Sitting apart as befitted a minstrel, he plucked soft notes from his harp and watched the activity around the High King’s chair. No formal entertainment this night, just background strains to ease courtly conversation, a task the master of musicians had deemed fit employment for a junior. Lindir, newly arrived at court with a letter of recommendation from Eregion’s musician’s guild to smooth his path, defined ‘junior’.
Snatches of conversation rose and fell, their contents ranging from new hairstyles to dubious morality, to the master of the hunt’s reputed wealth. Deeper matters there were to overhear too if one listened more carefully, rumours of rising darkness, impending war. Eärendil’s son hovered close by the royal chair, speaking in lowered tones of messages from out of Eregion, while the king’s companion, Erestor of the midnight hair and haughty air, leaned an arm on its back and frowned his concern.
Lindir heard it all from his place in the shadows, retaining or discarding each new offering. One day, he suspected, the fabric of his music would be woven broad with more than Lindon’s gossip. One day soon it would echo with the clamour of war’s wings and the lament for heroes lost.