8/20/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 3:48 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 45 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 20 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3044>
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RL time: Wed Aug 20 20:56:10 2008
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East Road- Deep Cutting West of the Bruinen

The road sinks deeper and deeper into a cleft in the stone that brings it down to the level of the river. The shade is deep
through what almost seems a tunnel, walled by moist red stone. The Pine trees cover this long cut thoroughly, but the sounds
of water can be heard to the east, while the land seems to rise to the west. All sounds, foot steps, horse hooves, and even
voices, echo somewhat here.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind

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Out of the deep forest, a road stretches. Trees grow tall on either side of it, looming over the path as it sinks lower into
the ground. The stars are barely visible above, and somewhere, someplace, a river is singing.

Quiet hooves resound on the well-trodden road, light of foot and lively of pace. Beauty shrouded by grey cloaks, the riders
of these horses are elves. One of them pauses, drawing his iron-grey steed to the edge of the road, and gazes east.

"Is this a place to pause?" Galharth calls out as he moves his black stallion forward to stand aside the Marchwarden's
steed. "It seems a place where one could easily be caught off guard." Shifting atop his horse, he carefully scans the area
for any sign or hint of company. "Shouldn't Celemir have returned to meet us? Surely he reached the Valley and gave them
news of our coming. Either alone or in company, enough time has passed to return him to our company."

"I don't know," Maglind replies, a pale face turning to Galharth beneath his hood. "Perhaps it would be better to ford the
river first, so that we might be protected from those who cannot cross it."

"What do you think, mellon?" he asks, as his grey steed turns to nicker at the other horse amiably. "Do we have escort
enough with the head of Elrond's guard, Mirodhel, who travels with us?"

A frown appears upon the tailor's face, and he glance back to those who trail behind. "What I think? I think our own guard
is sufficient to escort our own people, but then I am not a Guard." Sitting back upon his steed, Galharth looks to Maglind
with a slight tilt of his head. "It is more what you think, mellon, for it is you whom we follow." Sweeping his hand to the
river, he grins. "Take us to the river and let us hope that we won't have to swim."

"I am following Thorhur," says Maglind in turn, lightly touching the side of his mare's neck, "but I happened to be in the
front of the line today."

"Perhaps we should cross quickly," the marchwarden decides, shouldering his quiver a little more tightly. Looking to
Galharth, he nudges himself forward. "Let us be away from these woods as soon as possible -- I can do nothing against a
troll."

"There are few who can do anything against a Troll," Galharth replies quickly, "And even when we work in tandem with a few
or many, we can do little to stop these beasts with skin of stone." Nudging his own steed forward behind the Marchwarden.
"Should Thorhur disagree with your choice, would he even bring forth his objection? Is he not suppose to be learning from
you, afterall?"

Hesitation, marked only by a clipped step in the horse's gait. "He is older than I am," Maglind says, looking back. "I trust
that his years have made him a better judge than I."

A soft chuckle fills the air. "And I am older than you both. Does this make my judgements superior to that which you or
Thorhur might make?" Galharth says in a teasing tone. "Length of life is no measure of wisdom. Better you consider
experiences and the very fact that he stands as a Knight and you a Marchwarden."

Nudging his horse so it marches alongside Maglind's own, the Craftmaster peers at the Marchwarden suspiciously. "Unless of
course you somehow bribed the Commander to see your promotions through.... say it isn't so, mellon."

"What makes you think that?" Maglind cries defensively, turning so quickly to Galharth that he nearly tips over and off his
horse. "But many more years make more experiences to be had, do they not?" he muses quietly. "I do not understand the hearts
of Lord Celeborn or Legarwin, but I will not challenge them."

"Clearly, you earned your position, mellon. What I said was a taunt to get you to think." Galharth says simply. "Age and
wisdom are not automatic bedfellows so to defer based on age is an insult to those who promoted you." Shrugging his
shoulders, the Tailor looks ahead, as if to guage the road and the path taken. "Again I say I'm older than either you or
Thorhur, and in fact I think I'm older than your combined ages. By your evaluation, I should be brilliant....." At this the
Craftmaster pauses and looks to his friend, "Which I am by the way....." he says in the most serious of tones, "But my
experiences favor buttons, hemlines, fashion, and squirrels....... thieving creatures that they are....." Tilting his head
he adds, "Does this make sense? Or should I take command?"

"There are few who match your deftness in lace," Maglind answers quietly, looking to Galharth with a small smile. "I
understand, mellon. But too oft have I blamed my failures on youth, such that they have seemed a real reason more than once
...."

Reaching up to tug gently on the collar of his cloak, the corner of the Tailor's mouth rises up at the Marchwarden's
compliment. "Ah... that word," Galharth says as he looks over his shoulder after smoothing the folds of his cloak. "Seem...
seems, or seemed. A hint of fact, yet only a hint with nothing solid to unseat the word to was or is." A sigh fills the air,
and the Craftmaster looks to the beauty of the sky. "If I thought as you, I'd never leave the weavers talan." He says
flatly. "But thankfully, from experince, I've learned that each failure is an open door to experience."

Blinking as a twig passes near his face, near to his hood, Maglind rides on. "But they are not good experiences," he softly
replies, tracing a line in the horse's mane as he looks down. "Are hints merely a nudge to what may become real, if such
hints are heeded?"

"Each moment is a breath in time, and each instance a blink of an eye to the lives we're to live." Galharth says with a
distant voice. "Each is uniqe, so I can not say your suggestion is the truth or if it is false." A hand reaches out to push
aside a branch and with passing it dances so to return to its original resting position. "Take our encounters with
Grot....." the Tailor says softly. "Was this my fault? Your fault? Or perhaps Grots fault?" Again the ellon glances over his
shoulder to peer at Maglind. "And we both survived, so can you actually call the event a failure?"

Turning his head so that part of the hood obscures his face, Maglind pauses in silence, his face turning white. "It was a
failure," he affirms, cantering ahead a little. His words drift back distant and ponderous, though he is still near. "We had
to drive him away, but did not; that was a failure. Were the assignment to stay alive, we succeeded; the same might be
accomplished by locking myself in the guard talan."

"You learned nothing from those encounters?" Galharth asks with a voice that hints of shock. "At a minimum, when a mountain
of rock seeks to come down upon you, run......" The Tailor says without a hint of teasing. "Though it took several
encounters to finally reach that level of learning."

"I am not disposed to running from the said mountain while it threatens our borders," Maglind answers stiffly, with some
effort. "Perhaps it is not so good to run headlong into such situations, then."

"While I'd not admit it in most company, I will agree with you. Diving in is not always the answer." The Tailor says with as
soft chuckle.

"While I'd not admit it in most company, I will agree with you. Diving in is not always the answer." The Tailor says with as
soft chuckle. "My own Brother-in-Law managed to do more with less effort..... nay, not less effort but a different effort."
Galharth says, "Where I had used my sword, he used his bow. In the end his arrow into Grot's eyes did more than my own
weapon ever could."

"It was an admirable strategy," comments Maglind quietly, shoulders stooped, "but at a great cost. Was such an attack
deserving of the wound it returned?"

"That depends on who you ask...." Galharth says, leaving his last word to drag out as if considering what more might be
said. "Ask my sister and she would say the act was stupid and filled with folly. Ask Tolur and the price paid was well worth
the effort to send a Troll fleeing." Turning his steed so that it faces the opposite direction from the traveling party, he
offers the Marchwarden a smile. "Perspectives are never a reasonable thing." Sweeping a hand to the west along the path of
traveling elves, The Tailor nudges his horse to the west. "I'm going to check upon the human children." And with that the
horse move on.