3/12/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Midnight < About 1:29 AM >
IC day is: Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is: 27 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous <VISIBLE>
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: Tue Mar 11 18:29:56 2008
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Celebrant Path, Among the Mellyrn
The path grows lush with tussocks of fine grass, rambling over and around the green earthen knolls of mighty roots beneath the forest floor. To the east, the unending song of the Celebrant rises from somewhere beyond the dense wall of silver boles. To the west, the stirrings of small things whisper in the low undergrowth between the trees.

To the north, to the south, the mellyrn continue as far as the eye can see: immense grey pillars unfathomably tall, their boughs clad in green and silver and studded with silver nuts, the ground beneath them golden with fallen petals and leaves.

Contents:
Galharth
Ollie

A strange darkness lies over the Golden Wood, and along the Celebrant Path, the starlight shines softly down through the Mellyrn trees lining the path. Deep green grasses delicately sway to occasional puffs of breeze that blows in from the Northwest. All is silent this night, either in recognition of midnight, or perhaps something more. There is an odd thunder in the night, but no clouds hang overhead. What might this be?

Moving from tree to tree with his longsword in hand, the Tailor Galharth peers into the shadows. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to do this." he mutters in a light voice that perhaps only he and the tree bark can hear. "Guards work...."

Oliver is sitting on a very large box. For those who care to decipher the expressions of trolls, his is a combination of unhappiness and perplexity. He is staring eastward, towards the river's sound, and every now and then he looks over his shoulder, or up at the tree branches above, and then his expression becomes still more profoundly unhappy. "Don' like," he says to himself, softly for a troll.

Gildor walks the path a bit behind the craftmaster as if trailing him. He is hooded and cloaked to keep himself well hidden for those not looking for him. The heru speeds up his pace getting a bit closer. The words of the troll doesn't go a miss to his ears though in the silent night. "Rest indeed." he says to himself, but reaches his hand to his sword, but doesn't draw it out yet not wanting to draw attention to himself. The sea-elf moves into the trees and moves forward

A guard's job this is: in a low-hanging branch, the guard Maglind sits. Crosslegged, he seems to be at ease, even with the presence of the troll -- until he spots Galharth.

Then his brow furrows, and one hand immediately seeks the grip of his longbow, which hangs nearby.

"Maglind?" The tailor hisses out softly, "Shouldn't we lesser trained civilians be in the trees? Or did I misunderstand," At the utterance of his last words, Galharth comes to a dead stop as before him sits a troll. His mouth opens and closes several times and whilst backpedaling, he snaps a rather large branch from a nearby tree. "Uh oh...." he hisses softly.

There are strange sounds in this wood; not at all the comforting creaks and groans and growls Oliver is used to. The troll shifts uncomfortably, looks over his shoulder again, and spies a strange flicker in the trees. He glares at it for a while, then starts as a branch snaps loudly. "Ooo's there?" he rumbles, feeling for his club - a large branch torn from some far away tree.

Slowed little by his off path movement. The heru watches the first elf only for the moment. Gildor moves steathilty trying to get closer without being heard or seen just yet. The sea-elf hatches a plan as he moves a small smirk coming to his face. When he is close enough he finds a tree with the most cover he can manage and begins to climb towards this to be obstructed from view. He only takes peeks to see the others

"I can shoot better from a height," Maglind whispers back confidently, stretching bowstring over the slender wooden frame. "But if you /must/ have security, I will come down and join you...."

Those words trail off into a wary silence as the massive creature stirs. Maglind freezes, betraying not the slightest tremor of leaf as an answer to Ollie's question.

With a quiver of his lip, and a frown, Galharth backs up slightly. As the Tailor moves, he lowers slowly and grasps ahold of the broken branch. With the flick of his wrist, he tosses the branch to the left. As it falls into a nice leafy bush, a rabbit takes flight, running directly towards the Clothier.

Groaning softly, he mutters. "Join since it seems we've no choice but to chase that thing off, I'd have rather joined you...."

Oliver creaks to his feet, fist tightening around the club, and peers suspiciously into the dimness. "OO'S THERE, I SAYS!" he shouts, causing a few stray leaves to lose their grip on the trees, and frightening another rabbit, as well as a few sleepy birds who thrash and squawk their way towards the sky.

The flicker of movement of the first bunny brings a sudden thud as the troll slams his club down at it. He drags it up again, lumbering eagerly forwards to look at the ground. This puts him a bit closer to the tailor.

The figure still unseen now is where he wanted to be. He sits waiting for a gust of wind to come. Gildor looks back to the others and than off to the troll. The heru doesn't make any sudden movements. The wind he hoped for does come making all the trees say and the leave rustle, and he cups his hands to his mouth speaking in as deep and booming voice he can manage. "You are trespassing in this the land of trees!" he stops as the wind does waiting for the reaction of the troll. The sea-elf does now reach to his back for his bow bringing it to his hands.

The figure still unseen now is where he wanted to be. He sits waiting for a gust of wind to come. Gildor looks back to the others and than off to the troll. The heru doesn't make any sudden movements. The wind he hoped for does come making all the trees say and the leave rustle, and he cups his hands to his mouth speaking in as deep and booming voice he can manage. "You are trespassing in this the land of trees!" he stops as the wind does waiting for the reaction of the troll. The sea-elf does now reach to his back for his bow bringing it to his hands.(repose)

"As you wish," Maglind murmurs, running lightly to a springing branch. He leaps from the golden leaves, a mere flicker without his cloak, and lands softly in the underbrush. Perhaps it is the sound of another scared rabbit. Perhaps it is a distraction from the Tailor.

Cringing at the smell, and the sight, and in fact the fear that now seems to be pouring out of every pore the Tailor has, Galharth brings his longsword up between him and the large odd creature. His mouth drops open as Gildor speaks, and he looks into the face of the Troll. "Go home!?" he both shouts and asks in the same breath.

Something booms hollowly from overhead. Oliver is bent over the ground, peering at it disgustedly. No rabbit. No fur even. No blood. Grumbling, he straightens, then peers upwards, turning in a complete circle as he tries to see who is speaking. "Oo's there?" he asks again, and then, "Wha's trassing? Is it tasty?" The sound of another rabbit rustling in the leaves distracts him. One good thing about this horrible place, at least - lots of rabbits! And then someone shouts at him, and his head whips around again. "Can' go 'cross," he tells it, disgruntledly. "Waters splash in!"

Nimble feet, they dance over the grass as quiet as the whisper of leaves. Unheeding, they bring hither an Elven maid, hair a shadow in the nightshade, her skin a gleaming white. Nalas she is, known to many who guard the borders - but less familiar, perhaps, to the troll.

But if aught is amiss she is unaware of it, her eyes turned to the heavens and her limbs engaged in a running dance. No shelter is sought, no branch nor leaves conceal her; upon the open paths she moves, and even as she draws nearer to the giant (and rather hideous) thing, a song is loosed from her throat. It is met, not by birdsong or an Elven voice, but by something so grotesque that the maiden halts, still and wary as a frightened deer. Her wide eyes are turned in shock upon Oliver, whose presence is now blindingly obvious - still, she does not run. She does not move.

Confusion grips Galharth's expression as he suddenly seems to grasp what the Troll is saying. "This one isn't very bright is it?" the Tailor mutters as he looks over his shoulder and then back again to the large creature.

Gildor doesn't get anywhere near the reaction he had hoped for. His eyes burn fiercely within his hood, he replaces his bow to his back carefully. The heru looking to the troll not far enough away, he climbs back down the tree to the ground reaching than for his shield he straps it to his arm before moving forward a bit still remaining hidden as possible.

"But dangerous," whispers Maglind, approaching Oliver quietly through the rustling underbrush. A faint song reaches his ears, penetrating the throbbing that takes his heart: and yet as he glances towards its source, his face only meets despair, and silent fear.

"Perhaps we can convince it that food or toys are on the mountain, going west?" Galharth suggests as he stoops and tosses a rock on the Trolls left side. "He seems easily distracted," Taking a step closer, the Tailor stoops again and rolls a rock between the beasts legs as if to test the reaction.

The troll is indeed confused. Voices from strange places. Rabbits that vanish into midair. The river that isn't the right river, and neither of which can he get across. And so, instead of attacking instantly, he stands gaping at the nasty glowing white thing that sings such screechy songs and stops right in front of him. "Go 'way," he says finally, and turns in a circle once more, hunching his shoulders up and sitting back down on his box. Perhaps, if he doesn't look at it, it will vanish.

Curiosity is supposed to have killed the cat - but whether the same will be true for the elleth, Nioniel remains to be seen. Creeping slowly through the trees, hiding from one trunk to the next, she approaches the other elves who seem to be trying to distract an already confused troll. Hiding herself somewhat inadequately behind some large bowed roots, she watches breathlessly for what will happen next.

Taking advantage of the pause, Maglind sneaks quietly. He is quickly coming toward Nalas, attempting to signal a motion of retreat at the elleth, without words.

Yet his path takes him through a less bushy spot of Lothlorien, and a flash of pale hair betrays him to the sky. And unlike the screechy thing, Oliver may notice, this creature carries the threat of a bent bow.

Nalas cannot heed Maglind's signals, for she does not see them. Her eyes are turned with shameless horror upon the giant lump of mouldy cheese some call Oliver. Horror we call it, though few save those who know her well might say if it is indeed horror or the epitome of disgust which darkens her mien. And as the troll speaks, a tongue unknown to her, she trembles as though struck.

"Get out of his way! Run for the trees!" Galharth calls out in a panic. Looking around frantically, he looks for someone to rush forth to help. "Maglind?" Hesitation in his step and the turning of the weapon in his hand, all show indecision. With a deep grunt, he charges round the large creature towards its right side, "There's food up the hill. Big fat, juicy food. Go on, git. Go get it and be gone!" The Tailor calls out, trying to draw it's attention away.

A worried expression washes over Nioniels face - which incidentally has turned quite pale at the sight of Oliver. The elleth casts a few fearful glances between the horrified Nalas, Galharth and Maglind. But as the tailor suddenly leaps out into danger, Nioniel gasps and jumps to her feet. In attempting to rush to the Tailors side so that he wont stand alone against the troll, she trips on a tree root and falls to her knees momentarily, quite out in the open.

But Oliver just huddles down on top of his Box ( a great bound thing, of vast size and weight) and claps his hands over his ears. "Go 'way," he mumbles. "Go 'way. Ollie don' like you." The club slides down his side to balance on its end for a moment, then slowly tips over towards the elves... So might a young tree fall.

"'Ware!" Maglind shouts in the elven tongue, dashing thoughtlessly into the clearing. The falling club is no danger to him, though that is not his concern. He runs before the still-frozen elleth Nalas, bright longsword flashing -- at this distance, arrows are useless.

Shouting, flashing swords, rotting cheese...Nalas, at last, is disgusted enough to seek to remove herself. Her limbs find life again, and bring her flying away from Maglind. Ere she leaves him utterly her fingers tug the hem of his tunic, a sign that she is fleeing. Her flight does not bring her far, for behind the bole of a mallorn she crouches, peering over it and 'round her shoulder at the madness nearby. Nalas' bright eyes are wide, her lips parted and breath drawn quick.

The landing of the club, while inches away is enough so that the Tailor looses his balance and goes tumbling to the ground. As he falls, the Tailor's sword flicks outwards towards the massive hand that holds the tree like weapon. As he hits the ground, the breath is knocked from his lungs, but he still tries to roll away.

Galharth attack against Ollie mildly wounds him!

Swords glitter evilly in the lacklight and Oliver tries to shrink. "Go 'way!" he howls, his rough gravelly voice filled with self-pity. "Stops stops stops STOPS!" He crosses both arms over his head, shutting out sight and sound of the elves... but alas. Something slivers a scratch across the back of his forearm. Poor troll. Beset on all sides, he is.

Down on her knees close to Galharth, Nioniel gazes on, quite horrified as the trolls club falls and the Tailor wounds Oliver. Casting her eyes wildly from one elf to another in all this confusion, she seems utterly at a loss to know what to do next. However, one hand seems to unconsciously reach for the dagger in her belt as the troll howls angrily.

Blinking as something pulls his tunic back, Maglind turns his head: an barely perceptible nod is directed at the elleth, and a wan smile.

Then he rushes forward, uncertain guard of unknown rank -- warden or marchwarden? -- and brings his sword to the ready. &quoot;Do not enrage it," he whispers softly to Galharth in Sindarin. To Nioniel, he says only, "There is too much danger here."

"Do you think me stupid?" Galharth gasps out as he scrambles to his feet. "I don't care if it seems simple mindled, it's still large enough to send me sailing with the same strenght all others have in the past." Half stumbling, half running, the Tailor heads for the tree line. "Hide! Perhaps it'll just go away!"

Nioniel hears Maglind, but does not heed him ... or perhaps her legs dont heed him. In any case, she continues to stare up at the massive, hideous troll, hand on the hilt of her dagger. She seems to have frozen for the moment - as a troll at sunrise would be. However, hearing Galharths shout, she finally seems to snap back to reality and jumps to her feet once more, running for the trees in the tailors direction.

The great troll ignores all that goes on around him. It is dark here in these woods, even if they are unsavory and unwholesome, and everything - from the rippling of the river to the rustling voices of the trees - hurts his ears. And there he sits, all through the night, until just before morning, when he bestirs himself to find some deeper, darker shadows to lurk in through the day.