Arrival!

• The Gondorians arrive at the elven (and dwarven and human) enclave.

Rhun: Forest Gates

The sense of light and wonder and abundant, deep-rooted life, intensifies. The forest, earth and sky, look new-washed – as clean as if at the dawn of the first sun. Ahead, two great oaks stand like sentinels on either side of the path. A delicate and lovely tracery of metal fills the space between them. Beyond, the forest seems blurred, as if a mist has descended.

The paths Serika takes the group by are far off the beaten road and often seem impassable at first glance, but she knows where to lead the less sure footed humans to keep them and their horses safe. Among the winding hills, fields and groves, the terrain becomes increasingly rocky and hilly the close they draw to the mountains and the edge of the forest.

It is when they reach the forest that their passage seems to accelerate ten fold. The Avari travels before them, the trees seeming to bend out of their way, a path appearing out of nothinginess, the ground smoothing to an easy avenue. Those who look back will notice that as the lsat passes along this trail, it disappears behind them, the trees and the brush slowly shifting back into place. Though she doesn’t lead you in a circuitous way, this alone would make it exceedingly difficult to find one’s way back through the woods.

Finally, the trees open up a little, and a gate made of magically twisted limbs appears before them, opening slowly under the efforts of a stocky, oranged-beared dwarf who hails them in a strange language that only those familiar with very ancient forms of the elven tongues might have any chance to understand.

Hunting

• Calandil and Serika go hunting in preparation for the arrival of their guests.
• It’s evening on day 2 of July, in the year 4.

The sun is setting, leaving the sky a clear, brilliant blue. Long, warm rays stretch across meadows and through forests, and turn the high peaks of the mountains to gold. Dusk is almost upon them; the time of evening when deer come delicately down to drink.

Calandil is sitting at the base of a tree, humming softly to himself and fletching some arrows. His black hair swings in many, little braids, the ends tied off with metal.

The younger female appears just a few steps behind Calandil, a leaf rustling softly with one footfall – a noise made purposefuly to announce her presence so she doesn’t startle. Her hair shines a deeper gold with the touch of the sunset upon it, and she watches him work for a moment before she finally speaks.

“I was thinking of going out to see if I could find a deer.” Serika offers him a lopsided little smile, and a glance at her reveals the strung bow set over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows.

Calandil looks up, smiling. “And do you tell me this because you would like company?” he asks, rising lithely to his feet. “The answer is yes, if you were wondering.”

Two Girls

• Alessi and Na’ima spend an afternoon at Seaward Tower, and discover they have much in common.

It’s 5 PM on day 26 of June, in the year 4.
The last quarter moon isn’t up. The tide is high and rising.
——————————————————————————

Umbar: Seaward Tower: Gardens

The smell of brine from the sea has trouble competing with the many lingering scents from the plants: sweet, musky, spicy and cloying. So lush are these gardens that, almost, they might be named a jungle. The splashing of water from one of several fountains joins with the cries of birds. A maze of paths weave through the garden – to friends, the maze is a delightful way to spend an afternoon. To foes, it is a deadly and ingenious trap.

Rare and exotic wildlife live in the garden also. Colorful birds with clipped wings add to the flora and fauna while poisonous creatures add to the sense of danger. Some of the more dangerous animals are kept in caged areas – and some of these are let out some nights by their keepers.

For those living in the Tower, the broad path that curves around the Tower from the Seaward Gate below is the easiest and the most direct way in and out of the Garden. Paved with smooth stones, the path leads out of the Garden to a clearing that ends abruptly at a set of wide stairs carved on the surface of the sheer escarpment. Archers would have a clear shot at anyone who climbs these stairs that leads to the formal entrance of the mighty Seaward Tower.

It’s late afternoon, and the city stirs as the sun dips lower and lower towards the ocean. Soon, the on-shore breezes will begin. Alessi hovers in the open yards before Seaward Tower, prudently beneath a tree, but within sight of the gates. “I don’t need a guard!” she says impatiently to the stocky woman beside her.

“No, my lady,” the guard replies, “but your guest will feel more comfortable if I am here. And,” she gives Alessi a conspiratorial smile, “Then you will have a good reason to tell her guard to remain behind.”

Audience with an Old Friend?

• Lady Jaazel, First Daughter of Chief Abbas Hamid seeks an audience with Emperor Ramio, to tell him of the desert tribes’ concerns.

Umbar: Court of Anor

The court here is surely as old as the Court of the Moon, but the mosaic set into the pavements shows more wear. Perhaps the stone used is not so durable. Some pieces are clearly newer – where loose stones have been replaced. But still the design is there – a sun in glory, its rays spreading out to the edges of the court, and dark shapes of men and ships sailing a blue sea.

Ramio is walking in the courts this day, flanked by several of his guards and a secretary. He pauses here to look down at the mosaic, then nudges one with his toe. It is loose. Without looking up, he says, “Make a note to have this piece replaced.

One of perhaps dozens of assistants scurries out into the Anor Court, bowing as he comes. “Pardon me, Sire. A lady has come seeking an audience, and she won’t leave though I told her audience days are on the first and third day of each week. She told me to tell you that the first daughter of Chief Abbas Hamid wishes to speak with you.” The name clearly isn’t familiar to this assistant, because he doesn’t seem to see any import to the name of this particular desert Chieftain.

I Wanted to Show You

• Belzagar shows Celegnith some things he and Mikkan found in Farside Tower.

It has been a few days since Beldamir came to tell Celegnith in great excitement of something he wanted to show him at Farside. But finding a time and way that they can go without causing comment has taken time. Now, at last, the two boys slip up the stairs and stop outside a door. Beldamir looks both ways, then pushes the door open and beckons Celegnith in and shutting the door. “This,” he says, keeping his voice very low – no one is to know they are here – “was my father’s room.”

Creeping behind Beldamir, Celegnith peers around the room with wide eyes, seeming to take in the whole of the room, weighing the contents and the furnishings, before turning back to Beldamir and adding in a soft whisper. “Truly? It’s quite a grand room isn’t it?”

Beldamir finds it easier to look at the room now, than he did the first time. He nods. “It is.” But despite the general grandeur of the room, Ar-Gimilkhor’s personal effects are not showy. “But here, come see.” He goes to a carved armoire in one corner, and opens the doors. There are still some of the would-be-king’s clothes inside, as well as a sword in a scabbard hidden behind them in the farthest corner.

Decisions Made in Hot Water

• Celeborn and Cathandil are soaking in the springs after their recent battle, when Serika joins them, and Celeborn makes a decision.

Rhun: Hot Springs
A shaft of light from above brightens the large central pool. The water laps gently in the steamy air, shining like a jewel where the light hits it. Carved pillars through-out the pool hold up the ceiling. Here, nothing has been left to look natural. The walls are polished smooth, with niches for plants. Aquaducts open higher up, letting hot and cold water spill down into the pool. A wide walkway runs around the edge, with benches set against the wall. The pool itself has varying depths, from shallow enough to teach children to swim, to deep enough to dive into.

At one end, the walkway is wider; here, are niches with towels and soap, and a drain set into a gently sloping floor. To one side, a slender jet of water spills out from high in the wall. The side walls have narrow, arched openings, screened by vines or falling water. Beyond them are smaller, private pools, with hotter water.

It is not so long after the Battle of the Woodcutters, and Celeborn and Cathandil have found the hotsprings. Choosing one of the smaller, private pools, they slip behind the screen of vines and, after washing and rinsing off, sink into the comforting heat of the water. It is quiet today; steam rises from the water, and a dim light wavers from the main room. Celeborn leans his head back against the stone rim and closes his eyes. “I think,” he says to Cathan, “That we are needed here more than there.”

Market Place Meetings

• Awende is just setting up her new portrait stall in the market of Umbar when Mikkan and Beldamir come by.  Later, Lord Alphazar invites the young woman to dinner.

Umbar: Angrad Square
The Street of the Stars widens out into a square that has been turned into a tent, or so it seems. Many pieces of cloth of varying colors are attached to slender poles covering nearly the entire bazaar, and shops of every sort fill the area. Some are tents, with the sides rolled up during the day and let down at night; some are more permanent buildings; some are nothing more than a few boxes and a rug laid out on the pavement to be gathered up and taken away at the end of the day. Lamps hang from some of the poles, so that the serious business of buying and selling need not stop only because dusk has fallen.

Several shops here offer weapons for sale. One carries more common items; daggers, table-knives, even a few short bows. Another has an inventory of more exotic weapons: long half-swords with rippled steel; wide-bladed weapons with jagged teeth; long, slender desert spears. There are money-changers, herb sellers, booths filled with spices and vegetables from the far south. A gem cutter hangs jewelry in a ray of sunlight next to a woman selling hats and bolts of silk. Almost anything a person can conceive of can be found here – or if not, people who can be commissioned to acquire it – and the babble of conversation goes on far into the night. It is really only quiet in the very early mornings.

=========================== UMBAR WEATHER AND TIME =====================
It’s 4 PM on day 24 of May, in the year 3025.
The last quarter moon isn’t up. The tide is high and rising.
——————————————————————————
Towering white clouds drift slowly through the blue sky, threatening storms. It’s hazy and hot, and the glare of the sun seems to drain the color from the land and sea alike.
——————————————————————————
==============================================================================

The heat radiates in the streets; there is no breeze under the bright awnings. Some shops have not reopened still having their afternoon respite from the hot sun. Others cry their wares though the best and freshest has already sold. Awende has, through the auspices of the Lady of the Seaward Tower, been sent to set up “shop” near a jeweler who in some way unbeknownst to the young artist owes the Lady. One guard leads her wending through the narrow lanes bright with color, redolent of spices and glittering with keen metal blades. The other guard, who towers over the her, walks behind her glancing from side to side with the spare menace of the very skilled. He carries her paints and easel on his back as well as a very keen sword belted at his side.

Bad Luck with Women

• Forced into attending a dinner hosted by the King, Conalmir has his usual bad luck with women.

Gondor: Great Hall of Feasts
Great tapestries hang from the walls, each depicting a scene from the histories of the King’s of Gondor. One shows a ship landing, with Elendil standing in the prow. Another shows the building of Minas Anor. Still another depicts the founding of the Northern Kingdom of Arnor, and the raising of Amon Hen.

Long tables stretch the length of the hall, while at one end, there is a raised platform, on which is a smaller table set at right angles to the others. This is where the King sits when he is in residence, as well as members of his family, and honored guests. Chandeliers of cunningly worked glass-enclosed candles hang over the tables.

 

A feast for spring sees the hall liberally sprinkled with flowers. Boughs laden with sweet-smelling golden flowers, carried from Ithilien, hang from the chandeliers. On the whole, the fare is light, the menu likely selected by the queen. But one can find a bit of venison or braised pork if one tries hard enough. The feast proper has ended, the king and queen and many others gone into the courtyard to dance and hear music (and, if rumours are true, a play under the stars). Still, the feast hall remains well peopled.

One of the revellers remains in his seat on the right side of the hall, where the Imrahil’s people were placed. He’s tall and straight as a lance, dark haired and grey eyed. His age is hard to guess, though by look alone he might be twenty. He wears the white of a Swan Knight, without armour or sword.

“I would recite another,” he is saying over a glass of wine, “but I cannot recall the words. Pray do not tell master Lorophos! He will take it personally, yet in sooth I failed as a pupil.”

Conalmir stands nearby, with a glass of wine in his hand. He has put on his very best finery – which happens to be his nicest uniform; and combed down his hair with all that he can muster – making it very nearly almost lie flat. His boots gleam with the shininess of squire-polished leather, his tabard is spotless, and the silver swan gleams in the lamplight. Going out to join the dancing is apparently not on his list of Things To Do Tonight, for he makes no move towards the others, content to stand and sip his wine, and listen to the Prince’s son.

Meeting a Squire

• Belgazar meets Amathon, White Squire of the Swans.

Gondor: Garden
A quiet, peaceful place, with a fountain at the center and stone benches set among a few trees. There is a statue of a woman – a plaque proclaiming her to be the elven bride of the first Prince of Dol Amroth. In one corner, set among birch trees, is a small building. Within it, the Virtues are carved into walls of stone, with two benches set side by side before them. Here, the knights may spend time in meditation.

The morning has dawned bright and cloudless, after a rainy day and night, and the garden seems all but to shine in the sunlight. Inside the small building, Belzagar stands, reading the carved plaques.

With sword in its scabbard but not hanging from a belt Amathon walks slowly into the garden, favoring his left foot and nursing a wlt on his face that will bloom nicely in the next hours. He goes glumly to sit on the bench before the laughing fountains.

Blowing out a big breath, he shakes himself like a dog and looks around. He stands and looks inside the building, unwilling to be caught out by some Knight ready to mete out punsihment for idleness.

Belzagar has stepped sideways and bent to read the last line of one of the Virtues more closely, when a shadow darkens the door. He starts, straightening and turning to see who it is. A squire. “Oh,” he says, and then, louder, “I give you good day.”

“You were angry too?”

• On the way back from the audience with King Elessar.

Conalmir and Belzagar and Mikkan walk through the rainy streets down from the Palace towards the Swan House. Conalmir is silent and thoughtful. Belzagar, alight with joy.

 

“So,” Mikkan starts, “What do you think of what the King told?” he asks Belzagar.

 

Think? Belzagar turns a startled face towards Mikkan. He has not thought, he has but rejoiced. But he tries to appear mature and a man of consideration: a few more paces in silence, as he thinks of the question and his answer. But at last, all he manages is a cautious, “Which part of it?”

 

Mikkan laughs. “About staying your course and being your own man–despite what others want to make of you.”

 

Belzagar grins shyly. “Did you know that?” he says eagerly, “That the King did not know his name until he was older than I? And that he went everywhere with a different name, learning things?”

Audience with the King

• Conalmir brings a message from Isabis; Belzagar comes with a request; Elwen and Tercenion have a favor to ask; Prince Imrahil and his men look on and advise.

Gondor: Presence Chamber
This is a narrow, wood-paneled room. Several chairs have been set against the paneled walls on either side, and there are tables between them bearing a carafes of wine and glasses. A long, royal-blue carpet leads between the two sets of chairs to a slightly raised platform at the other end, with a more ornately carven chair. Here, the King may meet in private with ambassadors or petitioners. Behind the platform, stone stairs spiral to the top of the tower.

A cloudy grey day comes to an end in a wash of rosy hues. Shadows fall long across the carven wood details of the audience chairs, a gift from the Elvenking of Greenwood. In a corner, a serving woman lights a brace of candles.

Without announcement, the King descends the curve of stairs from the tower above. He is dressed simply and all in black, and his crown rests lightly on his brow. The hall is not so small as to feel confined, and yet Aragorn’s presence fills the room.

“In great haste you returned to Minas Tirith,” he addresses all of them. His voice need not be loud. “I would hear your tidings.”

Elves go Visiting

• Hearing of elves in Rhun, Celeborn and a few of his people take a trip from East Lorien to see.

=========================== RHUN WEATHER AND TIME ======================
It’s 2 PM on day 11 of May, in the year 3025.
The waxing gibbous moon is up. The tide is low and slack.
——————————————————————————
A light rain falls from a grey sky. It’s cool and there’s a mild wind from the east.

==============================================================================
Forested Slope
Up here, the air is thinner and the sounds of the mill below are muted. The distant ringing of axes can be heard at intervals, but here, the trees have not yet been touched. Tall and lordly, the firs and pines thrust towards the skies. Beneath their shelter, the steep slopes are covered with cones and needles and twisted, dead branches. Here and there, an ancient tree has fallen, and greenery crowds the opening. A lightning-struck pine gleams palely, its bark sloughed off in piles around its roots.

A light, mild rain patters down on the world, making all the pine forest seem to whisper as if each needle was sharing the deep secrets of all things. The trees here are immeasurably ancient, old, and their needles grow densely, leaving the space under their protective gloam almost perfect dry. There’s something about this place that no doubt spoke to Celeborn just as the needles of the pines now whisper in the rain.

Theres someone else here. Just one someone. Though she hasnt quite shown herself. Indeed, shes remarkably hard to pinpoint, but any other elf can tell shes curious. She makes the wood moan in response to her. Its inability to ease her curiosity pains it. A squirrel chitters at her, but it is as if even the animals here speak an ancient tongue because it is both familiar and foreign.

Women are Weird

• Sir Conalmir and Belzagar are headed to find Prince Imrahil when they are stopped by an old friend of the knight’s.

Conalmir strides along the cobbled streets, heading up towards the Swan Knights. He has left his horse at the stables outside the city, and aside from the blue and silver tabard, is not wearing armor or uniform. A teenage boy hurries after him – Belzagar.

A man of middling age, bearing the traces of Dunadan ancestory (albeit not, perhaps, one of the purest lines) approaches Conalmir. His dark hair is streaked with white at the temples, though his grey eyes are lively and piercing, admitting of no infirmity. He wears a tabard of Isilrim blue over maille, with a longsword and knife at his belt. He offers Conalmir a short bow to catch his attention, though is quite willing to openly approach if not acknowledged.

 

“Elethand,” Conalmir says, smiling. He stops. “You are still in Minas Tirith? Or is it that you are back?” Belzagar comes up and stops at Conalmir’s side, looking at the older man with interest.

The Boon of a Hair

• Naerchil seeks audience with Queen Arwen.

========================== GONDOR WEATHER AND TIME ===========================
It’s 11 AM on day 22 of August, in the year 3022. The last quarter moon isn’t up. The tide is low and ebbing. ——————————————————————————
Towering white clouds drift slowly through the blue sky. It’s hazy and hot, and the glare of the sun seems to drain the color from the landscape.
==============================================================================

Gondor: Pinnacle of the Rock To the west, behind the Citadel, the White Mountains rise tall and cold against the sky. The warmer lands of Gondor fall away to the south, from rolling foothills to gentle plains. Far to the south and west is a haze that must token the sea; the thin, glimmering line of the Anduin snakes towards it. Eastward is the wreckage of Osgiliath, and beyond it, the ruined lands of Mordor. North lies the River and Ithilien across it; marshes beyond, and still farther beyond that, the barely-seen blue haze of mountains and forests.

Here on the pinnacle of the great rock Minas Tirith is built on, her white towers rising in glory towards the sun, all of Gondor spreads out before the viewer. Only the cold heights of the mountain peaks rise higher. A lady, elven no doubt, stands and surveys her domain. Where perhaps her husband might feel pride and responsibility, the fulfillment of a life’s promise and generations’ hope; she, by her face, feels simply delight. The morning shimmers with light.

A Leader of Men

• Whereupon Conalmir, alerted by the guardsman as to Naerchil’s desire to speak with a ‘leader of Gondor’, climbs the mountain to the elf’s camp to speak with him.

========================== GONDOR WEATHER AND TIME ===========================

It’s 1 PM on day 20 of August, in the year 3022. The waning gibbous moon isn’t up. The tide is low and rising.
Towering white clouds drift slowly through the blue sky. It’s hazy and hot, and the glare of the sun seems to drain the color from the landscape.

==============================================================================

It is a white and blue noon, a livid sun shining upon the hazy Pelennor. Far off in the east a storm lingers, its horizon dark and its rumors deep. A camp is laid by the mountain road overlooking Minas Tirith, consisting of one visible tent, a fire, and a simmering pot. And its inhabitant is one: an umber-haired elf whose green cloak is spread by the fire. He turns a dry beech-leaf over in his hand, his eyes closed. In the other hand rests a fan gathered from a forest: oak, fern, ivy, elm.

A man strides up the hill, blue cloak flapping behind him. Glints of silver spark in the sun – his mail, for he is wearing full armor this day. His face is grim and attentive; though it be the height of day, he will not be caught off-guard. And his first response at seeing the small camp is wariness: He stops, hand on his sword, and looks carefully around. Nothing else is visible; he comes a few steps nearer, but pauses well away to hail the elf.

Elves Being Elves

Rath Emyn, Minas Tirith, Gondor

Aug 15, 3022; a hot summer day

Named for the mountain itself, here too, the road comes to a halt at a cliff that looms overhead. Just out of reach, a little birch tree clings to the side of the mountain. More tall homes line the wall, here; some even appear to be taller than the wall itself, so that those living within might see out across the Pelennor Fields. There are some pieces of masonry in the street, and some more cracked paving stones – it seems a view can be dangerous during a war. But mostly, the street has been swept clean.

It’s terribly hot out and very hazy, and the air is very still and thick. The clouds are growing thicker, but they somehow do not do much to cover the sun, and if rain is coming, it is yet far away. Elwen walks along the street, her footsteps hurried, and she is looking upwards rather than where she is going. Only now and again does she looks down, and when she does it is to crouch to look at something on the ground. And then she continues, and her face is troubled. Around another bend of road, and then she starts to run towards the cliff, hiking up her skirts.

A Late-Night Meeting

Aurelion still sits upon the bench long into the night after the elven lady has gone, eyes distant as he contemplates their conversation, sailcloth turning over and over in his hands in the same way the words tumble inside his head.

At some point a servant pokes his head out the front door of the manor and mumbles some groggy inquiry, to which the Lord Rilithiar turns and smiles faintly, shaking his head. The servant retreats into the mansion once more, and not long after the last of the lights inside goes out.

Traveling to the higher levels of Minas Tirith can feel like an eternity passing, the night having come already. Wandering through summer’s rain with no particular haste, a hooded figure approaches the Court of the Rising Sun. The figure, upon closer inspection a woman, gazes in every direction, uncertain of the direction best taken to finding whom she is looking for. Amazement wanders her face. Never before has she witnessed such structures as those that stand before her, meant for nobility and merchants of wealth alike.

At last she finds whom she seeks, sitting unusually peaceful on a covered porch, surrounded by parchment, something occupying his hands. Approaching the porch, her long strides become slower, softer, not wanting to disturb the man in his thoughts. It becomes apparent to her that the tales told at the camp weren’t mere fabrication. Their leader had been wounded severely, bandages visible underneath light clothing.

Speaking softly, as she walks up beside him, “My Liege, won’t you catch a cold wearing something so thin?”

Unrest in the Houses of Healing

• After the shocking attack by brigands on an elf of all people – and just outside the city! – Aurelion has been remanded to the Houses of Healing (after having fainted from blood loss).  It seems he is no better at taking care of himself than his cousin…

Two bored-looking guards stand duty outside of a small private room tucked into the back corner of the House of Healing. They seem quite out of place here, and just as unhappy about it as the healers. Annoyed glances are shot in both directions periodically.

Inside the room, the most annoyed face of all. Aurelion sits upright in bed, awake and alert, though his naked torso is wrapped in bandages and tan skin unusually pale. He sketches idly with charcoal on a piece of parchment, and every thirty seconds or so he looks up toward the doorway with furrowed brows, as though mentally stabbing the men outside.

There is a stir in the outer room, booted feet and the sound of low voices. Then the door is thrown open and Conalmir, with Mikkan close behind him, comes in. The nurse chirps cheerily, “Visitors!” But the knight just stands looking at his cousin for a moment, frowning a little.

But then his face clears and he strides towards the bed. “You’re not badly injured. Good. I was worried.

Over Conalmir’s shoulder, Mikkan–who appears to be just under 20 years–peers at his new cousin. “There was an attack?” he asks.

Of Moons, the Weather and Sailors

• A conversation in the Old Guesthouse, where-in the heat and appropriate clothing begin the discussion, and the travels of Conalmir’s newly refound cousin continue it.

It is said that lumber from the hardwoods of Ithilien is nigh indestructible, and the Old Guesthouse stands testament to both its sturdy construction and the resilience of its owners. There is the faint smell of new paint, and where the paneling was scorched, an inventive innkeep has draped the walls with brightly colored banners, rippling with the warmth of the room.

Yes, it is very warm. Not to stand on ceremony, many guests are in their shirtsleeves, and the ale is refreshingly cool. Eruiglas, for one, has retained a quilted jacket, and sits with his back to the wall, his good eye turned to the door.

“Quilted?” Mikkan is saying to the knight, shaking his head. “I don’t understand–it’s hot and that just makes you hotter. Does Gondor not use linen? Or does it not get that hot typically?” Mikkan himself is in a linen tunic in the fashion of Harad–it being too hot, he has apparently decided, to care about northern fashions.

A Prodigal Returns.

• In the midst of a feast day, one long thought dead returns.

It is a dark and stormy night. Except it isn’t night, it’s daytime, and in fact the sun is very bright. The day is warm and hot, and the only suggestion of a dark and stormy night are the building clouds, which may or may not presage a storm sometime in the night. The fields before the city, and in fact the whole of the city itself, have been bedecked with summer flowers and wreaths of branches and grains. Tables have been set up with a bounty of food, and people are gathering in a general sense of merriment.

Yet a procession winds down from the high and lonely ways of the mountains, a solemn procession, regal and beautiful and somehow ancient. Of course, the ancient could be the elves included in the procession, and the regal is the king and the queen and the elvenfolk of high nobility. And their way before is strewn with rose-petals, and their way behind is strewn with sunflower petals, and there is an incense about them that is like wisps of memory out of legend.

Aragorn and Arwen take places on a dais, and merry and solemn they are indeed. One of the elves with them is the Noldo Elwen Aiwelinde, dressed all in white and grey, with a belt of gold and silver leaves about her waist, and a garland of gold and silver leaves in her hair. She does not go to sit with them, not yet, for she is held seemingly entranced by the sound of a harper playing upon a six-stringed harp.

Conalmir, looking rather uncomfortable, is wearing the uniform of the Swan Knights. He is, as is usual for him, as polished as effort can make him, in every aspect except his hair, which will not lie down and be tidy. Nor is he particularly uncomfortable because of his dress, but because of the necessity of Being Festive.