Logs-Shire trip: Signs

+SHIRE TIME
RL (Arizona) Time is Sun Mar 07 20:59:10 2004 (+time).

IC Time is 2:57 PM on Trewsday, Wedmath (August) 15, 1431 S.R.

IC Weather Conditions:
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The sky is filled with white clouds; rain could well be on the way. The air is cool for the time of year, and the northwesterly winds do little to help.

Stock Road
The peaceful wood grows deeper here, the trees encroaching on the path, their branches forming a canopy above. Off in the distance you hear a couple of birds whistling to each other. They seem to you almost like two distinct voices performing a duet and you stop to listen for a while. First one calls out then the other responds and then the first calls out again. A small rustling in the underbrush near you startles you out of your daydream. However it turns out to be nothing but a couple of squirrels running playfully along the path. As you take in this breathtaking scene you smell the sweet aroma of the many wildflowers that grow in these woods and off in the distance you swear you can hear a babbling brook.

The road continues east and west as far as the eye can see, and a narrow path is barely visible leading southwest through the trees.
Contents:
Linnelei
Obvious exits:
South, West, and East

It cannot be the afternoon warblings of the birds, nor the scratch and clamber of small climbing-claws upon rippling bark of the trees, nor the meandering, rolling song of the stream beneath the clouds that veil the summer sun. It is far too sombre a sound, far too practiced.

There is a grey shape among the trees to the southwest, far from the road, yet not far at all from the thin path that branches from it. Perhaps he crouches-- perhaps he seats himself-- perhaps he would be tall, were he to stand. He is hooded, grey-cloaked, his posture as unsmiling as an oak.

But he is not idle. With the sombre, practiced whisper wood and steel, he shapes the small branch he holds in his hand.

Once more the woods recieve another presence- one determined in its course. Striding through the woods beside the road comes the blue-grey cloaked and hooded figure, and the stride is unconcerned, almost haughty, as one who knows they are in little or no danger where they walk. Her path lies westard, and she travels above the northern side of the road.
And, to most, there would be little about her journey that would alert them of her presence there save her movement, which occasionally looks like a careless patch of fog or obscure shadow cutting through the shafts of light bearing down through the trees, and the occasional rustle of twigs and leaves beneath her feet, or as they grab onto her cloak before she passes.
She is yet to notice the other figure so close by; yet to turn her head in that direction and percieve the sound he makes while carving. Her steps carry her onward.

"Tonight will be a beautiful night. The full moon will be shining brightly."

Westron. Accented, halting Westron, slow and hushed, from amidst the trees not far from where the other walks. But Rosgwaen does not stir, nor raise his gaze again from its study of the blond curls of wood that drift from his blade to the forest floor.

"But to speak such words of it," comes the same voice again, in Sindarin now, and with a faint sigh, "still burns upon the tongue, and rings vulgar in the ear. Well met, Linnelei." With a deep nod, he sets the carven stick upon the ground beside another like to it.

The words reach her ear, and the figure pauses; amused smile gracing her features but momentarily, still hidden in shadows cast by the hood. "And I am certain there shall be a thousand stars, and the owls shall call to one another as they always do during the night..." The words are formed in Linnelei's own Westron; though she is not entirely comfortable speaking it to him, it does not concern her, nor 'burn upon her tongue'..
Now she moves from where she stands and crosses the road; finding the path nearby where he is sat. "I do agree that it is not the most pleasent sounding of things, but it does not burn my tongue.." A hesitant pause follows, and then she nods her head only once, "Greetings, Rosgwaen.. You have been learning, then?"

"Yea, and oft of late. For I deem the time has come for me to take leave of this place, with any who would company me-- and I trust not those whose paths may cross our own."

Eyes rise to Linnelei as Rosgwaen takes up another stick from the forest floor, this one uncarven. And drawing the flat of his knife across a leather-clad leg to brush away the wood-dust that clings to it, he speaks again. "There is no caranlas here. I tarried, in hope, and in vain: I wished to find it in this land, that I need not lead any into danger. But it is not to be so."

"I am glad then, for there are some who would easily know you for what you are and would less kindly upon you because of it... though, you know this already..." Now her words fade into silence, and she seems thoughtful for a moment before casting her gaze about the surroundings, before she speaks; a decision has been made: "I shall come with you, and those others for a way."
"But we must hold onto hope when there is none left if there is a chance we should finr the caranlas; even if it is not here, then we must surely search all other places, and cannot lose hope until there is no hope left... But surely Rosgwaen, you cannot blame yourself for leading us away from the Shire- we would not go there if we did not wish to follow, and we know full-well the dangers we may encounter there..."

His broad shoulders shift beneath the dusky folds of his cloak, too certain to be a sigh or shrug, too fleeting to be even the pale beginnings of laughter.

"I know the ways of hope." The words are lower even than his wont, solemn, ireless. "Of the stars that shine in the dark, and rail in silence against the very strength of the tides and the tides of time. Verily, I know them well." A pause. A silence of his own. "Your words are valiant, Linnelei. There is one I have come to know, one who dwells in the Havens, who would deem that you speak now as one might speak in a tale."

Blue eyes move to survey the floor at Rosgwaen's first words, though what thoughts she may be having are kept entirely to herself- hidden now by bowed head and shadowed face... "I am certain that you know a great many things, but in the end it may be hope that saves us and our quest for, before hurrying on and further forward, we remain, out of hope, and there find that very thing for which we search.."
Another pause follows those words, and the words of Rosgwaen, and Linnelei glances up- slightly puzzled.. "My words are no tale, for you know as well as I what dangers lie beyond...Perhaps I do not understand you as I should..."

"Nay, by 'tale' I mean not 'untruth'. I mean only this: to set forth in company upon such an errand, guided by naught save hope and the shining beacon of whatever fate may find us, and to follow such guides knowingly into lands where peril may lie in wait-- is not this the stuff of tales?"

Rosgwaen allows the words to settle in time with the shards of bark that settle at his feet. Thin, dark flakes: he allows a moment to strip more of them from the branch with his knife.

"So would speak the one called Aglarien, daughter of Aglarphen. But I do not deem that she means to join us."

Linnelei now smiles in understanding and again nods her head.. "Ah, it is the stuff of tales, Rosgawen, you are quite right, though since it is the stuff of tales, and we seem to be embarking on such a tale then perhaps our tale shall be recorded and re-told long after we are gone.." And now a faint glimmer of day-dream finds the elleth's eyes, but then, she hears the name..
"Aglarien? She and I were friends throughout our childhood, though I have not seen her in many long months.. Only recently, before I left the Havens did I meet her sister, and I thought to seek her out so we could travel together... but it seems I have found cause on this journey instead, and hope that perhaps we shall meet her somewhere on the road..."

"Would that it will prove so. I deemed that she would come, if only to gather tales upon the journey-- but she is loath to travel with me, I fear." If something in Rosgwaen's words darkens, if some intangible pang of regret finds them, who might mark the change upon so stoic and moodless a voice?

"To speak in truth, I would not have guessed you twain were friends, had you not spoken such words. Your manners are little alike, to my eye at the least-- but so may it be, with friends. With even kindred."

And perhaps Linnelei has noticed the change, if only barely, for one eyebrow is arched ever so slightly in question.. "Maybe she will find us, then, if she learns I am travelling here, too..." There is some hint of a question left hanging after her words have ended, and again those eyes are focused on Rosgwaen, and she seems to almost study him...
She moves forward, to seat herself on the floor as one much akin to sitting on the leafy ground of forests.. "We are friends, though not of the closest kind, and even now growing past our youth we see each other rarely and for those times it is only briefly and in passing; sharing some tales if we find the time.. But people grow apart, and people change- that is the nature of all things." Whatever memories threaten to engulf her now she pushes aside with a gentle shrug of her shoulders.

An R-rune carven skillfully in the bark-stripped wood, he turns his whittling-knife in his pale hand, grasping it by the blade and extending the handle to Linnelei. Wan sunlight flickers briefly from an inlaid pattern of mallorn leaves.

"Wish you to carve for her a sign then, perhaps, if you are fain of carving?" Rosgwaen's lips part, as if to speak again-- and close, waiting in silence.

Slowly Linnelei's hooded head inclines to the side at the offering, and momentarily she seems to consider.. "I can carve flutes, Rosgwaen, as you may or may not know, though letters and runes..." She pauses, in hesitation, and then reaches down her own pale and slender hand to take up the knife by the handle, and pluck it gentle from his hand, "I shall try, though mine shall not be as well-practiced as yours, I don't think."

"I knew it not," Rosgwaen returns, nodding slowly as the knife is taken from his hand, "yet it is well. I have carved instruments of music, though I do not name my hand skillful in such matters. 'Tis a high calling, to create such things as fill those who hearken to them with hope, and with joy."

But he watches her. He watches her from beneath the shadows of his hood, his voice silenced, his eyes measuring her mien.

Until: "The words that you spoke afore... if I pry not overmuch, do you believe that it is always so?"

A smile alights on Linnelei's face, "Well, now you do know..." And, with knife in one hand, she reaches into her cloak to produce a small wooden flute- one not yet finished, but it has taken shape, and is near playable. "'twas my mother that taught my this skill, and she who carved me the first flute I ever held and taught me to play as well as she..." Pausing now to regard her latest creation, she seems satisfied, and so hides the flute away again, now moving to forrage about for her own fragment of wood that she should carve her rune onto..
Slender hand closes over a smoothe piece, fallen from above, and already broken and small and though, after his silence she seems to almost start as his voice comes again. "Which words? Those on hope? Or those on the decision to take the dangerous road being our own?"

"Those upon change." His words are simple, but heavy.

"'People grow apart', you spoke, 'and people change. That is the nature of all things.' And many are the wanderers who speak that it is so."

Linnelei sets to carving, and seems almost not to hear his words... "Change... Oh.. I do believe it, do you not? Everything in this world is changing around us all the time.. An example: Many years ago I came here, and I walked past the caranlas and thought nothing of it... Now I return and I search for it, and it is no longer here, but grown and died and shriveled away... People are the same; although -we- do not grow old and die because of it, we learn and we.. we drift apart.. we move on.. All things must change, for better or worse..."
Blue eyes rise from her work to regard him questioningly- looking for his response, or any shows of emotion or stray thoughts that may escape him...

Beneath the hood that shades his countenance, perhaps there is much for her to see. Much, and little at all. Brows lower. Cold eyes fall closed. A drawn breath is released in a silent sigh.

"The stain of Time upon the land. The fits and rages of the fading world-- but none of this finds the Golden Wood." A pause, and he looks to her. "Nay... some does find it. It is whispered upon the wind, and it follows the footsteps of such few wanderers as find that land. Time. Change. The margin of the first chill of winter lingers there, faint enough to heed little, deep enough to never be forgotten. But these lands know winter in all its wrath, all its death and bitterness and gnashing ice... and the beauty of its snow."

Carefully does she listen to Rosgwaen's words, and then she almost smiles... "Change does not have to be the greatest of things, Rosgwaen.. A breeze that causes leaves to shift their place on the ground below is a change... The sprouting of a new tree.. the water in the rivers is never the same, but always changing.. Everything changes.." And now she pauses, reflecting on a new point, "And with the death of these winters comes the spring, and rebirth, when everything finds new life..."

"And never again is as once it was."

It is as if Rosgwaen speaks not to her, but to the trees, and to the distance in his eyes. These words spoken, he is silent long.