4/8/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Before Dawn < About 4:14 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 38 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: New <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: Tue Apr 08 11:24:56 2008
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Crisp autumn. Moonlight pours from the thin vessel sailing above, silvering the surfaces of everything it touches -- even the roses. Red, yellow, and white alike become pale under Tilion's touch.

But not the head of Maglind. He is lurking in the shadows, perched on a bench, knees pulled up closely. Gingerly nursing a bandage wound about his hand, the marchwarden does not attempt to escape from the eagle-sight of the attendants who have cared for him, high above. (re)

Yet not alone is Maglind for another sits perched high above upon the boughs. A dirty, ragged, elleth. Hair a wild tangle of knots, nails broken and ragged, dirty beyond imagination for one of the firstborn. Niinaeth draws breath to whistle softly as she slowly makes her way to the ground.

"Mines, always the mines..." she mumbles to herself as she attempts in vain to wipe some of the dirt from her clothing. An idle hand lent to smear yet even further black streaks of grim across her gentle face.

A cloaked figure enters the Garden, moving slow among the roses. Silvery hair escapes from the front of the figures hood, glistening brightly in the pale moon light. Looking up as Niinaeth speaks, Galharth reaches up to draw back his hood. As he does, the ellon catches sight of the Marchwarden, and offers a look of confusion. "Mines?" The Craftsmaster asks softly. "What of them?"

With the weather perfect for her task, an elleth wanders about to and fro, her gaze fixed on the ground, green with life. When her seeking eyes spot a plant useful to her purpose, low she bends to examine it carefully, scrutinizing its every aspect. Silently and cautiously, the Apprentice gathers her herbs. Her mind is solely on the work of her hands until her ears her the distinct sound of Elvish voices.

"Too many have entered that trap and ne'er returned..." she whispers to herself.

"And yours also," says the guard, slipping from bench and reverie to look into the trees. "What brought you into the mines? Minister Niinaeth. Craftsmaster."

"Galharth." is Niinaeths reply with a quick nod of her head, "Yet the trap of mines is not a deathly as that of venturing beyond our borders for what is needed. Where else can one find the stones for little trinkets we so much desire be found or that of the metal needed?" Standing before them a soft breeze brings a sour look to her face and she leans her head slightly foward sniffing, "As I live and breath, that is me! I had believed for a moment one of those creatures the Lady is so fond of had managed to break the borders."

"When last we spoke with Lord Celeborn about moving the forges, he made mention of moving them to a point between the mines from which our ore comes, and the forests that provide the fuel." Galharth says as his hands fall to his side. "And yet he also spoke of a place on the border that might be suitable. Did you visit for that purpose?" Growing silent as the Minister speaks, the Craftsmaster's brow furrows. "T'is strange you speak of creatures, for we have visitors now who seek such a thing."

Satisfied with her collection so far, the healer's footsteps take her deeper into the garden, drawing her to the other Elves gathered.

"Creatures?" questions Istaril, her eyebrows raised in slowly-moving concern. "Of what sort?"

"Surely you do not mean the sheep, dear Minister," murmurs Maglind under his breath. He manages to stand stiffly, one arm folded over the other for support. Surveying Niinaeth's appearance with a critical eye: "We had wondered where you went. Have you heard of the Rangers' arrival?"

"Creatures? In the woods you say?" Scratching her chin with a dirty finger she furrows a brow, "Ive see nothing but lamplight for some time now, an occasional snake if you will." yet Niinaeth's attention turns to Maglind with a grin"And I do not mean of the Warden variety. Who brings this news?"

It is a dawning look of shock the words settle upon the Minister and she stares down at her clothing, "Ranger? I have heard nothing aside from own voice, this Ranger you speak of, is he rather ragged about the edges? A bit on the dirty side, in need of a bath perhaps?

Turning to the sound of another entering the garden, the Craftsmaster nods a greeting to Istaril before looking back towards Niinaeth. "An eagle entered Lothlorien these past days, carrying a heavy load of two." Galharth says stepping closer to the Minister. "Mithrandir, and the Ranger Henleg, now wait to speak with the Lord and Lady regarding a strange creature that they claim have led them here." Glancing to Maglind, then to Istaril and back to Niinaeth, he adds, "They are not alone and are to be joined by others upon the border traveling by foot."

The smile which comes to grace the Minister's face can not be mistaken. It is one joy beyond compare. A smile rarely seen upon the elleths face of late, "Aye, Henleg. He is of course being given the finest we have to offer is he not Galharth? He is after all near to one of our own as any." Though her words are soft and directed to Galharth, their is no mistaking they are intended for all.

Yet for any save perhaps Galharth, there is storm brewing behind the emerald eyes, one not yet noticable "We should know of their plans concerning this creature, mayhap one should venture forth with them? One whom could bring further news of this creature to the Lord and Lady."

With the august moon illuminating the garden so brightly, the Elven healer lifts her sight to watch the spectacle. Her heart is filled with its beauty, enchanted by it as her father was many centuries ago. The speech around her fades to silence, and all that is audible to Istaril is the sound of the wind about the wood as her mind fades into a daydream.

A smile lights up upon Galharth's face and he nods. "He's favored in many an eye, though he'll suffer my words when I find what damage he's done to the cloak I last gave him." Pausing he glances at the Marchwarden and chuckles, "Even our own Guards spend time wearing before they wreck damage upon their clothing."

Shaking his head at the mention of the creature, the Craftsmaster's smile fades. "Alas, I can not see that I've have much participation, as it seems more a matter for the Guard. Ah..." he says softly at the Ministers final words. "Perhaps one of the Court might join the Guards? Perhaps you , or I?"

"The tailor is too kind," retorts Maglind, stealing a glance at the healer -- perhaps her attention is diverted? But he continues, "Indeed, for if this creature is as widely known as to be of interest to the Rangers, it must hold value. Come and see."

"You think far too much like me Galharth." Grinning Niinaeth pats her clothes and sniffs again, "I shall bathe first before seeing to Henleg and our attempt to assist. In the mean time Istaril would you be so kind as to gather a few items for me? It would seem my herb bag has gone missing. Forever do I cut myself in the mines" As she turns to leave those gathered she laughs to herself, "Perhaps this time he will bathe, lest he chase the creature even further away."

Watching the Minister chatter and slowly make her way out of the garden, the Tailor finally has to chuckle as he turns towards the Marchwarden. "It seems the Guards may have two observers should any venture out with the Rangers to track this strange creature....Unless Niinaeth becomes fixated on bathing poor Henleg." Turning towards the Apprentice he adds with another laugh, "Perhaps you might add soap to the list of things the Minister needs."

With the sudden departure of Niinaeth, and her own person being addressed, Istaril is snapped out of her daydream, her thoughts of trees and Isil.

"Herbs of all kinds has the apothecary," she responds, perhaps too late. "But whether or not the Cuigrithweg in whole have enough soap for both Niinaeth and the arriving Ranger is another matter in itself."

"If they do not scare the quarry with their scent, they are welcome," Maglind replies gravely, turning to the Craftsmaster. "But the waters of the Anduin will run brown, and elvish grime will cover all that is sunken below."

At the mention of the river, the Tailor's good humor fades. His hand reaches inside his pocket for a treasure no longer there. "We tease them endlessly over their smell, but as Niinaeth will agree, they are dear to us, these few second-born." He says softly as he moves back towards the path from which he'd arrived. Clearly marking his intent to leave, Galharth looks over his shoulder towards Maglind. "Should I be counted among those who go out on a search, then I promise I'll hold myself to silence when needed." With that said, the Craftsmaster hurries long the path out of the rose garden.

Quietly standing by, Istaril listens to the words of the Tailor and Marchwarden until the Tailor departs. But as the Tailor rounds the bend, a rustle sounds from a tangle of unkept grass. The Apprentice recognizes the whisper of a sound immediately, her eyes narrowing as if confronting an enemy. She turns slowly to face the source of the rustle, and, swiftly bounds after the culprit, angry words caught in her throat.