Castle Maladil - RPG

[The Fifth]

* That's no crebain, but a remarkable bird, a creature of uncommon strength and free-spiritedness. I see you've met my artist here. * He gestured towards Holly with his pipe. * As for me, I had wanted to meet you properly according to the poetic grace of your song, thus ... Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo. Please, call me Gandalf. * The wizard bowed a greeting to Kenelm. *

Kenelm glanced at the bird, but did not seem intent on trusting the odd old man, although the wizard bowed, and with such a polite Elvish greeting, and after staring at Gandalf a moment or to, returned the greeting.

He stood, leaving the harp on the floor, and asked softly, 'Who are you? A friend of this perian, coming here to disturb?' The spirit continued to peet at Gandalf. 'We do not wish to be disrupted ... for we are already enough, as it is ...'

Kenelm picked up the harp, and trailed towards the bench, taking a silent seat upon it, and murmuring a few words as he stared at the floor. He did not like this strange company, and he knew Maladil would not, either. Perhaps we would try to ignore them, make them leave, so that they would be in their twisted peace once more, as it had been for an Age. Yet he desired change, and wondered what it was like to be in Valinor ... but -- no, no, it was far too late for that. He was a ghost, bound to the land like a vassal to his Lord. So he went with the ignoring, and began to play to himself, attempting to rid himself of the two .. but the wizard, he seemed to be a patient one. But he would try. Kenelm swept his fingers deftly along the strings, singing softly of the spring and fall:

'Tall and green
Upwards the trees lean
Leaves full and fair,
a breeze in the air.

Blue birds sing,
their voices ring,
the wind calls free,
upon a hillock's knee,
The glittering of light is seen,
within leaves green,
within Sun's light,
from the fleeing of night.

A breath of cold,
and leaves turn gold,
Trunks frosted with snow,
cold autumn's glow.
Cold skies turn dark,
stiff goes the bark,
Layered with silver sheen,
no longer green,
the trees bend to touch the earth;
for no more is the spring mirth.'

[ January 28, 2003: Message edited by: The Fifth ]