================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Afternoon < About 1:10 PM >
IC day is: Orgilion <Stars-day>
IC date is: 18 Firith <Fading>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <HIDDEN>
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 Aug 19 05:23:41 2007
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Golden Roadway - Southern Arc - Flagged Terrace
Here, midway up the hill, the white marble path running from hill foot to hill crest levels off and joins a narrow terrace
before continuing upwards. Longer than it is deep and flagged with marble, the terrace on the Golden Roadway serves as a
rendezvous point where many smaller paths converge. Large mallorn trees, whose leaves have all but turned a deep golden
color, border this piazza with each containing sizable flets. From one of the largest of such flets, perhaps a meeting room
of sorts, clear sounds of elvish singing and mirth drift pleasantly to your ears. It is night, and the tree tops of Caras
Galadhon twinkle from a multitude of lamps.

Participants:
Ruinbreg
Galharth
Thorhur
=====================================================================

A welcome warmth lingers in anor's early afternoon light, as Autumn fades into winter. To the west a heavy blanket of
powdery white snow already blankets the lower elevations of the Misty Mountains, and in the far north, snow clouds dance,
leaving a misty haze to drift to the land. A gentle wind blows from the south, swaying golden leaves that cling to the
Mellyn trees of Lothlorien. Somewhere in the city a gathering of Bards bring forth sweet song to mingle with the lively bird
whistles.

In time with the beat of the Bards song, a light tapping is heard upon the Terrace. Wood against stone - Tap - Tap - Tap, as
the clothier Galharth wanders the Golden Roadway. While he leans heavily upon the staff as he walks, and the movement of his
right leg clearly causes discomforth, the sound of wood to stone brings forth a slight smile to the crafters face. "Freedom
of mobility," he mutters aloud as he pauses to rest.

In contrast to the clothier, Ruinberg's footsteps are not punctuated by the persistant tapping of a staff, cane, or other
walking aid. Indeed, it would seem the Sinda would consider such an encumberance, for his long-steps seem too hurried to
permit the usefulnes of any such implement and the hurried pace would ill suit such a thing to begin with. Yet despite
speeding so on his way to wherever he might be going, the Elf does not entertain anny ambivalence to his surroundings: On
the contrary, the keen eyes of the Elf force him to a halt when he spies the silver head of the craftsman. Seduced by the
rich clothing of the craftsman, as well as perked in curiousity by the injury, the earthen-hued eyes of Ruinbreg fall upon
the gold-flecked of the other, "Greetings. Might I intrude upon your rest to inquire of you a handful of things?"

Turning towards the sound of a voice, a friendly smile is offerd. "Well met, and indeed, I'd be happy to entertain any
number of questions, mellon." Shifting his position slightly, he winces slightly in discomfort. "Would you mind if we took a
seat whilst we talk?" The Tailor says with a hopeful glance towards a nearby bench. Taking several steps, alternating foot
with cane, the crafter nears the bench.

"I would not mind such in the least," answers Ruinbreg as he hastens past his fellow so that he might take the initiative to
brush a small assembly of russet leaves to the ground and to similarly offer a helping hand to ease the tailor into his
seat. Once settled himself, he gives voice to the first of his inquiries, "If I am not mistaken, you are a tailor, are you
not? Of some skill, I might add, if your personal raiment reflects the fruits of your labour."

Grinding his teeth as he bends to sit upon the bench, the Tailor nods a thanks to Ruinbreg for the assistance. Once seated,
he releases a breath in a sigh. "Much better," he mutters softly as a hand goes to rub his right leg. "I am indeed a Tailor.
I'm Galharth, by the way." Galharth says, offering a coy smile. Lifting his hand from his leg, he sweeps his fingers over
the delicatedly embroidered robe. "A job and a passion."

Tilting his head to one side, he lifts a brow. "Are you in need of something?"

"I shall beg your pardon for this late introduction, Gilgarth: I am Ruinbreg," answers the Elf with a swift nod following to
serve in lieu of a smile as both an insistance on sincerity and a display of pleasure at meeting. "And if your leg might
permit you to work the needle and thread, I am indeed in need of something: A uniform, for I shall soon be seeking employ
amongst the Order, likely before the last of these leaves litter the ground."

Surprise flickers over the Tailor's expression, but this soon passes with an expression of appreciation. "While I'm sure
it's possible to hold a needle with my toes, I've not been adverturous enough to try," Galharth says with a soft chuckle.
"But even so, I've already got a nice supply of uniforms for edhel such as yourself who step up to provide us all with
safety and security." The right corner of his mouth rises into a firm grin. "I'd be an honor to provide you the clothing
you'll need. Once you've spoken with one of the senior Guard, stop by the weavers talan and you'll be outfitted."

Again his right hand goes to his leg, and he absently rubs the discomfort. "I've been told by the Warden Maglind that
they'll be increasing patrols, so any volunteers would likely find themself quickly stationed to the north. We've had
encounters with both Troll and Uruk Wolf Riders."

Ruinberg permits a chuckle to pass through lips which cannot help but twist into a grin, and though he does not address the
jest that so tickled him, the mirth sneaks into his voice nonetheless, "I am well pleased that you are so prepared and I am
certain that the uniform shall be of excellent quality. My thanks in advance, though it may be that a week or longer passes
before I shall call upon such."

The laughter dies, however, with the seriousness of the secondary topic. No longer as amused and his lips uncurling,
Ruinberg adds, "I have indeed heard of such things and it is in part why I feel the calling to defend our home. Long have I
felt a desire to do so, but only now have circumstances obliged my concession to this passion. Yet you seem to have guessed
my next line of inquiry: Is your injury the result of an Orc's blade? Did you find yourself at the battle?"

"Uruk? Nay, the Uruk attacked after we encountered a Troll." Galharth says. His expression grows distant and the hand upon
his leg pauses its absentminded movement. "A huge beast, vicious, yet also intelligent." His eyes refocus and he turns to
look upon Ruinbreg, "Grot was his name. He's unusual for his kind, I'm told by the rangers who've visited. Intelligent and
capable of movement within Anor's light." His gaze drops to his leg. "This time he managed to strike his axe against my leg.
And yet compared to the others in the patrol, I was lucky."

Leaning forward, the Tailor presses his lip tightly together as he peers at the soon to be Guard. "Should you see him, he'll
be mocking in his ways, but keep well out of his reach and use your bow even if it seems to glance off his skin. Too close
and you'll pay the price."

"Were it not for the fact that you have reavealed the manner in which you jest, I would have reckoned this news as such,"
spoke Ruinbreg, with a contemplative gaze fixated not upon his fellow, but rather at the trees which swayed in the wind
before the distant glaciers of the misty mountains. "First you reveal that stones are named amidst that black kind. This
alone seems to me ridiculous. Yet then you add to this a revelation that the sun does not return them to such as they are
made? I must say, I have heard of nothing of the sort. Truly, if such is the case, a fearsome beast has been bred. I now see
why my passions have called to me to seek out the Order: Such a creature may pose a threat to us all." A nod to none to none
but himself follows this declaration, but is soon followed by another more directly presented to Gilgartrh. "I am pleased to
hear you escaped with but a winged leg. That you have lived to tell me this tale is heartening."

Thorhur walks through the terrace, briskly, his reason for this unknown. Perhaps it is to get the chance to move his right
arm, which is still stiff. It is while he stretches it that he catches sight of Galharth and another ellon from the corner
of his eye. Stopping he approaches the bench and nods to Galharth, saying simply "Well met." Then, in a lighter voice, he
turns to the othe ellon and greets him, saying, "Hello. I am Thorhur. I don't think we have met before."

"Several Rangers, and the senior folk within the Order have all sworn thier efforts to rid this world of this beast. Indeed,
you would be among many friends to do the same." Galharth says with a firm nod. "It was frightful indeed."

Turning as they are approached, the Tailor nods his head, and replies to the Sentinel's greeting in an almost cool manner.
"Well met, Thorhur." Sweeping his hand towards Ruinbreg, he adds, "This is Ruinbreg. He is to soon see Legarwin, or perhaps
Haldir so that he might lend his services to the Wood."

Twice anew does the head of Ruinberg bend into a nod at the approach of the Silvan and the subsequent introduction afforded
him by Galharth. Like the tailor, however, his greeting might be construed as being chilly, for he offers no words, nor a
smile, to the new comer. In fact, only the aforementioned nod serves as communication between the twain. However, if
disinterested he might be in the new arrival, he is not so in the conversation that was held. Accordingly, Ruinbreg speaks
again, addressing the matter of the troll anew, "Though I trust in our might to defend against the aggressions of the the
troll indefinitely, if his skin blunts the heads of our arrows, he turns not to stone, and his wit is sufficient to not be
easily tricked, may not he prove as invulnerable? Was the creature at all wounded to any significant extent?"

"Ah, an excellent choice of profession, if I do speak from experience," Thorhur says with a grin. "I was in fact part of the
expedition that I overheard you speaking of before, lending my aid as a Sentinel, though I doubt any amount of training by
one person could have felled so great a monster." Quickly Thorhur sits down on the bench on the other side of Ruinbreg and
seems to be thinking of distant things.

"Arrows distracted the troll as would flies, but it suffered no injury until those with the skill tested him." Galharth
says, pausing as Thorhur speaks. To the Sentinel's words, he presses his lips tightly as if wanting to say something, but
exhibiting great patience by remaining silent. "The Guard is indeed a noble profession. I hold many members of the Guard in
high regard."

Shaking his head a moment, the Tailor sighs slightly. "I've been training with a Longsword for a long while now, and even I
failed to make a mark. There is no doubt that a beast of this calibre requires exceptional skill to defeat it. We are
fortunate that this is a rare meeting. We most often encounter Uruk Hai. These, our guards can manage."

"I am well aware of the excellence of the Order and would not seek a position within were it not so highly esteemed and
service so needed," addressed Ruinbreg to Thorhur as he shifted slightly in his seat and picked from his ebon hair an errant
leaf. "But if you were indeed part of those who encountered this brute, I commend your bravery - as I do Gilharth here, as
well." With the name of the maimed craftsman spoken, the would-be-sentinel returns his attentions in full to the tailor,
"Yet if the troll has attacked us now, surely he shall be eager to do so again? Certainly if he was merely driven back, he
should realize, if his wit is indeed as you say, that we stood little chance in slaying him at that time. But yes...we have
little to fear, ultimately, from the Yrch. They shall not ever over ride these woods, and I look with satisfaction to the
day when I might spill their black blood."

Thorhur, seeing Galharth's expression, wonders whether Ruinbreg has noted the tension between the two parties. Keeping
silent, he ignores Galharth and speaks directly to Ruinbreg. "The Order has a fine reputation in almost every aspect, save
one. For a long time now there has been great tension between the Court and the Order, one that interferes with the affairs
of both groups. The Court relies on words, and when harsh words are spoken to those of the Court they take it harder than
would most. The Order is based on action, and does not approve of the Court interfering with their duties. I daresay this
feud could be resolved, if both groups could reach an understanding, but for the present the tension remains between them."
Thorhur's tone is almost one of regret, but he does his best not to show this. In truth he deeply regrets the feud between
Order and Court, and upon finishing his little speech he shoots a glance at Galharth, his expression unreadable. It could be
his looks upon the Clothier with anger, or it could be he looks upon him with regret. Either way, though, his glance is
swift, and after it he turns away and shift his gaze towards the trees.

Anger flickers in Galharth's eyes, "Thorhur, stop. Clearly, you've not spoken with either Haldir or the Commander. The
dribble you speak is without understanding, clearly gained from someone who seeks more to inspire disagreement. Mithsul has
apologized for his own inappropriateness, and yet you continue to cling to yours. Again, I say stop."

Clenching his jaw for a moment, the clothier takes a breath and releases it slow. When calmed, he turns his attention to
Ruinbreg, "Forgive the outburst. There has been a slight disagreement over the leadership of the patrol in which we
encountered the Troll. At this time, it's a matter to be addressed by the Marchwarden or the Commander," again the crafter
pauses and glances towards the Sentinel and adds with a frown, "And no other."

"For your information, Galharth," Thorhur says in a loud impatient voice. "I was leading up to an apology, and if you
weren't so quick to anger you would have realized that. While still recovering I was sent for by Niinaeth, who explained the
situation to me, and I realized that if my words were so quick to anger you, perhaps an apology would calm you." Thorhur
pauses, stands up, and faces Galharth. "I am sorry, Galharth, for speaking out of turn to you and diminishing your
importance in both the Court and as a Tailor. I was angry and said things I did not mean, so I apologize and hope you accept
it." Turning to Ruinbreg he nods and says in a soft voice, "Farewell Ruinbreg and forgive my disruptance in your
conversation." With that, Thorhur turns to go.

The anger which the tailor displays was to Ruinbreg a bit of a shock, as revealed to any observer by the momentary widening
of his eyes and the lingering perking of a single eyebrow. Were it not for the fact that a fellow Aderthad was mentioned by
Galharth, perhaps the would-be-sentinel would simply have guaged the situation before speaking again, mayhaps occupying
himself by fingering the golden leaf he plucked from his hair, but because he was mentioned, he went to press the matter -
his lips, in fact, opening before interruption from the Silvan silences him. Waiting out the words of Thorhur on the matter,
Ruinbreg speaks not until he is bid farewell, to which he gives the departee a brisk nod to be followed by a simple, "Well
met." Mimicing his manner throughout the conversation, Ruinbreg then gave his true attention to the tailor alone, "You speak
of Mithsul of Aderthad, my kinsmen? If so, might I inquire as to what he said, or shall I have to seek him myself to know?"

Galharth looks at Thorhur and frowns. "An apology to me is not required for your words nor your actions. That should go to
your Commander. You represent him, and you represent the wood. That concerns me. If he accepts it, then that is all that is
needed." the clothier says stiffly. "Further, your words continue to express a lack of respect for me as a person because
you switch directions each time you open your mouth. It almost seems that you are speaking works that you think I would like
to hear. I have no use for empty dribble. Be yourself, or be nothing."

Turning to Ruinbreg, not seeing the Sentinel depart, the clothier shakes his head. "You are free to ask, Ruinbreg, but it
would be disrespectful to your kin for me to share his words. He spoke them with honor and sincerity, and I can do no less
than accept them and treat them with the same."

"If such is your viewpoint on the matter, I shall not further press the matter and instead speak to him directly," spoke
Ruinberg as he rose from the leaf-strewn seat and afforded the tailor a slight bow. "I am thankful for the sensitivity that
you have displayed to respecting my kinsmen, but as such a need calls me to seek him out, I must bid you farewell. It has
been a pleasure to speak with you and though our meeting may have been briefly marred, I myself not allow such a
rememberance to taint this meeting. I shall seek you again when I need to acquire my uniform and I earnestly hope your wound
shall heal speedily and your pain might be relieved. Good-bye."

Turning on his heels, Thorhur turns and faces Galharth, his face stern and, his eyes ablaze with anger. In a very patient
voice, however, he simply says, "It is not the Wood that has wronged you, it is I. The Order shall not be to blame for my
actions, for it is me to blame. I have offered you an apology and you have chosen how to take it. Again I will say sorry.
Farewell Galharth." With that, Thorhur turns on his heels and stops angrily and dejectedly from the Terrace.