================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Morning < About 8:28 AM >
IC day is: Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is: 56 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: Waning Crescent <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 18 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3042>
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RL time: Tue Nov 20 20:49:40 2007
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The Gates of Caras Galadhon

You stand now in the narrow corridor between the overlapping arms of the high green wall. Tall and strong and hung with many lamps, the great gates stand before you protecting this sole passage into the great forested city beyond. The early morning sun filters down through the trees, creating a patchwork of sunshine and shady areas before the gates. Atop the wall, sentries patrol their stations armed with bows of yew and shouldering quivers of grey feathered arrows. To the southwest, a white bridge arches across the misty fosse that encircles the walls.

Contents:
Galharth
Ostiel
Lostiriel
Rhibi
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Where once was fathomless night and winking stars, now is filled with soaring creatures and lazy clouds. Where once was nature, sound asleep in it's bed of darkness, now is yawning life, still kissed by the dew of morning. Anor has risen, and casts her warm golden hues across the elements, melding light with the smallest of objects, or the largest. Caras Galadhon's gates are no exception, guards standing watch above with shoulders straight, intelligent and wise, the light reflecting off their bows, the polished arrows and swords. A small crowd stands below, just within the city, anticipation heavy on the air. It ebbs, flows, shifts inbetween feas and bodies, potent and heady. Something is about to happen.

Indeed something does happen! The Tailor arrives! This isn't exactly what tales are made of but the Tailor Galharth does arrive. With his staff in hand, tapping out the path he takes, the good crafter moves along the roadway at a good pace, heading in the direction of the Crafters halls. His mood seems light and his pace quick, and clearly he seems in a good mood.

There is another that suddenly appears, and it is the Courier Lostiriel, her footsteps hurried as she arrives. Her hair is pulled away from her face, making her eyes seem even larger, and the sound of low murmuring can be heard from her as she walks. She glances about and, seeing others, she stops, a smile lighting her face as she calls out, "Well met!"

The crowd is jostled as someone pushes his way through towards the edge. And Rhibi's red head pops out into the open; his hazel-green eyes searching and intent. They land at last on Lostiriel and the boy runs forward, reaching to take her hand. "Is it true?" he asks, breathless. "Is it true? Oh, let me come with you!"

A faint chorus of 'well met's and 'mae govannen's follow shortly in polite greeting to Lostiriel's general greeting, and most keep their wary eyes kindly off of Rhibi, though some watch him with silent caution. Ostiel is one who does neither, but stands still in the cool shadows, an elleth nearly twice as slender as herself whose countenance greatly resembles the Cuigrithweg's conversing quietly nearby.

Pausing his step, the Tailor turns his gaze over those in the immediate area and he smiles. "it seems this day is one for the Gates. Well met all, and good tidings." Looking to Lostiriel, he chuckles, and adds, "The lady Ostiel I have asked to join us due to Maglind and my tendancy to find trouble, and it seems the child Rhibi has just learned of the event. Clearly, you have much to decide in the few days we have left."

Eyes glancing to Ostiel, Lostiriel nods and says, "Yes, I would think it a very wise thing for you to come. After all, Galharth and Maglind have a way of calling down trouble, or creating it if it can not be found." The elleth glances at Galharth, but her eyes are friendly and her voice teasing. "I should hope, though, that trouble does not fall upon us this time. And what is this about Rhibi?"

Rhibi's face falls as Lostiriel neither says yes (cause for rejoicing) or no (chance for arguing!), but instead ignores him entirely. And he is nearly vibrating with anxiety, his eyes fixed now on Galharth, as she talks to the tailor. But, just barely, he manages to remain silent.

Ostiel slips away from the clinging shadows, whispering something quietly to the elleth that, from the way they interact, from the resemblance, must be her mother. Joining the group, silent but tranquil in the manner of the Cuigrithweg, she listens, watching the group with interest.

Stepping back and away from the gathering crowd, Galharth bows his head to Lostiriel. "It is your trip Lostiriel, and I trust you'll manage what needs managed." Glancing to Ostiel he smiles, "I would be glad indeed for your company upon this trip Ostiel, for something tells me that we have need of your skills." Once said he turns his gaze to Rhibi and smiles. "For you, I wish you luck. You'd be glad company on this trip and I know your desire to see family. Let me know what the Courier says." With that said, the Tailor disappears along the path, hurrying to the Crafters Hall to finish last minute business.

Smiling, Lostiriel turns to Rhibi and nods. "Very well. Come along with us, for I haven't the heart to say no." Then, sighing, she begins moving away. "Unfortunately, I must be leaving now to see to a few of the last details. I shall see you soon, Rhibi." With that, the Courier walks swiftly away.

And he is left, goggle-eyed. That was way too easy... But who looks a gift horse in the mouth? Or a gift trip... Rhibi, eyes shining, stands alone in a crowd of elves; and then an ebulliant whoop echoes across the chasm.

Rhys strides casually through the gates of the city, his fienly chiseled nostrils quivering as he appreciates the scents of the woods and the leaves under foot.

Gallia skips lightly through the gates, as if she is on her way somewhere; not necessarily in a hurry, but not wasting time by idly strolling, either. She has a pack slung casually over her back, and she is apparently not watching where she is going -- for she runs right into the back of Rhys as he slows down to smell the "roses" (so to speak).

The discussion concluded, Ostiel moves back to her former position in the shadows, not entirely out of sight, but not seeking the sunshine either.

Rhys knits his brow and assumes an annoyed expression as he peers down his nose at the female elf who's just assaulted him. "Are you always so dangerously oblivious?"

In sheer delight, Rhibi races through the slowly-dispersing crowd, making circles, figure eights, any pattern that occurs to him until his dignity comes back to him in a rush, and he stops, drawing himself up to his full height and walking solemnly towards the gates. But solemnity is so ... difficult. A gleeful laugh erupts from the young elf just as Gallia barrels into Rhys.

Gallia's brow wrinkles, and she purses her lips. "Are you always so SLOW?" she retorts. "Why are you standing here in the middle of the roadway, blocking people who have places to be?"

Rhys gestures with an outflung arm, "Why NOT in the middle of the road? It's what roads are made for, my dear."

Gallia shakes her head. "/Roads/ are made for getting from one place to another quickly. If you want to move like a snail, you are welcome to weave through the woods, or travel through the tree-top rope bridges."

Fascinated out of his obsession with Imlad, Rhibi squats down by the road and watches the two elder elves argue. "It is," he pipes up, in agreement with Rhys.

Gallia snaps her fingers at the child. "Didn't your mother ever tell /you/ not to play in the road /either/?"

Rhys shakes his head sadly, "Destinations are highly overrated. Why this obsession with getting somewhere else when right here is just as good?"

The lad nods seriously. "She did," he says. "I think. But I didn't listen." A swift flashing grin up at Gallia. "Everywhere is somewhere to play in."

Gallia rolls her eyes, sighing dramatically. "The problem with 'right here' is that there are so many people about. One apparently cannot come into town to reprovision and return to the civilized Wood without being stopped by dawdling Elves any more." She peers at the child with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, but doesn't reply to him for now.

Exuberence boils over and Rhibi leaps up, standing first on one foot and then the other, and then giving a little hop of joy. The dappled light plays over his hair, and he spins around, then squats back down, disposed to listen a while longer.

Rhys glances at the child and shrugs his shoulders with his palms raised to the heavens, "Dawdling? Are you dawdling, child? I'm certainly not dawdling." Turning to Gallia he goes on, "Exactly what does a brash femake ekf consider to be "dawdling, I'd like to know?"

Grinning widely, the child shakes his head. "I never dawdle," he says seriously. But his eyes sparkle, and a glint of pure mischief lurks in their depths. He leaps to his feet again, then slowly edges backwards off the path... slithers up a tree. And shortly there-after, a shower of cones sprays down on the two squabbling below.

Gallia points to the roadway directly under Rhys's feet. "Dawdling, in this case, means interfering with the normal flow of movement on a major roadway," she says firmly. "If you were to step aside and not cause people who have somewhere to be to run into you, I may still consider it dawdling, but I would not have had occasion to notice it."

Rhys quickly pulls the hood of his cloak over his head as the cones rain down, and he breaks out in laughter. "You are quite beautiful when you are annoyed."

The boy wriggles out onto a branch and pokes his head out to see the result, hanging nearly upside down, his hair swinging below him. Serious for another second, he stares intently at Gallia. Beautiful....

Gallia rolls her eyes, and then looks up into the tree. She seems oblivious to the falling objects, letting them bounce off her head and shoulders without a second notice. "And you are stubborn when you are being unreasonable," she mutters. Then she calls out, "What are you doing up there, my child? Don't you know the cones need to stay in the trees until they are mature enough to seed? Will you knock them all down and doom the entire forest?"

Rhys waves a hand dismissively, "There are more than enough cones to seed the forest. The child will hardly doom it. But tell me, where have you been living? I have not seen you in an age, I'm sure."

A flicker of horror. "I didn't!" Rhibi protests, his voice muffling as he swings himself back up and slides down the trunk. "Did I? I only dropped a few..." He looks up at the tree, worriedly, then relaxes at Rhys' words. "You are certain?" he asks, tone begging for reassurance.

Rhys chuckles at the naivette exhibited by the child and nods reassuringly, "Yes, I'm positive."

Rhys turns back to Gallia and adds as an afterthought, "And why are you in such a hurry that you have no time for an old acquaintance?"

Gallia pointedly ignores Rhys, and kneels down to look at the child at closer to eye-level, although this actually puts her in a position to look up at him slightly. "I was only teasing," she assures him. "But... who are your parents? I do not think I recognize you."

Rhibi smiles, relieved, then blinks as Gallia's face appears so near to his own. He draws himself up tall and straight. "I am Iaurfer o nos Dinlom," he recites. "My father is Iaurhanc, he is a master vintner. But I am going to be in the Order. Already, I have a bow!"

Rhys purses his lips and nods sagely, "A bow already, at such a tender age. Are you any good with it?"

Gallia smiles brightly. "Ah, I see! How clever of you! Very good, then. How old are you? I cannot imagine I have not been in the city since you were born, but perhaps it really has been that long, and sometimes news can take many summers to reach my ears."

"Of course I am!" Rhibi says indignantly. His hand automatically feels over one shoulder for the bow that is always, always there. "I am very good, even SHE says so!" His bright eyes return to Gallia, but for a moment he is at a loss. Age? "I do not remember you, lady," he says politely, by way of a reply.

Gallia chuckles, "That is alright. I think it has been about fifteen summers since last time I came into the city. Perhaps either you had not yet been born, or you were already old enough that my friends here assumed I already knew, and did not bother to tell me a new elfling had been born into our midst."

The bow slides from a youthful shoulder, the single arrow Rhibi carries with him is carefully fitted to the string, and the boy takes aim at a tree trunk not too far away. And indeed, the arrow does fly through the air swiftly and surely, thunking into the bark. And he races after it, calling over his shoulder, "See?"

Rhys raises his hands and slowly applauds, smiling and nodding.

Gallia nods admiringly. "Very good, child," she says. "You will make a valuable addition to the Order when you grow tall enough."

It is a look of vast impatience and irritation that flits across the child's face as he yanks the arrow out of the bark. "I do not grow fast enough," he say grumpily, then his face lights up again. "I shall go and eat more," he says, and laughs, before taking to his heels and disappearing into the city's depths. Or heights...

Gallia laughs, watching the child go. "Before you know it..." she trails off, smiling sadly.