================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 3:08 AM >
IC day is: Orbelain <Valar-day>
IC date is: 5 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: New <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
----------------------------------------------------------------------
RL time: Mon Sep 03 21:22:46 2007
=====================================================================
Anduin Vale, North of Lorien
The foothills have begun to give way beneath you, the ground more level and
smooth to the east, upon the plains of the
Anduin river. There are trees here, but it is difficult to see much during the
night. The Misty Mountains still seem to make
their presence felt to your west but appear now as mere shadows and nothing
more. It feels as if this area is free from any
danger imaginable, as the frost settles in on the blades of grass.
The sky is clear. The late night winter air is cold and dry around you. The moon
is new.
Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
=====================================================================
The cold winter air gives rise to chilly mists that rise up from the frosted
landscape. No wind blows this eve, and the sky
is clear of clouds. Stars flicker their white light upon a black sky, providing
a beautiful view.
On this eve, shadows dance with shadows. While no sound is heard, grey's mingle
with black, and different shades of black
swirl to create form. Then, suddenly, a soft song is heard, or perhaps not song,
but words. It almost sounds like: "There it
is....."
Here is a flutter of a breath; there, the whisper of a cloak against the claws
of underbrush: black upon black. Starlight
falls upon nothing, and yet something is there.
"Are we alone." A harmony in the dark, like the soft threat of arrow-point,
curls into question.
There are two on the plain.
Drawing his cloak back slightly, Galharth peers first towards the east, then the
north, west, and south, in turn. His
expression is tense, but concentrated. "Nothing moves, and while there is a
scent of something foul, it is old." Pausing,
the Tailor makes a second scan of the area. "I think it is safe for us to move
in to destroy the catapult parts."
Maglind gives Galharth a sidelong glance, nodding approvingly. "You should
become a tracker, Tailor; such are your skills."
He moves forward a little, creaking the longbow into place. "I can shoot from
afar. Let's not too close to that thing."
"Skills?" Galharth says with an expression of sheer innocence. "I thought it was
fear."
Turning fully towards the Warden, the clothier withdraws a flint and stone from
his cloak. "If you ready an arrow, I'll set
the spark to ignite it."
"I value both," grunts Maglind, reaching behind the folds of midnight-black
cloak. "This will be difficult. The balance will
be off."
The shaft he draws forth is painted black, fletched with raven, but the head is
wrapped with tinder and soaked in oil.
Without a word, the warden draws it back: fear drops away in the sweat running
down his chin; the creak echoes in the night.
Silently, the Tailor lifts his hands. One hand holding the flint, the other the
striking stone. Nodding towards the Warden,
Galharth brings his hands together with a loud crack of stone against stone. A
spark ignights and jumps towards the oil
soaked tinder.
A breath passes and a burst of yellowish-Orange flares in the night. The arrow
is lit! "Hurry! Send it forth and let the
deed be done." the clothier hisses sharply.
The point blossoms into flame, greedily consuming the head and licking Maglind's
bare fingers -- for a moment, pain flickers
in the reflection of the warden's blue eyes.
For a moment more, the arrow lingers on the string, then with a swift movement
of his arm it leaps from the bow, springing
like a mad firefly, hissing to an unseen point in the dark.
Following the blazing light as it slips through the night, Galharth holds his
breath. While only seconds pass, the time
seems to stand still as the arrow flies. Then, as suddenly as it had begun the
arrow strikes wood, and what remains of the
once whole catapult, begins to burn.
Turning towards the Warden, the Tailor asks softly, "Should we send another?"
It is like a beacon in nothing; the stars frown down at it for taking away their
bright splendor. Maglind turns away and
puts the scorched fingers in his mouth: the other hand is trembling. "No," he
says slowly. "It'll burn like a torch. Those
who have eyes will have seen it already. Come now, let us leave."
Galharth nods once and turns away from the blaze that now begins to grow as the
flame begins to feed upon the wood. "Lead
away, my friend. Pausing the Tailor takes one final glance a the burning
catapult. Offering the sight a slight frown, he
turns his back on it and moves along behind the Warden.