Featuring: Corinvil (Sinda Mithlondhrim Elf) and Bavor (Erebor Dwarf)

Southwestern Side of Erebor
The spectacle of Erebor dominates the landscape here, one of the two lower of its six spurs rising towards the high peak to the northeast. A gate of wrought iron opens up at its foot, at the end of a branch of the trail that is lined with low pillars of white stone. Away around to the north between the steep-sided spur and another similar one further on, a few miles march, can be found a long vale. Out on the plains of the Dwarflaw to the west towards Mirkwood can be seen this Barding croft and that, served by dwarf-built windmill wells, invested by intrepid farmers. They are evidence that this land is returning to its fertile glory of old. The path winds across the featureless plains that were once part of the Desolation of Smaug. The Autumn's sparse grass is somewhat brownish around you, and the wind blows frigid from the north. The sky is clear, a crystalline eternity. The early evening air is frosty. The path is dry and is marked with old foot, horse, and wagon tracks.
Contents:
Bavor (IC Khazad) and Corinvil (IC Quendi)
Obvious exits:
Southeast leads to Below Ravenhill.
North leads to Northwestern Side of Erebor.
Mazarbul Gate

***** Erebor Time & Weather Service
******************************************
** Real time is: Tue Nov 20 13:05:11 2001, GMT -7 **
Elendor time is: Early Evening (1800) on Hevensday, 5 November 3024.
In the clear Autumn sky, The fading light of the day casts the sky in a deep azure wherein ye can espy the waning gibbous moon riding low in the sky.
****************************************** Erebor Time & Weather Service *****

~~~

As early evening wraps the world in a cool autumn night, the traffic on the path falls away leaving a lonely stretch between habitations. But a lone lump sits in the grass near the path, cross-legged and hooded. The only motion is a hand, rising and falling from lap to mouth as if eating. The figure appears to have no weapon or company.

Another figure - one much smaller, a Dwarf of the country - moves on the road as well, walking along the path from the north. He moves slowly, taking his time along the grassy road, from an direction of the iron in the mountain's side away to the north. The Dwarf is not armed, either - he carries nothing, and wears only a light cloak too ward off the chill of the Dwarves' new year. He takes no notice of the seated figure as of yet.

The hooded lump is humming a soft tune with no words, yet it is more lilting, more rich than any human voice. But the face is hidden in the shaadow of the hood, the moonlight turning the dappled gray-green of the cloak into a shadow as well. Yet the movement of eating gives the figure away. It moves as a smaller figure comes up the path, but does not raise its head enough to cast light on its face yet.

The Dwarf, now some ten yards away from the lump, notices the other ahead of him. He stands still for a moment, stroking his long, light-brown beard for a moment in thought, studying it wordlessly. After his momentary contemplation, he continues walking on, closing the distance between the two, his eyes fixed on the other's form.

As the distance between the two figures closes, the seated one stands, and is proven to be quite tall, the height of a large man. He is also built like one who knows the toil of labor, but moves with an inhuman grace. He pushes his hood back slightly revealing masculine, yet fair features. "Mae govannen?" he says in a lilting baritone with a heavy Sindarin accent as he speaks his native tongue instead of Westron.

"May ye what?" calls back the Dwarf, raising his eyebrows as the once-lump stands. "May ye 'govnin', is that what you ask?" He closes the gap between the two, coming at last to stand some two yards from the other. "Who are ye, then, and what's yer business in the Dwarflaw?" He cocks his head slightly, stroking his beard again.

The elf looks down at the other, then pushes the hood completely off his head revealing a shaggy mane of tawny gold. He switches to an accented Westron, occasionally peppered with an elvish word. "My business? Oh, oh yes, my reason for coming here." He seems to make a mental note of the word, though he says it as the dwarf did as he repeats, "business..." to himself. "Ah, I am seeking out the Lonely Mountain of yore, home of the Naugrim!" He does not seem to recognize that the person afore him is such a being. "You seem a remarkably furry hobbit. Might you tell me if the naugrim might receive me as you are heading in that direction?"

The Dwarf stands a moment in stunned silence. "'A... remarkably furry... Hobbit?'" he repeats, staring increduously at the Elf with wide eyes. "I say, lad, don't ye know a Hobbit from a Dwarf? Why, to be called after one of those fat little farmers - those who settle with no asking on both sides of -our- road - why, I'm positively - no, wait," he stops his ranting, peering through narrowed eyes. "'Naugrum,' ye say? Well, that explains it all. Yer an Elf - yes, I see that now, when I look at ye." He shakes his head slowly. "Well, yer not one of that bastard King Thranduil's folk - ye'd then at least know a Dwarf from a Halfling. Where're ye from, Elf?"

The Edhel looks puzzled by this discourse from the dwarf, but answers with a sad air, "I am not from anywhere. But I was once from Imladris, my family with lines to Doriath, the Maia Melian's kingdom of old in Beleriand,, the Grey Elves, the Shipwrights of Falas and Mithlond. Nay, these green elves here are no my folk if that is what you ask. But you are a naugrim then, are you! Oh, how remarkable!" He bends down, studying the other in the moonlight. he looks as if he wants to pull on the beard, but wisely does not.

"Oh, aye, the fair old lands of Doriath, and Falas, and Mithlond," smiles the Khazad, nodding sagely. "Can't say I've heard of any of them. But Imladris? That's Rivendell, ain't it? Heard of that, I have. Old Lord Elrond's a decent enough sod, if I hear right. Most of the Gnomes seem good enough folk, if the tales're true." He squints as the Elf bends down to him, folding his hands over his beard - just in case the Edhel -does- choose to pull it. "Aye, lad, I'm a Dwarf, if there ever was one. Don't get much of us back west, do ye?"

Corinvil shakes his head, "Nay, this is my first sojourn into this region, and I have never seen one of your folk before, so I do apologize for the mistake. The only smaller folk I have seen are hobbits, and I'm afraid only one of them. Bilbo Baggins, you might know? Well, perhaps not. He lived in Imladris and was quite fond of my father's pies. But I come on a mission, for you see, I work the stone as your people do, yet we... Gnomes? Not quite Gnomic.... or rather, not I, Gnoldor you mean? I am not Noldor, but they too, some of them in the past worked stone as well, Nargothrond, and Menegroth of Elu Thingol, Malian's mate, though he was Sindar as I." The elf shakes his head as he hears himself prattling. "I am known as Corinvil..."

The Dwarf nods. "Aye. I've heard of Baggins... a freak among oddballs, they say. Strange even for a Hobbit." He shrugs. "Noldor, Sindar... it's all the same to me. Don't know much about Elves beyond the fools in Mirkwood. But I couldn't expect an Elf to tell the difference between a Longbeard, a Firebeard, and a Stiffbeard, either, so I suppose we're even there." He shrugs. "I'm Bavor Rockcutter, or Barazin, at yer service." Bavor nods deeply, leaning forward a bit in a bow.

Corinvil laughs richly, "Ah, beards. Well, I know little of them save on humans!" He strokes his own bare chin thoughtfully, then remarks to his name, "Ah, a rockcutter! Then you are just the sort to ask then! As that is what I've come for... I have heard your art is unsurpassed in all of the world in such things."

"Well, yes," says Bavor, "though Rockcutter be but my name, I do cut rock... I'm a miner by profession." The Khazad smiles. "Well, lad, ye've got good manners for an Elf. The Dwarves are the greatest of miners, it's true. And Durin's Folk - my folk, the Longbeards - why, we're the best of the best, as it were. So tell me, just what do ye need? I'm sure I could pass on word to my Thane that you're looking for aid."

Corinvil digs around in his satchel, the sound of heavy metal tools knocking against each other. He pulls out a couple of marble chisels and waves them energetically, "I am a sculptor! Though any mining I have done is only to gain the stone I need. But it is in finding the hidden forms of the stone that I so love. Yes, yes, tell him, tell them all! If any would show a poor edhel the ways to take stone to task, I should be eternally grateful and carve their name into the very mountainside!" He bcomes slightly too melodramatic, yet still sincere.

Bavor folds his arms across his chest, looking skeptically at the Elf's chisels. "Hmm. Never knew any Elf to work in stone... 'course, I never knew any Elf to begin with. Well, I'll pass this on to the Thane, as I said I would." He strokes his beard again for a moment. "Aye, methinks ye should see Lord Kloi... he's head of our Guild, too, so he should be able to help ye there."

Bavor smirks. "My, but ye Elves do talk a lot, don't ye? Never heard of Finrods or Earendils or Nauglamirs or Silmarils... but Felagund, that name sounds familiar. That's a Dwarvish name, if ever I heard one. Heh, well, that's as close to 'Rockcutter' as an Elf can get, I'm sure..." He chuckles. "Well, then, I'll be sure to leave Lord Kloi a message for ye... Cornvell, ye say? Where're ye staying, by the by, if I might ask? If yer down on yer luck, I'm sure the Elves' embassy in Lake-Town just south of here'll have ye."

Corinvil looks somewhat dreamy-eyed as he think sof the great Felagund, friend to Dwarves, and his caverned kingdom, but is pulled back to reality as the dwarf asks him where he is staying. "Ah, mellon, I know of no embassy or... Lake-Town is it? What a dull name. Nay, I keep away from humans. Smelly things, they are, and frightfully short-lived, like the butterflies of summer. Nay, I prefer the stars for a roof and the grass for a floor. Is this not what Eru himself has given us? I shall linger here, unless an invading army should be scheduled to come, and so here, I suppose, I shall be found anon..." He grins lopsidedly after this discourse of Westron mixed with Sindarin.

"Well, I ain't no melon, I'll tell ye that..." mutter Bavor under his breath. "Hm. Well, Eru may have given ye Elves the stars to sleep under, but the Maker gave us Dwarves good, solid stone, and his wife gave Men their houses of wood, so it's all the same to me." He shrugs. "As for Lake-Town... well, I suppose the Mirkwood Elves call it 'Esgaroth', but what it means, the Maker only knows. Thranduil's Elves keep an embassy there, and ye'd probably be safer sleeping there than out in the open. But it's yer choice is ye want to sleep outdoors, and I'll respect that."

Corinvil considers the dwarf's words. "I have no love for humans, but if you consider it safer, then I should respect that and not make a fool of myself." He thinks then on who the "maker" is, then finally says with a snap of his fingers, "Ah yes, Aule! Of course, I remember the tales now. Aule, how could I forget. And Yavanna the fair, I believe. Thranduil's folk seem to hold a special interest for her. The elves in Imladris take to Varda, Elbereth Gilthoniel..." he chatters on again, for he must indeed spend most of his time alone. He seems to talk to himself more than the dwarf. Finally, he stops and smiles again. "Oh, but I am keeping you, are I not?"

Bavor shrugs. "Well, aye," he says. "There's a hard day of work ahead for me, and I need my sleep." The Khazad chuckles to himself. "Call him what you will, Elf lad... Mahal, Aule, or what have you. He's the Maker, and the Maker is he." He shakes his head mirthfully. "Well, then, I'll be having to take my leave of ye now. I'll be sure, though, to tell the Thane ye're looking after him, though, as I've said thrice before."

Corinvil nods again. "Then I shall make my way to this Lake-Town and your Thane can find me there." He adjusts his cloak with a grin, then sets off down the road away from the Lonely Mountain.