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Shawn Daysleeper and AelKennyr Rhiano
The clouds above him rolled in, dark, and steel grey, heavy in a sky that slowly was leeched of all color. The smell of rain rode the hard wind and chapped Olwe's cheeks as he turns from the docks and makes his way across the pearl inlay plaza of the once thriving marketplace. His boots make a steady clop, clop....and then there is a soft sound under his boot. Olwe freezes a moment, eyes widening, and then a smell, totally unlike the rain, rises from beneath his foot. He takes a step back, and blue eyes look down to see the source of the smell, and of the soft sound. He frowns, his brow nearly as stormy as the skies above and looks accusingly across the marketplace to where a male peacock was now displaying his plumage for an unimpressed female. When did those birds arrive? he asks himself. And why here?
Estelin, the Vala Irmo in disguise, decides he needs to maintain his illusion as a Teleri musician. So he tries his hand at cooking again. It was too cold and windy out to fish, and his previous experience at fishing was not especially positive. He decides to try something with chicken. But so far this has not been going well. After some time trying to work his hands and dealing with the noise, he manages to catch the chicken and get it into a coop in the kitchen. The bird continues to make lots of squawking noises that has swans turning heads. This is a time Estelin is happy the city is largely deserted.
Quickly he crosses to the grass near the blacksmith's shed and rubs the bottom of his boot back and forth upon the grass. Reaching out to grab a barrel, his upper lip curls as the smell lingers ever fresh with each brush of his boot. Leaning his body weight against the barrel, he picks up his foot and turns his leg, to check the sole of the boot. Above him the sound of thunder, close, startles the swans who had settled in the tiny pool in the center of the plaza, and they take to the air above him. Satisfied that he has now cleaned the boot, he glances up to catch sight of the swans, and feels a solid glob strike his shoulder. Looking over at this right shoulder, a whitish grey blob sits, splattered across the cloak. Closing his eyes, Olwe gives a heavy sigh. This day is fast failing to improve.
Estelin gets the door to the coop closed and sits next to it, out of breath. Chasing the chicken around wore out his physical form. The chicken keeps squawking. While he sits there, he thinks of all the ways it can be cooked. He knows he has to make a meal these elves actually like, or Nole will ban him from the kitchen forever. But he says aloud in thought, "How do I know when a meal actually tastes good?" The stew he and his sister made some time ago tasted just fine to him, but seemed to make Olwe and Nole turn green in the face.
If the odor from the offal on the boot were ripe, the smell of the glob on his shoulder sets his stomach roiling in protest. Eyes narrowing and his lips a tight, taut line, he strikes out again, for the palace. Above him, the first drops of yet another heavy, hard rain begin to fall. He strikes out across the green toward the lower level of the palace, to the kitchens. There he can shuck the soiled cloak and warm himself before the fire.
The wind picks up and tugs at the flaps of his cloak, and for a few moments, he battles the very air to keep the garment about him, his boots firmly striking ground, until, all at once, his foot hits, not ground, but air, and then lands firmly in a hole, hidden by new growth of grass. As his teeth click together at the sudden jarring of the misstep, water that had collected in the hole from the last rain, sloshes over the top of his fur-lined boots and rushes inside, the iciness of it causing the Lord of Alqualonde to gasp and hiss as he pulls his boot free. Above him, the skies open, and the rain comes down in a heavy solid sheet.
Estelin thinks of some way to cook the chicken. He looks in the coop, and the chicken stops squawking. Estelin opens the door a little and then reaches in to grab the chicken. As he does the chicken stoops down and pecks him. Wincing a little, he makes to grab the bird, but it backs up, and he gets a fistful of feathers. He pulls his hand out and closes the door, still holding the feathers. With a shrug, he stands up and sets a pot of water on the stove and starts to heat the water. He then drops the feathers in the pot and adds some butter that he sees Nole add to cooking sometimes. He smiles as the feathers soak in the buttery water, wondering what else to add to the meal, thinking he will finally make a worthwhile dinner for the king.
As he climbs up the small hillock between the palace and the meeting hall, Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde, King of the Teleri, is wet, muddied, bespattered, and glowering. The skies above are dark and angry, and across the greyish white skies, streaks of lightning followed by thunder brings the promise of another day of storms. One foot wet and chilled, he clutches the folds of his cloak tighter about him, and Olwe has just enough time to feel his boot lose purchase on the slick wet grass before he nearly goes down on the other knee. Luck, and the grace of his race, keeps him upright as he tops the hill and trots for the kitchens, and warmth. Opening the door and stepping in, he heaves a sigh, water puddling around his boots. The sound of water bubbling on the stove reaches his ears before he registers the sight before him. Estelin! Cooking!
Estelin notices a shelf of containers by the stove, all collected by Nole on his various voyages into the mortal world. The cans are all labeled in strange writing. One in particular gets his attention: it has a greenish oblong, 'noodle' looking picture on it. "Jala... Jalapen.." he tries to read the writing aloud. He shrugs and shakes the contents vigourously into the boiling water. At that moment the door opens. He sees his king there, all ruddy and stained by some white substance that looks like it was dropped on him. He continues to shake the 'noodles' in, all of them. Smiling, he begins to serve up the meal. "My king, I have just finished preparing a meal for you."
Over along one wall, a cage sat, and inside a large chicken meets Olwe's gaze with a beady, outraged stare, or so it seems to the Lord of Alqualonde. Upon the stove, a pot of water bubbles and pops, the smell rising from it surprisingly appealing, given the last dish Estelin served them all. Unthinkingly, he reaches down and grabs his stomach with a gloved hand, remembering how the rest of the night had been spent. Then he peels off his gloves and unclasps the heavy, sodden cloak, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. Stepping out from it, he pushes it to one side of the door and then, reaching out a hand against the wall to brace himself, he struggles out of the boots as he addresses the disguised Vala over his shoulder. "It is raining...again," he tells Estelin. Finally free of his boots, he turns around toward the center of the room and its other occupant. With a jut of his chin, he indicates the pot of water. "You are preparing supper?" He tries to keep his voice light and free of the trepidation that threatens to seize him. His heart quails, however, as he sees Estelin spoon the contents of the pot into a bowl. 
Estelin smiles. "Yes, I have cooked some chicken," he says proudly. "I have seen Nole add some of these other ingredients when he cooks. Butter and noodles." He finishes spooning the meal into a bowl and takes it to the table. "Please, have a seat. There is also some ale here as well." He stands by the table holding the bowl, waiting for Olwe.For a moment, Olwe holds his breath. The aroma floats about the kitchen, and his mouth waters in response, but the smell, although a pleasant one, is heavy in a way he cannot quite identify. Looking into the eager face of the disguised Vala, Olwe cannot bring himself to refuse, and so, with leaden feet, he moves towards Estelin and the waiting bowl, one foot still chilled by the immersion in the hole of cold rainwater.
As he comes up to Estelin, he reaches out and takes the bowl. Looking down into the bowl, he sees two feathers floating in a sea of buttered water. Steam disguises another item floating there, a lump of brownish green. He is about to sit down on the bench, but, absorbed in the contents of his bowl, he misjudges where the leg of the trestle stood and jams a toe against it. Broth sloshes over the lip of the bowl and onto his hands, and he drops it on the table in automatic response, biting off a curse best not voiced before a Vala.
Estelin tries to help Olwe calm down and rest himself by offering to help him sit down at the table. "Lord Olwe, please rest a moment." He then wipes down the bench so he would not be sitting in chicken feather soup. "There is enough for another bowl for you. Then perhaps we can talk about the trip we will be taking?"
Olwe tucks a hand under his armpit, biting his bottom lip, as he bends over and reaches down with his free hand, about to touch the throbbing toe. His luck runs true today, and it is the little toe on the chilled foot that smashes against the trestle. Hissing at the pain, he balances on one foot as the table is wiped clean. Then he hears Estelin's words and gives an inward groan. He has already upset one Vala with his resolve. He is about to disappoint another.
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