Dance in Doriath

The sun, still new enough to be awe-inspiring, has set in the west, filling the autumn sky with a glory of gold and orange and purple. An enormous cloud billows up into the sunset, limned with a gold so brilliant it is silver. To the east, the colors fade, shading into blue and then the deepest sapphire, and the first stars glimmer like diamonds set in velvet.

Below, the elves of Doriath are streaming out of Menegroth, to celebrate the last clear days of autumn. Already, the drums are beating, a pulse that thrums through bones. A skirl of pipes soars above them, and other instruments join in. The music is something wild, lawless, untamed.

Elwen has come, for she feels as much at home with the Sindar as the Noldor. They remind her of the early days, before Valinor, or at least Valinor when first they arrived. And yet she is the counselor of Fingolfin and one of his diplomats, so she is dressed finely, despite her protests that the fabric were better used for those in more dire need. She is dressed in soft blues of fine silk-and-wool, from the pale blue of the autumn sky through to midnight. Her hair is twined with blue ribbings set with the freshwater pearls found in Mithrim's lake. She is standing next to a tree, speaking softly to it, somewhat shy

Finrod sits upon a cushion, his feet tapping in time to the music. He watches the drummers intently, his eyes half-closed to his thoughts. There is a round pearl pinning his golden hair, and an belt of enamelled plates with many images, and a simple white robe.

In the middle of the clearing, they are beginning to dance. This is not sedate nor mannerly. There is nothing of gracious courts or elegant formality. This is a dance from before the sun or moon, from when elves danced on the shores of Cuivienen, or in the forests along the great journey beneath Orome's protection. It is, almost, uncivilized.

Setting: Harlindon, early Second Age

Mithlond: Market

Elves come to buy everything here! Sturdy, canopied stalls, built into the street, are crowded with goods during the day, and strung with lanterns at night. Silks flutter, flowers bloom, bells jingle, and merchants cry their wares. The smell of freshly cooked fish tempts...

An unsurpassed concentration of children and doves wanders through the market.

The evening tide roars beneath the basalt cliffs holding Lindon apart from the Sea. A quarter moon wanders the sky.

Lamps are strung between the booths of the market, each stall a temptation and delight. Wool and silk, nets and stylish straw hats, skewers of fish and buckets of clams - all these are to be found, should one care to browse. The Sindar are here, as are the Noldor, and the occasional Man, in town awaiting a ship to the Land of Gift, so recently gifted.

A brown-haired elf with emeralds in his braids, otherwise dressed soberly and for travel, browses a rack of bows.

Head tilted back so that her dark hair brushes the backs of her calves, an elven woman, eyes closed in pleasure, holds a clam in the palm of her hand up to her mouth. The clam seller watches with his shucking knife ready to slide into a another clam on her signal. Brushing the juice from her lips, she smiles and nods. "That was lovely! Yes, another."

Here we are, at our new website.  Sadly, wordpress doesn't let you include the padlet unless you have the sort that is personally hosted - which I can't afford.  So we are here at blogger.  :)