================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Nighttime < About 10:50 PM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 5 Ethuil <Spring>
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel shines brightly barely above the horizon in the
western sky.
IC year is: Loa 18 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3042>
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RL time: Tue Oct 16 17:36:49 2007
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Green Roadway - Southwestern Arc - Library Path
The Green Roadway twists and turns here through giant Mellyrn of magnificent height. Little sunlight ever filters down to the forest floor, but here and there one might spy the occasional slanting ray that falls through the dreaming air and turns dust motes into stars of glory. Lamps, for beauty surely as light for seeing is unneeded by the elven folk who dwell here, flicker in the treetops far above. Sounds fall enchantingly upon your ears from many directions; soft laughter, lilting voices that carry music within them whether they speak or sing, long wistful songs that tell of tales of a long-lost and little-known land.

Off to the Northeast, at the side of the road, a great building dug from the hillside peeks out from the green and gold of the trees. By all indications, it is the Library.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
Pelliwen
Goerhim
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The evening hour brings forth a glorious view of a star filled sky. The evening breeze blows forth from the south, bringing with it scents from the forest and plains that stretch far beyond sight. These earthy scents mingle with the sweet floral fragrances of the city, creating a natural perfume. The sounds, delicate elven instruments, and sweet voices dance upon the air, bringing forth visions of old. It is a lovely night.

Wandering along the path, with his staff in hand, the Tailor Galharth hums along with the songs of the Bards. Nodding at edhel he passes, he is clearly moving better than he has in past days.

Pelliwen also wanders this night, although she wanders while playing away at her prized flute. The silvan is obviously quite skilled. For it is doubtful that any could make her crude instrument sound as pleasent without a great deal of practice. She is almost always heard long before she is seen. Eventually as her music draws closer, the young elleth enters into view. Her cloak and hair catching in the wind as she dances and plays under the starlight.

At the side of the path, a shadow waits. Slender fingers curl around a branch, disturbing the foliage. A cluster of leaves falls. Then: "I am glad to see you are better, Galharth. How long has it taken you?" Maglind's laugh, Maglind's voice.

Catching sight of Pelliwen, a smile forms upon the clothier's face as he calls out. "Well met, Mellon! It seems your eve goes well!"

At the sound of leaves rustling to his side, Galharth turns. "Ah Maglind. Well met to you as well." The smile upon his face remains and he reaches his free hand down to pat his still recovering leg. "It's taken too long, or so it seems. Perhaps in another half year I'll be fit as a fiddle and running alongside you through the wood."

Flashing a quick smile between notes, the young silvan skips toward Galharth. Her head swaying playfully to the music as she nears. It's not often that Pelliwen will engage with others so easily, there must be something on her mind. Lowering her flute, the smiling elleth speaks. "Hello Galharth.. " she says softly "Have you thought anymore about Imladris...". As the elleth approches, her rare bright expression suddenly fades as she realises that she is not alone with the ellen.. "Oh..." she whispers, coming to a pause, still at a generious distance.. "We can talk later.. Sorry to bother.. " Suddenly caught in her usual shyness, Pelliwen turns and steps away rapidly. As always clasping at her flute for support..

"You will run, but you will not catch me," chuckles Maglind softly, crossing his arms.

"Stay and talk," the warden calls down to Pelliwen from his perch. "I have not heard the music of your flute before. Have you joined the bards recently?"

Turning towards the elleth, the Tailor nods. "I've thought of it, yes. But to be honest, my thoughts have focused a great deal on recovery so that I might not hinder a group that travels north." Lifting a hand towards the young Silvan, he shakes his head. "It is no bother. Do join us in conversation." Galharth says, confirming Maglind's invitation.

It is difficult to secure Pelliwen in conversation. Doublely so when there is a group. So much so, that Galharth's response was likely completely unheard in her haste to rush off. Coming to a halt she turns, her hands clasping nerviously at a flute clasped tight at her chest. "Some other time..." she says at a near whisper, that likely did not reach any ears. Pelliwen can of course be good company, and enjoys socialising.. But she must be forced into it.. Its has been this way for a great many yesrs now. She wastes no time in her exodus..

"At least play us a song," suggests Maglind, leaning precariously ground-ward from the branches he nests in. "Perhaps you could finish what you were playing when you came here."

"Indeed, Pelliwen, play something." Galharth says with an encouraging smile. Moving off the path slightly, the clothier settles down upon a large root that rises up from the ground as if to form a natural seat. "It is such a lovely evening, I'd be glad to hear the soft melody of a flute."

Pelliwen once again pauses, by now quite a distance away from the ellons. From behind, her head can be seen lowering. The rest of her body appears motionless under the cloak that surrounds her body. After a brief moment, the dull sound of her crude flute slowly begin to fill the air. A simply melody, of her own creation. It is a rather somber piece of music..

Goerhim limps southwards toward the gathering, his ungainly gait making a lie of his lithe elvish form and a discordant note to the music. His eyes are down.

Appeased, Maglind leans back and listens quietly, but not for long. Another catches his eye: the second ellon that limps on this path. "Goerhim," he whispers softly."

At Maglind's words, Galharth turns his head and nods a greeting. "Well met, Forester," the Tailor says softly so not to disrupt the music. Sweeping his head towards the elleth, he whispers. "I've recommended that she join the Bards, though I think her interests also lay within the crafters."

At the sight of another enthering the area, the elleth once again ceases her playing and darts off. Without a look backward the shy silvan steps away with great purpose.

"Good d---" Goerhim has raised his hand, then abruptly cuts himself off as the musician stops her music. His lips press a little and his eyes become intent as he watches her. The next moment he is looking back to the other elves. "Good day to the both of you," comes his low voice. He approaches them, favoring one leg.

"Hello," Maglind calls from above; then, his pale head disappears behind the branches, and a foot dangles in the air, searching for a hold. He descends.

"Mm, no," Goerhim answers. "Master." He stops before Galharth and lifts his head to watch Maglind's descent. "I was off to see Adar in the vinyard and perhaps get a feel of the oak garden before going north."

From inside said library emerges Ostiel O' Cuigrithweg, solemn of expression and purpose, stepping through the doorway with firm foot and tome tucked beneath her arm. The healer strides down the pathway, sees friends, and smiles on her way past.

Tilting his head slightly towards the Forester, Galharth lifts a brow. "How grows the Oak? Are any prime for harvesting? I think the carpenters wait anxiously for wood to build chairs and such." As the Clothier speaks, he catches sight of Ostiel coming forth from the the library. Raising his free hand towards the Attendant as she smiles, he calls forth. "Ostiel! Well met! Come come join us. The eve is too pleasant to not surround yourself with friends."

"Well..." Goerhim's bright eyes go aside to Ostiel as he hesitates. "There are some who might tell you that there is better light in an oak hewn in springtime, but for myself, I find cutting the oak and sending it to a long sleep while it's sleeping in wintertime is best for the peace of the resulting chair."

Hesitation slows Ostiel's steps, turns her smiling, quizzical head towards the gathered. Perhaps another situation would have brought a yes from her lips, this turn of leaf is one in which the healer declines, albeit gracefully. "Nay, I cannot. This," she holds up the book ruefully, eyes sparkling, "will not read itself."

"The peace of the resulting chair?" Maglind asks, popping out of the bushes below his tree. "What does that mean? Does it sing a sweeter song, or does it seat its master well?" He sits down on the path carefully.

"I believe the carpenters prefer the sping harvest, but that matter is between the Wood Smiths and the Foresters." Galharth says with a knowing smile. "I fear most do not consider the peace of the chair they seat themselves into, but I can not speak for all."

Crystal blue eyes flicker towards the toom held by the Attendant and the Tailor nods. "Understandable, dear lady. Should you change your mind, you are, as always, welcome to chat with us."

"You know." Goerhim shifts a shoulder, as awkward in that as his step. "Have you never sat in a chair that is ill at ease with itself?" He sounds bewhildered.

"If you wish some spring wood, Master," he continues on for Galharth, his tone settling, "I can think of a few trees that can be spared at this time."

"Thank you," Ostiel offers to no one in general, and continues down the path with her reading material, head already buried in the first page. Indeed, so absorbed is she in the tome's contents, that the elleth does not see the scampering elfings that burst out of the bushes until they are nearly upon her. She looks. She gasps. They scream with delight and horror, crashing into her slender legs. The group goes down. Boom.

Maglind makes an odd squeaking noise as the elves collide. Quick feet carry him from his hiding spot -- leaves and young twigs cling to his grey cloak. But those feet do not account for the ancient roots that stick from the ground: in his haste he misses them.

The warden makes a strangled noise and falls flat on the path.

Goerhim's eyes are on Galharth, but he turns quickly at a soft tumbling sound nearby. "Aiya!" This is sworn beneath his breath. Quickly he limps toward the tangle of elves.

Bright eyes study the younglings but, as he leans with one hand on his staff, he offers the other to Ostiel. "All well then?" he asks, just as another body falls behind him.

"If one were to listen, I'm sure the peace could be heard, but alas, I'm normally too busy to listen to much save the conversation I'm in the midst of." Galharth admits with a frown. As the Tailor speaks, he watches the Attendant move away. His eyes grow wide as the little ones burst forth ans startle he elleth. "Ostiel!" the Tailor calls out in surprise. Blinking in surprise, he turns in time to catch the Warden fall as well. "Tis an odd day!" He says, looking to the Forester. "Which do we help first?"

The dust settles. For a long moment there is silence, for Maglind is on the ground, Goerhim and Galharth await reply, and the children hold their breath, wide eyes staring at the pile of elleth and clothing buried beneath their little, gangly bodies. Then abruptly, the laughter starts. Ostiel flips over, mouth parted in a fit of giggles, a white foot resting on her forehead. Unable to speak just yet, she merely points to Maglind and nods frenetically.

Goerhim withdraws his hand. He turns his head to look first at Maglind, then at the Craftmaster. "They both seem to be well." He laboriously lowers himself to his stronger knee, leaning on his staff. "And you, little ones?" he asks of the children. "How did you get yourselves into this trouble?"

Maglind's face is in the ground, but his ears turn red, redder than the sun at dusk. "Mmph," he grunts, as he attempts to pick himself up.

There is a muffled giggle from the thick leaves of a nearby tree.

"Both who? The children or the Attendant and Warden?" Galharth asks as he limps over to inspect the mess himself. "Ostiel? Do you need help? Maglind?" The Tailor asks as he leans forward, stretching out a free hand towards any who might take it.

Goerhim sighs at the sound of a giggle, then turns his head. "Rhibi?" he calls. "Is that you?"

To the others, resignedly: "I'm so sorry. I'll talk with Mother about him." Another sigh. "Again."

"But I didn't DO anything!" protests an indignant voice, and Rhibi swings himself from the tree to land lightly in the roadway. "I didn't run into anyone and I didn't trip anyone and it's not my fault that I was here when everyone fell down and it was funny!"

"Reckless elflings." Ostiel warily eyes the faces that stare down at her, some now beginning to smile, regaining their former glee. "I'm of a mind to put every one of you to work. Sorting herbs." Horror. She grins, pushes the bodies off. "I'm fine, Galharth. See to Maglind."

"I'm fine," grumbles Maglind, propping himself up on his elbows. "The trees must be happy, Goerhim. They are sprouting roots /everywhere/ in the spring."

"Well if you weren't the source of most elfling trouble nobody would accuse you falsely, Iaurfer," Goerhim says, voice deepening for emphasis. His eyes turn back to the other children critically. Once satisfied, he hauls himself upward with his staff for support. "Mallyrn are usually happy," he assures Maglind.

Rhibi glares up at his brother, hazel-green eyes snapping. "I don't cause trouble!" he protests, entirely sincerely. "Do I, Maglind? Galharth?" He turns to enlist support for his cause. "Have I not done all that you have told me?"

Blinking in innocence, for indeed the Tailor radiates nothing if not sweet innocence, Galharth turns his gaze towards Rhibi. "Where you chasing the lot that plowed into the Attendant?" he asks in a gentle voice. As Ostiel speaks, the Tailor turns towards the elleth, and he lifts a brow. "I'd be glad to see to Maglind's needs, but I would do so with less worry if I knew you were alright."

The corner of the clothier's mouth rises as the threats of work come forth. "But, I can see you are well and fine." Hearing Rhibi now, the crafter laughs. "Does not Rhibi mean trouble? Past efforts do not now show current innocence."

"I wasn't!" Rhibi insists. "I was sitting up in that tree and watching." A little smile tugs at his mouth and he confesses, "I did /think/ about jumping down, but ... but I didn't do it! Truly, it wasn't my fault at all!"

"But he has kept himself well under my watch." Maglind says, dragging himself into a sitting position. "I am fine. There is nothing graver than a stubbed toe."

"Do you recall anything about a southern forest, Rhibi? Anything about a nice bubbly wine?" Another sigh from Goerhim. "Honestly, you're always innocent. You always say so. Well, most of the time," he allows.

"Well, I am," Rhibi retorts. "Especially this time." He scowls at Goerhim, smiles gratefully at Maglind, "You see? And I shall tell Mother so!" And the boy is gone, dashing off to find his parents.

The tome lies on the ground, surprisingly clean, with only a few speckles of dirt and grass here and there. Ostiel stoops to retrieve it, shaking her head. "Well...wasn't that interesting. Goodbye." This is said very succinctly, and the healer scoots off toward higher ground, trailed by a few of the elflings. Their apologies continue to echo back for long minutes.

"Mother had better not believe him," Goerhim grumbles beneath his breath as he watches his brother dash off. "I swear he takes advantage of how he can run faster than me now."

Clicking his tongue agains the inside of his cheek, the clothier follows along on the heels of the Attendant. "Ostiel, do wait up. Let the children appologize if only long enough to allow me to catch up." Galharth calls out as he moves. Pausing only long enough to assure that the Warden is unharmed, the Tailor nods his head and move along the path.

Maglind watches them leave without a word. "How old is Iaurfer?" he asks, hobbling over to join Goerhim. "I have traveled with him before, but sometimes he acts like a child and other times like a veteran."

"Mmm, around in his twenties now, as far as seasons go," Goerhim answers, taking one limping step to turn toward Maglind. "He's like that because of Mia. She's been a good influence on him in some ways, though some in our family aren't happy with him following a guard about. We're most fine with it. My parents anyway. I worry after him a bit sometimes," he confesses.

"I would too," says Maglind after a moment. He wobbles, stooping to pull off his boot. "Perhaps I am being selfish, but I wouldn't want Rhibi to be like a guard. He has seen much outside the forest, and to see more ... ouch." The warden touches his foot tenderly.

"That'll heal," Goerhim says matter-of-factly, looking down at the foot. "With or without a healer I'd warrant." He shifts his weight. "Rhibi will surely be a guard with or without our blessing. THough maybe he'd be a diplomat like Mother instead."

"Maybe," echoes Maglind, rubbing his toe awkwardly. "I don't know. But I suppose I should be going too. Good evening, Goerhim."