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 pipinng voices -- 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
Faelion
Ostiel
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Sweetly sung songs meld with the evening sounds, filtering over the land along a warm summer breeze. Evening, reaching towards it's peak, is highlighted by a sparkling field of stars high over head. A light mist creeps along the soft green grass, creating an almost mystical appearance to the city.

Humming softly with the songs, an ellon enters the Garden of Silver Lights. He seems at ease, and his hand reaches for the plants and blossoms as he passes them, reaching, yet not touching. Stoping near a lantern, Galharth pauses to admire the silvery light. "Beautiful," he whispers, as if speaking to himself.

There is one who sits just beyond the reach of the argent lanterns. Yet the shadows gather not around him, and where lantern-light fails, starlight has full rein. Cloth of green and blue melds with the Lady's garden, but clear white skin and silver-gilt eyes give presence to this ellon. Those eyes are turned in quiet curiosity to Galharth, and it is after a moment of study that Faelion chooses to address him. "Fair eve, Galharth. How glad I am to see that it finds thee well."

Galharth's smile is returned in equal measure, as is his bow of the head reciprocated. "I am well. I wonder that any could be otherwise in such a place as this. If it is inspiration you seek, you will find it here, I deem." There is a moment of silence, and in that time the ellon's eyes darken in thought. "Word has reached me that you are an apprentice of the Gwaith-i-Thein? That you study to be a clothier? If this be true, how stands your skill to accept commissions?" Though earnestly and quietly spoken, the Counsel's lips tend to a smile. Yet he does not jest.

"You've heard right, I've formalized my intent." Galharth says with a chuckle. "Long in coming, I must admit." Stepping closer, the Clothier lifts a brow. "A commission? Certainly I'm taking them, if you're willing to chance the product of one who's considered Apprenticed in the field." Glancing once more around the garden, his eyes reflect the beauty beheld. Drawing his hands together, his eyes return to Faelion's face. "I will offer only honesty. If I can make what you need I will do so gladly, but if not, then I will be sure to find someone who can help you."

A shadow moves behind Faelion, barely noticeable, yet solid nonetheless. Someone tiptoes toward the exit, attempting escape before they are noticed, however slim this chance may be.

"I thank you for your honesty, but I will take my chances." This Faelion returns with a quiet laugh. "All I require is a tunic or two." There is a pause before the Counsel poses his next question, "To what house do you belong, mellon? I am of the folk of Arduril, and we tend to cherish the hues of the Sea in our garments. Is this agreeable to you?"

Ere any question further can be posed, or any more information given, Faelion's head turns slightly in the direction of Ostiel. Though she is beyond his vision, still he hails her. "My lady Ostiel." This said, his bright eyes narrow, and worry creases his fair countenance. "Are you troubled, meldis? Forsooth, there is a great weight upon you that I cannot name."

Clearly the ellon is pleased, and his posture and expression reflect this. "Blues, greens, and perhaps the medley of the two in a pleasant harmony? Yes, I could do that without difficulty." Pausing a moment, a hand goes up to clench his chin. "My only concern is to wonder if these tunics are for work or official function."

Opening his mouth, as if to say something more, he falls silent upon catching sight of Ostiel. Turning his head slightly, he purses his lips and remains silent. Glancing towards Faelion as he speaks to the Attendant, he returns his gaze to the elleth, as if to await her response.

The response is long in coming, and indeed Ostiel's concealed figure moves closer to the gates, as if even now contemplating making a quick exit. But she does not. "It is heavy, the rock I carry. But I am bearing it," she whispers matter-of-factly, voice holding none of it's customary warmth or welcome.

Faelion rises slowly, leaving Galharth behind a moment to approach Ostiel. No words are spoken; the Counsel merely offers her his arm. In his silence and soft gaze there rests sorrow and understanding, but little of pity.

When Faelion speaks, it is to Galharth. "Alas, mellon, work and official function are oft one and the same. One moment I stand up to my elbows in ink in the library, and at the next I must have meeting with the Lord and Lady. And so my garments must be equal to either task."

A frown appears upon the Clothiers lips, but he does not press at that moment. Silence is offered as he watches the Counsel offer comfort.

When Faelion does speak, it seems to take him a long moment to focus upon that which is said. "Ah...." he says, somewhat dumbfounded for a moment. He offers Ostiel a sympathetic glance, but visibly struggles to recover his thoughts. "Durable, yet elegant. It's a matter of fabric selection. Perhaps we can meet within the Weavers Talan to take measurements so that I might begin construction."

Again he glances towards Ostiel as he finishes his words towards the Council. "Attendant? Forgive me for asking, but is all well?"

Reluctance seeps from the elleth like blood from an open wound. Ostiel hesitates, unwilling to step into the open, stark eyes skittish and tinged with red. It is well that Faelion is a dear friend, or else his offer might be stolidly declined. As it is, a slim hand reaches out of the darkness and tentatively tucks into the muscle of the Counsel's bent elbow. But she does not step out of the shadows yet. "Forgive me for declining to speak of it," is her quietly firm reply to Galharth's inquiry, tone lukewarm, yet respectful for the concern.

Maintaining his arm for Ostiel to hold, Faelion drops in a bow to Galharth. "Many thanks, apprentice. I shall seek you out when I at leisure." And rising, the Counsel turns to lead the healeress from the Garden, bending his path to remain in shadow wherever possible.

Ostiel allows herself to be lead away, but is not so self-absorbed that she forgets to say goodbye to Galharth. "Have a nice evening, Galharth," is offered softly, filled with an attempt at warmth. As they move away, the healer's head falls to Faelion's shoulder. "Please take me home, Faelion. I need to lay down," drifts back in the barest whisper.

Nodding his head, accepting Ostiel's words with grace, the Clothier looks towards Faelion. "I'll look forward to the meeting," Galharth replies softly. Glancing towards the Attendant, he nods silently as she takes flight with Faelion. He pauses a moment, watching the departures, and then turns to soak in the beauty and comfort of the gardens.