Elrond is settled at the fireplace, looking at the dancing flames. In all the strangeness of this place, of Milliways, the fireplace is oddly soothing. This, at least, is no different from any other tavern
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For a cartographer--or one in training, anyway--maps are like candy, and Chekov is no different. So there is a young man studying the vellum in Elrond's hands from over the PADD he's supposed to be reading; it's not too terrible given Chekov is so far ahead in his studying that it's ridiculous.
Pavel blinks at the direct look, fairly sure he wasn't called by name. It's fairly apparent that he's interested--but still unsure--the way his expression shifts when the man holding the vellum sheet gestures to him.
Elrond, who may look a little scary when he is looking at someone impassively, all storm-grey eyes and noble features, smiles. It's a warm smile. Kind.
"Think nothing of it. You are welcome to take a closer look." He indicates the map again.
The Mogget sometimes wonders if he does not try to curb his curiosity because it is futile, or if it is futile because he does not try.
There may be a very white cat (or something shaped like a cat) padding its way along the back of the couch in front of the fireplace, in order to get a closer look at the scroll unrolled before Elrond.
Eyes the impossible green of new spring gaze up at him as he gives the hand a cursory sniff.
"Greetings, scroll-reader," he answers, equably. The cat, in turn, does not smell wholly like a cat, for those who can tell. Underneath the scent of a cat is a tinge of something else. The scent of his kind is like the smell of hot wiring, acrid, tangy, like ozone in the air after a nearby lightning-strike. "What is it that you read?"
The hair on Elrond's neck stand up. He has been in the presence of the Valar. And even the Istari may at times feel like this, like they are thunder and lightening dressed in flesh. Bigger than their form.
"It is a memory," he answers truthfully. "A map of what once was. I am loath to part with it but soon I must go on a journey and I will have little room for things like this."
A man wearing blue breeches with red and yellow checks sat down near the fire and Elrond. First he laid he staff on the floor in front of him. He took off a blue wool cloak that was beginning to show the wear and tear it had endured in the last year. There were pieces torn from the him, and blood stained a few bits of it. Being the religious and wisdom head of a people demand much, and he had forgotten to look to himself. He sighed and folded the cloak and pinned his silver broach to the top. Then he took up the harp that he had with him, a gold inlayed harp, of such workmanship that no mortal hand could have crafted it. He took it up and began to play a melody on his harp, plucking the strings with a well practiced hand.
Tegid finished the song a few minutes later and laid his palms across the vibrating strings. He reached down and turned over his folded cloak and placed the harp carefully on it.
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You might want to tell him he's staring.
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He doesn't.
So Elrond raises his head, looks directly at him - and indicates the map in front of him, one eyebrow raised.
A silent way of telling him that he may come closer and look at it properly if he likes.
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"I vas not meaning to stare."
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"Think nothing of it. You are welcome to take a closer look." He indicates the map again.
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There may be a very white cat (or something shaped like a cat) padding its way along the back of the couch in front of the fireplace, in order to get a closer look at the scroll unrolled before Elrond.
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He extends a hand for the cat to sniff, should it be so inclined. He smells of herbs and book-dust, ink, leather, and clear air.
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"Greetings, scroll-reader," he answers, equably. The cat, in turn, does not smell wholly like a cat, for those who can tell. Underneath the scent of a cat is a tinge of something else. The scent of his kind is like the smell of hot wiring, acrid, tangy, like ozone in the air after a nearby lightning-strike. "What is it that you read?"
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"It is a memory," he answers truthfully. "A map of what once was. I am loath to part with it but soon I must go on a journey and I will have little room for things like this."
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That was what had been missing. Music. He felt his shoulders relax as he sighed softly, leaning into the notes.
It was a beautiful instrument. It made him miss his own harp.
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He then proceeded to wave down a waitrat.
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