================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Morning < About 7:55 AM >
IC day is: Orgilion <Stars-day>
IC date is: 36 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>
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RL time: Fri Sep 14 06:58:39 2007
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Field Hospital
You are in a small clearing cut into the thickets. All about you, the bushes and trees grow thick and unwavering, blocking out most of the sunlight and dimming the atmosphere. Despite the lack of sunlight or moonlight, the clearing gives of a calm, quiet, secure feeling. Here is where the Cuigrithweg have made their Field Hospital. Several woven mats are laid about on the ground in neat rows and a pair of small chests rest at the north side of the Hospital. High above the mats, a large tarp is strung to provide some shelter on the off chance that it should rain.
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The warmth of the early morning light shining in scattered rays through the thick canopy of the field hospital touches upon the scattered cots lined in neat and orderly rows. The scent of blood mingles with a heady fragrance of healing herbs. Soft moans of pain, and discomfort echo around the hallowed place. Certainly, there has been much in the way of battle in the past days and weeks. Healers, Attendants, and Apprentices move around the cots, pausing here and there to give forth comfort to their patients.

Names are known in this place, Marchwardens, Wardens, and Sentinel's alike, all who've bravely fought and fell to dark arrows or blades in one form or another. In the midst of these folk, a crafter lays. Crystal blue eyes stare blindly to the leaves above. He is pale, and clearly wounded, and one look into his eyes hints that the flame that burns within is losing strength.

Calsir was one among the aprenticeses moving about, her soft skirts whisper softly as she checks the various edhel here. As she passes by the Tailor she stops, looking over his various wounds, and checking to make sure her extra hands are not needed elsewhere she settles down beside him. Blue eyes mist slightly, though no wetness falls to her cheeks. She does not speak, instead she just sits as if she watches over him waiting for a change. She might not have been especially close to the tailor, but for any of their kind to be assaulted in such a way was troubling.

From the forest comes the Lady. Though there is no actual change to her physical appearance, she seems somehow changed; there is no light to her countenance. Her sense of duty, however, is unwavering and it seems she has been foraging. A basket she carries with both arms, brimming with leaves, stems, blooms and other artefacts of the realm. The cuffs and hems of her white gown are dingy and her hair has been put up in utilitarian bun. Her eyes move once to Galharth to see that he is being attended to, she then moves to a small cabinet, within easy voice range of the tailor's cot, and sets her basket down with a sigh.

All passes unseen, and seemingly unheard by the Tailor, and as gentle folk enter and leave, they go unnoticed by this frail ellon. Then, in a suddenness that catches nearby Apprentices by surprise, his eyes eyelids droop and he hisses in pain and outrage, rolling to his left whilst swinging an arm he seems lost in combat, or perhaps the memory of such.

"Get.......way" his garbled voice slurrs out. As he moves as if to take to the floor, a binding upon his leg brace snaps and blood once more flows freely from the wound upon his calf. He battles weakly with those that clearly wish to keep him safely upon is cot.

Seeing the Lady enter, Calsir stands once more, dips her head in greeting and leaves the Lady to her work in peace.

Galadriel moves quickly to the side of the crafter as he begins to struggle. The picture of calm, she makes directions the apprentices to get new bandages, teas, balms, all the while easing Galharth again into the center of his cot with gentle nudges and rearranging of limbs.

"There...easy. They are vanquished brother." Other murmurings follow which slowly turn into a sort of a lullaby. The Lady tries to find a gaze behind the glassy eyes of the tailor as she attempts to quiet him. The apprentices, with pained glances begin to try and set the aright.

"Galharth..." says the Lady.

Breathing heavily, the Tailor resistance weakens as he's pushed back into the cot. His flesh is paled with effort, and the wound upon his leg seeps a thin trail of blood stubbornly. From the pained look in his eyes, which now struggle to focus upon Galadriel, it is not body alone that has suffered.

Life returns briefly to his eyes, and while unfocused, there is signs of recognition. "I did not tell Lady, I did not......" With these words, Galharth gasps a breath and falls silent as his eyes close slightly. Did these words spoken in reason sap the crafter of his strength?

Galadriel smiles gently for him and brushes her hand across his pale forehead, careful of the bruises. "I never had any doubt, dear Galharth," she whispers quietly. An attendant stands near beside her with a cup that is covered by a piece of linen. The Lady takes the cup and sits down slowly next to Galharth. "This will ease his sleep...I hope..." she says to the attendant. Lifting the linen off the cup to reveal thick, almost smoky, steam she holds it before his face so that the sweet, medicinal scent wafts before his nostrils. The smell is overpowering and encourages dreamless sleep.

Though his breath is shallow, the steam is inhaled. A moment, perhaps two, passes and the Tailor's breath begins to ease, and his eyes droop heavily until fully shut. Restful sleep takes hold for a time, and dreams and memories do not haunt his mind.