8/22/2008

Hall of Fire

The flickering light of the fire illuminates this windowless room in a warm glow. The firelight plays along the polished
wood of the walls, picking out highlights of the carvings of vines and flowers that decorate the Hall, and lining the many
comfortable chairs in changing light. The fire burns always in this Hall, crackling from within a large hearth of marble at
one end of the room. Songs in this Hall come to life, and dreams seem more real than the waking world.

The firelight gleams from the polished stone of the hearth, and glints of the metallic flecks running through the marble.
Wide enough that a tall man couldn't span it with his arms outstretched, and tall enough that he could walk into it without
bending. Wood, large and small, is stacked near at hand to feed the flames should the fire grow too low. Fire tools,
cunningly wrought by the elven smiths in patterns of vines, are racked on the other side of the hearth. Among the tools are
a number of iron mulling rods, meant for heating in the fire and then dunking into one's drink to heat it.

Flanking the great hearth are two pillars, one on either side of the fireplace. Made of the same marble as the fireplace the
pillars are carved from base to crown with interlocking patterns of leaves, vines and flowers. Lit by the fire's living
light, the flowers reflect back gold and orange and red. Even in deepest winter, the stone flowers bloom like living
blossoms.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
Curoneth
Mobeorn
Rochwen
Menelyth
Arwen
Sidhel (temped by Elladan)
Arthamon



Music and laughter mingle sweetly here, no sound of one voice or instrument over-powering the other. The Elven Linnorath
sing songs wrought over the ages, the Timmeth play pipes they have practiced since they first found reeds with which to
craft them upon the shores of Cuivenen and the Taladauren strum the strings of lutes as old as the hall in which they are
now played.

A long table laden with foods and wines runs through the middle of the room, though its fare is lacking in meats due to the
arrival of the Beorning guests; no detriment is this however, for such are the skills of the Bathryn that the hundreds of
dishes prepared for the feast leave plenty of choices for all tastes.

By the hearth is the large harp that usually resides within the Hall of song; Its strings absently plucked from time to time
by the dark-haired elleth who sits half-hidden behind the large instrument, her head turned to speak to the elf-maid who
stands by her side.

The sound of such voices and music has drawn another elleth into the Hall of Fire. The petite elf quietly slips into the
room, dressed in breeches and a tunic, and covered in a bit of horse hair and dust - a common sight for the the elleth
Rochwen. She pauses, and puts forth a valiant attempt to brush most of the the hair from her person. It is persistant in
sticking, though, and she sighs a bit, before making he way further into the hall.

Entering the Hall of Fire, into the sound of voices raised in song and the delicate medley of music, a number of visitors
appear, pausing at the door to look upon the firstborn present and then to the table laden with food. For some the draw of
the song is strong, for others it is the food that lures attention.

One steps forward in the new group of visitors, "Someone has to announce our arrival," Galharth says as he moves a few steps
in. Pausing to look over the many present, the Craftmaster smiles and lifts his voice to speak. "Well met and good tidings,
kindred of Imladhrim." He says softly, focusing upon the lovely elleth at the Harp, "Might you find the kindness to hear the
song of both friend and family traveling home to the south?"

Taking a step towards Arwen, the Tailor places his hand upon his chest as he bows his head. "The Lord Celeborn and Lady
Galadriel send good tidings to you, Lady Arwen, and to your father and brothers in equal affections."

Following after Rochwen is a very tall man looking to be somewhere in his mid 20s, entering the hall and looking decidedly
uncomfortable about it, for some reason. He seems to be almost matching in Rochwen's 'party dress' in that he, too, is
covered with bits and pieces of the outdoors--a twig stuck in his hair and a few leaves on his tunic. He doesn't bother to
brush them off, but hurriedly steps to the side ot get out of the way of the arriving visitors and their official
introductions.

Homely, yea, is Imladris-- music, laughter, the sounds of the rushing Bruinen enough to and fro, to bring about the
enchanting relaxation that the home of Elrond is known, famed, for bringing. Never are the voices here quiet, be it in song
or in story, in the mirth of some twisted tale or occurance-- and this night is no exception to that rule.

While a harp hides behind it, for the most part at least, a humbled beauty and the Lady of this Valley-- one with some skill
upon the silvereen strings to wend a song on harpstring, stands nearby. Her voice is lifted just above a hush as the Herald
of sorts, makes himself known to the Hiril-- Menelyth stirred to some amusement by the display, as reflected within the
shimmering green of her eyes, the gentle twitch of a curling grin at her lips.

To those already present here, enjoying, playing or overseeing the music, eyeing the buffett or discreetly making final
corrections, or just sitting comfortably in one of the many chairs and armchairs belongs Curoneth. She sits near the fire,
watching the musicians with a professional eye, obviously interested which song or piece will be next. The arrival of the
guests however makes her look up, and immediately the music seems to be of much less interest to her.

Dark haired is also Sidhel. He stands with a group elves and it appears that has much to tell. His attire of mail and cloak
has been changed to a fine robe of white and green, the colours of the Laiquendi of Lothlorien. An unusual dress for a
herald of the Imladhrim Sindar, one might think, yet Sidhel feels most comfortable and those who recall it, would know this
tribute to his visit to the Golden Wood.

The door to the Hall of Fire edges open, and a tall dark figure appears. He is as tall as the other firstborn, but not
nearly as fair. His hair has been combed and his dirtied travelling clothes have been cleaned recently, although they are
still patched and some stains don't come out...

Wanderer surveys the scene with a smile.

The slender fingers of Arwen still upon the taught strings of the harp, silencing its notes. Slowly she rises from the chair
on which she sits, coming around from behind the great instrument to stand directly beside her Silvriel, Menelyth.

"Friends...Family...Welcome all," smiles the Hiril graciously, her grey eyes casting about the growing company as they
continue to enter in through the doors. "Your message from my grandparents is gratefully recieved, and as they welcome me
always into their home, so you are welcomed into that of mine and my father," she lilts her hand lifting in gesture to the
great table.

"We had word of your impending arrival and took the liberty of preparing you a small welcome... And indeed I gladly look
forward to hearing what songs and tales you have bought with you to these halls."

Rochwen pauses at the entrance of the others, turning so that she might take in the sight of everyone in the hall. She
smiles as she listens, pushing an errant strand of auburn hair away from her eyes and trapping it behind one ear. She is
quiet through the exchange of greetings, though her attention does flicker to the individual covered in twigs and leaves.
There is amusement in her expression as she inclines her head towards him.

Scanning the room, the Tailor's lips twitch slightly as he finds both perfectly pressed and remarkably mussed clothing among
both firstborn and secondborn present. The last of the observation gives Galharth pause, yet he hold his head high and looks
to the last to arrive. "Well met," he repeats to the newest observer before he returns his attention to the whole of the
Hall.

"From the words of hospitality that grows to the ranks of legend, we expected no less from the house of Elrond." Turning to
those traveling with him, the Craftmaster motions the others to join. As timid and bold enter the hall, he calls out once
more. "While few tales might be heard from one such as I, feel free to see out the crafters among us to share skills and
tokens of art for surely we'll rival the Bards who travel with us." Grinning broadly, he adds, "I am Galharth, Craftmaster,
and Master Tailor, and I thank you for the welcome."

Mobeorn picks a small leaf out of his hair, looking for a place to put it and then surreptitiously tucking it into a table
centerpiece as if a green leaf in the middle of perfectly arranged flowers won't be noticed. He grins sheepishly, then looks
around the room. "There's music," he says--he is standing closest to Rochwen and Arthamon--"but no Harper. You'd think he'd
want to be here."

The curve at Menelyth's lips is soft, almost a smirk as the Hiril makes her welcome to the Galadhrim guests from the Golden
Wood. A porceline-hued hand places its fingers against her lips, clearing her throat lightly as a smile is left upon them
thereafter. In her raiment of lavender and azure, she leans her hip against the bulk of the harp's body, it's solid foot
upon the ground enough to keep it from toppling right over.

Her hands meet in a light applause after the Tailor makes his exchange in return of Arwen's, the Silvriel watching her Lady.
The Mithlondhrim makes an attempt at a discreet wave to those she knows, mouthing words to Sidhel from her perch at the
harp.

Arwen leans to whispers against her companions hair as she looks again warmly over the gathering. "Alas ... father ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... than ..., ... always ... ... ... ... err ... ... ... ...."

The Ranger turns to Mobeorn. "Harper probably has business elsewhere in the house," he whispers, keeping his eyes fixed
curiously on Galharth. He tries in vain, but somehow his eyes manage to travel to Arwen before being diverted back to
Galharth.

Sidhel replies with a silent smile and returns his attention to the guests and to the Lady of the house. Eventually he
raises his voice though: "Be you smiths of words or forgers of stable items and fine art, welcome to this house, friends, in
the name of Nos Narthanaer. Many of you are known to us and those who set foot into these halls for the first time are even
more endorsed. A fine Congress at the Tower Hills may find and an equally fine recalling in Imladris."

The black-haired elleth sitting by the fire seems content as well with the words that have been exchanged. Waiting until the
general murmur of quiet commentary and greeting of those elves who happen to know some of the guests has died down a little,
Curoneth gets up to make herself more easily visible, what with chairs, the great table and many Imladhrim standing between
her and the guests. After Sidhel has spoken she too addresses those newly arrived in the valley, "Greetings, friends." With
a smile she looks around and then adds, "I would like to second the Lady's invitation to share your tales and songs. As a
composer I must say I am particularly interested in the latter."

"Ahh..." Mobeorn replies to Arthamon, frowning slightly. He follows the ranger's gaze, first to Arwen, then to Galharth.
"Well..do you know any of these folk? It wasn't so busy last time we were here. And I'm afraid we don't have
any...uh...tales or songs or art to share. Though Cecilia could sing! Now where is that lass?"

Pausing to rest her fingers upon Menelyth's arm, the Hiril gives a gentle squeeze before stepping forward into the crowd
making a beeline for craftmaster.

"Well spoken Galharth, tis truly a pleasure to have your kindred visit here upon their way homewards. Not so oft of late do
we have cause to welcome our friends as the roads over the mountains and beyond become more trecherous," speaks Arwen softly
with a sad smile, "How did you find the congress? It sorrowed me to miss the singing of new songs."
The Ranger turns to Mobeorn. "Everyone has a song or story to tell," he says, "Your life is a story, your travels are a
story...this hall is meant for storytelling." Arwen's words catch Wanderer's attention though, and he quickly turns his
attention back to the newest arrivals to the Valley.

Blue-gold eyes move to Mobeorn and Arthamon, and Rochwen smiles a bit. "Your presence in the Hall is as good as any song or
tale, I think," she offers quietly. She tries once again to brush the dust from her cloths, but gives up rather quickly in
the task. Well, the guests will just have to see her dusty and horsey.

Smiling warmly towards Curoneth, the Tailor nods. "Then seek out Thorhur, Pelliwen, and Maglind to name a few, for all are
counted among our bards and I can vouch for the pleasantness of their skills at verse and instrument." Chuckling softly, he
adds with a twinkle in his eye, "Though to be sure, our crafters are known to spin sweet songs whilst in the moments of
creation. I'd be glade to sit with you should that draw any interest."

Glancing around, Galharth raises his hand to wave a greeting to several of the Valley met in the recent Congress. Lifting
his head again, he searches the faces once more as he calls out, "I seek out he who disguised himself as a Dolphin at the
Congress Ball, so should you be over the mystery of your guise, then come forth to claim your prize for best of the Ball!"

Turning back as Arwen speaks. "Ah, the pleasure is ours for fewer still visit our home for the dangers of the mountains are
compounded from an ill wind from the east of late. It is good to see and speak with those who hold our trust and
affections." Smiling broadly, he adds, "I enjoyed myself, my Lady, and have come to learn much in the days of travel."

That merry whisper only moves to light the mirthful glint that touches Menelyth's countenance, further. The dark-haired
elleth winks very softly, before following at the squeeze upon her arm. For the moment, there are no words that would leave
the Silvriel's lips, though the Wanderer does catch her eye for but a moment before it shifts, then, back to the Tailor.

"I was unable to make it to the Shores of my home, for the Congress-- though the bountiful pursuits of my adopted home did
not leave me yearning so for travel," Menelyth intones, softly. "Still, perhaps one day, my Lady's Father might consent to
me accompanying the Hiril to the Shores in the West-- just as Elvenhome welcomes many a visitor as family, there I know it
to be the same."

"There is much to see in the world and its lessons never-ending, even for those of our kin," agrees the Lady Arwen with a
soft curve of her lips, "It is but my regret that the lands are not safe enough for us to travel and enjoy them to the full,
for I miss my grandparents and Lothlorien dearly."

A soft laugh spills from the Evenstars lips, "Please do not put such ideas into my fathers head Menelyth! For he would have
hopes of me falling onto one of the boats whilst I visited... The Western shores are not for me, as there is something here
yet which calls more strongly to me than any passing tide."

"Though I would love to see your homeland as you have described it to me one day."

"Boats, brooms-- whatever betide, Hiril," Menelyth retorts, with a wide grin.

"I will find another "B" to add to that last afore the evening is through, mark my words," Grins Arwen in return, her grey
gaze twinking brightly in the firelight.

Curoneth inclines her head and smiles merrily as Galharth has an interesting bit of information for her. Like the Lady Arwen
she too has approached the group of visitors, but while Galharth is distracted she turns around, taking a glance at the
table, looking for -what else- the wine. As she absently catches Arwen words

Curoneth inclines her head and smiles merrily as Galharth has an interesting bit of information for her. Like the Lady Arwen
she too has approached the group of visitors, but while Galharth is distracted she turns around, taking a glance at the
table, looking for -what else- the wine. As she absently catches Arwen's words of strong calls, her mouth curls a little,
and a soft sigh escapes her lips.

Wanderer listens to the words of the firstborn with a smile. He falls silent, listening with joy at such talk...the kind of
talk one could only get in the House of Elrond.

"All of Lothlorien longs to see you again also, Evenstar." Celemir speaks softly across the hall as light steps carry him
across the treshold his tunic agleam, fresly brushed clean from the ride. His bearing now is a little grander, though it
brings with it a lightness to his step which is more fair and an easy smile plays upon his lips, as he bows before the young
lady of Imladhris.

With Celemir addressing Arwen's words, the Tailor turns to others within the group.

"Alas, there were many who could not reach the Congress. Some distracted by a matter in Bree....." Galharth says softly to
Menelyth, allowing his words to trail slightly as his lips grow to form a straight line. "Of that I am reminded. We travel
with two secondborn children by the name of Caoimhe and Elfaroth." Again he pauses and looks to the faces present to see if
any might exhibit a reaction. "Their mother is named, Muirgheal. Is she near?"

At the mention of Bree, Rochwen turns her attention on the Tailor. Carefully, she steps forward, giving a respectful bow of
her had in greeting. "Caiohme and Elfaroth, if I hear correctly?" she asks. She is quiet a moment, then she smiles. "Their
mother Muirgheal I know well, a friend of mine. She will be quite happy to know her children have arrived safely. I must
thank you for this kindness, mellon."

Mobeorn fidgets some, looking arond, the sight of food and drink easily distracting him from the formal greetings and talk
of matters that he knows nothing about. "Bree.." he frowns to Arthamon. "I don't suppose -you're- from Bree, too, are you? I
met yet another man today who hailed from there." A glance is given to Rochwen as the elleth steps forward, Mobeorn smiling
at her in recognition.

Wanderer frowns and turns to Mobeorn. "I have been to Bree," he whispers, "But no...I am not from there." If he knows
anything further about the other man from Bree, he makes no mention of it.

At the mentioning of these names, Sidhel too looks up as well. "They have arrived unscathed, mellon, worry not. Our
Galadhrim cousins took care of them like in the Elder Days the Eldar did with some children of the Edain."

Moboeorns fidgiting catches the soft gaze of the Evenstar even as she smiles in Welcome at Celemir.

"Lothlorien is as home to me as Imladris, my heart is always rested between them."

"Can I pour you a drink?" she asks the Beorning.

"It is as Sidhel says, they were well cared for by several among us, and we're more than glad to deliver them safely into
their mother's arms." Galharth says with a slight nod to the ellon in Laiquendi dress.

Turning his attention Mobeorn, the Tailor lifts a brow. "From your words and tone, you're not of Bree." He states clearly,
"So from where do you hail good sir?"

"Ah, so the letter from my kindred I received ere they departed Bree spoke right, then," the Silvriel says, nodding her head
softly. "I wait to hear whether they reached their destination-- perhaps you have other news?" Menelyth asks, touching her
hand to the back of her head. "I fall outside the lines of the land in terms of her tales, these days," chuckles the
emerald-eyed Mithlondhrim, with a smile, albeit a wry one.

Having finally espied the arrangement of some of the valley's best wines, Curoneth moves over there. Her mood appears to be
still good, yet somehow a shadow has somewhat obscured her bright grey eyes, and whenever she overhears someone mention the
recent Congress her lips curl just a little. Having poured herself a glass of wine, she pauses thoughtfully, and then waves
one of the attentive maidens over. After a short exchange of thoughts on the wines on display and the possible tastes of the
guests, the young elleth follows Curoneth back to the group carrying several glasses on a tray, along with a few bottles of
wine in a basket swinging from her arm.

"Does anyone fancy a glass of wine? Here in Imladris we have only the finest to offer," Curoneth calls out to those who will
hear it.

"But your tale-telling is accounted among the very best of out people, I sorrow for any who have not heard one of your
stories," murmurs Arwen, a hint of mischief curving about her lips.

"Lothlorien?" Mobeorn says, looking up as he is addressed, and then blushing at Arwen. "I...well, mead..but..." he stutters
some, losing his composure--not that he has much in this circumstance to begin with. "Thank you, Lady," he adds, the blush
continuing.

It's with some relief that Mobeorn then turns to answer Galharth's query. "No, not from Bree. I am Mobeorn, Kin to Grimbeorn
of the Beornings, and I've never been further west than this valley, sir. Though I've been south to the borders of
Lothlorien--but not in its woods....."

Elinuial steps into the hall with her hands folded behind her, her hair pinned in its usual fashion but a proper gown
replacing work clothing. She looks about the hall, spotting the Beorning easily - but something more important is brought tto
her attention. "Oh, please," she tells to the calling Curoneth, stepping closer.

Wanderer raises a slight hand at Curoneth's question. "The wine of Imladris is too good to pass up," he says quietly, "I
would desire just a small glass."

Rising smoothly from his bow, the golden haired silvan casts a patient eye across the room, settling at length on Mobeorn
who has become for the fleeting moment, the centre of attention. Curoneth's invitation draws him hence, and the silvan nods
to her with a smile. "<Sindarin> I will gladly join you, for I must discover which wines have come into best vintage if I am
to pester the Master's vinters for a few samples to carry home. Though tell me if you would." Celemir's eyes look once more
to the great figure of the man of Mobeorn. "<Sindarin> What you know of Mobeorn, kin to Grimbeorn?"

"Have we any mead?" asks Arwen as she turns towards Curoneth, her gentle gaze searching the others face for a moment.

"You have done a splendid job with the wines on such short notice, thank you," adds Earendil's Lady softly with gratitude.

Rochwen nods to Galharth and Sidhel. "I extend my thanks to all of your kin as well," she says to the Tailor, offering a
half-smile. "Next I seek out the lady Muirgheal, I will tell her of the good news."

"Aye," Menelyth replies to Arwen, taking up a glass of golden wine for herself. "Best of our people for my Lady to slumber
by; tis a good thing they hear not how these fingers upon the stem of this wine glass, might move a creature to sleep upon
the wiles of harpsong," chuckles the Silvriel, an ebon-lashed wink.

"I have you in dresses my love," smiles Arwen wickedly in the Lore-mistresses direction, "The harp is but a matter of time."

Smiling to herself as she finds her thought of bringing some wine to the group well justified, Curoneth takes the tray with
the glasses from the young apprentice to enable the elleth to hold up the basket of wine bottles to let everyone interested
choose from the selection. The Istheryn herself inclines her head to Celemir before quickly turning to Arwen. "Do not thank
me, it is the work of our Master Vintners as always. I just had the thought to bring the wine here while everyone is too
busy talking to notice what is on offer over at the table. And so, I do not know about mead, but I am sure we had some only
a little while ago, surely someone can find it for you." The last words are directed at Mobeorn with a smile. Curoneth then
turns back to Celemir, one brow ever so slightly raised as she thinks his question over.

"Ah, the offer is too tempting to ignore," Galharth says of Curoneth's offer for wine, accepting a glass of ruby red wine.
"I have heard it rivals in kind to that of my home." Bringing the glass to his lips, the Craftmaster half closes his eyes to
consider the flavor. Only an instant passes before a hint of pleasure spread across his face. "Indeed it is true," he says
softly, more for himself than anyone."

A glance of darkness flickers over the Tailors face at Mobeorn names his home. "Sorrow goes to you Mobeorn, for I know the
difficulties you have faced of late. We too have had great issues from a troop of vile wanders from the east." Tilting his
head, he adds in a lower voice for the Beorning alone. "Perhaps if you have time you might speak with some within our party
so to discuss a mutual matter."

Opening his mouth to speak again, the Craftmaster falls suddenly silent as someone mentions 'dresses' "Dresses? Did I hear
corrently? A topic dear to my heart."

The Ranger looks through the basket, selecting a light wine. He takes a glass and samples it, smiling as it touches his
lips. The words of Galharth causes him to turn. He stares again at the Crafstmaster with interest, sipping his wine slowly.

"I hear talk of wine," says Sidhel. "Say, would you care for a glass," he asks Rochwen and those near them. "I for one would
love a nice Culyave. Although the vintages of Lindon which I drank of late are as superior as ever, this wine is still dear
to me."

"Perhaps my Lady might grace bloomers as the the thrice of the 'B's, then," Menelyth quips, good-natured in a healthy
measure of jest.

"No need to fuss," Mobeorn blunders to Arwen, trying to be polite. "Your folk have been more than kind to me, with the
honey...and...and all..." He turns red again, looking more uncomfortable, if that's possible. But then Galharth draws his
attention again--perhaps thankfully.

"Aye, sir, my purpose in stopping here again so soon is to talk just about such things, though not now, certainly. But you
purpose to travel to the enchanted woods south of our lands? Then the Pass might be difficult to negotiate. The weather was
especially villainous when we came across, and my nose tells me it will get worse."

Lastly, though, Mobeorn gives a brief glance toward Celemir, tiling his head at that elf in some curiousity.

After a moment, Curoneth comes to a conclusion. She looks up for a moment, eyes wandering over the crowd, then addresses
Celemir, "<Sindarin> I cannot tell anything since that lies not within my direct interests, and to hear much talk I spend
too much time in either the library or the smithy. But maybe Sidhel over there can tell you more," she says, indicating the
herald. "<Sindarin> Surely he catches more news and meets more strangers than I do."

Elinuial opts for half a glass of a darker red, smiling at Curoneth with a quiet word of thanks. She takes a sip from it,
holding the glass lightly between her fingers and looking out towards the fire - and then over, if from a distance, towards
the Beorning who has been left flustered by Arwen.

A small hand tugs upon the loose hanging sleeve of Arwen's white gown, "I'll get some mead for you m'lady," smiles a young
elf boy afore he runs off across the hall intent on his task.

"Mobeorn," begins the lady, turning the unfamiliar name about on her tongue with a smile, "Would you do me the honour of
describing something of your homeland? I have heard much about it but never visited which makes it yet a mystery to me."

Rochwen offers a smile to Sidhel, nodding at his question. "I think I might have a bit," she says, helping herself to a
glass of one of the lighter vintages. A sip is taken from her glass, before she turns her attention to the others.

Someone comes into the doorway leading into the Hall of Fire and then stands there a moment, blocking the entryway while
chatting with someone else for a moment. A man's cheerful tenor and a woman's voice, then they part. Lithiugelir enters into
the chamber and hesistates just a moment to glance around to see who is already here this evening. Stepping out of the entry
with his harp in arm, the Dunadan at once spots a few familiar faces, and several that are not.

Polite nods are granted to those he does not know as the man begins to make his way into the hall, heading towards Mobeorn's
general direction. At least the Beijabar stands tall, and is easy to spot even among fairly tall folk.

Furrowing a brow slightly, the Beornings words on the enchanted wood is ignored, or perhaps delicately discarded, Galharth
focuses upon one issue spoken. "There is more than one pass across the mountains, yet it is in both our favor to work
together to assure passage. I hint to you to speak with Maglind or Varya, for both are senior guard who are well aquainted
with such matters." When his words end, the Lady Arwen's fill the silence, leaving the Craftmaster to look away.

Pausing to sip his wine, the Tailor finally takes note of someone staring. Moving toward Arthamon, he speaks in a soft tone.
"You sir, do I know you, or have you a question of me?"

Sidhel takes a glass from a servant's tray and raises it. "Ah, and there come more guests," he remarks as Lithuigelir and
his companion enter the hall. "A merry gathering is this and I predict that Arglin will have a tale to tell, or two when
this is over."

"Beorning is indeed lovely, nestled at the feet of Hithaeglir and upon the hems of the Anduin," the Mithlondhrim remarks,
toting her half-full wine glass. "I find myself curious to know it more; I have only ever been as far as the Outpost in the
last few years."

The Ranger smiles. "Forgive me, but you talk has interested in me. I am Wanderer," he adds hastily, "And I do not think we
have met." He takes a sip of wine and his smile broadens. "But I suppose we have now."

"No insult is meant by that," Mobeorn answers Galharth, hurrying to answer the elf as Galharth seems to frown. "It's just
our name for it...it IS enchanted, after all. But...yes, I will seek them out."

Mobeorn might be about to add something to his reply to Galhart, but at Arwen's words, he turns her way. Though his face
flushes again, he, of course, is not about to deny her request. "Well..uh...it's over the mountains?" he starts, flustered.
"To the east?...." he coughs, glancing around and then to his hands. "There's the river running through it...and the
Carrock, from which you can see forever, I'm certain. It's a rock, high and vast. Eagles land there sometimes...they're good
to speak with...." As he speaks he seems to get more comfortable, though he still looks toward his hands. "And there are
vast meadows and plains, especially to the south....and the forest...but..."

Well, here Mobeorn frowns and looks up, suddenly uncomfortable again. Fortunately, his gaze lands right on the harper who
has just entered. "Lith!" he calls. "Come over here, and describe Beorning to the folk? YOu're better with words!"

As Rochwen sips her wine a bit more, she looks up upon the entrance of Lithiugelir. She smiles slightly, recognizing the
man. "Ah, the harper arrives," she says, her voice amused. She inclines her head in greeting after a moment.

Pale grey eyes flit from one person in the busy hall to another, but the harper seems quite comfortable here, offering a bit
of a smile and a nod of his head to anyone who looks to him. Ah, there's that Wanderer fellow... but before Lithiugelir
might get distracted by his kinsmen, Mobeorn's voice calls out his name.

Someone walks through with a tray full of wine glasses and the Dunadan deftly finds one of those in hand before he appears
at the edge of the group gathered near and/or around Mobeorn. An especialy polite inclination of the man's dark head for
Arwen before he returns his attention to his rather large friend.

"What say you, Mobeorn? Describe -your- land for you?" Mischief perhaps is light in his eyes, "Why are you tongue tied,
friend?"

"Good evening, Harper!" Elinuial calls towards the Dunadan as he comes inwards, taking another sip from the glass of wine
and glancing at Rochwen as she turns a greeting into a chorus. "Have you met him, then?"

"No insult taken, especially when none is offered." He offers in a silky smooth voice and a gentle bow of his head towards
the Beorning. "Our interests are comparable so it is this which we should focus."

Turning to Arthamon, he lifts a brow. "What interests you, Wanderer?" Galharth asks quickly, pausing his words only a moment
to carefully inspect the secondborn's form. "Tell me, what has caught your interest and I might speak in greater detail..."

"Lithiugelir, be nice," Reprimands the lady of the house with a soft grin, "Mobeorn was doing well enough on his own in
truth he was just looking for an...."

Arwen's words trail as the elf-lad returns with a mug of mead, matched with a wide smile, "Why thank you! She exclaims,
taking the mug with one hand and fondly tousseling the lads hair with the other, "Another lesson on the harp it is."

Turning the dainty elf-maid offers the tankard to her guest, "You have a fishing spot there I heard? Or at least on of the
elleth here told me of it when she was recouting her visits to your land."

The Ranger laughs. "Just the mere fact of listening to you speak of the Congress and of the Golden Wood has interested me.
Do not bother with me though, I am just here to listen to all the talk." So saying, Wanderer slinks back into the shadows,
sipping his wine...and listening.

Having delivered the mead to the Heryn, the young boy turns to relieve Curoneth of the tray with the glasses, and joins the
apprentice girl in dealing out the wine. Finally taking a sip from her own glass of wine, Curoneth looks around the crowd of
both guests and Imladhrim, taking in the various conversations that have come up, each mingled with the other - all in all
it is an image of much mirth and good humour, as tales are being shared and information passed around. As she continues
drinking her wine, listening to Mobeorn, Arwen and those around them discuss the former's homelad, her thoughts seem to
drift off again as much as she tries to focus on the present feast.

"I'm not tongue-tied at...." Mobeorn starts in answer to Lithiugelir's remark, but then there's that dark-haired elf handing
him a tankard of mead, and he reaches out a large hand to take it, giving her a quick smile, cheeks flushing red.
"Uh...fish?" he asks Arwen, staring blankly for a few seconds, as if he never heard of the silvery things in his life.

Lith turns his head at the sound of an elleth's voice calling, and there Elinuial is with the elleth Rochwen. The harper
raises his wine glass to them both and inclines his head with a charming, warm smile of greeting, "Ladies."

But, his charm and delight go right out the door with Arwen's friendly chiding. Like a school boy caught misbehaving,
Lithiugelir looks back quickly and ducks his head, with a quick glance to Mobeorn, then back to Arwen, "Of course, my lady."
Ah, but his eyes yet dance with a wee bit of good hearted humor.

"Oh!" Lith interjects at Mobeorn's lapse, "Mobeorn is quite a fisherman, aren't you? Three HUGE fish came flying out of the
water right at me! Big as whales, they seemed! Hefted them right out of the water like they were but minnows, didn't you?"
There is a bit of hand waving to gesture but with his beloved harp snug in his left arm, it's rather limited in scope.

Rochwen smiles to Elinuial, inclining her head politely to the elleth. "I have had the honor of meeting him," she says, "It
was a short one, though."

"Ai, Fish!" nods Arwen and misunderstanding her brow furrows a second, "I dont know what your name for them is...."

Lith's description however elicts a second eager nod as the Hiril leans back against the wall and takes a sip from the
goblet of red wine she has procured. "Those ones...from the water."

"I see," Galharth says to Arthamon. Opening his mouth to say something more, his words fall silent as a gentle fair haired
elleth reaches the Tailor's side. After she whispers a few words in his ear, he nods and steps to the exit. "Forgive me,
I've been told that the second born children are anxious to see their parents so perhaps it'd be best to gather them up and
bring them in." Not waiting for a response, the Craftmaster hurries out the door and disappears in the blurr of firstborn
wandering in the Hall.

There comes the quiet entrance of a couple of secondborn into the crowded room. Muirgheal walks on Rhifaroth's arm, the
golden haired young woman at first looking as though she might shy away from entering once she's had a glance in- she didn't
expect so many faces, only that she'd get a glass of wine, or two, or three, and sit by the fire with her husband for a
while. Then the girl spies Rochwen, and waves at her friend, dark eyes smiling.

"Ah, a fisherman," says Sidhel, toasting to the Beijabar. "I recall sitting at your fishing hole on the banks of the Anduin
and the trouts we caught were delicious and large. And as I hear of late, order has returned to your land and the strife
between your people is settled. That is well."

The auburn-haired elleth takes another sip of her wine, and then her eyes drift towards the door. Rochwen smiles as she sees
Muirgheal and Rhifaroth, raising her wineglass in greeting to the couple. She gestures for them to come closer.

Elinuial smiles at (and slightly down towards) Rochwen. "Oh? I did not see him long either. But many meetings are no longer
than introductions." She finishes the glass of wine, then, turning the stem of the glassware in her fingers for a moment -
and then tilting it, to examine it more closely.
A man walks in and looks around. He then

goes over to the food table and takes some cheese and bread and then goes and gets a glass of wine. Galrohad then finds an
open area and goes and sits down to eat.

"Yes, uh...fish," Mobeorn coughs, trying to collect himself, unsucessfully, as his ears now redden. "That's the right word
for it," he tells Arwen, looking briefly at her, flush deepening. "Who was this woman of your lands and when did she come
through our lands? Perhaps I met her? Though likely not...I've been ...in the mountains and woods." He looks, then to
Sidhel, nodding his head politely. "Really? But...well, as I said, up until recently I was in the mountains. ATtending to
the business of my kin."

Mobeorn looks up, though, brightening. "Lith is quite good at..erm..catching fish. Yes, talented the man is." He grins the
ranger's way. "Earned yourself a bow and some arrows, too, that way, I reckon."

But once more the Beorning man's voice drops, now low and intended for Lith's ears, though the Beorning isn't skilled enough
to talk so quiet that elves won't hear. "Why did you hide your full name from me?" he asks the ranger, his face darkening
some. Not a threat can be read there, but disappointment, perhaps.

While finishing her wine, Curoneth's resolve returns once again. The (limited) gesturing pulls her eyes towards Lithiugelir
- and his harp. She nods softly to herself,, perhaps memorising this for later. A soft wink to one of the two apprentices
still dealing out wine gets her glass refilled, and then the black-haired elleth with the bright eyes starts moving slowly
through the group towards Sidhel.

As the Beorning man's voice lowers, Arwen takes a subtle step back blending into another group and leaving the pair to
dicuss whatever differences they have, though her gaze remains upon the pair - Elrond's daughter will warrant no more
troubles in the halls of the Last Homely house than Elrond himself.

Eyes bright, a nod to Mobeorn, "Oh, aye, I caught one of the fish right in my face - knocked me plumb over backwards in the
water, it did! Monsterously big it was, and ... well, I gained the replacement bow partly due to your generousity with those
fish, friend." A smile and a polite nod also to Sidhel.

Lithiugelir sips of his elvish wine and then uges Mobeorn with a lowered voice, "Drink, friend. Relax. You are welcome
here."

Muirgheal accepts Rochwen's silent invitation to come and join, now leading Rhifaroth over to the auburn-haired healer. Of
course, she looks rather timid, being not so skilled with strangers, so she speaks only to Rochwen, and in a low voice.
"What's the occasion here? I think if we are to stay, I'll need some wine.." She eyes Rochwen's glass enviously.

Rhifaroth for his part looks around the busy hall, his strangely tattooed face looking and taking in the bustling activity
and many folk here he does not know. But he keeps his wife's arm tucked into his left elbow and follows her deeper into the
hall. Seeing the elleth Rochwen, he nods his head politely to her and offers the barest hint of a smile in greeting. He of
course says nothing.

In a lower voice still, for Mobeorn's ears, Lithiugelir smiles and glances over the room, "I never use it, generally. Do not
feel slighted friend. Few but my mother call me that and then usually only to scold me."

Elinuial's eyes flick to Muirgheal as she approaches, and then towards the tattooed Man coming with her. They seem to attend
to the smaller elleth, and Elinuial curtseys slightly. "I believe the only occasion here is a chance-meeting," she says.
"But welcome to this house! May it ease your weariness from long travel."

"Welcome indeed," says Sidhel to the newly arrived couple. "This is a night for merrymaking and joy. We have friends here
from distant lands who pass through on their travels and such an occasion shall be celebrated."

A laugh now breaks through the many conversations, loudly and unfettered as Mobeorn slaps a hand on Lithiugelir's back--or
tries to: the ranger is quick when he wants to be, after all. "I'll remember that!" Mobeorn roars, grinning, then takes a
long draw of mead from his tankard. His voice drops again, though he still smiles. "But I'll call you Harper, still. I like
that best. Come," he says, turning toward Sidhel, since that elf had expressed interest in Beorning. "Tell me of your visit
to my lands? When were you there last and what do you mean by strife among my people? I haven't head of that," Mobeorn
addresses Sidhel.

Rochwen smiles a knowning smile at her friend, and is quick to fetch a glass for Muirgheal. She returns with two glasses,
though, one for the blonde and another for Rhifaroth. She returns his nod of greeting, still smiling, as she offers the
glasses. "We have recieved two group of visitors in the Valley," she explains to Muirgheal, even as others offer
explanations as well. She looks to Elinuial, her smile growing.

Eyes shining again and her thoughtful mood gone, Curoneth arrives next to Sidhel to whom Mobeorn has just turned. Eager to
hear more, she joins them, sipping her wine and maybe thinking of times long ago.. thoughts which she tries to shake off.

Muirgheal looks first to Elinuial, then to Sidhel, giving smiles to both edhil. She really has been working on being
friendlier with strangers. "I'm Muirgheal," she tells the elleth Elinuial. "And thank you for the welcome." At this, she
looks back to Sidhel. "Friends?" She asks, and then Rochwen draws her attention away again. The pretty lady looks grateful
at her friend. She takes the glass of wine and drinks deeply from it before another word is said. "Le hannon." She smiles at
Rochwen as the taste of the wine lingers. "Visitors?!" Muirgheal sounds very hopeful at that, eager almost.
"Have...Rochwen...our are children among your kin who have returned?"

Bad luck. Just as Mobeorn laughs and slaps him on the back, the Dunadan harper was taking a sip of his wine - which splashes
up in his face as Mobeorn's great big hand thumps him soundly upon his back. Lithiugelir coughs, having gotten a bit of the
wine down the wrong way, and tries not to choke with a laugh himself, "I'd rather you didn't remember it, friend."

Careful to try and not get the wine on his nice velvet tunic, dressed in his Imlad finest, Lithiugelir coughs once more and
does his best to wipe his face dry too, still holding onto his precious harp. Still, his good humor is nonetheless not
dampened and it is apparent that he and Mobeorn get along very well.

"It must have been ten years ago when Brynjolf the Chieftain was slain," ponders Sidhel. "At that time I went east to seek
the help of your kin for the guarding of the High Pass. Strange times were those, as the Spider Clan sought to divide the
Beornings and the elves. I was assaulted in your very village," he tells the Beijabar. "And in the end we could reveal a
dark plot. What I hear now though of the Anduin, sounds better to my ears than that, even if there are strange creatures
roaming your land."

Rhifaroth accepts the wine glass from Rochwen with his maimed right hand, his left arm still hooked in Muirgheal's. He
nodshis thanks and sips lightly of it, grey eyed gaze in his strange face roaming over the chamber and those here. His gaze
lingers longest upon those who are here who are also Dunedain, but men whom he does not know. The new, bright pink skin
around his throat creases thickly as he turns his head, surveying this hall and those who are here.

Muirgheal's hesitant question of the elleth Rochwen though draws back her husband's wandering attention. Though his focus
may have been vague before, it sharpens upon the elleth at the mention of their children.

"It is a fair name," Elinuial tells Muirgheal - and her expression saddens at the news which is said without clear
statement. She lets out a quiet sigh, but does not speak on the matter further, though she does listen.

Mobeorn's laughter lingers for a while--despite Lith getting a soaking of wine. A broad smile, too, is given to Curoneth,
and a nod. "Pleased to meet you, miss. Though I don't know your name," he addresses the elleth.

The Beorning's smile only dissipates at the mention of death and the Spider Clan in his home. "Aye," his voice rumbles
deeply in reply, "they are gone from our lands, as far as we can tell. The people do a good job of guarding against the
return of such evil. Assaulted in the village," he frowns, shaking his head. "Still...strange creatures roam our lands, as
you say. You have seen such? Or perhaps we can talk another time?"

"Aye, let us speak of this another time, it would but spoil the evening," says Sidhel. "As to names, I am called Sidhel
Brethilasion," he introduces himself to Mobeorn.

Rochwen's expression brightens considerablely at the question of the children, and her well known half-smile alights on her
face. She takes in Rhifaroth's attentiveness for a moment, looking between the man and his wife equally. "Yes, mellon," she
says, her voice full of warmth and excitement, "Caiomhe and Elfaroth are here. One of my kin left to fetch them not long
ago, and we will see them soon, I promise."

Graciously overlooking Lithiugelir's momentary problem with the wine, the black-haired elleth inclines her head in greeting
towards Mobeorn. "Well met. I am called Curoneth," she introduces herself, leaving out the names she is not normally called.
"I too have visited your lands, or that is, those lands where nowadays you dwell. But it has been many years since I last
went on such journeys, and undoubtedly much has changed in the meanwhile."

"They're here?" Muirgheal exclaims. The wineglass almost slips from her hand, but she's been working on being
more...dignified, and composed, in addition to being more friendly. "Why haven't we seen them? How long have they been here?
How soon is-- wait, no, I'll just go get them!" And so Muir's glass of wine is thrust at Rochwen (after another sip is
taken, of course) and the young mother prepares to exit the hall of fire, slipping her arm from Rhifaroth's and turning
toward the door.

"Well met, Sidhel Brethilasion and Lady Curoneth," Mobeorn smiles. No sign of reddening now when he talks to these two
elves, somehow. "And, aye, Sidhel, we will speak another time."

Mobeorn's eyes roam the room briefly, settling for a moment on Muirgheal and Rhifaroth, as well as Rochwen. "THat one I
know," he says, gesturing with his tankard toward Rochwen. "But the other two? The man is...injured I think? And the lady is
scared of bears." He grins broadly at some private joke.

Having managed to tidy himself up and dry his face, get his breath, Lithiugelir manages to slip off just long enough to
exchange his nearly empty wine glass for a fresh one of another vintage. In a moment, he has reappeared at Mobeorn's side
and studies Sidhel for a moment, listening to the two but interjecting nothing. He sips his wine and then spots an unclaimed
soft, beckoning chair close by. Ah!

A long leg sneaks out and Lith pivots over to land into the chair gratefully, where he can still listen in on what Mobeorn
is saying. But, after sipping his fresh glass of wine, the Dunadan sets it aside and shifts his harp upon his lap.

Very, very softly, long fingers pluck forth the barest whisper of notes, a faint whispering undercurrent to the voices about
the Hall.

A howl sounds out as someone cries. Human? Firstborn? Cat? It all sounds much alike into the crowd that fills the Hall of
Fire. "Little one, do let go...." a voice says firmly, thought with an ageless patience. Such words are quickly followed by
a loud, yet clear scream for 'MOMMY!'

With this word, a silver haired ellon enters carrying a small little girl, and into this hair tiny fists are clutching large
chunks of what had been neatly placed hair. Behind the Tailor follows a gentle elleth carrying the a young boy of equal age.
For certain, second born twins have arrived into the Hall.

Alas, it must have been his hearing the mention of their children that did it. A subject to lure away his thoughts, to
weaken his focus upon here and now. Whatever else the elleth Rochwen says, it is lost to Rhifaroth's ears. For his gaze has
eased it's sharpness.

Muirgheal getting all excited at the news and dropping his arm to spin around rouses no response in Rhifaroth. The man
stands very still, looking off at nothing in particular.

With delight, Curoneth takes note of the Man sitting down, and starting to play his harp - even though it is maybe only a
whisper that the fingers produce as they pluck the strings, yet it is what she has absently been waiting for. Without a
word, but smiling to herself, she turns slightly and, as inconspicuously as possible gestures towards the musicians over at
the other end of the hall to lower their instruments - as they do so at the end of the piece they were playing, the soft
tunes of Lithiugelirs harp can be heard more clearly throughout the room for those who will listen.

"Thank Elbereth," Elinuial, seeming relieved and pleased both; the story was only briefly sad, it seems, and that all in the
telling. Her attention then goes towards the distant-seeming Rhifaroth, asking him gently, "Do you feel the urge to weep?
Such news is nearly bringing a tear to my own eye, and I have not known of your children until this day."

Rochwen finds herself with two wineglasses in hand now, even as her friend moves off to find her children. It takes her a
moment, but the elleth fines am empty chair to place the glasses upon, before she starts after the woman. The entrance of
the twins has her pausing, though. She then turns to Rhifaroth, a hand tapping his shoulder to get his attention. She waits,
then points to the entrance. "Rhifaroth, Caiomhe and Elfaroth are here," she says simply.

Muirgheal is so used to her husband's absences from here and now, but it still causes her to give him a long, sad look
before she turns away to find her children. But she really doesn't have to go too far to find them, after all. There's an
ellon with her daughter in his arms. That's all it takes for Muir to tear across the hall and meet the ellon, arms open to
receive her daughter. She's much too proud to cry in such company, but her eyes are wide and a little watery. "Thank you,
thank you, thank you," she keeps repeating to the ellon who has been holding the baby girl Caoimhe. Well, not quite a baby
anymore..

"Ai, such joy," exclaims Sidhel at the reunion of parents and children. "A sight to remember." Suddenly he seems to recall a
thing though and turns to Curoneth: "Did we not want to offer the wines from Lindon tonight? Let us fetch the bottles we
brought along and share them with our guests."

Lithiugelir isn't really paying any attention to his harp. His fingers are idly moving, stroking the silver strings absently
for his own focus is upon Sidhel's and Mobeorn's conversation. The harp is merely his constant companion.

Absently he notes that the hall grows quieter and then there is some commotion over by the entry, someone bringing in human
children. Yearling twins it looks like... and that handsome young blonde woman going over eagerly to recieve them, leaving
the odd looking Dunadan man to stand momentarily alone.

Lith's own fingers still upon the harp strings for the moment as he takes in the happenings, but he frowns very so faintly.
It's a happy scene, but something odd about it.

Whilst no hesitation exists to turn over the small girl, the matter of issue becomes the tiny fists twined into the Tailor's
silver hair. "You're mother is here, little one," he whispers softly in the common tongue, "And she is waiting for you
should you just let go." As Galharth speaks, he nods to Muirgheal, though his concentration stays with his efforts to
untangle persistent little finger. From behind him, the little boy calls out a bit of babish babble, and that alone seems to
be the key to unlocking the little girls grasp on his hair. Now it seems a race between the two children to reach their
parents.

"They were a pleasure..." the Craftmaster says as he firmly grasps the little girl and holds her out to her mother. "Though
I think they're both glad to find you."

Mobeorn, too, frowns, draining the last of his mead from his tankard. Where was that elven boy that Arwen sent to fetch the
honey wine for him? He glances about the room, not able to pick out the serving boy nor a bottle of mead. His question about
Rhifaroth and Muirgheal unanswered, the Beorning man watches Lith idly strum his harp for a while, and then turns to watch
the activity by the door--children being brought in...Mobeorn watches, tilting his head, looking with longing now and then
at his empty mug.

Rochwen tapping his shoulder firmly brings Rhifaroth back to here and now. The scarred man blinks, disoriented, then tries
to speak. His voice is raspy thin, rough and breaks midword, "They're h-ere?" Turning his head where Rochwen points, he
looks to see Muirgheal even then reaching out for their daughter.

There is a hesitation. That can't be their children, could they? Too old, surely. Rhifaroth frowns, confused.

Rochwen, her attention firmly in Rhifaroth, nods so that the man can clearly see the gesture. "They are, mellon," she says.
The Healer keeps her hand on his shoulder, to keep his focus as long as she might. She notes the confusion, and looks to the
children, whom she has no seen in a bit of time. "They have...grown a bit. Shall we go see them?" She takes a half of a step
away, her hand still on his shoulder.

"Thank you!" Muirgheal exclaims again, forgetting momentarily to use her few words of Sindarin. She even grabs the poor
ellon in a sort of one-armed hug as she moves to take her daughter, if he doesn't quickly step out of her reach. She's
giddy. Then, the sound of her son causes her to look beyond the elf who has been holding Caoimhe. There's Elfaroth! Eyes
still shining, she settles her daughter under her arm and quickly goes to take her son in her other arm, the one that's just
come out of its sling a day ago. The children are certainly heavier than even she remembers them.

As Curoneth is somewhat taken up watching the absent play of Lithiugelir's fingers on the harp's strings and listening to
the soft tunes they produce, it takes a moment or two for her to be reached by Sidhel's words. Then she looks up, eyes wide
and bright, and a broad smile on her lips. "Ah, yes! I'd forgotten all about those what with all this excitement here..."
She trails off as she spies the happy reunion of the mother with her children, and if possible, her smile grows even broader
and merrier. "Yes, let us go fetch the bottles quickly. After this happy scene everyone will want to have a good drink." A
quick glance around shows her that the wine is disappearing quickly from the bottles and glasses - and that some new mead
might be in order, too.

She calls over to the two young apprentices still dealing out the wine, and waves the boy over. "Could you help Sidhel and
me fetch some more wine? Oh, and if you'd be so good as to bring some more mead, too?" With these words, she sets off
towards the door, nodding to those who meet her eyes as she passes - but most are watching the children anyway.

Elinuial's face shifts to sadness once more, though more gently. "Perhaps they have sprung up in our rich soil," she
suggests to Rhifaroth.

"Worry not, Mobeorn, you shall not remain thirsty tonight," says Sidhel to the seemingly uncomfortable Beorning. Said that,
he follows Curoneth out of the hall to bring more wine of grapes and honey to quench everyone's thirst.

There is yet a hesitation, but then Rhifaroth nods to Rochwen, still here for the moment but puzzled. He has not seen his
children since the spring. Of course they have grown, if it is nigh autumn now. Teh man licks his lips and when he feels the
light tug on his arm, he walks with Rochwen. Though he does not speak but rarely now, it is clear by his face that he does
wish to see them.

Drawing close, Rhifaroth pauses, seeing his wife taking both of the children from the elves into her arms. Dark brow
knitting, her husband frowns very faintly at her arm being out of it's cast. Did he miss that too? It doesn't matter. His
wife is beaming with tears of happiness in her eyes. Something must be right.

Alas, Elinuial's well meaning words fall once more upon deaf ears. It can be difficult to gain Rhifaroth's attention, now.

A glance back to Mobeorn before Lithiugelir shrugs, "I do not know, friend. I met the woman - with the short blonde hair,
jsut yesterday, briefly. Name of Muirgheal if I recall." Looking back, his fingers once more lightly caressing the strings
of his harp, Lith adds softly, "Odd name, that."

But the harper glances back to Mobeorn once more and shrugs, "I know not who the man is, but something is amiss with him, I
agree."

Looking back at the family reunion, the harper adds quietly, "I shall inquire."

Rochwen steps carefully backwards, a Healer's observant eyes kept on Rhifaroth. Her attention moves to Eliniual, though, and
she smiles to the elleth gratefully. Blue-gold eyes return to the man, then, as she leads him closer to his wife and
children.

Muirgheal hasn't the time for anyone but her children, right now. She's kissing their hair- a tawny color, not quite the
bright gold of hers- and laughing with them, and still really trying not to cry. They're here, and they look healthy, and as
happy as Rochwen had assured they would be. "Darlings!" She exclaims as tiny fists are now tangled in -her- hair. She
doesn't mind at all. Her arm is having only a little trouble with holding Elfaroth's weight; it's not uncomfortable yet.
Finally, Muir turns, hoping to see that her husband knows where he is again. She carries the twins over to him and bids,
"Look who's here. I told you they'd be here soon." She beams.

Surviving a moment of being ruffled by the human woman in a hug, Galharth chuckles softly as he steps back to observe a
moment. The smile upon his face faulters slightly as his eyes fall upon the Rhifaroth. While no recognition exists, there is
intuition, bringing forth a frown. "Seeker," escapes the Tailor's lips in a whisper, the the ellon steps forward, moving
through the room. Passing any and all with a firm focus upon the man, the Galadhrim's progess halts a few feet from the
scarred man. "Seeker?" he repeats only moments befroe Muirgheal's bringing the children to their father, speaking loud
enough to be heard, and yet uncertain.

Rochwen is quick to notice Galharth's approach, and she lets go of Rhifaroth's shoulder briefly. She nods simply to the
ellon, but also shakes her head minutely. She silently mouths a word that might be discerned as, "Wait," to those that are
nearby.

A wide grin is Mobeorn's answer to the promise of mead coming his way, and he nods toward Sidhel first, eyes following
Curoneth as she also hurries about to find wine. The Beorning then watches the family reunion a bit longer, again, his head
tilting in some curiosity, especially as Galharth speaks to Rhifaroth.

"He ......... ... ... day ... I ... sitting ... ... ... ... .... Not .... ... not .... ... ... ... ... ..., ... seemed ...
me. ... ... ... ... ... I ... ... in ... ... ..., ... ... ... often ... ... ... ... ... ...." His voice lowered as he speaks
quietly to Lithiugelir.

Yes, as Rochwen guides Rhifaroth closer and Muirgheal turns to him holding both of the children, his own hands rise as
though to relieve his wife of their son Elfaroth, if she'll allow him. His own eyes are for both of the twins, but mostly
for his son. The very child those people had told him they had. But the boy is here... if it is his son.

Still a little distant and off balance with all that is going on, the tattooed man's eyes flick up and glance around as
someone speaks his name. Rhifaroth's gaze finds Galharth, but there is no recognition for the ellon he has not seen before.

Lithiugelir's own attention is for the strange couple and the children... but then his own eyes begin to roam over the
others, noting their various reactions to these people he doesn't know. A glance and then a nod to Mobeorn, "Perhaps you are
right, friend. Did you notice his throat? Whatever did that, happened in the past few months." The harper keeps his voice
low, his fingers once more stilling upon his harp, forgotten.

Muirgheal looks a bit hesitant about giving Elfaroth over to her husband. Will he suddenly lose focus, and drop the boy? She
decides to give it a try, and her newly healed arm does need a break. Elfaroth is handed over to Rhifaroth, and the little
boy looks up at the man with eyes so much like his father's. Muirgheal, being nervous, hovers near with Caoimhe. She fusses
with the girl's hair, trying to smooth it, and has bent her head slightly to whisper something in her daughter's ear. More
audibly can be heard, "Where's all your toys and things?" She hopes the elves have brought a few of those along.

Crystal blue eyes flicker from the man to the child and then back to the man. No sympathy reflects in the firstborn's eyes,
but still, the gaze is not without emotion. Understanding perhaps? Once more the ellon's gaze flickers between the man and
his son, and Galharth takes a step back. "Another time..." he mutters softly, more to himself than anyone. Bowing his head
to the reuinted family, "I'll have someone bring over their things," the Tailor says softly as he turns and swiftly departs.

Rochwen watches Galharth carefully, not having time to speak further as he departs. Her attention then turns to the family,
and she smiles. She moves a little distance away, bringing herself closer to Mobeorn and Lith, to give the parents and
children some space.

Mobeorn nods to Lithiugelir, his eyes now definitely on Rhifaroth. "... ... notice that, aye," he says, keeping his voice
down. "... newly healed .... ... ... ......" The Beorning actually shivers a little.

Careful, Rhifaroth does accept their son from his wife, unmindful of the others around them as his focus is upon this child.
Much bigger, no longer dark haired... it hardly seems like his son, but ... something in the child's face and eyes is
familiar to his father.

For long moments, the tattooed man concentrates on the child he is holding even to the exclusion of his wife. But then,
Rhifaroth looks over at her and smiles a little. Though Elfaroth is wiggly and much larger now, the man isn't having any
difficulty holding the boy even in his own, still poor physical condition.

Saying nothing, Muirgheal's husband offers his wife his left elbow as though he would escort her from the Hall and back to
their own quarters.

A subtle shake of his own head and a glance to Mobeorn, "I don't know either, friend. Don't even know the man. Never seen
him before. But then, I've been gone a way for a while, myself." A shrug, then the harper shifts his beloved harp and gets
to his own feet.

Taking back up his wine glass, Lithiugelir finishes it off and sets the empty goblet back down, "I think they are leaving...
it's late. Not for elves perhaps, but for me at least. I long for yet another hot bath, a soft bed, and a long sleep to make
up for so much travel. Purge the High Pass from my bones!"

"Le hannon," Muirgheal murmurs to Galharth, finally remembering her Sindarin. "They'll be wanting their playthings before
long." She grins. Then she takes the arm of her silent husband, still holding her daughter in the other. She looks up, over
Caoimhe's head, to say, "Rochwen, I'll be down to the stables tomorrow.." Then she returns her attention to the children
she's missed, and follows Rhifaroth out of the room, smiling at her husband.

Rochwen smiles to Muirgheal. "I will see you then, my friend," she says, watching at the couple moves to leave. After a
moment, she catches a bit of conversaton from Mobeorn and Lith, and her head tilts. She says nothing, though.

Mobeorn nods as Lith stands, then the Beorning looks at his empty tankard. "I heard they were bringing in more mead," he
grins, obviously fully intending to go find it. "I think mead and a swim would be a fine thing, in fact," he mutters half to
himself. A nod given to the harper, then the skinchanger moves off through the elves and assorted guests, seeking and
finding mead and then slipping out of the hall.

Lithiugelir nods to Mobeorn as the Beijabar goes to find his promised mead. The harper lingers as others make to depart
until the entryway to the Hall has cleared. The Dunadan's long fingers stroke the silver strings of his harp lightly,
drawing forth a faintly chipper, upbeat tune.

Then, leisurely, with the harpstrings singing softly in his capable hands, the man begins to remove himself from the hall as
well. There is a hot bath with plenty of soap to be found and relished...