8/9/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 2:36 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 9 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel shines brightly barely above the horizon in the
eastern sky.
IC year is: Loa 20 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3044>
----------------------------------------------------------------------
RL time: Fri Aug 08 20:32:13 2008
=====================================================================
Second Floor Hallway: North Wing
A hardwood floor stretches out beneath the feet, from the east end of the hallway where lie two sets of stairs - one going
up to the third floor and another down to the second - to the west end of the hallway where it meets up with another hall
heading south. White walls stretch up to meet a ceiling with exposed wooden beams. Meandering the length of the hallway from
one end to the next reveals several rooms which have been reserved for guests of the Inn. Sconces set into the wall at both
ends and the middle of the hallway have been lit to allow passersby plenty of illumination during the night.

Contents:
Galharth
Ostiel
=====================================================================


Late night brings forth silence to the galadhrim settled into a number of rooms within the Prancing Pony. Noise from
patron's earlier singing and merriment has now settled to soft snores of drunken patrons curled up in various corners of the
Inn. Pots clang softly from somewhere in the kitchen, and clearly one employee finishes the last tasks of the day. Elves
within the rooms sit in various positions, either looking to the sky from whatever window, or silently meditating as a
result of anything better to do.

In one bed, the Tailor Galharth lays with his arm flung over his face. Under the arm, splotchs of discoloration are still
visible, showing a number of foot sized bruises and a healing cut on his temple. Clearly, he's taken a beating, and while
not completely well, he looks remarkably better than he did a few days past.

Creak. The door slides open, and a silent figure steals into the dark chamber. Ostiel walks carefully as both her hands are
occupied, one with a jar of salve, the other with a cup of fresh-smelling tea, steaming hot. Both these she lays on the
bedside table before closing the door, her eyes lingering on the Tailor's enert form.

"You move as the wind, and while the breeze blows behind you, your scent is as delicate as the Golden Wood in the spring."
Galharth says as he talks from under the arm flung over his face. "It is late, should you not be resting?" he asks softly.

The answering chuckle is low and soothing, cleansing the stifled air without effort. Ostiel returns to the bed and lowers
herself into the space between Galharth's waist and the dropoff to woooden floor. "You know very well that our people rest
only when they wish to, not when mortals do. Night has no claim over us, save wonder at it's beauty."

"And those who heal are the ones that seek the realm that the humans call sleep." Galharth says softly, still speaking from
under his arm. "Those such as myself." he says flatly. A breath passes in silence and the tailor speaks once more. "At least
my head does not pound in time with each breath the humans make in this inn. Certainly an improvement."

Ostiel pauses with her hand halfway around the teacup, a frown forming along the lines of her mouth. "Forgive me, I do not
mean to disturb you. I understand all too well the need for rest that comes with injury, if you will recall. Every sound
that you and dear Maglind made, however quiet, made me ill." She rubs her upper left shoulder absently, wincing. "But never
mind me. May I check your wounds, while we are both alert?"

"Rarely to I argue with a healer..." he pauses and removes his arm from his face, revealing a speckled mess of brightly
colored bruises. "Well, technically not argue with, but perhaps frustrate....." offering an innocent gaze, and clearly
wounded expression, he shifts slightly. "Please do, Ostiel, do as you will and I'll keep quiet for once."

"I doubt that," Ostiel responds promptly and lightly, unscrewing the lid off the salve jar, releasing a woodsy, green
fragrance. Her other hand tentatively touches Galharth's forehead, stroking the bruises with no more pressure than the soft
fluttering of a butterfly. Deftly do her fingertips dance, bare, now with salve upon them. "Tis a shame," she whispers,
leaning in for a closer look at one of darker spots, "To mar such a fair countenance, for so little." Stroke. "How is the
pain?"

The Tailor's nostril's flare at the scent of the salve, but he remains silent, up until some is placed on his face. "Take
care dear lady so not to get any on the clothing, from the smell and texture it is sure to linger as a stain." With those
words spoken, Galharth frowns slightly, or perhaps it is better defined as a pout? Either way, he clearly does not look
happy. "The pain is better, tolerable."

"Worry not," Ostiel promises quietly, almost solemnly, cleansing her hands in the wash basin before lifting the hem of
Galharth's shirt and studying his torso with mild concentration, not overly concerned. "I will not harm your clothing. Does
this hurt?" She pokes lightly around the Tailor's belly button.

"It aches, but no longer brings forth the pain it did on the first day." Galharth mutters with a soft breath as he looks up
to the ceiling. "I remember none of receiving them, but I can tell that I've been kicked." Again silence, almost as if the
Tailor is considering the webs and dirt high above the bed. "Most if not all of the wounds are pointless, for certainly I
had already been knocked out when they occured."

"Hmm," Ostiel speaks, then hums, the sound turning from spoken syallble to a melodic note, not a great shift for one of the
eldar. Tranquil is the song she whispers, a song of peace, green grasses and sparkling, grey lakes. Though her voice travels
no farther than the foot of the bed, the air in even the farthest corner of the chamber is stirred to heaviness, listening
with the intensity that only atmosphere can summon.

Galharth returns the Adepts soft hum with one of his own. In moments he closes his eyes and seems to be drifting off to
sleep. Does the Craftmaster sleep, or does he attempt to avoid the Adept's poking? Only a slight tinge of red reveals a hint
of embarrassment for the attention received due to his injuries.

It is nigh upon an hour later when Ostiel's hands and voice finally find rest. The song drifts off into peace-filled
silence. The weary smile that rests upon Ostiel's lips, almost non-existent in it's shyness, is all that speaks to her own
exhaustion. The cold tea lies on the table, forgotten until now. She takes an experimental sip, tucking her legs up and
sighing deeply.

Does the Tailor sleep? Nearly, but not quiet. It seems he's lingered in the twilight between awake and asleep. It is almost
as if he's awaiting for this moment. Drawing his arm upward, he again places a bent arm over his face as if to shield his
bruises. As he settles his movement, soft words echo out into the still room. "Thank you," he says softly, as he slips into
sleep to heal.

"You're welcome, Galharth," Ostiel replies, just as quietly, but doesn't prepare to leave as her words imply. Instead she
lingers, sipping quietly at the chilled tea, eyes staring at the wall, not in blankness, but deep thought. After a time, she
sets down the cup decidedly. Her gaze becomes glazed by dreams.