================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Day
IC date is: 30 Ethuil <Spring>
Moon phase: Full <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 16 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3040>
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RL time: Wed Feb 21 15:15:00 2007
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Mar Vanwa Tyalieva
A large talan about the bole of the tree with a hardwood floor and sturdy walls (unlike most talan construction) that sport
shuttered fenestrations to let air in. The branches of the mallorn support the lofty, thatched ceiling and have been hung
with many lamps as well as green banners to denote the season. A few elves sit about, chatting in low voices and drinking
from steaming vessels, while a couple of others straighten out the seats and tables, readying the talan for the new day's
activities.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
Nauthcel
Taradel
=====================================================================

Somewhere in the sky the sun dances, peeking in through mallorn leaves and wooden shutters. The Mar Vanwa Tyalieva is
largely empty, with only a few early elves scattered here and there among the tables.

With his back to the door, sitting at a table by himself, Maglind swishes the red dregs of his wine in a slender glass.

With his attention firmly focused upon a journal held within his right hand, the Clothier Galharth enters the Mar Vanwa
Tyalieva. Lifting a hand to acknowledge the few voices who call forth a greeting, his attentions remain unwavered upon the
words written within the tome. Muttering softly, his left hand lifts to lay an index finger upon a particularly interesting
passage as he takes seat at a table.

Pausing his reading, he looks up. "Oh!" he says in surprise as he catches sight of Maglind sitting across from him. "I
didn't realize that anyone was at this table." His face colors slightly in embarrassment and he looks around in search of a
vacant table. "I can move if you wish...."

The din of boots on stone, in contrast to the soft steps of the Eldar, reveals the coming of one who is of a different kin
that the denizens of the woods. The Dunadan Nauthcel enters the Mar and lets his gaze pass over the peaceful setting. He
then makes his way towards a nearby table that is laidened with food and drink. Obtaining a small loaf of bread and a cup of
tea, the Man strides to an empty table where he sets his items down before seating himself to enjoy the morning meal.

"Oh!" echoes Maglind with equal astonishment, the vessel in his hand dropping to the table with a tinkle of glass, "I did
not know you sat down either. Please, stay."

He holds up a hand, asking, "Will you have a drink?"

With her head in parchment, Taradel enters the establishment without knowing who or what is around her. The fact that she
follows Nauthcel seems to be a coincidence, or is it? She mutters something about Nazgul, but shakes her head and looks
quickly about to find a table to sit at. Seeing others here, she is almost startled, but smiles in greeting to those that
catch her eye, then continues to an empty table near the door.

Relief seems to fill the clothiers expression as he closes his journal. Offering a smile, Galharth nods. "A glass of wine
would be welcomed."

Turning his gaze, to spy if Siniathweg had taken note of Maglind's raised hand, he catches sight of the human Nauthcel, "It
can be a lonely thing to be in a land with none to welcome you," he mutters softly, 'How would you feel about inviting the
human to join us?"

Then, just as his words are uttered, he catches sight of Taradel. Recognition flickers in his crystal blue eyes and he waves
a hand towards the elleth.

As the harpist enters, Nauthcel slightly raises his brow at seeing the elleth once again. A slow drink of his tea is taken
before, softly form his lips, a song is begun to be sung in an ancient tongue, one long faded from the land of Men. The
words gently glide from his lips yet not unlike that of the elven speech.

"Red or white, then?" queries Maglind, "and as for the human, why not?"

Tilting his chair and his chin backwards, the sentinel calls out, a smooth interruption in elven speech, "Come join us,
sir?"

Catching the eye of Galharth, Taradel beams as she fumbles together her pieces of parchment and makes her way closer to him.
She catches the leg of a table with her own leg and nearly dumps all of her papers on the floor. Luckily, she catches her
self by grabbing onto Nauthcel's sleeve. She smiles demurely up at him, coughs silently, then continues quickly walking
towards Galharth speaking loudly, "I have almost finished the story of my cousin, Paleran, the one I was telling you about.
Not many people remember him, so I've had to try and search through any records the Order has, and, well, they're not all
that well organized." She coughs again, and curves her lip in slight embarrassment at her own predicament.

"Red I think. It offers the greatest flavor of bygone days." Galharth says as the corner of his mouth rises up into a half
smile. At Maglind's invitation, the Clothier turns his gaze for an instant towards the human, "Yes, Nau...." his words
suddenly fall silent as he catches sight of Taradel's near spill. Rising to his feet in an instinctual reaction to lend aid,
the Crafter pulls out a vacant chair at the table. "Come sit Taradel, your burden clearly must be distracting your steps."

As the Ranger prepares to stand, the elleth grabs his sleeve which causes him to remain seating for a moment longer. He then
remarks, "It would seem that my presense in Lothlorien has made an impact, in atleast being able to catch your call." A
small grin is given to the elleth as she moves quickly towards the table he is invited to. Once again taking ahold of his
bread and tea, he rises and makes for an empty seat. "I thank you for the offer to have company."

"Ah, two glasses of red, -- wine, lady Taradel -- if you would please," says the sentinel to the elf who answers his hand.
Maglind's only response is a raised eyebrow and another swish of his glass. "Is this the project I have been hearing about
all 'round the Wood?"

Continuing to fumble with her paperwork, Taradel attempts to sort them in her lap, gently letting the papers fall into place
so they aren't quite in such a disarray. She smiles at Maglind and inclines her head, "Wine will do nicely." She turns to
catch Siniathweg by the eye and hails him for a cask of her favorite red, which he seems to have no trouble finding
immediately. Having finished these two tasks, she heaves a great sigh and smiles to Galharth, "Yes, my friend, this
information gathering is so unbecoming of me. I have not even had time to pluck my strings much of late, which is most
likely increasing my stress." She titters nervously at her own comment, and then coughs faintly again.

"I envision any effort intended to remember a loved one as being unbecoming." Galharth says with a firmness in his tone that
hinted to his devotion to his latest project. "You're a harpist, are you not?" he asks Taradel, in a softer tone. "I should
like to hear you play when the time comes for you to cast off the stresses that keep your from your art. It would in fact be
a pleasure to listen, as I'm quite fond of any who strive to bring forth beauty to the eye or the ear." Taking a deep
breath, the ellon places an arm comfortably upon the table as he speaks. Turning towards Maglind, the Clothier tilts his
head. "I'm preparing a quilt fashioned with the events and memories of our people over the past ten years." I've left word
throughout the wood at both guilds and houses, so that all are made aware of my project. Ten years is so little a time for
our people, but it speaks well of our current situation upon Arda."

"Only ten years?" Maglind nods slowly, head haloed in a sunbeam. "Well, perhaps I can recount some. There was the Bardic
Congress in Lorien three years past, and another trip abroad not too long before that...."

Looking down at her papers a bit, Taradel's mood seems to have darkened quite a shade. She whispers softly, "Only 10 years?"
She leafs through a few papers, and then produces one which looks to be a scribbled outline. Sighing softly again, she
speaks with quite a bit of the edge lost in her voice, "I will have to go back to my quarters, then. Most of my notes of my
cousin are from more than 10 years ago. He left Lorien, er..." She runs her finger down the parchment, searching for a date,
"Just before 3000, so I guess some information will still be valid."

Quickly holding up a hand, Galharth shakes his head. "Hold," he says quickly, before anything further can be said. "I work
upon a quilt that gives mention of the past ten years, but it seems that alone is not sufficient." Pausing a moment as his
wine arrives, the Clothier lifts his glass to take a sip. Swallowing gently, he glances to all present at the table. "It
seems within the past years there have been not only events, but notable people who've made some impact that is remembered
and cherished in some way." Taking another sip, he focuses his gaze upon Taradel. "As with your cousin, he is remembered
still. This is true of others. Each of us, it seems, carries a memory of someone who've molded us into who we are, and what
we strive to achieve."

Pausing his words, the Clothier furrows his brow and stares intently into his wineglass. "A simple task grows, and while all
that I learn might not make it's way onto the memory quilt, none that I am told will be lost." Glancing up to look once more
to the others present, a shadow of a smile appears upon his lips. "Of that I promise you...."

Glass held to lips, Maglind muses in silence.

"How large will this quilt be, Clothier? It seems that if we are to include everything in these past years, we will need
something of great size."

Nearly overjoyed at Galharth's words, Taradel nearly jumps out of her seat to hug the ellon, when she remembers at the last
second of all the papers in her lap. She giggles as she realizes what a huge mess that would have caused, and says
gratefully instead, "You have my thanks, mellon. At least the work I have done is not in vain, and now I guess I don't have
to worry myself so much about gathering more information and can just finish cleaning up what I have." She sighs softly and
traces a finger over the edge of her paper, "Did you know Paleran was a member of the Gwaith-I-Mirdain? Oh, how fondly he
used to talk of Celebrimbor..."

An expression of amuzement flickers upon the Clothiers face. "It will be of good size," he responds quickly, "but not so
large as to include each word spoken of the past years. It will be a summary of sorts. A summary of pictures or words,
whichever expresses the memory best."

Turning to the elleth, the expression turns to one of understanding. '"Your response is not unlike others, Taradel. It seems
the time has come to record the memories of a few who've made an impact upon our land." Lifting his glass to his lips, the
Clothier takes sip of the sweet red wine. At the elleth's last words, Galharth hand jerks in either surprise or excitement,
causing several large drops of red wine to spill upon his robes. "The Gwaith-I-Mirdain you say? Even without an active
project, I'd be glad to hear about your cousin." he says quickly as he attempts to wipe away the stains forming upon his
lap.

Any expression he might have had moments before, it is long gone and replaced with distress. "Ack, this is my favorite
robe!" Standing up, he continues to attempt to brush away the stain. Pausing he glances to those at the table. "I'm sorry to
part company with such speed, but I've got to do something with this stain before it sets." Without further opportunity to
speak, the Clothier quickly departs, muttering about the staining properties of red wine.

Maglind pauses mid-sip, watching Galharth leave through the tinted glass. Pursing his lips, he looks to Taradel. "I suppose
I should have ordered the white instead."

"But tell me, lady Taradel. You said you were a harpist?"



Fade to Black