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Gwindolyn Spiritor and AelKennyr Rhiano
Gwindolyn Spiritor walks into the cell where she left him. He is still out. She grins, knowing she had given him another dose to keep him out a little longer. She signals her drow to take him to a room of splendor, a room for a guest and not a captive. Splendid silks hung over the bed and leathers of highest craftmanship to the side ready for him to wear. She stands in nothing but a simple set of purple leather straps from the collar of her throat down to her hips. One wide strip of purple leather falling from the collar to the floor. Her feet are bare, and the only weapon she visibly wears is the dagger on her thigh. Her finger nails, deadly with the silver tipped manicure, flash in the torch light. Her dragon lurks around, but not within sight. She signals him to be laid in bed as if just waking from a bad dream. She pulls a vial from her waist and feeds the antidote to the elf. She hands the vial back to the guards and shoo's them away. She sits as if nursing the elf personally for him to wake up to.
Nimros stirs a little, a soft moan revealing that he was awakening. He shifts his weight a little in the bed. Slowly his eyes flutter open, and eyes the color of emeralds slowly, blearily, look about his surroundings, taking in the room, the bed. He looks down at the sheets and slowly, as his senses clear of the drug she had used to keep him unconscious, he turns his head. His eyes widen as he takes in her dress, her appearance. He flushes bright red, a clear betrayal of his youth, and stammers in Quenya, "I--you...where are you...no, where am I?" A hand goes up to his head, and he cradles it for a moment, trying to piece together where he now may be. "I remember a blackness." He looks back up and at the walls. The air is tepid, yet his skin prickles.
Ilharess bends over him as if caring for him as he awakes. She feigns pulling the sheets around him to keep him warm as he regains consciousness. She shushs him a bit as he moans and shifts. "There, there, settle down... That's a good elf." Her voice is an impressive mock-up of a caring nurse. She understands his words with some difficulty as the accent was odd to her ears, but she quickly adapts to his speaking. "You were found in the tunnels. You were not conscious. We brought you here to wake you up. What were you doing so far underground, surfacer?" She says with fake concern in her voice. She speaks with her own accent, thanking Lloth that the Spider Queen of Chaos demanded her High priestesses speak to her only in very Ancient High Elven. Most modern elves could never translate, but this one is not a normal elf by all that she had experienced so far.
Nimros drops his hand from his head as her arms came into view. He quickly turns youthful eyes to this dark skinned female, and stares at her openly, his face flushes as his eyes lingers on her manner of dress. He hurriedly drops his gaze to her hands, drawn to her exquisite nails, unlike any he has ever seen. Her accent is a little different, but he breathes in a sigh of relief to hear her speak to him in Quenya instead of the language of men. Indeed, it takes a moment for what she has said to register. "Underground." He looks up and into her eyes, finding in her face elven features. "I- I was in a grove of fruit trees, " he says, frowning. "I remember trees, then a darkness. Then something scraped my..." he raises his arm and notices that the garments he wears now were not his. He sucks in a breath, and whispers, "Where are my clothes, please, my Lady?"
Ilharess looks at him a bit stunned. "You wore no clothes when we found you. Perhaps your attacker took them from you to slow you down then." Her words are easy and smooth, but hold appropriate shock and dismay to them. "We dressed you so when you awoke you would not be naked." Not that she is much more than naked, but that is besides the point. The room is lit by a few torches, but on the dark side for a surfacer. The natural glowing lichen (moss) cling to the walls here and there. Books line the shelves, and there are a few tiny figurines here and there.
Nimros drops is gaze and tries to duck his head, but the young elf had flushed crimson to the very roots of his hair. He lowers his arm, absently rubbing where he has been dealt the first scratch of poison. Then he looks around the room with a frank curiosity. 'Thank you, for clothing me. My mother said that it is the highest we can do for another, to clothe them in their need." His voice grew wistful at the end of his statement, and a sigh escaped him. He takes in the darkness of the room, the faint glow of the walls. He spies the books. The room looks like it belonged to someone. He slowly turns his head to the dark-skinned one with him. "Your rooms?" he asks, his voice shy.
Ilharess does not reside in this room: it is one given to guests. Still, she didn't want him to know who he was yet. "Yes, my room. I stay with my sister who has much higher rank and power here - therefore a bigger room." Trickery was an artform amongst the drow. She wasn't the best at it, but she was more than adequate for most surfacers to accept her acting as real. The books are nothing much, just some language study books." She made sure they were stocked with things like drow, dwarf or gnome. She didn't want him to understand things, after all. "Our food is a little strange to visitors, but if you are hungry, we have some for you to regain your strength with."
Nimros twists around in the bed and looks up into her eyes. "It is a fine room, " he says, smiling. "Much bigger than mine at home. But my mother said that if I had stopped growing and kept a respectable elf's height instead of reaching a stature neigh near the king's himself, my feet would not dangle off the end of the bed, and I would not bang my head on the ceiling so oft." He pauses for breath, and then changes subject with careless abandonment. "Thank you for use of your bed, your room. I do not know how I could repay your kindness. I hope your sister is not upset at your generosity?" Then he looks down at her hand and shyly places one of his next to it. "Forgive my ignorance. Are you elven? For it seems you have much in your features that seem to be. Yet, I have not seen such an elf...if you are elven."
Ilharess relies heavily on what she remembers from the last elf she hosted, Olwe. Everything Nimros is saying falls in line with what she gleaned from him. She smiles for him. Her smile is full of pleasure, dark lips stretching easily and happily. He needn't know her pleasure was at her own cleverness and not his words. Her blues eyes shine, but not with a light for him. They shine with her amusement at how easy this all seemed to be. Still speaking in her priestess language she answers him. "We might have once been elves: many would call us cousins. We call ourselves Drow." She offers him her hand. "I have not seen one so pale as you. Tell me about where you come from?"
Seeing no guile in her smiles, the young elf smile grows brighter, his eyes reflecting his happiness at her tone and her seeming kindness. Long he has been among strangers, and though Elwing the White was kind, she was close to being a mythic heroine in the young Teleri's mind, and Echuir was a Queen in her own lands! He mistook the blue of her eyes as a mark of close kinship, his own green being unusual among his people. "I am from Alqualonde, far away, in the West," he answers. Still unknow to him is the removal of the Swanhaven from the Undying Lands, nor had he any idea of how close he had been to reaching his home before his capture. "I am Teleri, but I do not think my kin is here in Middle Earth any more."
Gwindolyn Spiritor rises from her spot by his side. She walks to the desk and gathers a tray that was covered. She walks back. "I bet your land looks much different than the underdark." She returns to his side with the tray in her hands. "Tell me about your home?" She lifts a tray and says "Rothje" at the meat, meaning the underdark version of goat. She lifts another lid and names the mushrooms in similiar fashion. She sets the tray forward for him.
Nimros watches her. Never has he beheld a maiden dressed as she was. As she walks back, tray in hand, the smell of food wafts across the room to him, and he finds that his stomach rumbles and reminds him how long the hours were between now and his last meal, though he knew not the passage of time. He leans forward eagerly and sniffs as each dish is named, and dutifully repeats each word. He looks across the tray at her and, remembering his manners, says, "Would you like to share this meal?" He starts to fumble about the dishes on the tray in search of eating utensils as he he answers her. "Oh, yes, I have never seen a room like this. But Alqualonde resides in a twilight of its own, in Aman, under the stars and the watchful eyes of all the Valar. And Tilion, Steersman of the Moon, keeps vigil over us, too." He looks up briefly and adds," For he is, after all, in love with our Beloved King."
Ilharess picks up the utensils from the tray for him to find. She cross references names and places and knows this one comes from that Olwe's land. She couldn't be more ecstatic. She holds it in, only letting a pleased smile hold her dark velvet lips. "I have heard rumors of him...the king... King O... Ol...Olw.... Oh I just can't remember his name." She playfully slaps the air in his direction.
Nimros's eyes widen, and he stops in mid-reach for the utensils. "Olwe?" he supplies her, his eyes light up, face eager.
Ilharess snaps up as if bitten. "Yes... yes... I do believe that was his name." She pauses and pulls her face to a dark, worried expression. "The rumors say he is insane." She uses her worry that they have cured him to keep her look appropriate. She lightens her features to say, "But that simply could not be true if he were king and obviously so adored by yourself." She smiles and takes a piece of mushroom and nibbles it to help him feel more comfortable eating. All her drow report how humans drop their guard while eating; perhaps elves do too - not that this one was guarded, but better be safe than sorry.
Nimros drops his gaze and his hand, giving a short nod. "I heard the same. Lady Elwing the White said he is very ill, indeed." He stares at the plate, his appetite lost for the moment. "He is a great king, kind, loving. My people call him 'Anamel,' the Compassionate. Alqualonde is such a land, my lady. All the jewels of Eru's creation were used to create it, the palace, the homes, even the market. Never in all of Aman has there been a place so fair." He heaves a long sigh. "I ache to be back there."
(to be continued)
Nimros stirs a little, a soft moan revealing that he was awakening. He shifts his weight a little in the bed. Slowly his eyes flutter open, and eyes the color of emeralds slowly, blearily, look about his surroundings, taking in the room, the bed. He looks down at the sheets and slowly, as his senses clear of the drug she had used to keep him unconscious, he turns his head. His eyes widen as he takes in her dress, her appearance. He flushes bright red, a clear betrayal of his youth, and stammers in Quenya, "I--you...where are you...no, where am I?" A hand goes up to his head, and he cradles it for a moment, trying to piece together where he now may be. "I remember a blackness." He looks back up and at the walls. The air is tepid, yet his skin prickles.
Ilharess bends over him as if caring for him as he awakes. She feigns pulling the sheets around him to keep him warm as he regains consciousness. She shushs him a bit as he moans and shifts. "There, there, settle down... That's a good elf." Her voice is an impressive mock-up of a caring nurse. She understands his words with some difficulty as the accent was odd to her ears, but she quickly adapts to his speaking. "You were found in the tunnels. You were not conscious. We brought you here to wake you up. What were you doing so far underground, surfacer?" She says with fake concern in her voice. She speaks with her own accent, thanking Lloth that the Spider Queen of Chaos demanded her High priestesses speak to her only in very Ancient High Elven. Most modern elves could never translate, but this one is not a normal elf by all that she had experienced so far.
Nimros drops his hand from his head as her arms came into view. He quickly turns youthful eyes to this dark skinned female, and stares at her openly, his face flushes as his eyes lingers on her manner of dress. He hurriedly drops his gaze to her hands, drawn to her exquisite nails, unlike any he has ever seen. Her accent is a little different, but he breathes in a sigh of relief to hear her speak to him in Quenya instead of the language of men. Indeed, it takes a moment for what she has said to register. "Underground." He looks up and into her eyes, finding in her face elven features. "I- I was in a grove of fruit trees, " he says, frowning. "I remember trees, then a darkness. Then something scraped my..." he raises his arm and notices that the garments he wears now were not his. He sucks in a breath, and whispers, "Where are my clothes, please, my Lady?"
Ilharess looks at him a bit stunned. "You wore no clothes when we found you. Perhaps your attacker took them from you to slow you down then." Her words are easy and smooth, but hold appropriate shock and dismay to them. "We dressed you so when you awoke you would not be naked." Not that she is much more than naked, but that is besides the point. The room is lit by a few torches, but on the dark side for a surfacer. The natural glowing lichen (moss) cling to the walls here and there. Books line the shelves, and there are a few tiny figurines here and there.
Nimros drops is gaze and tries to duck his head, but the young elf had flushed crimson to the very roots of his hair. He lowers his arm, absently rubbing where he has been dealt the first scratch of poison. Then he looks around the room with a frank curiosity. 'Thank you, for clothing me. My mother said that it is the highest we can do for another, to clothe them in their need." His voice grew wistful at the end of his statement, and a sigh escaped him. He takes in the darkness of the room, the faint glow of the walls. He spies the books. The room looks like it belonged to someone. He slowly turns his head to the dark-skinned one with him. "Your rooms?" he asks, his voice shy.
Ilharess does not reside in this room: it is one given to guests. Still, she didn't want him to know who he was yet. "Yes, my room. I stay with my sister who has much higher rank and power here - therefore a bigger room." Trickery was an artform amongst the drow. She wasn't the best at it, but she was more than adequate for most surfacers to accept her acting as real. The books are nothing much, just some language study books." She made sure they were stocked with things like drow, dwarf or gnome. She didn't want him to understand things, after all. "Our food is a little strange to visitors, but if you are hungry, we have some for you to regain your strength with."
Nimros twists around in the bed and looks up into her eyes. "It is a fine room, " he says, smiling. "Much bigger than mine at home. But my mother said that if I had stopped growing and kept a respectable elf's height instead of reaching a stature neigh near the king's himself, my feet would not dangle off the end of the bed, and I would not bang my head on the ceiling so oft." He pauses for breath, and then changes subject with careless abandonment. "Thank you for use of your bed, your room. I do not know how I could repay your kindness. I hope your sister is not upset at your generosity?" Then he looks down at her hand and shyly places one of his next to it. "Forgive my ignorance. Are you elven? For it seems you have much in your features that seem to be. Yet, I have not seen such an elf...if you are elven."
Ilharess relies heavily on what she remembers from the last elf she hosted, Olwe. Everything Nimros is saying falls in line with what she gleaned from him. She smiles for him. Her smile is full of pleasure, dark lips stretching easily and happily. He needn't know her pleasure was at her own cleverness and not his words. Her blues eyes shine, but not with a light for him. They shine with her amusement at how easy this all seemed to be. Still speaking in her priestess language she answers him. "We might have once been elves: many would call us cousins. We call ourselves Drow." She offers him her hand. "I have not seen one so pale as you. Tell me about where you come from?"
Seeing no guile in her smiles, the young elf smile grows brighter, his eyes reflecting his happiness at her tone and her seeming kindness. Long he has been among strangers, and though Elwing the White was kind, she was close to being a mythic heroine in the young Teleri's mind, and Echuir was a Queen in her own lands! He mistook the blue of her eyes as a mark of close kinship, his own green being unusual among his people. "I am from Alqualonde, far away, in the West," he answers. Still unknow to him is the removal of the Swanhaven from the Undying Lands, nor had he any idea of how close he had been to reaching his home before his capture. "I am Teleri, but I do not think my kin is here in Middle Earth any more."
Gwindolyn Spiritor rises from her spot by his side. She walks to the desk and gathers a tray that was covered. She walks back. "I bet your land looks much different than the underdark." She returns to his side with the tray in her hands. "Tell me about your home?" She lifts a tray and says "Rothje" at the meat, meaning the underdark version of goat. She lifts another lid and names the mushrooms in similiar fashion. She sets the tray forward for him.
Nimros watches her. Never has he beheld a maiden dressed as she was. As she walks back, tray in hand, the smell of food wafts across the room to him, and he finds that his stomach rumbles and reminds him how long the hours were between now and his last meal, though he knew not the passage of time. He leans forward eagerly and sniffs as each dish is named, and dutifully repeats each word. He looks across the tray at her and, remembering his manners, says, "Would you like to share this meal?" He starts to fumble about the dishes on the tray in search of eating utensils as he he answers her. "Oh, yes, I have never seen a room like this. But Alqualonde resides in a twilight of its own, in Aman, under the stars and the watchful eyes of all the Valar. And Tilion, Steersman of the Moon, keeps vigil over us, too." He looks up briefly and adds," For he is, after all, in love with our Beloved King."
Ilharess picks up the utensils from the tray for him to find. She cross references names and places and knows this one comes from that Olwe's land. She couldn't be more ecstatic. She holds it in, only letting a pleased smile hold her dark velvet lips. "I have heard rumors of him...the king... King O... Ol...Olw.... Oh I just can't remember his name." She playfully slaps the air in his direction.
Nimros's eyes widen, and he stops in mid-reach for the utensils. "Olwe?" he supplies her, his eyes light up, face eager.
Ilharess snaps up as if bitten. "Yes... yes... I do believe that was his name." She pauses and pulls her face to a dark, worried expression. "The rumors say he is insane." She uses her worry that they have cured him to keep her look appropriate. She lightens her features to say, "But that simply could not be true if he were king and obviously so adored by yourself." She smiles and takes a piece of mushroom and nibbles it to help him feel more comfortable eating. All her drow report how humans drop their guard while eating; perhaps elves do too - not that this one was guarded, but better be safe than sorry.
Nimros drops his gaze and his hand, giving a short nod. "I heard the same. Lady Elwing the White said he is very ill, indeed." He stares at the plate, his appetite lost for the moment. "He is a great king, kind, loving. My people call him 'Anamel,' the Compassionate. Alqualonde is such a land, my lady. All the jewels of Eru's creation were used to create it, the palace, the homes, even the market. Never in all of Aman has there been a place so fair." He heaves a long sigh. "I ache to be back there."
(to be continued)