1/30/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Dusk < About 7:27 PM >
IC day is: Orbelain <Valar-day>
IC date is: 12 Echuir <Stirring>
Moon phase: New <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: Wed Jan 30 08:29:06 2008
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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. On the gate, the many lamps are lit, bathing the night bridge in a soft light. 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
Istaril
Orodrhandir

The last rays of sunlight dances over the treetops of Caras Galadhon, heralding the last moments of day. Song filters along a cool breeze, seemingly tumbling in natures dance of sweetly fragranced flowers and lovely notes of elven music. It seems a wonderful day......

"BLAST! This hurts!" Galharth calls out as two metal smiths escort him towards the stairs. His left hand is hasily wrapped in a pure white cloth and clutched tightly against his chest. From the charred fabric of his sleeve, it seems that the Craftsmaster is a victim of an accident. "I've worried about a fire, and sure enough if we weren't around to starve off the early flames we'd have had a disaster." The Tailor mutters painfully.

A young elf looks up from a nearby tree. Orodrhandir drops his books and comes running over to see Galharth. With a look of dismay in his eyes he approaches the craftmaster and says, " Is there anything I can do for you?"

The sun sinks in the sky and falls below the horizon. Nighttime takes over.

From behind the flurry of those who came to aid, Istaril calls out hurriedly, "Don't touch him until I can take a look at him!"

Another elleth trots over at the sound of commotion. Linaelin looks compassionately at the hurt elf. "What happened?"

Peering around at the fury of activity and voices, Galharth shakes his head with a furrowed brow. "A forge among the trees is what's happened." The Tailor says with a hint of anger. "A single spark from the hot fires and poof! First the leaves upon a branch, and then a bakers rack." Wincing at the pain in his hand, he offers the cloth covered apendage to the Novice. "It was fortune that had so many nearby when the first spark touched off the branch."

Istaril steps forward to examine the wound. Slowly and gently pulling away the cloth, she takes in its severity. Looking up at Galharth, she says, "I cannot heal this here," she explains, "The healing talan would serve you better."

Orodrhandir steps back to allow Istaril to survey the wound. He begins to fidget with nevers as he looks on.

Linaelin raises her eyebrows at the sight of the burn wound, but doesn't turn away. A look of strange fascination crosses her face.

Frowning deeply, the Tailor peers at the red and blistered flesh of his hand. "It's just a little burn, don't you have some sort of poultice in your pocket for something simple like this." Galharth asks impatiently and still with a touch of anger. "I've got work to do," He says quickly, His uninjured hand sweeps towards the two metalsmiths, "We've got to sort out the forges to get it back to operation, there are bakers to calm down, and who knows what kind of turmoil is taking place in the weavers talan." Moving a finger on his burned hand, he winces as he turns towards Orodrhandir and then to Linaelin, "The weavers talan is just above the accident, and we've been saying for years that this sort of thing would happen."

Orodrhandir runs over and picks up the book he was reading. Slipping it inot his cloak he yells out to the others, "I will go let the others know about what has happened!" With that he heads off towrds the city

Linaelin draws back from the wound. "I'll join Orodhrandir. Maybe we could come up with an idea to prevent this from happening again. I hope you heal quickly, Galharth." Linaelin smiles at Istaril, then turns to follow Orodhrandir and walks away.

The healer sees the pair off, and turns back to Galharth, giving him a warning look. "A burn needs to be soaked in water, and I haven't any here. And you must rest, or else that will never heal."

"I'll get there," the Tailor mutters, "I promise, in fact I was on my way to see if I could find someone to properly wrap this." Glancing at his burned hand for a quick moment, Galharth looks back to the Novice hopefully. "If I promise to go to the Healing Talan after the urgent matters are taken care of at the Crafters Halls, would you wrap this as a temporary measure?"

Istaril eyes him suspiciously, then shakes her head. "Water," she says, "is the best thing for it right now. I'm sure you have many Elves under you that are capable of managing until you return. It will not take long."

Clearly unhappy with the answer receive, the Tailor withdraws his hand. "Certainly one can't take any chance with the potential danger to the wood." Frowning, he begins to ginerly rewrap the wounded hand. "We've water at the Crafters Hall. Without it, this entire city might have become a charred disaster area, and you dear lady would be up to your ears with injured." Pausing his effort, either to adjust to the pain, or to make a point, he peers at Istaril. "Priorities my dear, and the good of all have a much higher priority over my burn."

Istaril glares at him. "And my priority is the well-being of all, and considering you are the only one who has been wounded, you, sir Elf, are my priority. Hasn't the danger been averted?" she asks, raising one eyebrow in question.

Narrowing his eyes and frowning, the Tailor shakes his head. "Certainly not. Fires are an unpredictable foe. That matched with the tempers of crafting artists is a mixture for disaster." Wincing again, Galharth turns his attention back to the wrapping of his hand. "When I last left the Bakers were in an uproar as a full days work went up in smoke on the cooling rack that was set ablaze." Shaking his head he frowns. "And the Master metalsmith had to make matters worse when he complained that the Bakers had it easy and that it would take nearly a full day to bring the forges back up to full operation after the amount of water that was poured into the coals." Groaning softly, he looks over his shoulder at the accompanying metalsmiths, who seem to have chosen that moment to inspect the ground with great detail.

"Send others to watch over matters, and tell them to leave the Bakers be for now," she orders defiantly. "There is no need for you to make your injury worse. It won't take long for me to mend it, as I have said before."

"As long as I don't stick my hand in fire, I'll not make it worse, and besides," Galharth says as he returns his gaze to the Novice, "Perhaps this burn will keep tempers from flaring too hotly in a time when I need the crafters to remain calm."

Huffing softly, he looks back along the path towards the Crafters Halls. "I would be agreeable to treatment if it were done in the Crafters Hall." The Tailor finally says, extending a peaceful resolution.

The healer considers his offer, then nods. "You would need to make sure that your hand remains unused while it heals, and that you don't overly exert yourself. And I would need to quickly get some supplies from the healing talan," Istaril says, continuing to look at Galharth suspiciously.

"The matter requires skills of one's words, not one's hand, so I can certainly adhere to your instructions." Galharth says with an easier tone, "And certainly, go to the Healing Talan and I'll meet you in the Hall of Crafters in due time."

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Hall of the Crafters

As you ascend the final few steps of the spiral stair and step upon the talan, you realize that, every bit as massive as the mallorn that supports it, the Hall of the Crafters is truly a marvel. The wide flet of smooth, well-trodden oak spreads about the lower canopy of the tree. Near the trunk of the tree sits a large, octagonal table of gold-inlayed cherry with chairs pulled around. Upon the table is a large silver salver holding a crystal decanter surrounded by ceramic wine mugs. To the rear of the talan, and partially isolated by long, heavy tapestries suspended from the branches above, sits a large desk with a high-backed chair, a cabinet with many small shelves for papers and reports, and a few smaller chairs for discussions.

To the front of the main area of the talan are padded, and in some cases covered, display cabinets filled with a great variety of goods and products produced by the crafters.
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Chaos!

"They know they need to be more careful!" an ellon in the midst of Bakers calls out from the right of the Hall. "So much of what we do is flamable,"

"My poor scones!" Another voice calls out.

"It was an accident! We did nothing to cause the fire!" A leather aproned ellon calls back.

"And what might have happened had the flames reached the Weavers Talan! Galharth, you know what would have happened then!" A soft voiced elleth called out.

Raising his hand, the Craftmaster pats thin air. "As it was said, it was an accident," he says in a firm voice over the crowd. "Better we focus on how to prevent another than to voice complaints over that which we can not change."

The novice healer enters the Hall to the sounds of argument and the smell of smoke. She shakes her head...Crafters... Then looking round, she asks with a single word, "Water?"

As a Baker rambles on the fact that the scones where an order for the Royal Court, a young basket weaver glances towards the Novice. "We've a pitcher of fresh water over by the table. The Craftmaster said you'd be needing it when you arrived." The elleth stretchs her right hand towards the table, extending a finger to delicately point towards the pitcher that sits near Galharth's wrapped hand.

Istaril nods to her appreciatively, and begins work on the wound. "If you hadn't been so obstinate, I might have been done with this sooner," she says, unwrapping Galharth's hand as gently as possible. Taking the pitcher, she pours out the water over the burnt skin carefully.

"Thank you for coming, Istaril," Galharth says as he pauses a moment to bid the elleth welcome. Offering his hand to the healer, he turns his attention back to the raised voices.

Careful though the Healer might be, it does not decrease the pain caused by the cool water flowing over the reddened flesh. "Ow!" he snaps out, drawing his attention from the discussion over the fire. "That hurts," he complains.

"We've got to do something about the Crafters cramped working conditions," One of the Jewelsmiths calls out. "Perhaps given the accident, the Lord and Lady might be willing to hear our situation and perhaps help us find a solution."

"You know very well the crafters were relocated into the city for safety," An elder Potter mutters loudly.

Taking great care not to be distracted by the chatter around her, Istaril focuses on what she is doing as she finishes soaking the wound. "This should help with both the pain and the healing," she says, producing a bottle of tea-tree oil from the satchel hanging at her side. Drying the hand carefully with a clean cloth, Istaril begins to apply the treatment.

Wincing again, he nods. "Still hurts," he mutters in a tone more boyish than brave. Offering a slight smile for the Novices efforts, he silently offer a glance of appreciation.

Turning back towards the crafters, he nods. "Indeed, I think the time has come to bring the matter to the Lord and Lady. Our wood is reasonably safe now and we can spread our wings a little."

The healer finishes applying the oil, smiling slightly at Galharth's reaction, and binds it. "I'll say it again: Rest! It will do you no good to get over stressed!," she orders lastly. "Now if you will excuse me, Craftsmaster, my services are needed elsewhere." With that, she packs her supplies back into her satchel and hurries down to the Crafter's Path.