================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Mid Afternoon < About 3:44 PM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 62 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: Waxing 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: Thu Nov 22 15:14:53 2007
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Forest Path
The well-kept forest path continues onwards here to both the North and South. Up ahead, the path appears almost golden by some trick of the light and the great Mallorn leaves. There is a fresh, wholesome scent to the air, and you feel that those of kind heart and good intentions could never find harm in this beautiful place. You shudder at the thought of the fate of those with evil in their hearts...a grey-feathered arrow and a quick death...

Galharth
Varya

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The light of mid afternoon trickles down through the thick canopy overhead, sending streams of gold to the ground below. A soft wind blows from the south, carrying the scents of home to three weary travelers. Travelers? Did these three not just leave only days before? The sounds of forest life are silent as horses clop along the forest path. "Hold!" Galharth calls to his horse, bringing the great animal to a halt. Slipping from the horses back, the Tailor places a hand upon the beasts neck. "Again I thank you for the ride."

"What is this?"

A voice rings from nearby, at the base of a mallorn trunk; its source is an edhel, one of the Galadhrim guard, is doing a rather un-guardly task right now: sitting down. With legs crossed, Varya leans forward and sits upright, glancing towards the travelers. An eyebrow piques upwards, and he says:

"Back so soon?"

At the sound of a voice, the Tailor turns. Clearly tired from the travel, there is a sense of urgency in the edhel's expression as he steps away from the horse towards the resting Guard. "Plans change, though not through any choice of our own. We return with news that must reach our Lord and Lady."

Drawing in a breath, Galharth sighs. "We met Gildor at our first camp just north of the Wood. He'd been sent to the Wood to seek help, and now returns to Beorning with the remainder of our party."

The urgency clashes with the serenity and laze of the forest of the Galadhrim: the chirps of the birds of the air return, as they return from momentary hiding. Varya straightens, and hands drop from knees to ground and begin to push him upwards.

"When have ever the Beornings sent for our aid? They care naught for us -- but now, when there is trouble, they wish for us? Who told them of us?"

The tone of question is pointed, almost irritated, though it is not directed, entirely, towards the Tailor.

"Those would be questions better presented to the Noldo, and he I fear has returned north with Maglind and Thorhur, towards the land of the Beornings." Galharth replies with a shrug of his shoulders. "All that I know is that the Orc have built a fortress on the High Pass and our way is now blocked." the Tailor says with a glance over his shoulder, "Our trip is done not long after it started, much to the disappointment of all."

Glancing back to Varya, he shakes his head. "I have been further told that folk of the Valley have joined with the Beornings and they have unsucessfully attempted an assault upon this fortress. It still stands and our help is now needed to bring it to ruin."

"Our help is needed?"

The question is rhetorical, for the marchwarden shakes his head, as if in disgust. By now, the ellon is fully standing, and disagreement is writ upon face. But, he sighs, with another shake of head, and states:

"The High Pass is not ours to fight for, or at least, that decision would be best left to the council and Lord and Lady."

Varya looks northwards for a moment, before continuing.

"Perhaps it is for the better that you return soon: better to have wind of a fortress than to find it by oneself. Was the trip of importance? There is yet a way to cross the mountains."

"It is not my place to make any decisions on the matter," Galharth says firmly as his arms fold over his chest. "With Gildor's telling of the problem and asking for the help of Lothlorien, we had no choice but to bring the news to the Lord and Lady whilst Maglind traveled with the sea elf to review the situation first hand."

Frowning deeply, Galharth shakes his head. "It was a regular couriering of news. Had Gildor not asked for help, we might have taken the southern route along the Redhorn pass. Perhaps the Lord and Lady will send us with news of the fortress, along with the regular correspondence. We'll not know until the news is given."

"Nor mine," agrees Varya with an inclination of his head to the craftmaster, a shrug dispelling any of the remaining irritation or frustration. "But that is the right decision. Maglind is capable of reviewing the situation, though I wonder why Gildor did not just bring the information back himself: if he has already seen it, he would not need further investigation."

The marchwarden leans an arm against the mallorn he previously reclined against, stating: "Then do not let me tarry you. I can send word to the Commander, as he would no doubt be needed at any such audience with Lord and Lady."

"Again, you ask questions, I can not answer. The thoughts and actions of the Noldo are his and his alone, though I agree, it would have made more sense to bring the news himself." Galharth says with a furrowing of his brow. Clearly the Marchwarden speaks throughts that have also troubled the crafter.

"Only a few days past, we saw the Commander at the crossroads, so he might be near." the Tailor says looking intensely at the Guard. "Send the word, for I agree. His counsel will be desired once I deliver the news." Unfolding his arms, he steps back towards the horse. Smiling, he lifts himself back upon his horses back. "There are strange happenings this day, mellon, and somehow, I suspect things will get stranger."

A smile breaks upon the face of the Sinda, perhaps finding amusement at something that the Tailor speaks; but it is soon broken, as lips part in speech, the faint hint of jest touching voice. "Only a few days past, you were to depart for Imladris."

"But, aye. Strange is all that happens outside the Golden Wood, and stranger yet the full tale of things yet to come: and stranger still the fates of those who mingle with them. Be ware, friend."

Varya falls silent, teeth toying with lower lip in pensive thought. He looks southwards.

"Wary? I know not why, for it seems my moment in this story has come to an abrupt end." Galharth says with a tilt of his head. "I am no Guard, so there is little chance that I'd be sent to aid anyone on matters that the Beorning and Valley." Again he shrugs his shoulders. "But then, who am I to say, the decision lays with our Lord and Lady and I now dally in the delivery of the news." Chuckling softly, the Tailor raises a hand in farewell. "Be well, Marchwarden, and farewell." With that the crafter nudges his horse southwards towards the city.

"You may yet have a part to play in the unfolding of this tale," replies Varya with a faint murmur of a laugh, before lifting a hand: "Fare you well, and be swift!"

With that, the marchwarden turns eastward, retrieves sword and bow, and departs, himself, swiftly vanishing into the afternoon forest.