3/21/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Dawn < About 6:32 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 56 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: First 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: Fri Mar 21 12:11:00 2008
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Theatre
A fine wooden archway teeming with thriving flowering-vines graces the entryway to the Theatre, and the carpet of this place is wrought of soft blades of grass. All about are tall, well-manicured hedges, higher than the heads of elves, unending but where they meet the bole of a mallorn-tree. Opposite the archway rests the stage, and various lamps of golden light are set upon it and about it to provide better light to any performance that might take place there.

Above, the boughs of grand mallorn trees seem to intertwine to form a canopy overhead, but one that still allows sunlight, moonlight, and starlight to glimmer through. Heavy marble benches of the purest white are set in straight, neat rows, beginning near the stage and stretching almost to the back of the theatre. There, instead of benches, a few round tables of the same white marble are scattered, and three wooden chairs are set at each.

Contents:
Galharth
Thorhur
Aluirwen
Maglind

Dawn stretches over the world, the light of the sun dim on the horizon. The clouds are high and few, and the day will be humid. Within the Glirdain Talan, one might expect to find silence. This is not the case however.

From the center of the talan the soft strummings of a harp can be heard. The song is soft but fast and lively. His foot keeps a steady beat as he plays, and his eyes are closed in concentration as he sings.

Their trees were filled with lively song

They sang until shadows grew long

Then they went to make their feast

Upon the grass in valleys green

There they sang of stars and moon

Of sun of clouds of afternoon

Of morning, midnight, of past and now

And they sang with fair heads bowed <Repose>

You paged Galadriel with 'That is an excellent idea!'.

The harp-song from the talan above wafts down into the theatre below, finding its way into every corner of the place, and perhaps even seeming to breathe life into the heavy marble benches and the golden lamps yet lit as dawn begins and a new day emerges.

And yet, perhaps there is one thing that this lively melody does not seem to touch overmuch. Upon the very edge of the stage, a small book in her hand, sits Aluirwen, skirts falling over the edge of the stage like a green cascade that cannot quite reach to meet the pool of grass below. She is wreathed in stillness and silence, even as the golden lamplight from those lamps upon the stage might seem to dance about her. But the grey eyes of the linguist rise from her reading at the song, cast upward toward the talan, a thoughful look within them and upon her mien.

Entering the Theatre dragging a cart behind him, the Tailor pauses to listen to the song that fills the air. A smile lights up upon his face and he sighs softly. "Lovely," he mutters aloud, more to himself than anyone.

Pausing only a moment more, Galharth turns to his cart and moves to untie the packages neatly arranged inside. "Curtains are done, I need someone to accept delivery!" he calls out gently so not to overly disturb those at practice. Shifting the weight of each bundle, he lines them up for unloading. Moving the third bundle the package opens slightly to reveal a delicate white velvet curtain. Frowning and clicking his tongue against the side of his cheek, the crafter pauses to secure the package.

As noise from the theater below wafts up towards the Glirdain Talan, the music ceases. For a while, there is silence. Then, the faint footfalls of a lone figure might be audible coming down the stairs. Then, Thorhur appears within the theater, his crutch by his side.

"Mae govannen everyone," he says, turning to Aluirwen and then to Galharth. "Aluirwen, good to see you! Thank you for your help with that reading. I have read almost the entire poem, and it is beautiful."

To Galharth, he smiles and looks at the curtains. "A delivery?" he asks, looking towards the stage, "Yes, I suppose we are in need of new curtains. Your delivery will be much appreciated my dear Tailor. How are you Galharth?"

The striding apprentice marches by the theatre stage, but at the sound of the fading notes, suddenly remembers that that was her destination in the first place. Nodding a greeting, Istaril acknowledges Thorhur and Aluirwen. "Galharth!" she exclaims, turning towards him. "Have I ever told you your my favourite craftself?"

As quietly as she may, Nioniel slips into the theatre where so many other elves have gathered themselves. Having been atracted to the place upon hearing so many familiar voices within, she is still rather timid at such large gatherings - at least, more than three elves is large to Nioniel. Gathering her courage, hands folded in front of her, she clears her throat softly and says, "Greetings everyone."

The grey gaze of the linguist remains upward-cast toward the talan only as long as the song continues and only as long as there is no other sound within the theatre. For when the call of the tailor comes, the green cascade that is the skirts of Aluirwen falls fully to meet the pool of green below: Aluirwen slips from the stage to alight upon the green grass, her steps whispering until they approach where Galharth has begun to handle the packages.

And it would seem that the linguist would reply to Thorhur or to Galharth but that the appearance and the words of Nioniel find her first and beg her attentions, for it is toward the seamstress that her steps alight. "Ah, Nioniel!" she calls, grey eyes wide.

Looking up from his work, the Tailor catches sight of first Thorhur, and then Aluirwen. "Well met, indeed!" he calls back as he gathers up a bundle from his cart. Moving towards the stage, he shows no hint of struggle, though it is quite clear that the package is heavy. "I think they'll suit any and all performances upcoming." Galharth says with a grin. "I even have the deep emerald green ones used for the darker of performances"

As the Craftsmaster sits the package on the stage, the sweet sound of the Apprentice Healer rings out. Turning with a chuckle, he tilts his head. "I've not heard that before," he says, barely holding his good humor in check, "But do tell, Istaril. I would be glad to make the time to hear your words." As his words fade, the entrance of the Seamstress catches his eye. "Well met to you as well, Nioniel!"

At the sight of Istaril, Thorhur nods and then turns towards Nioniel. For a moment, he says nothing, only smiles. Then, upon his crutch, he hobbles towards the Seamstress with a large smile upon his face. When he is only a little bit away, he stops.

"My dear Nioniel," he says softly, "Did you not think I would remember your bravery on the battlefield? Your courage was great, and I remember it well. Thank you my dear Seamstress. Thank you very much."

Quite overwhelmed and taken aback by so many present in the theatre, Nioniel almost seems to wish she could hide behind something ... perhaps the new curtains. But she resists the urge and holds fast. Smiling a little bashfully, she nods in return for all the enthusiastic greetings; but her little confidence is shaken when Thorhur approaches her and speaks. Blushing deeply she looks down at the ground and shifts a little, "You are very welcome, mellon. I'm only glad that I was able to help ..." her voice trails off and shs looks up once more, "And I'm very glad to see you faring so well!"

Istaril pauses before continuing, allowing the other Elves to chatter with Nioniel. She grins widely, as if guilty of some mischief. "Boots," she explains. "I want boots."

A strange expression flickers over the Craftsmasters face as Thorhur speaks with Nioniel. It is a look that hints that something is thought or known, and yet remaining unspoken. "Indeed, Seamstress, we're all proud of your efforts that day. The life of an elf in this world is a treasure best lived outside the dark halls of Mandos."

What more might be said the the JourneyElf, falters as a single word draws his craft-minded attention. "Boots?" he says, turning his gaze to Istaril. "Do tell me more of your needs, dear lady."

"Ah, Nioniel..." But the words of Aluirwen are stopped short, and they trail off only to quickly fade from sound. For Thorhur approaches, and the linguist presses her lips together, the slightest flickering of a frown crossing her brow. A hand raises to fiddle with the ring-pendant about her neck as her eyes shift between the two, for a time but watching the exchange.

Only after this does the linguist speak. "Aye, Nioniel... You should be glad to know that he has even already returned to his studies." Yet here do the grey eyes of Aluirwen turn toward the Sentinel. "Ah, so you have finished reading the poem, then?" she asks, an inquisitive melody in her tone.

The kind words of Galharth and Aluirwen added to those of Thorhur are all a bit much for the poor seamstress, who looks as though she might blush herself to death at any moment. Though not actually displeased, Nioniel is beyond any speech of her own right now and is simply left looking more than ever as if her dearest wish is to hide.

"Indeed," Thorhur says with a smile, "And it was indeed a great poem. So much beauty and thought...I almost felt as if I were there. Whoever wrote it though, made poor use of their words. A dwarf could come up with better adjectives than this author," he says with a chuckle.

Turning to Istaril, he furrows a brow at the Apprentice's words, then says with a half smile, "May I inquire as to why a humble healer requires a pair of boots? Do not hurt your feet anymore than need be." When Nioniel continues to remain silent, Thorhur turns back and smiles. "You need not be embarrassed, but rather proud! All of the wood is talking of your bravery! There are even some in the Order who have not performed an act of bravery like that!"

An elf-shaped silhouette blocks out the light pouring in from the archway, the branches. Squinting briefly, Maglind waits at the entrance, looking quietly bemused.

"Leather ones, but as weightless as possible" answers Istaril. "I appreciate your concern for my feet," she turns to Thorhur, smiling. "I don't plan on wearing them often," she explains. "Good day, mellon," the elleth greets Maglind warmly.

Leaning against the cart, the Tailor draws his arms over his chest. "Soft sueded leather, I presume? To the calf, or just below the knee?" Galharth asks of the Apprentice. As he waits for an answer, he turns to Thorhur. "Was that you in song when I arrived? It was quite lovely. I applaud the effort."

Thorhur smiles. "It was me," he says blushing slightly. Then, quietly and hopefully unnoticed, he hobbles off back towards the Glirdain Talan. For a few moments, there is silence, then if one listens very closely, they might hear his playing from the Talan, but it is quiet.

"Would that the whole wood might cease talking of my bravery," Nioniel finally replies to Thorhur ruefully, glancing from one congratulating elf to another before her gaze falls again to the ground. However, she pulls herself together and eyes Istaril curiously, also wondering what a healer would be needing with boots - even if only occasionally.

Realizing that Maglind has also entered the grounds of the theatre, the elleth smiles and nods in greeting to him as well. However, her eyes turn back to follow Thorhur as he departs so silently, and she tilts her head inquisitively before shrugging it off silently.

A soft, thoughtful hum is the quieted sound that comes from Aluirwen at the description of the poem that Thorhur gives. "Curious," she muses, a touch of something thoughtful washing over her mien, and her gaze shifts once more from the seamstress to the sentinel.

And it is after the departure of Thorhur, which she watches with her expression yet pensive, and perhaps with the speech of Nioniel and the newly-gone sentinel that a thought comes to Aluirwen, for her gaze grows bright. Toward the Craftsmaster she slips, a soft rush of whispers upon the grass and rustling of skirts heralding her movement. But, as yet, she says naught, perhaps not wishing to interrupt the talk between the tailor and the healer, and thus she waits, hands clasped together, eyes bright with thought and with some sort of urgent anticipation.

All these elves...so much chatter and confusion is hard on the poor seamstress, Nioniel. That being the case, she takes her leave of the others in the theatre as silently as Thorhur did, creeping out hopefully unnoticed for the time being.

The shadows draw his attention, and in fact for a moment distract the Tailor to the point that the world seems to fade from his thoughts for a moment. A moment later, Galharth's eyes focus again and he glances at those around him. Noting that several have gone, he frowns. "I'm sorry..." he mutters softly, "Did you say something Aluirwen?" he says as his focus turns to the elleth.

The linguist nearly misses the leaving of Nioniel as well, and her eyes fly toward the seamstress' departure, though there is little time to offer word of farewell before she disappears. The faintest of sighs falls from the lips of Aluirwen, but her eyes are quick to return to the Craftsmaster, to whom she gives a slight shake of her head.

"Nay, nay... I did not wish to interrupt you," says she, the words falling softly, perhaps the very slightest hint of hesitant wavering upon her voice. "I had but wondered if I might speak with you, Craftsmaster. In fact there are a few things of which I would fain speak with you..."

Maglind approaches. There is not much to tell him apart from the trees, netted with shadows from the branches overhead. Slowly, he moves toward the tailor and the scholar, making no sound: the student's duty is to listen.

"You certainly would not interrupt me!" Galharth says as he turns to lift another package from his cart. "I can talk and work at the same time." Walking towards the stage, he drops the latest bundle next to the other, then turns to the Scholar. "You have my ear, and I'll be at this for a time, so feel free to bring forth all that you need."

As he turns a moment as if to return to the cart, he catches sight of the Warden. "Maglind! Good tidings mellon." Completing his turn, he moves freely to the cart to retrieve another bundle. "Come forth Warden, and help me carry these to the Stage."

"I fear I shall hold your ear and distract you from your work, but I shall speak all the same..." The words of the linguist are softened, nigh unto whispers, despite that there seems little reason to hush her voice so.

"Many whispers have I heard, and I wish to know if they are true or if the passing of them has rendered them false..." So begins Aluirwen, taking a single step toward Galharth, her hands yet clasped together. "These whispers speak of some sort of awards, and I wondered..."

Yet here the eyes of Aluirwen shift, and there fall upon the student-warden. "Ah, Maglind..."

"What are these, Galharth?" Maglind asks, prodding the bundles gingerly. "Costumes for the newest play?" perching one of them upon his shoulder, "Drapes for the ending of summer?"

"Ah, Aluirwen," he says, straining to look over the burden as he turns, "good day."

Seemingly oblivious of chaos or chatter, he climbs the stage cheerfully.

"Curtains...." Galharth grunts softly as he lifts yet another bundle from the cart. "White for light and cheerful performances, and a lovely deep green for the darker ones." Moving towards the stage again

"Curtains...." Galharth grunts softly as he lifts yet another bundle from the cart. "White for light and cheerful performances, and a lovely deep green for the darker ones." Moving towards the stage again the Tailor drops his bundle and pauses.

Leaning one elbow on top of the stack, he smiles at Aluirwen. "What whispers have reached your ears are true, but for the moment I can say limited things on this matter." Shifting a glance towards Maglind, and then back to the Scholar, he smiles. "Do these rumors concern you? For if they do, perhaps I can bring them to the Lord Celeborn as we plot to travel to the border in the coming day in search of spot for the forges to reside."

"But if they were costumes for the newest play, Maglind, then they would be made before they were even requested..." replies Aluirwen to the warden, and yet her words stop short, cut off abruptly as she preses her lips together and looks a touch abashed, as if she may have said a bit too much.

But the reply of Galharth makes the gaze of the linguist bright once more, and perhaps she understand well the glance that the tailor sends toward her student. "I do believe that the rumours might concern me... Perhaps we might discuss them at another time, then? For there is one other thing I might ask of you..."

"I know nothing about plays, Scholar," replies Maglind, setting the curtain-bundle down gently. "You should know by now that I cannot act."

Smiling, unaware of the whispered conversation, the marchwarden sits upon the stage, dangling his boots.

"Alas, matters that might concern Wardens, Couriers, and even of late, JourneyElves, might indeed be spoken of later, but I assure you, Aluirwen, an artist such as yourself might already be thinking that which has been thought by once such as the Lord or Lady." Galharth says, rambling on as if making a sly joke. "Alas, if you must, we can certainly speak later on topics of rumors, wine, and song."

Glancing to Maglind, the Tailor shakes his head. "What has acting to do with anything. Are not poets, singers, and those skilled with humor doing their thing atop the stage? Certainly, not all is acting."

The speech of Galharth seems to effect the linguist, for the question in her gaze fades, replaced with some measure of realization that is spurred on by his words. "Ah, then perhaps I shall trust the judgement of the Lord and the Lady, then. If these matters might concern wardens, couriers, and even journeyelves, then it seems that mine own thought may have already been thought by our insightful Lord and Lady..."

But this idea, for the moment, seems to be set aside, for the talk of acting and skill has piques Aluirwen's interest. "Acting has much to do with things, in truth... I daresay I myself may be searching for able actors soon enough..." These words are both melodic and thoughtful, and the linguist lowers her eyes a touch seeming again a bit abashed. "But even those not practiced in acting might learn, Maglind," she continues, glancing toward the harpist. And yet, her eyes turn just as quickly back toward Galharth. "But to speak of skills, I had hoped I might speak to you of your own craft, Craftsmaster."

"If I were to sing, you might laugh, but only at my lack of intonation," returns Maglind, tapping the stage with both fingers. "But certainly, I would be willing to learn, if aught have the patience to teach me."

"Indeed, I find that the Lord and Lady often are far and above my own thoughts." Galharth says with color rising in his cheeks. "In fact, yesterday I expressed my concern on a matter in which I should have instead held confidence." Pausing a moment to glance between the Warden and the Scholar, the color in his cheeks rise. "It was all rather embarrassing, now that I reflect upon the conversation."

Tilting his head, the Craftsmaster looks curiously at the Scholar. "My craft? Speak, for I am well qualified to listen on such matters of clothing." he says as he pushes off the stack of bundles atop the stage.

"And there are certainly those who would be willing to teach," says Aluirwen, shifting her gaze toward the warden once more, a decided nod lent toward him. "I myself would teach any thing that I know, should you wish it, be it song or language or even a bit of acting. Perhaps not dance..." A moment more, a smile perhaps meant to be reassuring sent toward Maglind, and the linguist returns her attention to Galharth.

"Ah, but... 'Tis not your skill as a clothier that I wish to ask you of, but instead your skill as the Craftsmaster of the Thein. Surely you know that many of my kin oft seek a place within the ranks of the crafters...?" A statement, and yet also a query, are the words of the linguist, and her expression mirrors this same query as she looks toward the very Craftsmaster.

"Stars forbid that I should tread upon dancers' toes," says the marchwarden, slipping off the stage. Picking out a white bundle, he marches off again, yet now he is silent and his face pensive.

Nodding once to Aluirwen, the Craftsmaster smiles. "Creation that is the focus of my guild does indeed draw many an edhel, for is it not in our very nature to weild both materials and the power of song into the art of creation?" As he speaks, a genuine smile of understanding appears upon Galharths lips. "Tell me, Aluirwen, why do you ask such things?"

At the Wardens words, the Tailor laughs. "My poor friend! You shall ever worry about treading on toes, until you gain the skills of a Marchwarden!" he says with a rich laugh and twinkling eyes. "Shall I speak with Legarwin to see that day come to pass?"

"Or perhaps the skills of a dancer would but rid him of his toe-treading worries? Perhaps even the both of us might learn to dance well, given the right teacher. Mayhap we might commission Calsir..." The words trail off once more, and the pensiveness that has touched the visage of the linguist partly flees as Galharth replies.

"What you say is indeed true, Craftsmaster. I have long thought that song and creation are ever tied together, impossible to separate. And as many of my kin before me have sought it, I ask this because I, too, wish to find a place among those who meld both song and creation. I... would wish to care for plants and trees and vines and flowers... if you would have me," finishes Aluirwen, bowing her head toward Galharth though her eyes yet gaze upward toward him, anticipating his reply.

Maglind's pale eyes flicker to Galharth, startled from their spot on the floor. "I would not be so confident, dear Tailor," the guard replies, allowing a smile to creep over his face. "Should you ask him, I assure you he will refuse. There is no need, Galharth."

Talk turns from dancing to the mingling of song and nature, and Maglind falls silent -- the grin remains.

The Craftsmaster's brow rises with great interest at the Scholar's words. "Would this interest hold to the tasks of a Gardener or perhaps a Forester?" Galharth asks without hesitation. Alas the perk of interest passes into furrowed brows as the Tailor turns to Maglind. "Would he refuse me?" He scoffs, "Then I'd go to the Lord of the Wood, offering up my protest, for it's well past time for you to be promoted." Drawing his arms over his chest, he now frowns. "In fact, I'll likely bypass the Commander all together for I'm to journey to the border with the Lord in the days to come." Snorting softly, in an almost delicate nature, he raises his chin. "Perhaps the Lords response to my concerns will draw the attention needed."

Slipping his hand inside his pocket, the Craftsmaster holds out a delicately carved wooden ring. "If it's a Gardener you wish to be, then accept this ring." Galharth says with a smile. "Once placed it upon your hand, the ring will herald to one and all that you are of the Gwaith-i-Thein." Reaching out, he places the ring upon the stage next to the Scholar, tempting her to take it.

"CRAFTSMASTER!" A young apprentice yells, "The Squirrels! They're in your buttons again!"

The Tailor pales and frowns. "I've got to go!" He says in a panic. "I'll be back as soon as I can!"

"The Lord would refuse as well, Galharth, and perhaps laugh at you," replies the guard, watching the tailor innocently. "But now is not my time for speech --"

Maglind nearly falls off the stage as the apprentice yells. Shaking, he looks to Aluirwen. "Are there such pests plaguing the Wood worse than squirrels?"

The eyes of the linguist alight, and a smile she lends to the Galharth, delicately taking the ring from its place upon the stage and admiring it as she holds it in her hand. "I thank you ever so much, Craftsmaster..."

And yet the words of Aluirwen are cut short, for the call of the tailor's apprentice is sudden, and a wash of something bewildered is quick to colour her expression. "Apparently there are not..." replies she to Maglind, her gaze lingering toward the departure of Galharth as she gently closes her hand about the wooden ring. And yet, after this, her gaze returns to the harpist, questioning.

"'Tis a riddle?" questions the scholar. "If both Commander Legarwin and the Lord would refuse Galharth's request, and if they would laugh at him for it..." she muses, pausing to touch a finger to her lips in thought. "Perhaps 'tis that the Commander hath already named you marchwarden?"

"I congratulate you, Aluirwen..."

Maglind pales, making his hair dark in contrast to bloodless, surprised expression. "Or," he quips, lifting his chin slightly, "they might think it so utterly impossible that it is a jest, a lurid suggestion. You know how young I am, Aluirwen, and none of my deeds on the marches have warranted a position such as this..."

"Did the Commander tell you? when even none of the Sentinels know of it?" he asks softly, gripping the stage as he leans forward.

The grey eyes of the linguist widen, her brows raise, a surprise in her gaze to mirror that of the warden, as if she herself believes not that she has guessed right. But perhaps the words of the harpist convince her of her genius guess.

"Have you e'er met the elleth Morlinwen?" she questions, a touch of a smile coming to her lips. "She is my kinswoman, and ever given to riddles and word-games. I suppose such practice I have earned due to her efforts..." Yet here Aluirwen pauses, and her mien gains anew a touch of thoughtfulness. "But perhaps, Maglind, 'tis not for us to decide if our own deeds are worthy of recognition... I am sure the Commander would not have made such a decision lightly."

"Morlinwen is a friend of my kinswoman, Araseth," answers Maglind, his expression slightly sheepish. "I wished to earn such a title before I was addressed by it. But it seems," he says, smiling weakly, "that I have not yet gained the secrecy of a marchwarden. Such is the prowess of a scholar, I suppose."

"Or perhaps such is the luck of an educated, scholarly guess?" proposes the linguist, a more amused smile taking the place of the one displayed before. "But, in either case," she continues, her words quieting to nearly whispers, almost a hint of something conspiratorial upon them. "But if you wish it, I shall reveal this privileged knowledge to any, save if there arrive some dire circumstance where it should become absolutely necessary...

"But, do you, perhaps, not trust the judgement of the Commander?" So comes the new question of to Maglind, and her gaze reflects the new query. "For surely he would not bestow upon any what has not already been earned."

"I did not wish to be overconfident, for my watch has been riddled with failure," the guard says uneasily, glancing to the archway, the talan, the stage. "But to keep it a secret for so long -- I feel that I have deceived. Tell it, Aluirwen, to whomever you wish."

"Deceived?" Galharth says as he returns to the Theatre. "How so, Maglind?" he asks as he draws near to his abandoned Cart. Turning to Aluirwen, his brow rises, "Tell what, Aluirwen?"

Perhaps Aluirwen seems almost perplexed by the reply of the warden, for the gaze that rests upon him is again curious as before. "Nevertheless," she begins, "I have no need to tell any unless 'tis asked of me..."

And yet, at that very moment, the Craftsmaster makes his timely reappearance; it would nearly seem that the newly-made gardener was meant to learn this bit of information from Maglind just in time to this one to whom she now would seem to own more deference.

"Oh..." she replies, her gaze having swiftly turned to meet Galharth's approach. "Maglind and I were but speaking of his riddle, and its answer."

"Yes, Galharth," Maglind deadpans, maintaining an expression grave and serious. "But it was already given before you left -- perhaps you too might have found its answer?"

Crossing his arms over his chest and frowning, the Craftsmaster shakes his head. "When matters are distracted by the thieving squirrels, I fear my mind holds other concerns." Galharth says flatly, revealing his high level of frustration with the fluffy tailed beasts of Lothlorien. "Still....." he says as his head tilts upwards in consideration. "It does seem rather strange that both the Commander and the Lord would not respond to my inquiries. Unless of course, I've fallen into disfavor....." he says, allowing his words to fade.

Sighing heavily, he shakes his head. "Alas, I suppose it matters not. I've much work this day, and little time to do it." Shifting his eyes from one to the other as he returns to moving the packages of curtains from the cart, he snorts softly, "It is a wonder that Bards can spend so much time with clever thoughts and distracting implications."

"'Tis not so unbelievably difficult a riddle, methinks..." The words of Aluirwen are nigh hesitant, and her eyes follow carefully the movements of the Craftsmaster, one of her slender hands clasping the other, which yet holds the wooden ring gently in its grasp.

"Though, in truth, the marchwarden seemed quite surprised that I had guessed it at all." These words of the linguist, hold they the answer to the riddle? The intonation in her voice would suggest that she has done naught but speak the truest of facts, and yet, should Galharth notice, she has provided him the answer. Her gaze, though, shifts toward the guard, a silent questioning to be found therein.

"It is not as arcane as you might think, Galharth," Maglind says gently, eyes flickering in discomfort at the linguist-gardener's words. "But with such thieves as the squirrels of Lothlorien ... I, too, understand."

The Clothier's head shoots upwards in rapid attention, "Marchwarden?" Galharth blurts out as he drops the last bundle of curtains onto the ground at his feet. Hurt flickers in the Tailor's eyes and a gentle quiver of his lower lip are present for just a moment before quickly buried under an expression of disinterest. "I see." he says flatly whilst bending to pick up the dropped bundle. "I'm sure it would have been most amusing for the Marchwarden had I taken the moment to discuss matters with the Commander and the Lord."

As he rises to his feet, the Tailor lifts his chin slightly. Turning away from Maglind, he delivers the last package. "Well, this is the last." he says with a glance to Aluirwen. "And with it, I should be on my way."

Perhaps the reaction of the tailor was not at all what the linguist might have expected, for her eyes widen, and an expression of regret and doubt washes over her mien as her gaze flickers away from Maglind and toward the hurt Craftsmaster. "I'm sure he would not have let you go so far as to ask them..." But perhaps even she does not seem wholly convinced of her words, such is the regret that seeps into them.

And her eyes turn again to Maglind, questioning and expectant, perhaps as if to urge him to say something, although she is quick to return her attentions to Galharth as he announces his departure. "I thank you for the curtains..." she says, ever so softly.

"I -- I did not intend to --"

Maglind looks away, biting his lip, realizing too late the danger of subtle words. "I do not think they are as cruel as I am," the ellon murmurs, his voice shaking. "I am sorry -- would you believe me, Galharth?"

"You are most welcome!" Galharth says with a chipperness that perhaps the most talented of actors can display. "T'is always a pleasure providing a service."

Then his good nature fades as Maglind begins to speak, and the Clothier lifts his hand quickly, holding his palm outward to signal a stop. "Nay, do not say anything. T'is my own fault, I assure you." Looking away as if to find a purpose to avoid looking at the Marchwarden, he moves towards his cart. "We all know I'm quick to assume the oddest of things. It's been told to me more times than once. Worry not........Marchwarden. No harm done." Clearing his throat slightly, he looks quickly from one to the other. "Alas, I've more deliveries to make this day, so I bid you both well." He says with a return to his mock chipperness. With that, the Craftsmaster gathers up the lead to his cart and he heads out of the Theatre towards the road.

"Farewell..." The worry yet lingers upon the tones of the linguist, as she turns her regretful gaze toward Galharth. She presses her lips together once she has said her good-bye, watching him depart.

And yet, even after moments where she is wreathed in this fretful silence, her grey eyes fly to Maglind, where they grow yet further troubled. "I apologize, Maglind..." she says, her words but weak whispers upon the air. "I did not expect such..." But her sentence remains unfinished, perhaps thinking that the warden might understand the ending of it without needing to give it voice.