The Hall of Fire - for minstrelsy and Free RP

[Lirimaer]

paraphrased from FotR: Many Meetings

After the evening meal, as tradition has it, a High Lord and Lady will rise and lead the way down the hall together, and all their company will follow them in due order. The doors are then thrown open, and they pass across a wide passage and through other doors, coming into a further hall. In it there are no tables, but a bright fire burns in a great hearth between carven pillars upon either side.
.

,
This is the Hall of Fire.

Here you will hear many songs and tales – if you can keep awake. But except on high days it usually stands empty and quiet, and people come here who wish for peace, and thought. There is always a fire here, all the year round, but there is little other light.

As the High Lord and Lady enter and go towards the seat prepared for them, Elvish minstrels began to make sweet music. Slowly the hall fills, and you look with delight upon the many fair faces that are gathered together; the golden firelight playing upon them and shimmering in their hair.


Perhaps you are a visitor to Imladris and have need of peace and comfort; perhaps you need refreshment for the soul after a weary day; mayhap you are a minstrel, come to sing and play, or a storyteller, sharing histories.

This is a thread as a place to play music and sing and recount tales of valour, either as part of your ongoing roleplay or as standalone posts.
Timeline: TA 3014 is default, but whenever your tale, you can tell it here (mark your post accordingly).
Respect Tolkien's vision of this place, please.

[corlisswyn]

Thurin

The Teleri elf allowed the heat wash over him as he sat close to the fire in a large high-back chair. Thurin frequently enjoyed his evenings in the large Hall of Fire; if he wanted to be alone, he could simply enjoy the fire in his own room here at the Last Homely House; but being here invited others to come and talk to him should they want. A large grey blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his legs rested on a custom ottoman; one he built and left in the Hall of Fire to keep his legs at a restful angle to recuperate. It had been over a decade, but his right thigh still ached when he overexerted or carried heavy things. He had done both today; He hiked out to the north along the ridgeline to a dense cropping of silver birch trees, felling several and carting them back to his workshop. It was a good day, but he was paying the price for it. He dug the heel of his hand into his thigh, massaging and trying to release tension from the scarred and damaged muscles. He rubbed, applying pressure, along the scar on the top of his thigh. It had been where his femur had broken through the skin. The healers here at Imladris said he may never get back to full strength given the severity of the break and the delay in treatment as Thurin had to be transported to Imladris from the Minhiriath coastline. Thurin had good movement and his stamina increased as years continued, but he would never be at fighting strength nor could he ride all day on a horse.

But for all the pain and the injuries he sustained, Thurin was living a good life here at Rivendell. He was well employed by the House, building furniture and carving decorative etchings and wittles. He genuinely enjoyed the people who came and went, and those who stayed. Then again, he didn't know what he left behind, as he remembered nothing of his life prior to coming to Rivendell at the brink of death. He gained only glimpses and snapshots in time over the past several years, and a melody that kept coming back to him, hummed in a soft feminine voice. He thought every once in a while he could get a word in from the song. And if he let the melody continue, he thought he saw an image of a lovely, smiling, carefree elf with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. The image should hurt - he knew he lost her somehow, and he could feel the void she left behind, but perhaps it was a good thing he couldn't remember. Instead of pain, her image gave him peace, knowing that for sometime at least in his life he had her and he was better for having known her, somehow.

He felt the tug of sleep come to gather him in, and in an effort not to spend the night in the Hall of Fire, Thurin carefully stood up, picked up the crutch he carried with him when he was in pain, and carried himself off to his room. He'd be back tomorrow night, and the night after. The room was like a warm hug on his soul, and he looked forward to it each evening after dinner.

[The Good Hunter]

Wow, this place was really something!

Shaking off the last bits of the mushroom, Jorgy entered a part of Rivendell he’d only heard about in stories and tales. The famous Hall of Fire! It really was something. He was not sure what he’d expected when he heard about it, a hallway full of fire seemed too on the nose, even for someone as oblivious to metaphors as he was. There was indeed a massive hearth with a roaring fire burning away inside. He could never have a fire that big in his home. He’d accidently burn down half the Shire if he even tried it. And the smell! It didn’t smell like the ashy, gag-you-with-smoke-and-choke-you-to-death kinds of fire he had been used to in his previous life. This fire was full of wonderful smelling herbs. He hadn’t gotten a hang of all of them yet but cooking lessons were moving apace (breakfast, it seemed, really was Jorgy’s best) and he was learning about things like lavender, sage, thyme, and sea salt. He thought he could smell little bits and pieces of all of them in this fire, though maybe that was the mushroom’s lingering effect. He looked at his hands. They weren’t waving about or getting all loopy and long. No, the fire really did smell like that. It was amazing! He made a mental note to ask one of the elves about how to make fires smell so good!

For now though, the young hobbit had the presence of mind to know that this wasn’t really the place to just go up to someone and start asking a thousand weird questions. Jorgy really was learning! He smiled. Pearl would be proud of him. Pearl would be coming any minute. She had said something about finishing off the last of the horchata before joining him. He’d managed to drink two glasses of the sweet milk before he found his limit. Who knew Jorgy had a limit on sweetness? The elves of Rivendell apparently!

There weren’t too many people gathered tonight, the ARPYs had been a rather big to do and all the big wigs were there celebrating and having a gay old time. Jorgy had enjoyed it. However, he was more of a hobbit than he realized. He soon wanted to go somewhere quiet and have a good think, hear some wonderful elven lyre music, or even tell a story of his own. Public speaking was a fear of many a good hobbit, but Jorgy was not among them. Although whenever he was thrust into the spotlight he often had a hard time come up with words, it was not the act of being put on the spot that made him lose track of his words, it was the quite literal fact that his words often strung together in the most unusual patterns and shapes. Perhaps some of those unusual patterns and shapes would do well tonight?

The elf that had been seated by the fire, plucking away at a melancholic, melodious, and mellifluous tune, finally finished and with a graceful smile and more graceful bow, moved away from the hearth. Now was his chance!

“Excuse me,” he cleared his throat and came up to the front of the room. He could feel the heat of the fire on his back, it felt wonderful. “My name is Jorgy Underash. I’m a simple hobbit from the Shire. I, I hope it’s alright if I shared a story with you all. I don’t have any grand tales of wars and heroics and winning maidens from towers or rescuing a ship full of people but I think it is a good story and I think you might all like to hear it.” He got no disparaging looks or grunts of displeasure (an elf would never be so rude or emotional as to say “no”) so he decided to carry on with his tale.

“I woke up one morning and decided that instead of making breakfast right away, I’d go for a walk. Hobbits love going on walks. I find them to be the most peaceful part of my day. I wake up rather early, earlier than most of my fellow Shirefolk. It was still grey outside; the sun hadn’t quite risen and washed the land in gold and green. It was quiet too, just the sounds of waking, hungry animals, and the breeze. I wanted to know where the breeze was coming from, so I followed it. Some of my fellow hobbits have called me weird and strange, and I suppose their right, but even so, I love doing what I do. I love going out to look for things no one thinks to go looking for. I followed the breeze for some time. It changed direction a lot and went over hills, around trees, through some mulberry bushes, and across at least three streams, maybe just two I think I crossed one stream twice. I met a squirrel along the way. He was munching on some acorns and enjoying the early morning quiet. He asked me what I was doing. When I told him I wanted to find where the breeze was coming from, he laughed. Not a cruel laugh, mind you, but one of pure mirth and joy. He said he’d always wandered the same thing but had never thought of actually going. He asked if he could come with me, he’d share his stash of acorns with me. I was delighted of course! Squirrels make for very interest company. We talked a bit as we went on. He was from the northern part of the Shire but enjoyed coming down near Hobbiton because all the best acorns grew there, and the berries in Mrs. Fallowbraid’s garden were simply the best. I can attest to you ladies and gentlemen that that is very true. We went on for some time, just the two of us, until we met a tiny piglet stuck in a bramble. Naturally, we worked to get him out. He was very thankful when we did. He said he’d been spooked by a fox and hadn’t paid attention to where he was going. He asked us where we were going and when we told him he had a merry old laugh. Hunting for the start of a breeze? Why, no one had ever done that! He wanted to come along out of sheer fascination. He brought with him a satchel of corn, enough to share. Of course, we said yes. It was beginning to get on in the day now, the sun was up and the birds were singing and warbling. A robin came down and began to pester us with questions. We were new to their part of the world it seemed and they had a hundred questions. What was a hobbit? What was a squirrel? What was a piglet? And why where were we all going? When we told him we wanted to find the start of the breeze still blowing and giving us refreshment, they immediately understood. They knew where the breeze started! They even agreed to show us! Well we were off, the troupe of unlikely adventurers. We followed the little robin across a great field, through a patch of dark pines, and finally to a high hill overlooking it all. This, they said, was were all breezes started. All breezes in the world, in fact. It was the highest place the little bird knew about and it was only reasonable that all winds and wonderful breezes came from high places. He told us a story about how the elder birds got together on this very hill long, long ago before the sun was the sun, and decided that this was the hill that breezes would come from, all sweet, cooling, and heart lifting winds would come from this spot. It had been their family’s responsibility, they said, to make sure the winds never stopped coming, otherwise the whole world would be full of sadness and the sun wouldn’t have as bright a light in the sky. I asked how they made the winds. The little robin said it was simple: the laughter of friends and loved ones sharing time together. A single afternoon of good feelings could supply enough wind for a whole year! So what did we do, the squirrel, the piglet, the robin, and myself? We had a picnic on the top of that hill and laughed and told stories and jokes and puns until it was supper time! So that’s my story on where winds come from.”

[Zôrzimril]

Pearl wiped away the soft milk mustache she’d acquired and sighed. “That was amazing,” she whispered to herself. She had never tried horchata before, but it was the most refreshingly sweet, light milk she could imagine. It had been served iced, and Pearl found herself astounded to feel the cool drink as it made its way down her throat and into her belly. What a sensory treat! Even the coldest ales at the Green Dragon never went down like that. If she could drink this every day, she would! But the elf-maid who’d offered the carafe of the pearly liquid had not lingered to explain its origins or how to make it. Pearl scanned the feast hall in hopes of glimpsing her again. She wanted to know how to make horchata! Perhaps there was a special, sweet cow you had to find on a mountaintop to come by this most special beverage. She wasn’t sure, but she had to know.

She spotted the lady leaving the hall, her skirts leaving a cool blue wave in her wake. She excused herself from her table with much bowing and many profuse apologies, then hurried after the elf. Pearl had sampled another small bite of mushroom after her little chat with Master Merry, and in her haze and haste, she forgot completely that she’d said she would meet Jorgy in the Hall of Fire. Luckily for her, that was where the elf-maid led her.

Pearl paused outside the large, ornate doorway. The frame was of carved wood, and the thick doors were heavy upon their hinges. They were much bigger than those she was used to seeing at home in the Shire. She felt (or perhaps it was the mushroom telling her) that she might tip over backwards as she leaned back to gaze up at the lintel. Carven figures stood out from the dark wood, but she could not discern the details in the hall’s low light. The great blaze burning inside the hall seemed to call out to her: come in and listen to a tale. Wide-eyed with wonder, she obeyed.

There was no music playing when she entered the room. Instead, a small figure stood before the fire and held the elvish audience - including the Lady of Horchata, as Pearl had begun to refer to her - completely captivated with his tale. “He looks familiar,” thought Pearl. “At any rate, he is a very small elf.” She took a seat on a cushion upon the floor. Backlit as the figure was by the huge fire, she could not see his face. But she listened happily to the tale about searching for the origins of the breeze. The tale was so engrossing that she thought she felt a cool wind float over her face. She heard robins chirping and the oinking of a pig. In the distance, a squirrel chittered. Or was that simply the story? Pearl couldn’t be sure.

Once the tale-teller reached the end of his story, Pearl was laying on her stomach upon the cushion, chin cradled in her hands. “What a talented person!” she said aloud. Then the figure turned so that the light fell across his face, and Pearl gasped. It was Jorgy! She laughed loudly and sat up. “What a lovely tale!” she cried, and she burst into enthusiastic applause. The rest of the room remained still and quiet, and she found that many amused elvish eyes were upon her. Abashed, she blushed deeply and slowed her clapping until it was nothing. “Sorry,” she whispered. Maybe that second mushroom had not been such a good idea after all.

She waved Jorgy over and, once she had recovered from the mild embarrassment of a few moments ago, smiled brightly. “Bravo!” she whispered. Whether it was the elvish way or not, congratulating her friend on a tale well-told felt like the right thing to do.

[The Good Hunter]

He beamed with pride. At some point during the story Pearl had come in and amongst the murmurs and slow claps of approval, he could hear her exuberant and enthusiastic cheers. He didn’t know when she’d come in, but she clearly liked what he’d told. He even blushed a little. It was not very like him to get up in front of a crowd of strangers and tell a story. Yet here he had done just that! In the Hall of Fire no less! Was there any other place in all of Middle-earth that was more prestigious and high class? He bowed and moved back through the crowd of people until he found Pearl. He plopped down next to her and gave her the biggest hug he’d ever given anyone. It had become a dream of his to be a storyteller and taelbook writer and this had been perhaps the first step to realizing that dream. And his best friend in the entire world had been there to watch him and cheer him on! What more could a little hobbit from the Shire ask for?

Jorgy had experienced lots of joy in his life as a hobbit, meeting people at the walking club, befriending people at birthday parties, wandering the markets and buying all sorts of odd knickknacks, but nothing could beat this moment. Jorgy’s little hobbit heart was full to bursting. His best friend in the entire world had gotten to see him tell a story to the most fancy crowd that ever was and they enjoyed it! Truth be told, he’d had no idea what story he was going to tell when he got up there. The words just sort of spilled out of him when he started. It had been a secret story he’d had with the animals, but he was very certain that they would not mind. It was a lovely story and best of all, it was true!

“Thank you so much, Pearl!” he whispered rather loudly, garnering a few raised eyebrows from those seated next to them. Jorgy didn’t mind though, he was still very excited about his wonderful performance, and Pearl’s reaction. “I’m very glad you enjoyed it.” He put his index finger to his lip and began to think. “Say, would you like to go to that hill some day? I’m sure all the robins would love to meet you. And the squirrel and the little piglet too! We could have a proper picnic and more storytelling! The birds have so many stories. Did you know they remember all the stories they are told as chicks? Then they tell those stories to their own chicks and on and on and on, each generation learning the old stories and adding new bits and pieces. Isn’t that wonderful? I’m still learning some of their stories, but I would love to put them down. Maybe in a picture book of some sort?”

Eventually, Jorgy settled into the spot next to Pearl and listened to the next performer. It was a lady elf (also known as an elf) in a silky white gown playing the harp. She looked familiar. Jorgy tried to remember where he’d seen her before. The list of elves he’d seen was not a very long one so going through and remembering them all should not be too hard. “Hmmmmm,” he said aloud, not realizing he was actually speaking. “I think I know her. Oh, oh!” he leaned in and whispered to Pearl. “Isn’t that the lady that gave us the sweet milk drink, the horchata? She’s very good at the harp! I wonder if we should talk to her when she finishes.”

[Zôrzimril]

Pearl was still whispering, “Bravo, Jorgy!” when he joined her and wrapped her in a hug. It was a lung-squeezing, rib-bruising hug, and Pearl thought it was the best hug she’d ever received! What a wonderful evening it had been so far: first meeting a man from the moon, then enjoying the wonders of mushrooms and meeting two of her idols, discovering horchata, and now this - a tale and a hug from her best pal. When they had set out from the Shire, she had expected to come across the unexpected, but she hadn’t envisioned such a splendid party at the end of their journey.

“I’d love that!” Pearl whispered back. (Or, well, she thought she was whispering. She actually was speaking in quite a normal voice, and receiving several curious looks for it.) “You know how I love a good picnic! And books! Let’s take a picnic and you can begin writing your book!” She beamed and hoped they could bring this plan to fruition just as soon as they returned to the Shire.

Pearl blinked when a new performer rose to entertain the gathered crowd. This lady looked quite familiar. Jorgy helped her realize why - it was the Lady of Horchata! Pearl could have sworn she’d been wearing a blue dress earlier. She began to puzzle over this but became distracted when she heard her tummy rumble. She shrugged. It must have been the mushrooms that made her think that white was blue. Perhaps she’d soon be thinking that up was down, or inside out! She was learning rather quickly that you never could tell what would come next when it came to these sorts of mushrooms.

“That is her!” she said, nodding vigorously. Her curls bounced and the bow in her hair threatened to fall out. She reached up to re-tie it tightly back in place. Pearl listened attentively to the lady’s song. It was a light, lilting melody which made her think of a day she’d once spent running up and down the hills outside Hobbiton with her father. She had been very young - it was well before Tom and Daisy were born - and she’d loved the feeling of rising up the hill and speeding down the other side. The music seemed to rise and fall just as quickly as young Pearl had raced up and down the slopes. Without realizing it, she began to sway gently from side to side in time with the music, her eyes wide and shining with admiration for the Lady’s skill with the harp.

Once the song came to an end on a final, bright chord, Pearl stood once more and applauded. This time, she ignored all the looks from the elves - or perhaps the elves had become accustomed to her enthusiastic cheering and simply weren’t looking at her as intently this time. Pearl neither noticed nor cared. “Oh yes, we should go say hello to her!” she said to Jorgy. She took his hand and marched straight up to the lady. It was a far bolder move than she normally would have made, but these were exceptional circumstances.

She looked up at the elf-maid who, having stood up, towered over the two hobbits. “Hello!” Pearl said cheerfully. “That was a wonderful song! Thank you for playing it.” She blinked. “Oh!” she went on, remembering the horchata. “And we wanted to thank you for the delicious drink earlier! I’ve never tasted anything like it before. Is it a special elven drink?”

The lady smiled kindly and took a seat on a nearby stool, resting her harp against the wall. “It is a special drink, to be sure,” she said. Her voice was just as sweet as the horchata, Pearl thought, but deeper and more substantive than the thin liquid. “One that we make for very special guests and very special occasions. But it is no secret,” she said with a grin, “and we are glad to share the recipe with any who ask!”

Pearl was rendered momentarily speechless - though whether this was from the notion that they were “very special guests” or at the realization that she was quite small in comparison with this great, beautiful lady, or perhaps simply due to the mushrooms again, she could not say. She merely gaped at the lady, then at Jorgy, and then at the lady again. Oh dear. This was awkward. Say something! her sensible inner monologue prodded her. But she couldn’t say something! She only hoped Jorgy might fill the gap in the conversation before it all became too strange.

[The Good Hunter]

Pearl looked to be in a spot of trouble. She looked so amazed by this elf (whose had color changing clothes, or he’d not paid attention before) that she’d been rendered speechless. Jorgy knew the feeling, a few times in his life he’d utterly lost the ability to form words (when he could form words of course) and end up saying nonsense. Literal nonsense. Random sounds that made him look more like a zoo than a person (he may have honked, but he blocked that memory out). Thankfully, he’d devoted himself not only to the finding of the origin of specific breezes, but also to know when to jump in and say something. This was definitely that time. Heroes didn’t always come in with massive swords covered in sweat and mud, sometimes they hopped in and rescued their best friend from awkwardness.

“Do you really think two young hobbits from the Shire are special guests?” he was quite surprised by that, surprised and flattered. “Why ma’am,” he didn’t know her name and thought it might be weird to ask it at this point so he hoped she’d say it or someone else would come by and congratulate her and say her name. It also felt weird to call her anything but “Lady of Horchata” and he was definitely not about to give her a name (which might end up being Sylvie or something). “I think that is one of the most kindest things anyone has ever said about me. Pearl, of course, is the most specialest of guests anywhere she goes because she’s just the best. That’s Pearl, by the by, and I’m Jorgy. And I must agree with Pearl, that was the most delightful drink I have ever drunk… drank… drinken?” He stumbled over the word. Drat! This was not saving the day Jorgy, this was kicking the ball into the wrong net!

He cleared his throat, getting a few exasperated looks from some of the elves. He grimaced. This Hall really was for telling stories or listening to music. Conversation didn’t seem to be part of the social contract here. What to do, what to do…

“I think,” he said in a much lower voice, not quite a whisper but still loud enough to be heard, “that it is a most wonderful drink and I think I speak for my friend when I say that it was an honor to get to have some of your special recipe.” An idea popped into his head just then, an idea that might not seem like a huge explosion of light to anyone else, but to Jorgy it was a true lightning bolt of smarts. “Say, I don’t know what sort of things you do around here in Rivendell ma’am, but if you are ever in need of some interesting company and some fun adventures come to the Shire and look us up! Mayhaps we can even trade recipes! I’m still learning of course, but I would be more than happy to share anything that you’d like. I think I speak for my friend again when I say we’d absolutely love to have the recipe for that delicious horchata.”

[Zôrzimril]

Pearl practically sighed with relief when Jorgy stepped into the awkward moment, just as she knew he would. It was a mark of how good a friend he was that he understood when she was struck dumb for one reason or another. She only hoped that, as his friend, she was this in-tune with his various moods. The thing with Jorgy, though, was that he mostly was a cheerful and happy-go-lucky sort - she had rarely, if ever, seen him in anything like a bad mood. Confused, sure, but never angry. She had to wonder if he ever did get angry and if so, how he managed to hide it. She could learn a thing or two from him when it came to hiding her feelings about her brother and her overbearing mother.

She smiled at the sound of her name. “Yes, I’m Pearl!” she said, flushing. “I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. It’s a good thing I have Jorgy here to cover up my mistakes.”

The lady smiled kindly. “And my name is Lilótea,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you both.”

Pearl mouthed the syllables of that elven name - it was as beautiful as the lady herself, and as sweet on the ears as the horchata had tasted. How was it that the elves had language which elicited such powerful sensory reactions? Pearl could not say. She knew, though, that it was not an art that hobbits had mastered.

Lilótea inclined her head to each hobbit, then addressed Jorgy directly. “What a kind invitation! You are a true gentleman, Jorgy. It just so happens I may be bound westward soon enough.” An expression of longing and sadness crossed her face, but only for an instant. Pearl blinked, wondering if the mushroom was making her see things again. “A visit to the Shire would make for a delightful detour. Where can I find you two if I were to stop by?”

At the suggestion that the lady might visit the Shire one day, she clasped her hands together and raised them to her chin in an effort to contain her excitement. It seemed that the foggy slowness brought on by the mushroom was fading after all, and some of her more Pearlish reactions were asserting themselves again. How wonderful it would be to welcome an elf-maid to the Green Dragon!

“We’re in Bywater!” she said, jumping at the chance to add something to the conversation. “And I work at the local pub - the Green Dragon. I’m not sure we’ve ever had an elf at the Dragon. You would honor us with your presence!”

The lady’s laughter was light and merry. “A pub! The finest of establishments, I’m sure. I would be delighted. And I can most certainly bring a recipe for horchata when I visit. I shall insist, though, that you share your most favorite recipes with me in exchange. It’s said that even the elves can learn a thing or two about food from the halflings.”

Pearl nodded her assent and grinned widely at Jorgy. He made this sort of conversation look so effortless! To be fair, it would have involved far less effort on her part if she hadn’t had that second mushroom, but oh well. The situation was what it was. She would be sure not to consume any mushrooms before her upcoming shifts at work, just in case a party of elves decided to drop by. “We will comb our recipe boxes for the very best we have to offer!” she promised. “Thank you very much!” She gave a little curtsy to Lilótea and grasped Jorgy’s hand as they walked away.

“Jorgy, you’re a genius! You really saved the day with that elf lady. I know we know her name now, but she’ll probably always be the Lady of Horchata to me.” She giggled. “What do you think? Shall we stick around for some more stories?”

[The Good Hunter]

They both mouthed the syllables of the elven maiden (Jorgy was learned from one of the songs earlier that the proper term was ‘elleth’ or ‘nís’) at the same time. Was that weird? Not that they did something together (they did that a lot actually) but that they sounded out the elleth’s name? Jorgy had never remembered doing that with anyone else. He felt odd. He’d never done that with his own name before. Suddenly, the young hobbit had the urge to sound out his own name. That would be weird though, that much he knew. Still, he couldn’t help wanting to sound out his name and feel how his moved. He was about to do just that when he reached up scratched his nose. That itched saved him from likely one of the weirder embarrassments he’d experienced. Thank goodness for itchy noses!

And speaking of weird, the pretty elleth, Lilótea, called him a gentleman. Him! Jorgy! He’d never considered himself a gentleman. Was it the same sort of thing as gentlehobbit? He really wanted to be one of those. Was he getting better at it? He dearly hoped so. That would just be the cherry on top of this sundae of a trip. He beamed and blushed. She looked sad then for a moment when she mentioned going westward. Was going west a sad thing? Jorgy was, admittedly, confused, but he wasn’t sure he should go about asking why. Not yet at least. Maybe he could get to know her and then he could ask. Jorgy learned it was impolite to ask relative strangers weird or personal questions without knowing them first. Sadly, he didn’t have that lesson down when he first met Mr. Brockhouse and he asked him who made his bathmats (he never got an answer because the awkwardness was interrupted by Mrs. Brockhouse’s call for coffeecake in the dining room).

“I don’t have many recipes, truth be told Ms. Lilótea, but I do make something called a muffin ball, I would love to show you how we make those!” It was true, Jorgy was not exactly the best pastry chef in the Shire, he knew this (standing next to the real one) but he loved making his little muffin balls with her. They should open up a Marketplace Stall! But that was not the point of this conversation. Jorgy, stay on track! “Oh yes! The Green Dragon is a fantastic inn. The best in all the Shire really, don’t let let them at the Ivy Bush tell you anything different. And,” he continued, hands to his side as if he were telling another story, “It’s not a real green dragon. You needn’t worry about bringing a sword or shield or anything. I even checked personally in the basement to make sure there was no funny business. I did see a lizard though. Maybe it will grow up to a green dragon?” He was rambling again. Darnit Jorgy!

Horchata and muffin balls, remember Jorgy, horchata and muffin balls. Oh no, well there goes Jorgy’s attention span. Horchata and muffin balls.

He didn’t come out of his daydream until Pearl squeezed his hand. He blushed from more than embarrassment but grinned widely. They’d just made friends with an elf! No, an elleth! Two silly hobbits from the Shire! Take that Tom!

“I think she might be to me too!” he giggled and looked at the fire. It was roaring and crackling, just like a fireplace does in one’s imagination. “I think we can stay for one more performance. Do you think it’ll be someone with a xylophone?”

It was not someone with a xylophone, that instrument was still getting perfected somewhere in the east by a very busy Blue Wizard (but that’s another story altogether).

They were treated to a lovely three of singers, all singing different octaves. Something called a capella? They didn’t have music to accompany them, but they were pretty good! Jorgy found he was very much a fan of their style of singing.

There once was a ship that put to sea
The name of the ship was the Billy of Tea
The winds blew up, her bow dipped down
Oh blow, my bully boys, blow (huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguing is done
We'll take our leave and go

She'd not been two weeks from shore
When down on her a right whale bore
The captain called all hands and swore
He'd take that whale in tow (huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguing is done
We'll take our leave and go

Before the boat had hit the water
The whale's tail came up and caught her
All hands to the side, harpooned and fought her
When she dived down low (huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguing is done
We'll take our leave and go

No line was cut, no whale was freed
The captain's mind was not of greed
And he belonged to the Whaleman's creed
She took that ship in tow (huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguing is done
We'll take our leave and go

[The Good Hunter]

She exhaled slowly and swallowed the lump in her throat. How had her brother talked her into performing tonight? One minute he was trying to weasel her horchata recipe from her then he challenged her to a duel of stories at the Hall of Fire. She’d been dupped. The fortified wine they’d been sharing went straight to her head and she accepted without thinking about how much public performance terrified her. Her brother had done that on purpose. He was a sneaky little pirate that one. She’d wanted to find a way out of it, but she’d given her word, drunk or not, and that was important. Without one’s honor, making a delicious horchata drink praised by hobbit and elf alike was rather empty. She would beat him in the challenge. There was no question of that. He couldn’t sing his way out of a parchment sack nor could he play any instruments in such a way that didn’t peel the paint from the walls. This was just a way to get revenge for not sharing her horchata recipe. He could be so petty, her little brother. No matter. Lilótea was not about to let him see her sweat. She’d been so nervous that she missed the performance before her, a minstrel was retelling some old story by mixing it with a bawdy tune. Everyone in the hall seemed to love it. The cheers had been uproarious, as had the laughter.

She inhaled, then exhaled, excising all the butterflies from her stomach. She could do this. She closed her eyes and smiled. She could do this. Still with closed eyes, she grasped around for her lyre, finding it’s smooth, lacquered wood a comforting anchor. She could do this. She opened her eyes and stood. The Hall of Fire was filled with people, most of whom she didn’t know. That made it a little easier. It was harder to impress people you didn’t know. Her brother was sitting near the front, a smug expression on his youthful face. She looked forward to wiping it off with her tale.

Lilótea sat by the fire and spent a moment making sure the tuning on her lyre was just right. Once she was satisfied, she began.

“A long, long time ago, before the quendi awoke by the still waters of Cuiviénen, before Yavanna Kementári raised the Two Trees to cast light across the world, there lived a simple man and his wife. They were minor spirits of the earth, beloved of Yavanna in her many great works. The man was named Epimetheus and he loved nothing so much as the simple work of tilling fields, planting, and harvesting. He consulted with Yavanna time and time again as to what should be grown and when and how much. They were often deep in each other’s council as the years stretched on and on. They knew the great preparation they must make; it was their responsibility to ready the world for the Children of Illúvatar, the make a grand display of colors and lights and smells and tastes. They worked and labored long and tirelessly, yet the work filled them with joy unending.

“The same could not be said of Epimetheus’ wife, a river spirit named Pandora, some say she was the younger sister of Ossë, the wild and tempestuous lord of waves. She loved most the waters and the little creatures that swam and played with her as she waded through the thousand little streams and riverbeds of Arda. She loved nothing more than quiet ease. Often, she would float from one end of the world to the other, drifting slowly and listlessly, without a single care or duty in all the world. She was happy with this life of carefree ease and luxury. Ulmo, far too busy with the affairs of the oceans and deep seas and lakes, bothered her little and never tasked her with the same kind of responsibilities that Yavanna gave her husband. It was not until the Shadow was cast by Melkor that she was brought into any responsibility at all.

“It was decided, after great debate and discourse, that a Maia spirit must be chosen to guard the secret darknesses of Arda, that Melkor must never be allowed to possess them and unleash them on Arda, for if he did, it would be impossible for any to stop him and the Shadow would lengthen so far that all the world would be covered in corrosive darkness. It was decided that the task would fall to Epimetheus and Pandora. They were minor and unassuming, who could ever believe that within their fair fields was the greatest evils yet to be unleased upon the world? Yavanna disputed the decision, loathed to lose her greatest friend and worker to a task that would take all his attention. Pandora, for her part, was also loathed to take up that task, knowing it would keep her rivetted to a single spot, a deathspell of a river spirt such as her. Yet they agreed in the end, knowing that their wants and desire could not compare with the safety of Arda.

“So began a long peace, as long as Melkor could not find these secret darknesses, he could not undo all the mighty works of the Valar, though he strove at every angle to do so. He Who Arises in Might never gained the advantage, he could only distract and dismay, but never demolish or destroy. His anger grew in measure with him impudence, yet no matter his rage, he could not find the secret darknesses. Time passed on and eventually Pandora and Epimetheus grew accustomed to their circumstances. Epimetheus grew a great and luxurious garden in which he found delight, devising fruits of all colors and sizes and shapes. Pandora carved a stream that circled their home in an infinite loop. She held the darknesses in the jar the Valar had crafted from them and dangled her feet in the cool waters. Soon, though, the couple were so preoccupied with their lives that they almost forgot each other. They grew bored and stagnate near each other, only thriving when they were apart in their separate homes.

“Then, dreadful happenstance. A serpent, the tiniest of which, happened upon Pandora as she gazed into her stream, lost in daydreams of older days. He asked her what was in the jar and why she held it so closely. She did not answer him at first, the littlest of snakes. She could not even hear him over the sounds of her nostalgia. He pressed her, asking again and again, even coiling around her arm to gain her attention. She did not know he was there until she felt his serpent tongue in her ear. She shrieked and attempted to fight him off, but when she saw it was just a tiny serpent she relented. He begged pardon for his intrusion, explaining once again that he was only interested in the jar and why she held it so tightly. She told him, as she was bored and lonely with her husband spending all his days in the dirt and soil of his precious garden. She told the snake that it was the jar that the Valar had constructed to guard the secret darknesses, to keep them away from Melkor lest he cover the world in Shadow.

“The little snake was incredulous. The Valar gave such a great weapon, things capable of injuring the world beyond repair, to two Maia out alone in the wide world? She must be joking. There was no way a story like this could be true. He accused her of making up a story to scare him away, which he did not appreciate. He said if she were telling the truth, that the darknesses were truly in the jar to show him. Yet she did not. He pressed her time and again, yet each time she rebuffed him, telling the little serpent it was not his right to question her, a Maia of Ulmo. Days they spent sparing, the serpent sometimes begging and pleading, other times cajoling and baiting her. Yet never did Pandora break, bored and unhappy with the task as she was, she refused to bend to the will of the serpent.

“Finally, though, the serpent said something that Pandora could not refute. He said that the Valar had tricked her. They had not given her anything but an empty jar. They had played her and her husband for fools. They had taken all the things that Pandora and Epimetheus loved about the world and stolen it away. Epimetheus was happy in his garden, but he was blind to the ways of the world. Pandora was trapped here. The jar was not a prison for the darknesses, it was a prison for her. And so, in protest that she’d been tricked, Pandora opened the jar.

“Out of the jar came the darknesses, vile and wicked. Pain and misery were the first to sweep passed her, they shrieked and clawed at her as they flew away. Horror and mischief were next, kicking at her as they fled. Rage and wickedness, pettiness and spite, sickness and helplessness. They all broke from of the jar and spread their evil across the land. The last thing to come crawling from the jar was hope, the most vile and insidious of all. For although we thrive on hope, though we look to hope to guide us and help us make the world, it is a poisonous fiend who would seek to drown us in questions of “what could be…” and “if only we had just…” if we are not careful. It is like a heady fortified wine that seeks to draw us further and further in until we cannot see up from down or light from darkness. Though it is a beacon to strive toward, it is a sinister whisper that says we can never have it all and leaves us, desperate and hopeless.

“Hope scratched at Pandora’s hands, tore her bloody and screaming. The serpent, the littlest of which, stopped it, coiling around the shifting darkness before it could flee and forced it back into the jar, but not without loss. The only way that hope could be stopped from bringing its darkness to the world was for the snake to sacrifice itself and seal the two of them within the jar.

“And so, Melkor found all the secret darknesses that escaped that day, collected them and unleashed evil unspeakable upon the world. Yet even with all that power, he could not bring total victory, because he did not have enough hope.”

[Ercassie]

Nariel Eregwen

It had been a time since the maiden had taken her steps and thoughts of singing to the Hall of Fire. And as many times as she did, still she could not fathom why she were not come here with more frequency. Motherhood was an impactful factor, likely. And her children were too young yet to play here, without interrupting the play of others. This day a friend, the Dwarf Iggy Steeljaw had custody of her little delights however. For Nariel had come upon a mission and required no distraction. Odd as such a notion was for her on any other day of any other age.

Today though she had come expecting for little audience, she was woeful to observe nary at all. So few had her kind become in years of late, as the Third Age dwindled and the population of the fair folk in the valley followed suit. Still, with eyes as blue as shone the sea, and hair blossoming atop her like an autumnal crown, Nariel did not hesitate to wander her way unto the stage and even with no eyes nor ears here to regard her, still she began. Chance might prove that her selection of amusement might inspire company of a like mind, by the time she was done.

And so with clear and ringing voice, she regaled the empty room, the emptying kingdom of her ancient, wandering people .. with a song which sprang from her throat as easily as did the thought of it occur.


“ Come and be welcome, O wandering minstrel
Spreading your music from city to town
Be you harper or piper, your duty is noble
You carry the tunes that will never die down
Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all

Come and be welcome, O noble court poet
The treasure of knowledge is kept in your words
So unlock the riches of rhyme and of rhythm
And let all the wealth of your wisdom be heard
Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all

Come and be welcome, O fair-voicèd singer
Weaving the magic of music along
You can thunder the heavens to raise up an army
Or simply bring laughter and peace with a song
Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all

Come and be welcome, O rare tale-teller
With stories of wonder you wisely recall
Now tell of the heroes who dwell in our history
For tales that are true are the best of them all
Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all

Come and be welcome, wherever you hail from
Share all the secrets and joys of your art
For every new voice that joins in the chorus
Will uplift the spirit and cheer the heart
Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all

Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all

Come and be welcome ye bards one and all
Come and be welcome, ye baaaaards one and alllllllllll.**


**(All credit to the lyrics of Heather Dale’s ‘Come and Be Welcome’)