================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Night < About 9:22 PM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 40 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous <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: Tue Aug 07 08:07:29 2007
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Garden of the Silver Lights
You stand in the middle of a luscious garden filled with all colors and varieties of plants and flowers, whose sweet scent permeates the air. There are many hummingbirds here flying among the bushes, and even a few scarlet kirinki -- tiny Eressean finches with high piping vooices -- are fluttering here and there among the flowers. The garden is walled, for the most part, by a tall green hedge; a number of tall, sturdy wooden trellises on which grow a type of vine adorned with large white flowers encloses the rest.

No trees grow here, and lanterns of different sizes and shapes hang from cunningly wrought sconces, their serene silver light giving a calm peace to the garden, illuminating the small benches that are set amongst the flowerbeds. To the west, grassy steps lead up the silver gates which provide the only obvious exit from the garden. There is a small brook here flowing down from the fountain at the top of the hill, and then running along the curve of the hill and disappearing into a deep green hollow to the east. A long flight of steps leads downward.

Contents:
Galharth
Mithsul
Lostiriel
Glinhaeron
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A dark blue sky signals the transition from day towards early evening. Light has faded upon the western horizon and the stars now twinkle as the sky slowly moves towards an inky black. A cool autumn breeze blows from the north, mingling the scent of distant lands with the sweet fragrance of the city gardens. Song rises up, still in competition with the delicate melody of the birds and wildlife that coexists within Lothlorien. It seems a perfect evening.

Entering the Garden of Silver Lights, the Tailor looks towards the east as if searching for any activity near the Lady's basin. A small frown appears upon his lips and he pauses his forward motion. It seems the glade where the basin lays is silent and empty. Turning his direction, he begins to explore the foliage and flowers.

A faint sound comes from the paths to the gardens, soft at first but growing louder, as Mithsul's leisurely pace brings him closer to the entrance. Whistling a tune so light and airy that it blends well enough with the natural sounds around, that if any but the edhel that reside in the woods of Lothlorien might mistake it for just another bird in flight, the lean ellon passes almost unconciously through the hedges. His pace speaks of a random walk, his somewhat hawkish face utterly relaxed and free of care. As he slows to a stop, his whistling also fading away, the breeze catches his midnight curls to where they briefly dance about his shoulders and neck before laying still once more.

Slowly his attention returns from the majestic skies to his surrounding, acknowledgement of another draws a slight quirk of a black brow and a greeting that dies upon his lips. Perhaps he notes the edhel's slight frown that causes Mithsul to remain quiet. Though he does not speak yet, he does adjust his previous path to one that might intercept the other near the foilage.

Either sound or scent draws Galharth's attention from the foliage, and he turns in time to see the approach of another ellon. "Well met, my friend," he says with a bow of his head. Glancing back to look upon the flowers, he reaches out a hand to lightly cradle a delicate yellow blossom. "Does it not seem that life holds much beauty that is delicate and at risk for sudden loss?" Curving his hand up and over the petals, the crafters long fingers lightly stroke the surface in reverance.

As the Tailor draws his hand away, a soft sigh emits from his lips. "Forgive my mood, it's been difficult these past days." Looking up, he glances to the new arrival and offers a shadow of a smile. "Certainly you've come to enjoy the garden. Please do not let me interrupt."

Thoughtful expression flit across Mithsul's face, his prominent brow crinkling slightly over eyes the color of deep spring. "Yet it is the very delicacy of life that gives it beauty." Tapered fingers drift over the soft petals, not touching them just hovering, "We would not appreciate the sweet scent, nor the softness of the rose were it not fleeting in life. Instead, much like the rock that trips us upon the paths, or the mountains that bar entrance we would give it only passing thought only when it hinders our progress." Returning his gaze to that of the other, a warming smile spreads slowly as the still-young ellon crosses his arms, not in a defiant manner but more of a relaxed calm. "Apologize not for any such moods. On an evening as splendid as this one, nothing could dampen my enjoyment of it. Perhaps it was your mood that carried me here rather then the sweet songs playing in the night?"

A slight shrug of his shoulders offers a silent reply. "The apology was due, even if not accepted. I recover still from the events upon the shore, and remain overly sensitive." Lowering his head, Galharth catches sight of a wilted blossom. "Strangely, in this sensitivity I find much more to appreciate."

Reaching up, he embraces himself, rubbing his upper arms as if to ward off a chill. "Certainly I did not draw you here, so tell me, what brings you here this eve?" Pausing to glance towards the Lady's galade, he looks back to Mithsul, "Do you have a meeting with the Lady, perhaps?"

Thorhur is sitting alone in a corner of the garden. He is playing with a deal leaf, bored, without anything to do. It is only when he hears the voices of others in the garden that he stands up slowly, and stepping carefully along the path turns a corner and sees Galharth and Mithsul. "Hello Galharth. Hello Mithsul," he greets them simply, his voice low. "What is new today?"

"The shore? Perhaps you speak of the shipwreck that an edhel by the name Thorhur has spoken of to me. He claims that there is some sort of blade that draws those who touch it into the mind of the former captain of the vessel?" It is clear in the voice of Mithsul he is dubious of the tale, his left brow arching upward, contrasting against the smooth white flesh of his forehead. "For myself, I was just finishing my own excersizes and went for a evening walk. Of all the things my Father taught me, it is the appreciation of our surroundings that resound the loudest." If Mithsul planned on expanding on this thought he was cut off by the voice of another. A glance reveals Thorhur's approach and an acknowledging nod toward the approaching edhel was given before he turned his attention back toward the tailor.

Narrowing his eyes, the mention of Thorhur seems to come at the same moment as his appearance in the Garden. "Is this true Thorhur? You've told some of the tale?" Galharth asks carefully. Turning towards Mithsul, the crafter nods once. "It is something like that...." he adds in a soft mutter.

Unwrapping his arms from his chest, he reaches out for the nearby foliage as if seeking comfort. "It is not so much that one is drawn into the mind of the captain, for he is gone these long ages. Instead, the holder of the knife witnesses a vision....." his voice catches in his throat as if a pain washes over the ellon.

Clearing his throat, he shakes his head slightly. "The knife is now in the Lady Galadriel's protection, and she assures me that the distance from the shore into the city has weakened the strength of the memories held within."

Glancing from Mithsul to Thorhur, he shrugs his shoulders. "She now considers a means to draw out the full tale without hurting anyone. Perhaps one with greater strength, or perhaps a human. She will tell when the time comes."

"I am sorry for misinformation Galharth," Thorhur says hearing his explanation. "That is what I was told." Then, changing the subject, he asks, "So what is new?"

Walking, as if in a dream, a young elven maiden with a harp strapped to her back strolls into the garden. She seems to be swaying softly as she walks, not so much a stagger as it is far more controlled. Rhythmic, almost. Although her eyes are open, she appears in a trance-like state, listening to her surroundings. Upon hearing the voices gathered at the garden, Taradel snaps for her reverie with the blink of an eye, but never misses a beat. She stays off to the side for the moment, unsure of the status of the Tailor, whom she witnessed attack the Lady of the Woods not so long ago.

"A human?" Mithsul does not make the sentance sound derisive, rather discarding the notion as unfathomable. "If the power of the knife effects one of our kind in this way, then surely one of /theirs/ would not be able to withstand being swept away by it." At Thorhur's interruption, and another attempt to change the subject, Mithsul's features are marred with slight annoyance before once again becoming impassive before responding to the ellon's question. "Other then learning more on this rumor you told me, which disturbed me so greatly that I am trying to discern what is truth and what is...exaggeration, nothing is 'new'." Mithsul's tones were clipped, not rude but not warm either. His attention was swiftly taken from Thorhur as the other enters, and Mithsul takes but a heartbeat to take in the swaying steps before he greets her with a subtle dip of his head. "The little harpist from the Tavern." he states in lieu of a greeting. A slight knowing smile lifts the corners of Mithsul's lips.

An ellon appears around a hedge of flowers with a whisper of leaves. Glancing here and there, he seats himself nearby and watches the gathered as quietly as pooling shadows. It is Maglind.

Thorhur was very taken aback at his meeting with Mithsul and his second conversation with him that wasn't that warm. Immediately he eyes the elf with suspicion and irritation. Wrinkling his brow and then narrowing his eyes, he turns from Mithsul and focuses his attention on Galharth. He is still a bit annoyed at Mithsul's response, but ignoring the elf he takes a step toward Galharth and asks, his voice as light as he can make it, "Is Aragorn returning here to help with the shipwreck?" Immediately after saying this, he turns to the person who has just entered. "Well met are you. I don't believe we have met. I am Thorhur Belegel."

With the entrance of the Bard, Galharth lowers his gaze slightly as his hand absently caresses the flowers and hedge. "There is no need to apologize Sentinel. The shame of lacking strength is my own, though I am assured I should feel no guilt it is easier said than done."

Glancing up from his embarrasment, a touch of anger flickers in the Tailor eyes. "It is no rumor!" he says firmly in a voice raised with emotion. Gripping his hand tightly, his fingers twine with the leaves in which he drew comfort from only moments before. Then, as suddenly as his outburst presented itself, he visibly relaxes and his hand opens as he shakes his head. "It is supposed that the knife affects us as it does due to our emotional attachment to the events that passed. A human, would have no such attachment."

Turning as Thorhur speaks, the crafter shakes his head. "I know not why Aragorn visits these lands."

Galadriel ascends the stairway, her long skirts of white trailing the lower steps. She pauses briefly upon the topmost step to note the small group gathered in this quiet garden.

Inclining her head in greeting to Thorhur as she walks slowly over to the gathered group of elves, she says with a smile, "Good day, mellon." She keeps her words light and soft, her eyes never really leaving their attention upon Galharth. She continues past the group, and choses a seat upon a stone bench off to the side, pondering whether it would be a good time to play a tune to sooth the tempers which seem to be rising, or just remain a quiet observer for the moment.

Leaving his flowerbed, Maglind leans forward and says nothing, but he listens all the more intently with a furrowed brow.

Advancing into the garden, Galadriel pauses next to Taradel, "You are a sly one, harpist. Slipping quietly into a scene with the innocent pretense that you will play a bit of music for the benefit of all present." The Lady smiles mischeivously and looks aside at those gathered, then back at Taradel. "You must know more secrets than I. But come, I bid you leave the shadows this one time." She moves then towards Galharth and Thorhur, setting a pale hand upon the shoulder of the former. "How are you, brother?"

Thorhur, at the approach of the Lady, stops and steps back, taking a seat a little apart from the group and watching to see what will happen next. He leans against a tree and watches the Lady and Galharth, eyebrow raised.

Peering past the Sentenil, Galharth nods towards the Bard in the shadows. The tension in his shoulders makes it clear that her attention is making him uncomfortable. His mouth opens and closes, as if he were to say something, but the words remain unspoken. Again he reaches up and folds his arms over his chest defensively. Turning away from the foliage, he catches sight of Maglind, and seems almost surprised that the Lady Galadriel had approached without notice. "Recovering," he mutters softly. Pausing a moment, he glances towards Taradel, "Though I feel it will take time to be trusted once more."

"Forgive me for downplaying your experiance Galharth, it was not what I was trying to imply. Only that I found it incredible that such an object could find its way to our lands. You must admit that the thought of an artifact of any kind drawing oneself into the very mind of someone long since dead is rather, unbelieve-able." Mithsul was quick to apologize, his voice softens just as quickly, "Though you have corrected what I understood. What you say of human's being far removed is true, I have faith that whatever the turn out Our Lady will find the answer."

As if on cue, the ellon turns and catches a glimpse of Galadriel, his concerned expression smooths as he demonstrates grace that comes with years of dance lesson's at first his mother's, then his cousin's feet with a deep bow with a flourish towards The Lady. Upon his rising, he then notes the others that have seemed to drifted toward their small group all the while he was unaware.

At hearing Mithsul's apology, he coughs rudely and says, "Doesn't someone named Thorhur deserve an apology for a certain someone's cold attitude towards him?"

Maglind edges a little closer to the others. His cloak is brushed with dust and leaves; his boots are scuffed; his bow is taut and newly polished -- the warden is new-come from the borders.

He speaks, a low murmur unwilling to interrupt: "What has happened? Where is it now?"

Humbled by Galadriel's insistance, Taradel blushes ever so slightly, but apparently is not too embarrassed as there is a wry smile that passes her lips. She rises from her seat, and saunters over, carefully outlining Galharth with her attentions as she approaches, "Tailor, trust is certainly something that, once lost, is difficult to regain." She pauses a moment and sways a bit to an unheard beat, "The music of the air is that you have lost the stranglehold that was placed upon you. Such is what I was discerning upon seeing you here by listening to our wood. Sometimes the song of the trees can be difficult to decipher, but it is never wrong."

Galadriel only nods and lowers her hand. She leaves Taradel's cryptic message to linger in the air between the bard and the tailor and turns instead towards Maglind. "It is safe, sir. None shall see it, nor know where it rests except by my leave...I am glad to see you returned." She regards the guard with a long, wondering look.

At Maglind's question, the Tailor shakes his head. "I know not, and choose to remain unawares." Pursing his lips he narrows his eyes at the Warden, "As should you as well, my friend. Neither of us need trouble ourselves with that weapons visions again."

"Difficult indeed, Bard. For clearly some trust me as well as I trust myself these days." Looking to Maglind, and then Galadriel, gratitude is reflected in his crystal blue eyes. "Some reach forth with understanding, and in them, I find confidence that one day I will once more regain trust lost."

Confusion flickers over the Galharth's face, "The wood sensed that I have lost the stranglehold?" he repeats as if the utterance of the words would bring forth understanding, and yet, his face continues to reflect confusion. "Is this why I find comfort in nature?" Taking a step forward towards Taradel, he tilts his head. "And this voice you hear from the wood.... does it also tell you to learn the tale so that it might be brought forth to all so that they too might learn of the history that passed so near to these lands?"

Shaking her head in a slow manner, Taradel sighs as she responds, "The song of the wood is one of feeling, of comfort. The tale of emotion can be heard, but no more does it speak to me. A songwriter is what you seek, or perhaps a poet laureate to record the tale." She sighs softly and speaks even softer, "Neither of which am I."

The warden returns Galadriel's gaze timidly, pale eyes hooded. "Good," he says to the Lady, and to Galharth. "I am glad."

Mithsul slowly drifts away from the crowd, though his attention is pointedly still with the conversation, he wanders amid the flowers, stopping here and there to take in their scent before moving on.

With a glance between Maglind and Galharth, Galadriel sighs a little. There is a weight upon her, though she still holds her head high. "I beg your pardon friends. I have other matters..." her voice trails slightly and steps past the group towards the gate.

"Alas, then I'll trouble you not, Taradel. In my urgency I failed to remember that Bards, just as the Crafters, have varying talents." Galharth says, as he watches Mithsul's departure from the small gathering.

In the next moment, the Lady's sigh draws the Tailor's attention, and he nods once at her announcement. "Be well, Lady," he says softly as he watches her departure. When she is gone, the crafter looks to the Warden. "Do you think the knife weighs upon her from its hiding spot?"

Maglind looks at his scuffed toes, shaking golden head decisively. "No. She is much stronger than both of us put together. But I think she worries for us, Galharth."

Pursing his lips, he glances to Taradel. "You play well, Bard."

Quietly entering the garden, Lostiriel is met by the sound of voices. She raises her eyes to note the gathering and offers a smile as she moves closer. Not yet speaking, she simply offers a nod to each member that is gathered. For a moment, she allows her eyes to wander, drinking in the surroudings which bring a smile to her face. Then, as the discussion continues, her attention is drawn back to what is being said.

Galharth nods at Maglind's words. "Indeed she does. The events that occured when we retrieved the knife was not her intent. While the visions have caused us great distress and guilt, the exposure we faces has done the same." Furrowing his brow, the clothier falls into a thoughtful moment. "Perhaps it's something more. Have you heard of activity upon the border?"

Looking up, the Tailor catches movement behind the Warden, and recognition sweeps over his expression. "Lostiriel! Well met, my friend." With a hand raised in greeting, he becons her to join them.

"None. Perhaps there have been some upon the northern and western marches," says Maglind. "But Parth Celebrant is deathly quiet."

The warden looks up, noticing Lostiriel, and offers her a vague smile.

A bright smile lighting up her face, Lostiriel moves swiftly forward as she fully enters the group. "Galharth! Well met, indeed." Her eyes switch, then, to Maglind and she returns the smile. Pushing back strands of pale blonde hair, Lostiriel hesitates as the discussion continues and, blue eyes sparkling, she looks at them both with curiousity.

The clothier seems to pale at the mention of the Northern March. "The Catepult....." he mutters with widening eyes. "Half of the device remains waiting to be retreived. With the discovery in the river, and the trip to Isengard, and all that has occured in these past weeks, it completely slipped my mind." Reaching a hand up to cover his brow, he looks first to the ground and then back up at the Warden. "Do you think we could gather a group of Guards to go forth to retrieve it?"

Glancing towards Lostiriel, he pauses and again furrows his brow with thought. "Perhaps you could go with us Lostiriel, as a part of your Order internship. Would this interest you?" Glancing to Maglind he takes a step forward, "Would this be possible Maglind?"

Maglind looks surprised, almost hesitant. "I don't know, Tailor," he murmurs. "If the reports are true, it is not safe... do you think the wood has survived the winter?"

The warden glances to ellon and elleth, fingering his bow carefully.

A sudden expression of surprise and excitement crosses Lostiriel's face and she responds, "It seems that I am ever walking into ominous discussions as of late. But yes, it was interest me greatly." Her gaze shifts again to Maglind and she pauses for a moment, "Of course, only if it is, indeed, possible."

"Elf harvested! Elf crafted! Of course it survived the winter." Galharth protests in defense of the beloved crafters. "And safe or no, the fact that it sits as evidence of our nearby location certainly dictates that what ever is to be faced is more than acceptable if we're to protect our home."

Sweeping a hand towards the Courier, he adds, "Certainly she's more than capable of using a bow should we actually find something or someone. Between Guards and our own capabilities, we can certainly retrieve a the catapult and quickly return."

Sighing softly, he adds in a pleading voice, "And perhaps something such as this mundane task will be enough to set our minds upon something other than the knife."

Lostiriel listens to this discussion, nodding vigorously at Galharth's statement. "I can hold my own. Should I need to." She glances to Galharth and pauses, "Would I need to?" Now realizing that she knows very little of what is going on, Lostiriel hesitates, considering for a moment, "Well, anyway, of course it would be fine. I do want to go." Lostiriel's relative youthfulness is revealed here in both her eagerness and ignorance, but a willfulness also gleams in her grey-blue eyes.

"The internship covers a number of things, Lostiriel. Weapon usage and understanding is certainly a part of your time with the Order. I'm sure Legarwin or Haldir would be glad to train you with the basics." Galharth says as he turns his attention to a fellow Courier. "And something such as this would be nothing beyond what a simple patrol involves." Offering a smile, he glances at Maglind and leans towards Lostiriel and whispers, "Besides, the Order often exagerates the dangers. Some do exist, but not at the level that you might be led to believe. You need the internship should you wish to advance within the Royal Court."

"Setting out on any venture without being as prepared as possible can lead one's feet down uncertain paths causing one to stumble more than one would like." An old crisp voice cuts through the garden air with the energy of another age in every word. "Take heart, a internship with the Order is not something to be taken lightly. Lives before have been lost in something so simple as a patrol." The voice is soon matched to a figure seldom seen since the departing of Aelinwen o nos Laiquendi. It is the matured nature he carries with him that gives hints to his status as Counsel o nos Arnpand. "Although your fellow speaks trueth, be ready with yourself before you set out on this course of action."

"Indeed, Legarwin is training me. I simply wished to know whether it would be beyond what I could handle." Also leaning forward conspiratorily, she responds, "Indeed? Perhaps, then, story telling is just one of the Order's fine skills." Her eyes sparkle with mirth and she shakes her head, "And yes. I do wish to advance. Legarwin is offering guidance." Then, startled, Lostiriel blinks as she turns to Glinhaeron, surprised by the words. "Of course," she replies meekly. Lostiriel grows momentarily solemn, glancing at Galharth briefly before dropping her gaze.

Maglind bites his lip, looking from courier to counsel to clothier. "Then let it be so. If you are ready, we may leave in a few days. Only," he shoulders his longbow, bright eyes imploring, "let the reports from the North come back before we set off."

Galharth glances up as another enters the conversation, and with a slight welcoming bow of his head, he issues forth a greeting. "Well met, Counsel. It is good to see someone such as yourself offering advise to those who might wish to work their way through the Royal Court ranks." Nodding in agreement, he looks from Glinhaeron to Lostiriel, "He speaks the truth of loss I fear, but I fully trust the capabilities of Maglind." Glancing now to the Warden, he continues, "I've caused much in the way of trouble through ignorance, but with both he and the Marchwarden Haldir, I somehow survived."

Drawing his hands behind his back, he clasps his fingers tightly. "If Legarwin trains you, all should be well. Be sure to ask him for a Longbow and perhaps armor as well so that you might indeed be prepared for the worst."

A frown appears at Maglind's words. "Two days?" he says quietly, "Will the reports be back in this time? Is there anyone within the wood that should know of our departure?"

The Counsel nods to Maglind then bows his head in turn to the tailor and courier. "Guard well the assets of the royal court, Warden Maglind. Yet teach them well lest they become dull impliments soon broken on the hard forge of this Middle Earth." Glinhaeron crosses his arms and smiles politely, "Perhaps with two days and an ounce of grace, good tidings may make haste from the north to the Order. Rush not if it may place one self in too much peril." Closing some distance towards the assembled, the counsel turns to the courier. "Make sure to stay alert and keep one step ahead of any ill will that would like to hinder you and you shall make a fine Prefect in the near future."

"The marches are a good whetstone, Counsel," replies Maglind mildly, bowing to Glinhaeron. "Two days. I will look for sentinels to accompany us. But perhaps it is better to go alone and unseen."

The warden tilts his head. "Tell the Lady Galadriel that we are going. And perhaps Rhibi, as well?"

Lostiriel instantly brightens at Maglind's words, and answers Galharth with, "You are right of course. I will ask him." Then, turning her attention back to Glinhaeron, she nods, smiling gently at the words. "I will do as you say. My eyes and ears will ever be open." Lostiriel takes a deep breath, listening silently as the discussion continues.

The moment the child's name is mentioned, the Clothier shakes his head vigorously. "Nay, Rhibi needs time with his family after our days of travel. And with Lostiriel along, will that not make things difficult for you?" Galharth laughs softly, "Two couriers is quite a handful, even when one is a crafter." His improved mood continues as he turns his gaze towards Glinhaeron, "Long have I called for Maglind's promotion to the ranks of Marchwarden. He is able to safeguard our travels, of that I assure you personally."

Releasing the grip of the hands behind his back, the crafter draws his hands forward and lightly rubs them together. "I will let Lady Galadriel know, and I'm sure she'll be glad that we venture away to recover further from recent events." Falling silent for a moment he narrows his eyes to peer intently at the Warden. "Who might you bring? Do you know yet?"

"I have seen Mithsul to be an able sentinel," says Maglind, seating himself on a mossy rock. "But mayhaps I should guard you alone. I could not bear it if all of us were seen and attacked."

Glinhaeron somehow fails to taken on the lightened mood of his fellows and remains the utmost professional in his dealings. "Had I sway with the Order I would not hesitate to mention Maglind's name in all the praise that it is worth. As it is only the court hears of the valour and duty he bares before all from the mouth of a Counsel." The Counsel sets to Galharth abruptly, "But do not doubt the wisdom or that Haldir would overlook his skilled." Tilting his head to one side in rememberance of some event long past, he speaks to the Warden primarily and someone to the others as well. "It was once suggested that one could easily pass through the Misty Mountains were a party could fail. Indeed, this is truth as I myself have done so on several occasions. I agree fully that a smaller party may be wisest in this venture."

Eyes cast downward, Lostiriel remains silent, listening while the conversation continues. Every once in awhile, she glances upward for a moment, and then once again lowers her gaze. For the moment, she is content to merely listen.

Mithsul you say?" Galharth says as he peers around the garden. "He was in and around the garden only moments past, perhaps he's moved on to explore the Glade. I'm sure he'll be back soon enough for you to ask if he's interested in joining the patrol." With his gaze returning to the Warden, the clothier laughs. "You know well what I'm like, so ask yourself if you think you're lucky enough to be the sole guard."

Turning to Glinhaeron, the clothier frowns. "If position and job holds sway within the wood, then certainly a simple Courier as myself holds some measure of influence." Grinning, the Tailor glances to each edhel present, "It's amazing how one who sews the seat of the pants for the Order can drop names so that all, including Haldir might listen. Besides, I have mentioned my opinion to the Marchwarden a number of times, and I'll have you know that they are indeed watching Maglind's brilliance."

Turning to Lostiriel, he frowns and lowers his head so that he can look up into the lady's eyes. "I'd suggest you come see me for appropriate attire for the patrol, for surely your lovely dress is ill suited for the wilds beyond the borders."

"Do not say such things, Galharth," protests Maglind weakly. "But as for Mithsul, I shall hunt him down. What about you? Will we be enough to take your catapult home?"

Meeting Galharth's gaze, Lostiriel grins and nods. "You are right. If the worst should happen, I fear I'd be able to save my skin at most, and my dress might not fair very well. I will come see you." Lostiriel lifts her head and pushes back hair the color of morning sunshine, and begins looking around again, swaying slightly from side to side as she stands with her hands clasped behind her back.

Glinhaeron shrugs at the energetic tailor and gives his undivided attention to Lostiriel. "So how fair your courier duties? I remember them as being somewhat tedious at times but that soon changes. This time you spend learning from the Order is most valued when we have need to send Prefects over the mountains and through the Greenwood to our cousins to send word or gather tidings. As one trained by our finest we shall be able to send you to the Mithlond an back if the case may arise and you shall be prepared." The Counsel suddenly recogonizes that he is starting to ramble and he catches himself. "I should love it to keep up on your..." Glinhaeron stops and gestures also to Galharth. "love to hear of both your progress. Couriers are the ears of the court, your progress advances us all."

"I speak the truth!" Galharth exclaims defensively.

Falling silent for a moment, the clothier lifts a hand to rest a finger upon his chin. "When last we ventured to retrieve parts to the catapult, I was still recovering from the encounter with the troll. I believe I'm fully capable of carrying the remaining parts back with no help."

Turning his gaze towards the courier, he smiles. "I'll have a few outfits to select from. I'd think with your coloring a soft grass green, with brown accents would favor your complexion and form. If we leave in two days time, I fear we'll have to hurry somewhat."

Taking a step towards the Warden and missing nearly all of what Glinhaeron says, he drops his hand to his sides. "And you," he says firmly, "Have you gotten your cloak replaced?"

Maglind holds an arm protectively over his chest. "No, Tailor," he says very quickly, eyes darting here and there, "not with all the problems the knife has made. I believe it has been mended well enough."

Focusing on Glinhaeron, Lostiriel nods in agreement. "Indeed, the duties are at times tedious. But not always so, not even mostly so. I only wish to do well so that, as you say, I will be fully prepared. And, of course, I should love to keep you informed, although I feel that I have not yet made much progress." Then, replying to Galharth, she responds, "Yes, that sounds perfect!"

Thorhur, seeing as how it is time for him to leave, quietly leaves the group in the Garden of silver lights and walks through the gate solemnly, his mind on a glass of wine in the Mar.

"My good friends forgive me for being so rude but I have duties to attend to as much as I would enjoy carrying on this conversation." The counsel bows to those assembled and turns to leave. "I shall endevour to make myself more available to the couriers in future. Warden do take care and may your star rise ever higher." With that Glinhaeron ushers himself off.

"Very well then. Perhaps we'll manage a new cloak before winter sets in." Galharth says with a nod. Turning to Lostiriel he smiles, "The very fact that she's being included in this patrol, tells that she's progressing. She does the Royal Court proud."

Pausing, the clothier watches the Counsel leave. When he disappears from the Garden, he claps his hands together. "It will do us both well to have him more available. What say you Lostiriel?"

"It is fine. You mended it already," defends Maglind, but he falls silent, listening to courier speak with courier.

Beaming proudly, Lostiriel glows at Galharth's comment. "I hope so. I'm honored to be included. And yes, it will do us well, indeed."

"Ah well, it seems I've created work, if not from the Order, then from the Royal Court." Galharth says with a smile. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, he is a vision of relaxation. "It was a good thing coming here to the Garden. It's done me a world of good."

Taking a step towards the exit of the garden, he turns and gazes over his shoulder. "Two days, my friends. Let us be ready." With that he moves out of the garden, disappearing quickly from sight.

Maglind watches the tailor leave, with a smile of joy and despair pasted on his face. "He has seen too much," the warden murmurs. "This will do him good. -- Will you be ready, Lostiriel?"

"Farewell, Galharth." Lostiriel then turns back to Maglind and nods. "I hope that I will be. And you? How do you feel about this?"

"I am concerned," replies Maglind softly, "as all Wardens should be. I doubt that nothing will happen. Keep training, Courier."

He too steps away, lost in thought.

"Indeed, Maglind, I will. Though I hope your concerns prove to be unfounded." Then, turning, Lostiriel walks over to a bench, sits, and is lost in thought.