
going. Gailinn's gonna have my head for being out so late." Ugh. She'll
probably accuse him of cheating, again. Wait till he says he cheated on her
with an Eagle. That'll go over well. /Ugh/.
Again the head tilts to the side. Perhaps Iavasuial can
see through the act. "Branch..." The tone is full of warning, though
the name sounds strange from her hooked beak. "If you are not well, or I
have upset you somehow," Another step forward- perhaps she has forgotten
that she may appear a tad intimidating. "You should not run away. I will
not eat these sheep, though I suspect that if I go to the north I shall be told
not to eat their cows, either... But that is unimportant!" Concerned is
her voice on the subject of..well.. him. "If you leave, I hope I should
see you again. You have been most kind. I did not know what to expect when I
landed here..."
Branch
waves a hand at her, already walking back south and east towards Esgaroth.
"You wanna see me again, then feel free to come back here some other time.
I'm around. Just not now. I need to go before my wife decides to lock the doors
permanently." And then he stalks off towards Esgaroth and the Long Lake,
leaving the bird-brained bird behind, unless she follows. He has every
intention of making it home before midnight, but it's still a thirty minute
walk from here. Gailinn's going to be so mad at him. Argh.
And so Iavasuial lables him a lost-cause for
tonight. There doesn't seem to be any getting through to him, let him leave.
"I will return. Fair winds, Branch. Good luck with your 'wife'... "
For some time she watches him leave and then turns quickly back to her meal. At
last- she can finish off what she began!
===
Branch's DESC =============================================
Sapphire
eyes like droplets of rain glistening in the sun mark but the beginning of this
man's unusually brilliant features. Those eyes, so filled with emotion, seem to
capture his entire heart and put it on display before the world. His hair, thin
and golden as a harvest of ripe wheat, is cropped short and allowed to go wild
in the wind. Somehow, though, it seems always to fall in the most comely of
manners, as though he's practiced just the right positionings of his head to
make it do so. At only five feet ten inches with a slender frame, he is hardly
imposing The dark blonde on his chin and upper lip mark a goatee, which he keeps
trimmed pristinely. The voice, though, is what truly sets this man apart. In
speaking, he is a flamboyant mid-ranged baritone, but those who have heard him
sing realize that he bears a range from the deepest of bases, to the clearest
of high falsetto's. Clearly he is the master of his voice. Clearly he knows he
is the master of his voice.
A silver shirt of soft silk is buttoned to his
neck, with a narrow stiff colar that rises half way up it with no downward
turn. His black linen pants are crisply pressed and pleated, with stitched
cuffs at the ankles. His feet are adorned with soft brown buckskin shoes. They
disappear beneath the hem of his pants, but most probably they stop no higher
than just above his ankle. Encircling the fourth finger of his left hand is a
simple band of silver. Engraved with tiny, flawless perfection, the ring bears a
subtle harp overlaid with a stylized 'G'.
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