3/6/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Midnight < About 12:41 AM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 12 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: Last Quarter <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 19 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3043>
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RL time: Thu Mar 06 18:13:56 2008
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Long Lawn
You stand amidst a long lawn of shining grass. It ripples in the gentle river breezes like tresses of golden hair, sprinkled too with hundreds of golden elanor flowers which radiate with the light of the sun. The eastern edge of the lawn fades into a white-stone beach, lapped upon by the deep and dark waters of the broad Anduin river which flows from the north, continuing southwards forever onto the sea. Joining the Anduin directly to the south is the Celebrant river, which hurries towards you from between the groves of Mallorns to the northwest. Northwards, the lawn is bordered by a high green wall of dense forest growth. With your sharp elven eyes, you spy a small recess in the wall, perhaps a passageway which leads through it.

Contents:
Galharth
Thorhur
Maglind


The long lawn is the last patch of golden Lorien until the harsh darkness of the East. It is summer, and though it is night, the lush green grass is no less sweeter, nor is the quiet voice of Anduin made less silver.

An Elf lies here, clad in a woefully loose white robe, his golden hair scattered among the grass. Indeed it is scattered, in loose odds and ends. Maglind sleeps here, halfway through cutting his hair -- the back is viciously short.

Stepping out onto the Long Lawn, a breeze kicks up off the water and sends the Tailor's hair and robes in a swirling flutter around him. Moving past the white clad figure, Galharth folds his arms over his chest as he peers out over the water. "I can finish the cutting, if you like," he mutters into the breeze, seemingly unconcerned if the Warden is asleep or not.

Breathing softly, the warden rolls over, leaving a rather large print in the grass. No reply. He seems to have simply fallen asleep without warning, for the dagger he is using -- the same dagger used to parry axes -- is still in his hand.

Turning as the Warden rolls over, Galharth clicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "For shame, for shame, Maglind," he mutters aloud as he steps away from the rivers edge. Moving towards the sleeping figure, the Crafter stoops and reaches out for the dagger. "The least I can do for you is finish your haircut." Taking hold of the blade, the clothier tuggs at the weapon to disloge if from the Guards hand.

The moment the dagger leaves his sleepy grasp, Maglind stirs. Blue eyes flash open, mirroring the the night in their dilated shock. The haircut is forgotten -- only the danger of being caught off-guaard matters. He sweeps a long leg along the grass, attempting to trip whomever has startled him.

From across the lawn, Ostiel O' Cuigrithweg stirs from her own restful silence to glance over at the pair. Alarm and amusement battle for dominance on her pale face, and as she rolls over onto her stomach, the elleth cannot stifle a nervous giggle.

With the tip of the dagger in hand, the Tailor is focused upon the blades edge when he finds himself flipping backwards into the grass. "Hey!" he calls out in protest as his legs shoot up into the air.

Grunting harshly as he slams into the ground the knife tip slices his hand wide open as he falls from his grasp. Reflexively clenching his hand into a fist, Galharth rolls to one side to avoid any further strikes. "It's only me!" he calls out in alarm while rolling away.

Maglind bolts upright, one hand held in a fist, the other protectively holding his neck -- the wild look of a warrior caught by surprise.

"Galharth!" he shouts, wobbling quickly on his knees after the Tailor. "What have I done now?" Maglind mutters, seeing blood on the grass.

"Oh!" Ostiel gasps in shock as the blood spurts, and immediately springs to her feet, butterflies flitting away from her hair in discomfort at the sudden movement. She reaches the pair in moments, falling to her knees beside the Tailor and reaching for his hand, grey eyes wide and concerned.

In the moments following the Warden's rise to his feet, the Tailor pushes himself up into a sitting postion. "Well isn't this lovely," he mutters as he peers at his bloodied hand which now drips bright red droplets onto the green grass. "This is what I get for trying to help," Galharth grumbles as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a length of white silk. "One thing for sure, you can cut your own hair since you've manage to maim the hand I might have used to help you."

Looking up as a blur drops to his side, the Craftsmaster falls silent as Ostiel reaches for his hand. Hesitantly, he offers the length of silk retrieved from his pocket. "Um, well met, Ostiel..... do you want this cloth?"

"I'm sorry!" Maglind cries, inching away through the grass. "I thought you...." With the arrival of Ostiel, the warden looks at the bloodied hand once, and falls into shamed, red-flushed silence.

"Accidents happen," Ostiel murmurs soothingly, a bit of an edge to her voice, though the reproachful eyes that she casts briefly upon Galharth before accepting the cloth are softer than if she were truly irritated. Gently does she retrieve his wounded hand from the grass, cradling it in her left palm, the other hand testing the skin around the cut, the depth of the slice.

"You thought what? I was an Orc?" Galharth snaps, "Do I /look/ like an orc?" At that moment, the Healers probing catches his attention with a loud "Ow! That hurts....." Peering into the cut, he frowns. "I've got a needle and some thread if you need it Ostiel," he mutters unhappily as he watches the wound oozing blood.

Turning back to Maglind, the Crafter sighs. "As she said, Accidents happen, and I know you'd not harm me if you hadn't been startled awake."

"It was a dream," Maglind attempts to explain, unconsciously brushing hair from his arms. "Something stood over me with a knife."

"If you are going to be unable to sew with that wound," the warden says uncomfortably, eyes flickering to the Tailor, "I suppose I would have to express my apologies by sewing for you."

Ostiel has given up trying to referee, and settles for tugging on Galharth's arm until she can submerge it into the rushing waters. The water about his hand turns pink, then red, and she watches solemnly, not looking beyond the limb into the rivers depths, body language just a bit nervous.

"Oh no, there's no need for you to do any sewing." Galharth says quickly while shifting about on the grass to find a comfortable spot as Ostiel cleans his wound. "There's a good number of folk in the shop that can fill in till the wound heals."

Looking towards the river, the trail of pink snaking down river catches his eye. "The water is cold," he comments off handed to no one in particular. "It'd be good for diving....."

"It is /very/ cold," remarks Maglind, having settled down enough to dip his hand into the flowing water. "But the summer has made it clear."

Interest aroused, the warden shuffles close to the bank, peering into the depths.

Ostiel's back imperceptibly stiffens, and though a smile is on her face when she turns back to the pair, it doesn't reach her eyes. "Nobody's diving into anything until we get this blood flow stemmed," she jests, pinching Galharth's nose before retreiving the silk and pressing a piece of it against the wound.

Nodding in agreement to the waters clarity, the Tailor looks towards the darkening depths just beyond the shore. "It's been several months, but my curiosity remains." Galharth says as he continues to peer into the water. "I've mentioned that interest to the Lady and she's not said anything to me."

Turning to Ostiel as she speaks, the Crafter lifts his other hand defensively, "I did not mean that we would dive this eve, dear lady." Blinking at the Attendant in surprise when she pinches his nose, his eyes drop to watch her wrap his hand.

"Perhaps she means to keep you out of trouble," Maglind says, "for trouble finds you often at this place."

Timidly, the warden picks up his dagger. Dipping it into the water, he studies the current reflectively.

"Too often for comfort," Ostiel agrees readily, perhap too readily, pressing down hard onto the cut. The flow is beginning to slow, clots forming on the edges, and she grunts in approval. "You'll have to keep it still for a few days, Galharth, to prevent it reopening."

"T'is not the place that draws the mishaps, Maglind, but perhaps it is the eagerness to reach beyond expectations that brings us in close proximity?" Galharth says, offering a crooked smile. "It is a trait we both seem to share."

Winching slightly as Ostiel puts pressure into his wound, he turns to gaze upon her expression. "I can manage that, and perhaps a day more for good measure." Tilting his head his gaze drops to the wound. "I hope your knife was clean, Warden. I'd hate to think that my blood was tainted with the black blood of beasts."

"I stabbed one with the very same blade, Tailor," replies Maglind deadpan, swishing the slender knife around. "But I cleaned it to cut my hair. There is no harm."

Bending close to the glassy surface, the warden begins to trim carefully about his ears.

"No harm?" Galharth chuckles. "Perhaps no harm in the fact that I've learned a few lesson's in how not to handle a dagger." Falling silent to watch the Warden trim his hair, good humor twinkles in the Tailors eyes. "You're trimming a bit close aren't you? Or do you prefer the humans look of closely croped hair?"

Maglind shudders, letting golden bits carry away upon the Anduin's waters. "No, that would be too short. But leave it too long and the sentinels are wont to play tricks upon it. It dyes too easily."

Pursing his lips firmly, he concentrates on the fringe. "At least you have learned to hold one, Galharth. Did you wish to improve your cloth-cutting skills, or have you begun to consider the dagger as a weapon?"

Rich, melodious laughter bubbles up from inside Ostiel's chest, and she lets out a great gust of it before forcibly stemming the flow. "I'm sorry...ignore me." She now wraps the cloth completely about the wound, tying it off tightly between his middle and index finger. "You'd best return to the city," she instructs, carefully laying the hand into Galharth's lap, "and allow the healers to cleanse it...I have no herbs on my person."

"My cloth cutting skills are just fine, thank you very much," Galharth says defensively, "I carry my own dagger, but never actually considered it as a weapon until I've faced it in combat or when I've seen others use it." Reaching behind his back, inside his robes, the Tailor withdraws a dagger. "It's not as big, or as bulky as yours or any other that I've seen in combat, but I am begining to see some value in learning to use it defensively." Turning the dagger to inspect it, the Crafter looks up, "What say you about teaching me a thing or two about using this for something other than crafting?"

Any answer he might get is set aside as Ostiel speaks. Dutifully, the Crafter shuts his mouth and listens carefully to her instructions. Nodding when she's finish, he offers a warm smile. "Thank you Ostiel, I can not say how much I appreciate your taking care of this for me" Leaning forward, he offers a brotherly kiss on the lady's cheek. "And I do promise to see about getting this looked at in the city as you've said."

Maglind smiles, letting another lock of hair fall. "If you promise not to stab me, Galharth, I should be delighted to teach you to carve Orc."

"You are more obedient that I am," the warden comments, turning to scratch at a fast-healing scar on his side.

"Stop that," Ostiel immediately scolds, waggling her finger at Maglind over Galharth's shoulders, as his lips are currently attached to her cheek. Abruptly she pauses, gasping in introspective surprise, and no small amount of self-deprecating mirth. "Goodness, I am becoming rather imperative. Oh dear me." She giggles, ladylike, of course, and trails a hand through the cleansed waters.

Holding up his bandaged hand, the Tailor chuckles again. "I'll not stab you, but you have to give the same promise or we'll both be at the end of a stern lecture by the Healers." Tucking the dagger back into his belt, Galharth rolls over onto his knees and rises to his feet. "Of course I'm more obedient," he says, bowing toward Ostiel, "Or perhaps I know which ones to listen to and which ones to skip out on." he adds with a grin.

Glancing from one to the other, the Craftsmaster steps back, "Alas, I had hoped to do a bit of swimming this eve, but..." pausing his words to lift his bandaged hand, he waves it for emphasis, ".... but, it seems that is not to be. I suppose it's best if I return to the city. Have a nice evening all." And with that he turns and disappears into the hedge heading northwards.

"I'm sure that your commands are for the best, Attendant," Maglind admits, ruffling the short golden hair, "and that I am merely stubborn. -- How does it look?" he asks, speaking of the haircut.