4/2/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Nighttime < About 10:16 PM >
IC day is: Orgilion <Stars-day>
IC date is: 17 Iavas <Autumn>
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 Apr 01 09:25:36 2008
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Grove
This clearing lies in the midst of a dense grove of mellyrn, a rare open space in the lush woods of the Egladil. Encircling the sward of bright green grass is a ring of exceptionally tall trees, their sturdy silver branches adorned with thick bursts of golden yellow leaves, embracing the sky. A strangely gnarled, ancient mallorn stands at one end of the grove, its twisting arms and roots forming an alcove of sorts. Dark green vines meander lazily about the trunks and branches of the trees.


There is a bit of a chill in the air, though the last of the summer warmth lingers on to early evening these days, allowing the forest creatures a bit more time to gather for the winter. Squirrels scamper a bit more frantically, while the tortoises and cold-blooded lizzards burrow their way into the earth for a nice, long nap.

But for those who have no need for forraging or hibernating, what is there to do? Harvest time offers the opportunity for daytime activities, but who wants to pick apples at night?

Celeborn, apparently, as he is a lone figure walking slowly between the rows of trees, his hand reaching out to touch the gnarled trunks as he passes by. Reaching a spot predetermined by the ellon, a small clearing where has been set a bale of hay that reaches the quendi's shoulder. It is tucked away in a far corner, not visible to those who might happen to wander by, and it is with a swift look over each shoulder that the Lord of Lorien removes his light cloak and draws a gleeming sword from his side. The blade flashes brilliantly in the moonlight, and a look of unrefined joy spreads across his face. He adopts a relaxed, but competant pose, then lunges at the haystackin a swift motion that is more graceful dance than planned attack.


Apples, peaches, the last harvest of corn and wheat, are all matters of thought in the days before the winter's chill brings forth rest for the earth. And yet, under the starlight, the harvest is last upon the mind of the Craftsmaster. Even the beauty of shadows created by the gentle twinkling above, and the delicate scents of autumn, all seem to hold no interest. As he wanders into the Grove, Galharth seems lost in thought, until the sudden movement near the haystack startles him to alertness. Reaching for this hilt of his sword as the flicker of reflection off of steel is caught, he pauses, then laughs out loud into the night air.

"I dare say you've won with only one strike. Certainly the hay can not hope to retaliate!" He calls out with a smile upon his lips.

"And yet it does, with every move I make," Celeborn replies casually, raising the hand that holds his sword to display the tiny criss-crossed scratches that lace his knuckles. "But it is bearable, and preferable to what I have suffered before." He smiles, then chuckles, "But truly we are unfairly matched, as I outwhit it by... well, at least a little. I do admit to feeling like I am one step ahead of my adversary, here, which poses little challenge to me. Now, were it a sentient haystack..." He shrugs, then smiles a bit wider, "I might be struck dumb with fear, if the truth be known. But is there anyone who wouldn't cower in the presence of a living, breathing pile of hay?"

He begins to resheath his sword, but pauses. "Ignore my rambling: I am in a mood. I started off this morning with a feeling that something was going to happen, something momentous, something just beyond the horizon that I could almost taste in the air. I fear it has made me as anxious and excited as a pup, chasing his tail in circles for lack of anything better to do." Glancing at Galharth, he querries, "But what brings you here? Can I hope that it is much the same, so that I can stop feeling the fool for wasting a day in eager anticipation of nothing?"

"If it is a challenge that you seek, then there are few within Lorien that might hope to fill the billet." Galharth says with a slight chuckle. "If you think I could bring forth more entertainment than the haystack, I'd be glad to offer my own meager skills against your own." Reaching his left hand over his waist, the Tailor quickly grasps the hilt of his own sword. "I suppose the greatest benefit in changing sparring partners at this point would be that I'd not scratch your knuckles," he says as he wields his weapon.

Stepping back into a ready position, the delicately etched blade catches the starlight. "I've had some measure of luck with this defensively, but to be honest, I'd like to learn a little offense for a change."

Celeborn laughs, "You do yourself a disservice, Galharth, as I believe you can hold your own with that weapon you hold. But fair enough! I seek a challenge and you seek knowledge: perhaps we will both benefit from this encounter!" He raises his sword upright and salutes the Tailor, blade shining menacingly as it is framed by the intense gaze of the warrior. "Since it is offense you wish to learn, let me see what you have to offer. Strike fast, and strike true."

"I'm not inclined towards agression." Galharth says softly, as he bows his head in response to Celeborn's salute. "And yet, through defense, I've learned that is not the case with those that might seek to hurt me." As he speaks, the Tailor's jaw tightens as if caught in a memory that might support the words spoken.

Switching the longsword into his right hand, he steps forward with his left foot, then suddenly turns to lead with his right foot. As he moves, the Craftsmaster coils his arm back, then releases a heafty swing forward. Both concentration and effort go into the swing as the ellon aims to strike at the Lord's upper right arm.

Galharth attacks Celeborn with his Longsword...
Galharth's attack against Celeborn mildly wounds him!

Celeborn merely blinks as the tailor's sword barely grazes his hand; so light the blow that not even a thin line of blood wells from the scratch. But it is with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he replies, "Well, you are almost as deadly as the haystack, though your technique is not as good. You are attacking from a place of anger, calling up pain to guide your hand. For battle, it is not always so. Your thoughts should begin and end with one simple word: survival. Do not stoop to your enemy's way of thinking, killing for the sake of killing or for some overblown emotion. Your swings turn wild, you leave yourself open for attack, and you do not think clearly." He steps back slightly and massages the wound on his hand, "You may land a strike or two, but it will be luck that leads your hand and not skill. However, if you fight for survival, if you fight for righteousness, then you will not need luck."

With the end of his little speech, Celeborn deftly arcs the sword from his side and towards the tailor.

Celeborn attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

"You wound me sir!" Galharth replies in defense. "T'was skill no to draw blood, for indeed my restraint is far and above that of the unmerciful slips of hay." As the Lord speaks further, the Craftsmaster furrows his brow. "And it isn't anger, my Lord. I think more frustration, for as you say I count upon luck and even when tasting a desire for survival, I had little to draw upon save desperation itself." As his last word is released, a sharp sting upon his jaw brings the crafters eyes open in surprise.

From surprise to determination, the Tailor's sword flicks up and forward, then suddenly downwards as if to strike his opponents shoulder.

Galharth attacks Celeborn with his Longsword...
Celeborn parries Galharth's attack with his Longsword!

Apparently an epic battle such as this cannot go long without an audience. Galadriel stands now at the entrance to the grove, wearing elegant hunting garb of dark breeches and an ankle length green coat with golden embroidery. Her arms are crossed and she watches the goings-on with more than a little interest.

Celeborn turns his sword to catch Galharth's blade, bringing it up just as the crafter brings his down, thus deflecting the blow. Chuckling, he responds, "Well, there is no doubt that you have self confidence aplenty, as it was masterful skill that kept me safe from your attack and not a lack of control! But the question is this: how can I teach you if you are holding back? You are afraid you might hurt me?" He looks to the Lady and gives a slight grin, "I know a decent healer who should be able to patch me up if I cannot defend myself well enough. Though I may suffer from that which she cannot mend, should it be so: a wounded pride."

The audience, it would seem, is appreciated as Celeborn pivots to the left on his heel and brings his weapon up from behind a shielding arm.

Celeborn attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Galadriel claps lightly for her champion's daring feats.

Gritting his teeth as steel strikes steel, the Tailor's strength faulters slightly under the lords blade forcing him to step back. Pushing away as a clap sounds, he turns a moment to catch the sight of the Lord's admiring audience. "Hurt you?" Galharth says, as he returns is attention to the battle at hand, "Nay, I could no more hurt you than I could the Lady." Shaking his head and stepping round so that he might find a better opening, the Craftsmaster steps into the blow. Steel cuts cloth as easily as it does the air, and a slight gasp of discomfort hints that the Lords weapon has made its mark upon flesh.

"The Lord remains undefeated, Lady Galadriel!" he chirps out in a strained tone as he draws away from the blade with a fluid motion that brings his own weapon down and then upwards as if to strike Celeborn's hip.

Galharth attacks Celeborn with his Longsword...
Celeborn dodges Galharth's attack.

"You're reluctance to harm Lord Celeborn is understandable, Galharth," replies Galadriel when the motion is over. "However, I assure you he has been bitten by worse than good elven steel." As Celeborn deftly dodges the tailor's attack she adds, "Necessity is the mother of agility I'm afraid. And my Lord learned it the hard way, through many wounds."

Celeborn sidesteps the swing, his own weapon coming 'round to smack the tailor with the flat of the blade. He speaks, not a bit out of breath, "Galharth, there are few that could hurt the Lady, though they may try with all their might. A more formiddable force I have never met! Sweet she looks, with a smile most beguiling, but she is swift and cunning!" He pauses for just a moment as she speaks, and nods his head at the tailor, "And she is right. Do not fear hurting me, as I am willing to take the risk... especially if it makes a better fighter out of you."

Celeborn attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Silently through the trees Arahisie moves to take a spot standing next to Galadriel, watching the sword play with a critical eye. The herald does not speak, not wishing to disturb the proceedings.

The lady's words distract the Tailor as his head tilts slightly in thought as he mouths the words 'bitten?'. Too late does he recover his focus and a loud /SMACK/ sounds within the grove. "Ow!" Galharth gasps aloud as he turns away from the smarting strike against his lower back. His own weapon turns with him and he grasps the hilt with two hands as he too turns his longsword so that the flat presents itself in an agressive aim to the Lords upper leg. "You both hold the knowledge of the ages, so the very fact that I'm not on my back already is comforting."

Galharth attacks Celeborn with his Longsword...
Celeborn dodges your attack.

Galadriel bites her lip at the painful sound, thinking perhaps she should not distract the sparring pair anymore. But the arrival of Arahisie turns his head and upon seeing the Herald she smiles warmly and gestures for him to come near. "All is well?" she says quietly to him, more from routine than genuine concern.

Arahisie winces as he sees Galharth get smacked and says, "All is well M'lady. I was just checking to see if you needed anything from me."

With the sounds of blades clashing ringing in her keen ears, the Apprentice follows her senses to the Grove. Sitting peacefully in the underbrush, she watches the goings-on with a comical grin on her face.

Celeborn notes the arrival of the Herald with a hint of a nod, then turns his attention back to the Tailor. He is in time to note Galharth's attack, and takes a half-step back to avoid the blade. "Try not to rush into the attack; not now, at least. Speed can come later, when you are comfortable with the attack. It is like a dance, so take note of what a dancer does! Steps are practiced individually until mastered, then joined with other steps to create a whole. It is the same here: practice each move individually until it comes easily, add other moves and practice more, and in the end you will have the skill that you desire."

He makes as if to bring his sword around again, but halts it halfway there and breaks into a grin, hand thrust out to the tailor, instead. "You did well, though; your teachers have done a good job, so far. But tell me, because I have been wondering this whole time, why is a normally quiet and conservative crafter seeking this knowledge with such determination? You aren't thinking of leaving your pins and needles for a life of patrolling and skirmishes, are you?"

Wincing slightly as the Lord's weapon comes round and for a moment the Tailor holds the hilt of his own sword tightly as if in preparation to receive the blow. Confusion flickers over his expression, until finally a half smile comes to his face. "You speak to me as if I were a warrior, and while I've come to understand much, I still favor the thrill of creation that comes with providing your lady with a new gown."

Reaching up to rub the ache in his back from the last blow, he winces for the cut to his side from the blow before the last. "I seek nothing, my Lord," Galharth says as his head slightly as he lowers his own weapon. "I suppose it is nothing more than good sense to prepare as I've run into several beasts in recent years." Sighing softly he shrugs a shoulder. "The worst of course was the loss of my garments to an Orc who felt a fancy for my fine clothing."

Galadriel gives a gentle shake of her golden head to Arahisie, "Nay, but you may escort me back to the city. I think the show is over." Before returning to the path, however, the Lady keeps her attention upon the armed pair, "I do not blame you, Galharth. While it has been an age and more since I drew my blade, I still want it to be familiar in my hand. For one never knows..." To Celeborn she turns and inclines her head, "A lovely display, my Lord. Should you find your way in time for supper, you shall find another lovely display of pheasant and last year's vintage."

Arahisie smiles and says, "I would love to." he offers his arm to Galadriel and says, "When ever you are ready m'lady."

A more serious expression crosses Celeborn's face as he regards the tailor. "I speak to you not as a warrior, as that is not where your heart lies. In fact, I know of very few so-called warriors whose hearts lie in death and destruction. We are poets and farmers, musicians and crafters. We simply have chosen to protect that which we hold dear."

As the Lady speaks to him, he turns a gentle smile to her. "I would make sure to be there for the promise of your company, alone, but then you mention pheasant...." His smile widens and he nods, "I will not keep you waiting long."

Stepping back, the Tailor tucks his sword safely at his waist. "Do not let me keep you, my Lord." Galharth says as his gaze moves from the Lord to the Lady. As the Craftsmaster looks towards Galadriel, a brow lifts in surprise. "Istaril? Certainly you could depart from your amusement to come see to my would, however minor they might be," he calls out as he catches sight of the Apprentice.

The Lady lowers her eyes and smiles at the remarks of her husband. Then, without further adieus, she places a hand upon Arahisie's elbow and turns back towards the path.

Celeborn holds up a hand and shakes his head, "I am in no hurry, and I know that m'Lady is in good hands. I have time, yet, to impart wisdom." He places his sword back in its sheath and considers the tailor again, "Unless you wish for me to leave. In which case I might consider it."

The Healer laughs to herself, the grin still upon her face from the scene before her. She lifts herself lightly off the ground, her former presence there now no more than a lingering shadow as she steps out of the brush and on the edge of the grove.

"Come here," Istaril motions. "Are you bleeding anywhere?"

Watching the Lady and her Herald set upon the path, Galharth shakes his head and turns towards the Lord. "I've no wish to hurry you off, unless of course it is your will. I'm more than glad to learn anything that you might be kind enough to teach."

At Istaril's words, he lifts his arm and winces as he gingerly pokes at the sliced cloth and a growing stain of red. "The flesh is cut, though I'm sure it's nothing too drastic." He mutters as he prods the wounded site at his side. "T'was more a surprise than anything."

Turwaithiel had been watching the happenings of the day from a slight distance. After it was completed she came forward to see what had happned. "And see where surprise has gotten you. Well, it does not look to bad, just be glad that is all you got for your triuble."

Celeborn mutters softly to himself, a word that vaguely resembles "pheasant". He looks to Galharth, then to those arriving, and raises his eyebrows slightly. "Perhaps I will go now... stop along the way at that beautiful heliotrope that I saw growing not far from here. It would make a lovely crown, a reminder of the last vestiges of summer." And with a smile, he turns to go, following a different path than that of Galadriel and Arahisie.

Watching the Lord's departure, the Tailor frowns. "It is not only a second borns tendancy towards favoring a well cooked meal. It seems our Lord can be swayed in such a same manner." At the departure, there is also an arrival. Catching sight of Turwaithiel, the Craftsmaster frowns. "Timing it seems is a poor thing of late, as you've just missed the Lord and any chance to speak with him regarding the project of which we last spoke."

The Apprentice pulls away the cloth from the wound as carefully as possible, carefully examining it from every angle. She steps back to think.

"How is the pain?" The concern rises slightly in her voice.

Turwaithiel looks down the path. "It is it would seem. Well perhaps I will have the chance to see him again soon. Time is the one thing there is plenty of, or it would seem. Not that I do not enjoy times like this when days seem to linger for a long time." A though occurs to her and she can not help speaking it. "Not that tehere is anything wrong with a well cooked meal from time to time."

Glancing to Istaril, and then peering under his arm to his side, the Tailor shrugs his shoulders with indifference. "It stings a little." he replies. Reaching up to poke the wound a gain, he frowns. "I've certainly had much worse."

Finding nothing of concern with his wound, he returns his focus to the Weaponsmith. "Time may be aplenty, but he was quite clear on wanting to see the awards made and to those who earned them. Perhaps you can prepare some samples, Turwaithiel?"

Turwaithiel nods. "Of course, I shall find him in a day perhaps two at the most. Rest asured they will be done. Had I known he was going to be here I would have made sure of it, but sadly I did not. Given how today went perhaps I should simply start carring one with me."

The healer nods in response and begins rummaging through the satchel of supplies at her side. She mutters to herself as she filters through the contents. "I could have sworn I packed that this morning," mumbles Istaril with frustration. She looks up with disappointment. "I'm afraid I forgot the comfrey leaf that was prepared earlier for an event such as this. Will you survive, Craftsmaster, if I go to get it? Or would you rather accompany me to the Talan of the Healers?"

"One never an guess what will be found within the wood," Galharth comments to the Weaponsmith with a smile, "So I'd certainly support carrying around one or two examples of what you might provide for the Awards which the Lord and Lady seek." Lifting a brow slightly he peers at the Apprentice. "I'd be glad to see the samples myself if I can manage to get myself to the forges so to leave my dagger in your hands."

Chuckling softly, Galharth turns to Istaril, "Perhaps I will survive, dear elleth, perphaps not." Offer an expression of teasing, he adds, "Perhaps you might take a hint from the crafters and plan to prepare for the worst?"

The Elf turns red at her mistake, but then recovers quickly. "Common sense tells me not to build fires under trees, mellon," she smiles. "If you'll excuse me, I will return shortly with what I have forgotten, once." Daring emphasis is placed on once. Istaril turns swiftly and dashes away back to the city.

Left in the silence that remains in the Grove, the Tailor watches the Apprentice depart before nodding to the Weaponsmith. "I suppose now is the best time to escape, so I shall."

Without saying another word, the Craftsmaster departs, heading towards the shore of the Long Lawn.

Turwaithiel looks in the direction that the healer has departed. "She shall be back soon. You seemed to be getting use out of the healers of late. It is a noble craft after all. I know a bit of herb craft but I was called downa different path I fear."

Looking along the path in which Istaril departed, the Craftsmaster nods his head. "Some use, but thankfully nothing so serious as to require time in their Talan. I suppose it best to leave that to the Guards." Pausing a moment, Galharth turns towards the Apprentice. "Tell me, how many samples do you have to suggest for awards? I'd like to see them if I ever manage to get to the Forges to turn over my dagger as I've promised." Again he pauses and as he does, the Tailor tilts his head slightly in thought. "Or, would you prefer to take it now?" Wielding his longsword, he holds the weapon outwards for inspection. "Surely you could repeat the design that lays upon my Longsword without having to take the weapon for comparison."

Having acquired what she had forgotten, only once, mind you, Istaril returns, striding along the path to the grove, out of breath. She gently slows her step as she enters the clearing of trees. The Elf rummages through the leather satchel at her side, this time finding what she needed.

"I've returned," she manages, "How do you find yourself now, friend?"

Turwaithiel turns towards the sword and gives it a look. "Yes, I could it does not seem so difficult to reproduce. As far the dagger goes it is your choice but the sooner I recieve it the sooner it can be returned. I have two samples perhaps I third if I finish it in time, if not then I think it should do. And you are right there are those of us that have more of a use for the healers than others." She pauses for a moment. "There are advantages to what they choose to do however. But that is there place and I have mine and I should be happy enough for it.

As the Weaponsmith inspects the sword, Galharth withdraws his dagger. It is in this instant that another elleth returns. What a sight that can be seen! A Tailor drawing a dagger on an Apprentice Crafter!

Looking up in surprise at Istaril's quick return, it takes the Tailor but a moment before responding. "T'was Lord Celeborn's sword, Istaril, not a spliter." He says with a chuckle as he lifts his arm to prod the cut with the hilt of his dagger. "At least it's stopped bleeding."

With her breath caught once more, Istaril cleans the dried blood away from the Tailor's wound, using a clean cloth and some water from her canteen. The Elf prepares a bandage and some herbs to make a poultice.

Under the glistening stars walks a lone figure, although he seems to float. His steps are nimble and quiet, despite the staff that supports him. He walks with a haughtiness, perhaps trying to ignore the temporary support that keeps him up.

When he comes into the Grove, his steps stop, and his eyes pan over the area. For the moment, he takes a step closer, then stands silently among the trees. His hood is down, and his hair hangs down upon his shoulders. His eyes gleam like two sapphires peering out at those gathered in front of him.

"Ow," Galharth complains as the Apprentice works upon the small wound. "Be careful not to damage the fabric as I fully intent to make repairs," he mutters in a near whine. Turning as if to speak to the Apprentice Crafter, he pauses upon catching sight of the Sentinel. "Well met, Thorhur." The Tailor says with a nod. "How goes the healing on your leg?"

She finishes making the comfrey poultice and applies it with steady hands. "I will do what is necessary," replies Istaril, her patience tested. "New garments can be made, but not so with the flesh."

"Tailors," she mutters to herself under her breath.

"I am completely healed of the phsyical wounds," Thorhur says with a smile and a nod, stepping into the light. "My leg is however, still hurting. I will probably be upon the staff until the end of the year, at least." Sighing, he looks around with furrowed brow. "What has been going on here?" he asks.

Nodding to Thorhur, the Tailor nods. "My own experience was much the same." he adds sympathetically. "It seems to beasts of darkness favor crippling our kind, leaving us with memories and long healing times."

Returning his gaze to the Apprentice, Galharth furrows his brow. "Certainly you know our capactity to heal is far and above that of others who walk this world." he asks in frustration, adding softly, "Healers..."

Looking back to Thorhur, a half smile lights upon the Craftsmasters lips. "Alas, you missed the instruction of the Lord Celeborn, for he was kind enough to train me in the ways of the Longsword. It was remarkably informative."

"I am sure it was very fun," Thorhur says with a chuckle, "and probably somewhat violent, if our Crafstmaster emerged not wholly unscathed. Ah, I would love to learn the art of the sword," Thorhur says, his eyes suddenly far away.

"Alas though, my leg keeps me from doing many things that I would like," he says with a frown. "Among them is of course, being on the borders. How I miss the rugged life of the borders. Little sleep...little food...how peaceful it is."

"Indeed, it is true," agrees Istaril halfheartedly, "But it must not be taken for granted." The healer finishes with Galharth's wound, then turns and looks curiously at Thorhur's ailment. She studies it from afar, the wheels in her mind turning. Again, the Elf quickly rummages through her wares until she produces a small crystal bottle, delicately ornate, filled with a white powder. "Here," she offers it to the Sentinel. "This is vervain tonic. It should help with the pain, and any swelling."

Eagerly, Thorhur walks forward and takes the powder from Istaril. "Bless you my dear healer," he says with a soft laugh. Plopping down in the grass, he begins humming softly, a slow short tune. When it is finished, he says to himself, "The borders...."

Galharth nods to the Sentinel. "T'was my own leg injuries that caused me to put forth my own efforts with the sword, though to be honest, I'd not miss the conditions that you seem to miss." Pausing his words the Tailor turns to the Apprentice to take the tonic offered. "Though it may not seem so, I thank you for your efforts Istaril." With a single quick motion, the Craftsmaster downs the offered liquid. His face pinces with dissatisfation at the taste, but he does in the end take his medicine.

"You are most welcome, both of you," Istaril beams. She looks over her shoulder toward the path to the city quickly, as if remembering an urgent appointment. "Unless there is anything else, I must return to my post." With that, the healer walks off down the path.

"I suppose we are more alike than we may think," Thorhur comments jokingly, nodding slowly, "We were both crushed by trolls, and we were both forced to walk with staffs." Thorhur's smile fades slightly though, as he continues. "I however, have no sword of my own. Alas, I would wish to have one, even if it were nothing more than a decorative ornament on my belt." To Istaril, he offers a grin and a smile.

With Istaril's administrations complete he offers the elleth a smile. "Thank you Istaril!" the Tailor calls after the departing healer.

Turning his attention back to the Sentinel, he frowns. "Certainly you can't be far from promotion to Warden." Galharth comments. "And worry not on the weapon, we often provide swords to the newly promoted, so certainly you will get one when the time comes."

Thorhur nods. "I hope you are right Galharth. One can only go so long without a change." Idly now, the Sentinel begins rubbing the powder Istaril has given him on his legs. The powder, smooth, leaves behind white residue, and Thorhur begins idly picking it off.

"Save for the fact that we do not suffer from such afflictions, I'd say your desire for change is an affliction." Galharth says. Pursing his lips and considering his thoughts, he adds, "Are you sure you do not speak of learning and growth? Often times, once confuses change with the gathering of understanding."

The idle observer, gaze wandering about, might notice that someone is watching from the trees. With cloak of deceitful grey and golden hair like the leaves in autumn, he might seem akin to the forest itself.

No motion gives he to betray himself, but pale blue eyes, the only hint of ice among sun-warmed trunk and fiery leaf, peer from the shadows.

Thorhur considers this for a moment. "Perhaps I am..." he begins, slowly. "I do study many subjects to increase my knowledge, purely for enjoyment." Standing, he turns to the trees, sensing a presence. "Is it just me...or is there someone watching us?" he asks warily, his brow furrowed.

Looking about, the tailor furrows his brow. "Of such things, I can not say, for as I said to the Lord Celeborn, I'm no Warrior." Pausing, he furrows his brown and peers intently into the shadows that surround them. "Hello? Is anyone around?" He calls out, saving the effort to search.

Thorhur, passing slowly into shadows, makes no sound. There is nothing that would signify his exit from the Grove, for he is silent upon his feet. For while Galharth's eyes are turned, he passes slowly towards the direction of the City, but for what reason he has just departed is unknown...save to him.

Galharth's words echo throughout the shadowy clearing, and a bird flutters nearby, signaling his presence proudly, red wings spread. On the other side of the grove lie two ellon, male and female, and though they are well within hearing distance, they do not respond to the inquiry quite as obviously as the woodland creature. Iaelen glances over briefly, curiosity causing his mouth to move soundlessly, but only for a short moment. Ostiel, lying beside him on the grass, whispers something, and points downward to the space between them, which is rather minimal, her hand hovering somewhere near his thigh. The ellon is reluctant to tear his gaze away from the happenings across the open space, but a gentle touch is enough to pull his attention back and down, to whatever is of interest there.

Nodding towards Thorhur as he departs, the Tailor turns to face the shadows. "Hello!" he calls out, more insistent than the last time he spoke. "Is anyone there?"

The pale blue eyes of the woodland blink, a flash among the woven roots: in a whirl of shadow, the grey-cloaked watcher disappears. No flutter of wings, no frightened scamper accompanies him.

On the other side of the trunk, flanked by thick brush, Maglind sinks softly to a crouch.

Frowning deeply into the silent darkness, the Tailor throws up his arms. Wincing slightly from the wound caused by the Lord Celeborn, Galharth moves along the path as if to make his way to the Long Lawn to the south. Muttering softly about healer, trains, swords, and shadows, he disappears along the path, disappearing into the night.

It is a moment before the marchwarden dares to look out again, for fear of being seen by the retreating Galharth. Who knows how long he has been there, watching and listening? He leaves his hiding-spot now, venturing onto the path.

"Ah, Maglind!"

The male Attendant once again turns his attention back to the opposite tree wall, now turning onto his other side and beckoning after a moment's observance. Behind him Ostiel props herself up onto her right elbow, eyebrows raised in interest.

"Maglind," Iaelen calls again, brow furrowed, "Mellon nin, what 'are' you doing?"

Alas, nothing escapes the attention of healers, and guard though he may be, Maglind freezes in surprise. "Nothing of consequence," he calls back reluctantly, shooting a furtive glance behind his shoulder. "Good day, Iaelen, Ostiel."

The marchwarden begins to meander along the tree-trunks.

"Nothing of consequence indeed," Ostiel murmurs to her companion, a twitch of her mouth betraying amusement. Iaelen laughs, but kindly, reluctantly pushing himself to his feet. "You seem troubled...is all well?"

Parting the bushes, the marchwarden turns sharply again. "All is well," Maglind replies bravely, walking straight into the embrace of a large tree.

"But..." Iaelen trails off and sits down again, though not of his own accord. Ostiel tugs firmly on his arm, and as he looks down at her, shakes her dark head thoughtfully. "Let him be, Iaelen...there is much on his mind."

"But he should discuss it with someone," the ellon protests, shifting uncomfortably. "The hardest thing to learn, mellon," Ostiel says softly, squeezing Iaelen's shoulder, pressing him into place when he makes to pursue the Marchwarden, "Is not when to help, but when to let others help themselves. Let him go."

And leave he does: snatching his cloak from the graspy thicket that he has unwittingly blundered into, Maglind meanders deeper into the forest, opposite the direction that the Tailor Galharth has gone.