On Winter Nights (January 3009) {Mithiel}
May 15, 2018 19:31:07 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on May 15, 2018 19:31:07 GMT -5
Any warmth the sun had offered was now stolen, as the light of day ebbed from the sky. High snowdrifts piled against trees of Imladris; against bushes, against the walls of the cliffs. While the large waterfalls still churned, and the icy stream raged below, small waterfalls were frozen in place along the faces of stone; long stems of ice reaching from clifftop to bottom.
Winter days kept Ruivo at home; his wanderings would still as the soft fall of snow settled upon the land and filled the valley. While his feet would rest; his hands were kept busy. Ruivo was ever crafting metal raiment; the repairing of swords, working all manner of trade as needed by the realm. The armory was kept filled, immaculate, ready, as ever, and prepared for what may come, as it had been since the days when Gil-galad was King and the first call to arms had been made.
Already having cleaned himself from his day of working at the forge, his damp hair fell around his face, freezing in place as fire colored shards. Ruivo had exchanged his soot stained work clothes for a simple flaxen tunic, black, with trim of red and gold. Summer wear for most; but year round what he preferred. Cloakless had traipsed through the snow to the hall of records to write an account of his workings, then back again down the snowblown path to his forge; to the crafting room held beside. The fire was dampened for the evening now, and the ice cold winter air had already seeped into the metal which had earlier been hot to the touch.
Ruivo gathered carefully the tools which he would take back to the halls; the gems which he would carefully polish and shape by hand and firelight at the end of day. This was restful work for Ruivo. Craft of fine detail, which his hands enjoyed. Intricate work, where each stroke of the file would bring both life and order to the mineral before him. Procedure, structure, form. After taking what it was he desired, he slid his boxes and jars of tools carefully back into place; making an account of them with his eyes as he tried to recall what he should need.
Striding on long legs, Ruivo stepped soundlessly through the entrance to the north wing of the Last Homely House. The daylight fast was dwindling; lavender sky diminishing, and twilight stealing away the greens of the fir trees and browns of the bare-barked beech before him. Snow clung to the legs of his pants; falling off in clusters to melt upon the rugs in the hall. The north wing was where he would trod; though it was on the south he resided himself. Clumps of snow clung still upon his shoulders; upon his frozen hair.
His hand clung to the cold metal box in which his detail tools and the fineries he meant to work upon were contained. Everything else he needed would be situated in linear fashion upon the his craft table. The table situated in a comfortable, quiet corner of a room in the north wing, as it had been, for three thousand winters. As had been his routine on winter nights for many years, though much more often since the fell winter, when he had been stolen away by other duty, Ruivo stopped before the door, standing silently for a long moment, then rapping upon it. Three taps, evenly spaced as always. His hand dropped to his side, and he listened for the familiar footsteps.
Winter days kept Ruivo at home; his wanderings would still as the soft fall of snow settled upon the land and filled the valley. While his feet would rest; his hands were kept busy. Ruivo was ever crafting metal raiment; the repairing of swords, working all manner of trade as needed by the realm. The armory was kept filled, immaculate, ready, as ever, and prepared for what may come, as it had been since the days when Gil-galad was King and the first call to arms had been made.
Already having cleaned himself from his day of working at the forge, his damp hair fell around his face, freezing in place as fire colored shards. Ruivo had exchanged his soot stained work clothes for a simple flaxen tunic, black, with trim of red and gold. Summer wear for most; but year round what he preferred. Cloakless had traipsed through the snow to the hall of records to write an account of his workings, then back again down the snowblown path to his forge; to the crafting room held beside. The fire was dampened for the evening now, and the ice cold winter air had already seeped into the metal which had earlier been hot to the touch.
Ruivo gathered carefully the tools which he would take back to the halls; the gems which he would carefully polish and shape by hand and firelight at the end of day. This was restful work for Ruivo. Craft of fine detail, which his hands enjoyed. Intricate work, where each stroke of the file would bring both life and order to the mineral before him. Procedure, structure, form. After taking what it was he desired, he slid his boxes and jars of tools carefully back into place; making an account of them with his eyes as he tried to recall what he should need.
Striding on long legs, Ruivo stepped soundlessly through the entrance to the north wing of the Last Homely House. The daylight fast was dwindling; lavender sky diminishing, and twilight stealing away the greens of the fir trees and browns of the bare-barked beech before him. Snow clung to the legs of his pants; falling off in clusters to melt upon the rugs in the hall. The north wing was where he would trod; though it was on the south he resided himself. Clumps of snow clung still upon his shoulders; upon his frozen hair.
His hand clung to the cold metal box in which his detail tools and the fineries he meant to work upon were contained. Everything else he needed would be situated in linear fashion upon the his craft table. The table situated in a comfortable, quiet corner of a room in the north wing, as it had been, for three thousand winters. As had been his routine on winter nights for many years, though much more often since the fell winter, when he had been stolen away by other duty, Ruivo stopped before the door, standing silently for a long moment, then rapping upon it. Three taps, evenly spaced as always. His hand dropped to his side, and he listened for the familiar footsteps.