Tl;dr: Screw accurate calendars, let's celebrate anyway

[faithfulwisdom]

Who: Finrod Felagund
Broadcast: fleetwide
Action: Bishop
When: backdated a few days, let's say the 26th.

[Congratulations, Drift Fleet. You are being treated to a little tune of Finrod's own composition. Because some days, you just feel like announcing things in verse, apparently.]

When the night is at its longest, we gather ‘round the fire
Drink is shared and tales are told as the flames grow ev’r higher.

The custom comes to naught without a sun to mark the days,
But merry voices hold shadows of many kinds at bay.

Our journey is no garden path; we do not walk with ease.
Any reason for song and drink is one that must be seized.

[Okay, okay. He'll put down the harp and address the camera a bit more serious. Only a bit, though- there's nothing truly serious about any of this.]

In other words, my friends, Turuhalmë, an annual celebration of my people is, I think, here. It’s impossible to truly know, since I have no notion of how my calendar lines up with any other used here. Regardless, I think the occasion worth marking. According to tradition, we should gather around a fire, tell tales, and make merry long into the night.

However, as I am not precisely enthused about the idea of making a return to the planet and our ships are not equipped with hearths, I will settle for the making merry and telling of tales. You are all welcome to join me; I am on the Bishop for the moment, though if the group should grow large, we may have to relocate.

[ooc: With apologies to Tolkien and poets everywhere. It's been a long time since I've done anything that's not freeverse]

Comments

[child_of_bhaal]

[Oh but it is so very unfair. She never asked for any of this. And it was hers to bear. Two years of shattered dreams and stolen innocence, of surviving instead of living, have lodged a deep resentment inside her. One she hides and buries, but she's shown him a taste of it. Beneath the kind heart and the determined smiles is a seed of bitterness. If she lives long enough, it might even take root.

But there are small things that ease that sourness. His hand covering hers is one, a balm on a wound that hasn't had even a chance to start healing.

The touch, as much as his sympathy, makes the tension ease, her hand unclenched from its tight fist, turning to clasp his between both of her own. She gives him her eyes, and they are so weary, but grateful. She even summons up a little smile for him.]

This is more than adequate, Finrod. It's good to have people I can trust here. Thank you.

[faithfulwisdom]

[And he offers a smile in return- soft and a little sad.]

Of course. I only wish that I could do more. [But then the smile warms and he adds:] I think I did not fully realize how strong you are until this very moment, mellon.

[child_of_bhaal]

You've done more than you realize.

[But they could wander this circle forever. She'll let the subject go, and look to something simpler.]

What does "mellon" mean?

[faithfulwisdom]

Only a term of endearment. [He just gives a little smile and a half shrug.] It is Sindarin for 'friend.'

[child_of_bhaal]

A very pretty word for friend. Thank you, Finrod.

[She's touched, clearly. Look at those pink cheeks. And her thanks is for more than just the endearment.]