================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Dusk < About 7:59 PM >
IC day is: Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is: 13 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Full <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Sun Jul 29 15:39:51 2007
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Training Field
On this wide field, boundry sticks and markers seem to rise up in a variety of patterns. Interspersed between all of these, targets, dummies, and other devices for training stand in various levels of repair. Taking up one side of the field, an archery range can be found. Along the opposite side, a long low hillock looking building that seems to be both a part of the hill itself and the trees as it is built beneath grass and branch, the only entrance jutting out between two thick roots of a tall mallorn.

Contents:
Galharth
Haldir
Calriel
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Dusk settles over the city, filling the sky with the last moments of color. Clouds reflect reds and orange as they catch Anor's last rays as they dip into the Western horizon. Within the canopy above, leaves dance upon the breeze blowing in from the south. Upon the training field, the sound of edhel in practice dominate the senses of sound.

It is into this that Galharth wanders in. Pausing as he steps upon the field, he peers about, almost as if searching for something or someone. Shaking his head, he seems disappointed, as if not finding the object of his search. Moving aside, into the deepening shadows of the field, he watches those at practice.

The double-doors to the training building swing open silently upon their hinges, allowing one of the Galadhrim to pass through even as he pushes them open. Haldir's step is quick and light, though he tarries momentarily upon departing the door, gaze adjusting and glance sweeping this way and that.

Catching sight of Haldir, he lifts a hand in an automatic gesture, greeting the Marchwarden. "Well met, Haldir," Galharth calls out. Is this the one the Tailor seeks? It seems not as a troubled expression remains. "I hope all is well?"

"Ah, Galharth," answers Haldir, glance flicking to raised hand and source of words, inclining his head in silent greetings. He remains stationary, yet, not continuing pace of before. "How can I answer that question?

"I am well. Some matters are not. Other matters are. And continue on forever. Of yourself?"

For a moment, the Tailor peers at Haldir, and then shakes his head. "For the longest time, answers such as that confused me, but of late I can honestly understand that which you've said, for I can claim the same response myself."

Glancing about, he sighs softly. "I had hoped to find the Lady as I heard that she might be taking time to practice her bow, but it seems I've been miss informed." Galharth mutters. Renewing his glance towards the Marchwarden, his brow lifts. "Do you have time to spar perhaps? I wouldn't mind a bit of exercise to distract."

A brief chuckle of amusement comes from the lips of the marchwarden, before fading as he speaks: "Misinformed, perhaps. But that would be an activity all in Lorien would be well 'off to do. The times demand it."

"But, aye! I am available for such a task: seldom am I not, unless upon the watch or off gathering news."

"If anything, our Lady sets an example. Perhaps soon, I'll take up practice with the bow as well." Galharth says as he steps further onto the training field. Pulling his sword, the Tailor glances at it for a moment. As he does, his brow furrows. "Luck is with me, for I do need the exercise to clear my mind."


"A most excellent example," echoes Haldir with another inclination of his head, while reaching down to waist and drawing free blade. He steps forward, absently balancing the weapon while he moves to a defensive posture.

"That brings luck? If aught, I would imagine it hurts, as one cannot fully concentrate, then -- you may begin."

Nodding once, the Tailor's longsword falls into a defensive position, either from habit or a sign of muscle memory due to practice. "I can not say what brings luck, either good or bad." Galharth says as a neutral expression washes over his face. "But I've found it consume me in one form or another of late."

Not pausing, he launches forward, taking a step to his right and swinging his sword forward and down to strike at Haldir's thigh.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...
Haldir dodges your attack.

"So I have heard," answers Haldir, stepping aside and backwards of the swinging sword, just narrowly avoiding the attack. "What exactly happened? I heard naught but rumour and whisper of word."

Counter-attack follows question, and both are directed towards the tailor: another side-step and brisk movement of arm direct the blade of the guard in a swat towards his opponent's rib-cage.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

"The dive has taken an unwelcome turn." Galharth says as he winces at the discomfort of the sound strike against his ribs. As his body curves into the strike, and he compensates with a turn and a step away as he brings his weapon back into a protective hold. "A knife was found."

Arching his sword upward, he brings it down as if to strike the Marchwarden's right shoulder. "It held a vision that seemed so real.... it caught me in the midst of a tramatic point in what might have been it's owners life." The strike follows through as the crafter speaks.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...
Haldir parries your attack with his Longsword!

"A knife?" Haldir spins partially, twisting away from the downward strike just enough to lift blade to parry the attack -- he is successful, as marked by the sudden staccato ring of metal striking metal.

"And a vision. Most peculiar. Have you spoken with the Lady -- or was that the reason to come?"

He melds the partial spin with a backpedal, carrying him parallel with the tailor. The blade of the guard drops from the parry, only to flick inwards, aiming to strike just below the tailor's arm.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Taking the strike against his arm, the Tailor winces slightly, though he holds his position. "I have been searching for the Lady," He mutters as frustration of the situation makes itself known in his outward expression. "The moments of the vision pain me greatly," he mutters softly.

Turning his wrist downwards, he aims and strikes out at the Marchwarden's left hip. As he strikes out, he says, "I fear that pain will fester until she can help me place the moments I felt into perspective."

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...
Your attack against Haldir mildly wounds him!

The slender figure of a small elven maid can be seen entering the training field. Here, high atop Caras Galadon, it is easy to discern Calriel against the glowing layers of red and crimson hues as Arien's care sinks beneath the horizon. Her long golden hair, usually untied and free are now wrought into one large braid that falls down her back to reach her thighs.

"And so, the master is hit at last," she cries out across the couple practising, her voice not devoid of any light scorn. "I thought you usually found smaller victims, like elven lasses, to beat?" she adds as she nears the two.

The solid -thwap- of steel striking cloth and marchwarden is swallowed up by the general clamour about the field: staff strikes staff, arrows leap from bows, and leaves rustle. But! it does not go unnoticed by the marchwarden, for a slight cringe crosses his face.

"Alas! If there is aught I can do, do not hesitate to speak."

Haldir is undeterred, however, and steps into a counter: he moves with the received attack, side-stepping right, and -- for a fraction of a second, is distracted, attention rent to the approaching Calriel.

"Only when I wish to be shown up, for I seldom win against them."

The swing of longsword comes late, now, and nowhere close to striking the tailor -- but it repositions the blade into a defennsive posture, and the marchwarden turns back to his opponent.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

"At least you are one I need not apologize to for my actions," Galharth says softly as he steps back after striking. "Beyond that, I can not understand the vision, nor its affect upon me, so I know not what kind of help to ask for."

Taking the advantage during a moment of distraction, he steps back away from the match. As he moves, the corner of his mouth rises slightly. "Do not allow for distractions. I've heard someone tell me this...." the Tailor says.

It is not common for Calriel to be seen wearing her weaponry. While her dress is its usual white, like the mighty snow-covered peaks of the Hithaeglir, a belt shaped of golden mallorn leaves is clasped about her midst, from which hangs a sheath overlaid with a tracery of flowers and leaves, wrought of silver and gold, holding a blade of considerable length. Nestled on her back a bow, made of a light wood, possibly ash - almost longer than the maiden is tall.

Now that she has reached the couple, observing them from some paces distance, she asks "What twisted desire is this to test your skills against the clothiers of Caras Galadhon, o Marchwarden? Ran out of Laiquendi maids?"

"No twisted desire, Calriel," replies Haldir, no longer offering the elleth of Laiquendi even a glance of gaze, which is directed towards Galharth, "he requested it. And, aye, you are correct, Galharth: distractions are ill, and I was distracted! Alas!

"Why did you not take advantage of the opening?" The marchwarden lowers his weapon, quizzical expression looking to the tailor.

Returning his longsword to his waist, Galharth sighs deeply. "Had you been an enemy, I would not have hesitated, but considering all that's happened this week, I think I've done enough harm to friends who did not expect it."

Glancing between Calriel and Haldir, he offers a weak smile. "If you'll both excuse me, I have to continue my search for the Lady." And with that, the Tailor departs from the training field.

With an agility one might not suspect of the fragile looking Laiquende, Calriel draws forth her own blade. Singing as it leaves its sheath, the weapon only needs the slightest touch of fading rays of the sun to glimmer like the tips of many lances in moonlight. "Is it true, Galharth? Are you taking classes with the Marchwarden? I pray this is only for defensive purposes, mellon? It brightens my heart to see even the crafters prepare for the darker days," she says, nodding at the tailor.

She now glances over to Haldir over the blade of her sword. The weapon she holds is slender and most certainly made for a female warrior, yet it is made by a great craftsmen, who knows how long ago. "Care to extend your lesson, master swordsmen?" she asks the other.

"So long as that is so," replies Haldir with a nod to Galharth, "but do not think it would have been harm! I realized a moment late, but not too late to attempt to counter. Be well! And return soon."

Glance and attention strays to the one of the Laiquendi: "I thought I taught you all I know! I do not believe there is aught more I could show you. But, do what you will." The marchwarden steps backwards into a defensive posture, and eyes Calriel, watching and waiting.

Where the harshness of the Lady's words seem to signify that she is serious, the fleeting smile that is on her lips seems to say that she is enjoying the encounter as well. "I would not be so confident, Haldir," she now says, "I would think you would have had the chance to hone your skills to perfection during your long journey."

- she carefully takes a step towards the othher, her slender longsword hovering in front of her

"And I even heard one of your human friends has arrived in the Wood, only a day ago! The stray human of Elrond's house!"

- and she attempts a swing at the guard's arrm, quickly and under only a small arc.

Calriel attacks Haldir with her Longsword, but she misses by a mile.

"Over-confidence is 'oft a harbinger of failure," replies Haldir, faintly creased brows narrowing as the elleth steps to action; any mirth and bemusement in tone flees as it is replaced by concentration -- though yet there is a jest to words: "To perfection! Journeys seldom give chance to hone abilities.

Leather-clad feet brush over the grass, leaving naught in their wake, as the marchwarden dodges the brisk attack of Calriel.

"A human? Pray tell, who?"

The question causes voice to raise a touch in pitch at the end, a perfect match to the longsword of the guard which lifts, arcing quickly towards the arm of the Lady of the Laiquendi.

Haldir attacks Calriel with his Longsword and mildly wounds her!

"Ouch!" cries Calriel, in an exclamation that speaks both pain, surprise and horror. An almost furious frown comes to the otherwise smooth face of the lass, her fierceness in her eye rivaling the fires in the forges of Caras Galadhon, whose smoke drift upwards in circles from below against the picture of the sun, stretching its warm layers across the fair Lorien sky.

"How is that possible!" she gasps, clutching her right arm with her left hand, taking a step back. "You and your lectures on over-confidence..." -- it is apparent that Calriel does not see the humor of the situation as much as an outside might, but after a moment, a coolness seems to come to her eyes.

"And I am talking of your friend Aragorn. Have you not heard? Perhaps the birds fly faster than the messengers of the Order can run?" She raises an eyebrow and with a quick and well-balanced strike she aims for Haldir's swordhand, keeping her eyes locked with his.

Calriel attacks Haldir with her Longsword and mildly wounds him!

Question turns to jest, and Haldir shakes his head, mock disapproval in both tone and motion: "You have grown lax! A waste of such potenti--"

Some cruel mockery of irony, perhaps, leads the attack of the Hiril to land true this time, earning both a wince and a cringe from the marchwarden: the weapon is dropped, even, the hand instinctively jerking backwards. It strikes the grass with naught but a whisper.

"Ah, Aragorn! I did not know he intended to travel here: That could be either ill or well. I will need find him.

Even as he speaks, Haldir reaches back, retrieving shield from his back as foot kicks the blade backward; then, he backpedals, partially crouched to retrieve the weapon.

Calriel seems content enough with her small success, and chuckles as she slides her sword with surprising grace and skill into its sheath. "I suppose I was a bit over-confident, but I rejoice in the knowledge my skill has not completely left me altogether."

The chuckle fades away into the fresh evening, yet a smile remains. "And yes, you should. He will most likely have fresh news of many things that are not our concern and perhaps even of some things that do concern us. Who knows," she says, now looking up at the clear dark blue sky "maybe the Valar will permit me to speak to him ere he leaves. But for now, I have my mind set on practising my archery" - she pats the bow on her back - "and I think I have learned enough from our spar for one night."

"You have learned!" Another shake of head, this time with incredulity, accompanies Haldir's words: "Nay, I have learned, but little and yet much.

"He would have news of great importance to us, if he bears any. It perplexes me, however, for it is too soon for much to be known: alas. It shall be rectified with speech, however."

He bends fully, retrieving the dropped weapon and returning it to sheath.

"I would join you, but you have left me unable to practice archery for the night. Be well, Calriel!"