8/28/2008

================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 2:04 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 12 Firith <Fading>
Moon phase: Waxing 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: Thu Aug 28 21:41:33 2008
=====================================================================
High Pass, Eastern Descent
You stand upon the edge of the eastern face of the Misty mountains. The pass you have been following heads west along the
bottom of a deep crevasse, whose high walls tower above you. To the east the pass trail twists and falls at a fearful rate,
dropping down through the mist to eventually reach the lands of Rhovanion, completely obscured from this vantage point. Here
at the top of the world it is humid and chilly, desolate and unpleasant. Only grey and damp thorny brambles grow in this
muddy and freezing land.

A heavy, splashing rain falls down from the sky, drenching you and the muddy earth beneath your feet. The late night autumn
air is warm and muggy.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
Mavwyn
Mobeorn




The troll has fled. Lured off by the promise of some prey nearby, perhaps, or tired of not being able to feast on they prey
that it /did/ find and injure, it lumbered into the rocky mountain passes, leaving Beornings and elves to tend their
wounded. And wounded there are--Galharth and Celemir severely so, for two. The huge brown bear, which tried but wasn't able
to stop the troll, took off after it and has still not returned.

Urged on by the Beornings, the group moved on again as soon as the injured were bandaged enough to be moved or carried, not
waiting, even, for the bear's return. Though the Beornings argued that the group should now not stop to rest, the rain has
made that impossible. Torrents come down from the sky, making each step treacherous, impairing vision, hiding sounds of orc
and troll. For the moment, the travelers have halted on this eastern side of teh pass, arguing what to do. And now there are
sounds--footsteps or rumblings of rocks. Something or someone approaches in the dark and rain.

Hovering outside the arguments, Maglind stands uneasily on the edge, peering out into the pouring rain. Soaked to the core,
the Elf shifts restlessly, a concerned glance given to the injured, then to the west.

There is a sound: the marchwarden raises his bow, an arrow set to fly at moment's notice.

"What is it?" he calls to the footsteps, inching a little closer.

Still the figure comes on in the darkness and rain. "*****!" comes an answer, but the words, whatever they
are, are carried away on the wind and rain, which howl across this steep, twisting trail with an unholy voice.

The very rain seems to weep this eve. Tears of sorrow at injuries suffered, or tears of joy for those who survived.
Regardless, the droplets bring forth wakefulness to one among the injured. "Pesky squirrels..... buttons," a slurred voice
calls out as Galharth rouses from his healing sleep. "Always the sparkly ones..... never end.........trap."



Crystal blue eyes blink open, only to be filled with a cold rain and for an instant it almost appears as if the Craftmaster
weeps. "Hall of waiting? No curtains?" He mutters in a dazed confusion.

Now that the danger is past, at least for the moment, Cecilia is desperate to reconcile for her blunder
earlier. The poor young woman has looked absolutely devastated the entire time, a stricken expression on her face that's so
out of place on the normally optimistic girl. As soon as a camp site is chosen, the Beorning makes for the injured with
heavy concern and guilt on her face.

Rain, pouring from the skies like a torrent of agony, hits the grounds and rocks with an aggressive attack.
The trees sway under its torrents, attempting to escape the onslaught. Wind tosses the rain, causing the almost invisible
downpour to thicken into a massive barrage. The ground chokes under the pressure, having drunk all it can, already, and
leaving the rest for any travellers to slosh around in.

Such a traveller exists, marching soundly and stoutly onward, despite the downpour. The figure's cloak and clothing is
darkened almost black due the weather, and the only evidence of this figure is the distinct lack of water hitting the ground
near it, and the soft trudging through thick mud. The bow on the individual's back seems heavy, and cumbersome under the
already heavy pressure of the sky's tears.

The figure continues onward towards a clearing, wherein lies an encampment. At the sight of the encampment, no further
movement is made for some time. It almost seems forever before the individual seems to make a decision, and turns to the
right, veering towards the encampment... silently... secretly...

"Stop!" the Elf calls suddenly as the figure keeps approaching. "Who is it? I will shoot if you are an enemy!"

Wide-eyed, Maglind seems not to take notice of the quieter traveller -- or if he does, he is more apprehensive of the first.

"<Sindarin> Mobeorn of the Anduin Valley, dammit!" some words come roaring through the rain. And then the words
might seem clearer to those of the Beornings, as they continue. 'Does one attack by a troll and a bit of rain render the
elves deaf as well as blind?!' Still, Mobeorn perhaps learned his lesson on his way west across this pass--and he halts,
waiting for the elves to acknowledge him.

At that moment, the beijabar's eyes narrow, squinting into the rain and the other side of the camp. "<Sindarin> But what is
that, sneaking up behind you?!"

"Stop?" Galharth repeats in sindarin, still dazed and not quite in tune with the world around him. Perhaps a head would has
been received? "I have yet to see a hall that doesn't need curtains...... " A strange look of concentration appears upon the
Tailors face and one hand lifts while the left seems weak and wanting to repond yet unable to do so. "Trust me....." the
Craftmaster slurs out. "Know what I'm doing."

Cecilia makes her way to Galharth's side, ignoring the threats of the elves if they speak of shooting her (it's the least
she deserves) then says, "I'm a healer.. I can help him.. Please?" She appeals to whoever is with the injured tailor,
holding up her pack of supplies.

Continuing onward, the soaked-through-the-bone figure walking towards the camp stalls just before reaching
the clearing. A moment later, a booted foot of the figure steps forward, marking its place in the mud, and the person
continues on. Upon fully entering the encampment clearing, the figure removes the hood of the cloak, revealing soak long
honey-blonde hair, matted, and unbrushed for what is likely a very long time.

Mavwyn looks up, eyes weary and circled in black, and then promptly faints.

Shrinking from the Beijabar, Maglind shoulders his bow discreetly. "I apologize deeply, sir. One must be wary -- what?"
Spinning to face the camp, the Elf stares at the new-come woman. A quick glance to Mobeorn, and he sprints forward, trying
to catch the said fainting woman.

"There is very little that the human could do to harm him." A dark haired Silvan elleth says to another near the reclined
Tailor. "There is little more beyond time that will help speed his recovery." the two apprentices eye Cecilia carefully then
sweep a hand to Galharth as they back away, saying nothing as they move to attend to Celemir.

Confusion continues for the Craftmaster as he stares up into the rain. "The color of meadows...... lightly trimmed with a
touch of yellow." he mutters softly.

It takes a second or two as Mobeorn stares at the passed-out blonde woman, his brows furrowing. She
_seems_ to be Beorning, from the looks of her, but until recently Mobeorn spent his time in the woods and mountains--and not
in the village. "Cecilia!" he shouts, looking around for the healer. "Do you know this one here?" he asks--and then he gets
up, giving Maglind a look. "Keep watch, still. I'm going to take a look around, see what else might be lurking out there in
the darkness waiting for us. Now the enemy sends women to attack us?" He scratches his chin, confused. "Try not to shoot me
when I return," he then adds with a wry grin before he slips off into the rain and night again.

Cecilia moves down next to Galharth when the elves allow her past. The young woman looks him over carefully, her forhead
creased in concentration. "Galharth.. where do you hurt?" She asks, already digging into her pack to begin pulling out
supplies. When she hears her name called she twists to look back out of the camp. "A minute!" She answers, then returns her
attention to the injured elf.

Mavwyn lies in the mud, covered in rain, dirt, grime, and guck, although it's likely that much of it was present
before-hand. She slowly comes to, eyes fluttering. "Lochlan..." she whispers...

Stooping to peer at the unconscious woman, Maglind displays immediate bemusement. "Eh," he says, looking around desperately
for a healer -- or someone else who might take charge.

A sound distracts the Tailor from what visions his own injured mind has formed and he frowns. In response he speaks, and his
words as soft and almost beautifully musical in sound. His tone is confused, and his brow is furrowed, as he continues to
look upwards into the raining sky. "<Sindarin> Why would someone be strangling some poor animal here? Certainly someone
should put the poor beast out of its misery rather than to allow the horrible scratchy shrill it makes." he says.

Mavwyn suddenly shoots up, grabs Maglind's shirt and pulls him into her, "LOCHLAN!" she yells, before her eyes roll back
and, again, she is unconscious. The rain begins to clean away the soil from her face and her skin is clammy. She smells very
faintly of alcohol, but does not act drunk. Rather, the woman acts almost as though she is mentally warring with herself,
and her body is the innocent victim.

Cecilia frowns when the elf proves completely unresponsive to her questions. She reaches a hand to feel if he's feverish,
not entirely certain if it's the same for elves but it can't hurt to check. Then the girl begins examining his other wounds,
checking the areas where the mace of the troll hit him, gently prodding to see if any bones might be broken. She's not
distracted by the yelling of Mavwyn, her focus on her current patient. "I don't speak your elf tongue, Galharth.. " She
murmurs, more to give him something to listen to then out of expectation for reply.

Once satisfied with her cursory diagnosis, the healer starts digging through her pack and pulls out a smaller bag. This one
is tightly wrapped in thick, wide leaves to keep the rain out, and when she gets it open she starts picking through small
cloth pouches of various herbs.

The Elf gives a startled squeak as he is forcibly dragged downward. "Um," Maglind manages to stammer, wrinkling his nose at
the smell of alcohol, "perhaps you have mistaken me for someone else ...."

Gingerly reaching out to scoop the woman from the mud, he steps lightly towards the camp -- and the healers.

"Lochlan...." Mavwyn whispers, she leans back and passes out, yet again. Only this time, she doesn't get
back up. Her brows are furrowed and her expression, in even her state, speaks of sadness and loss. She lays there, in the
mud, in the rain, in the darkness, hoping to curl within herself, hide away from the pain, the sadness...

"<Sindarin> You poor beast, who among the firstborn would be so cruel as to torment you." Galharth says. As he speaks, his
voice is soft and kind, and filled with a beautiful sympathy. At the woman's prodding, he gasps and pulls his injured arm
close, reaching over protectively with his right hand. "<Sindarin> There should no pain in this hall." Confusion again
flickers in the edhel's face.

Stepping away from the fainted lady, Maglind searches for a guard of the Beornings, and exchanges quiet words with him, with
various glances at Mavwyn.

This task done, the marchwarden moves through the camp, step smooth but urgent, his expression grave. He makes for the
healers, although he is unwounded.

"No no.. don't move. Lay still." Cecilia reaches to gently stop him, her tone soft. She continues looking
through the bag with her free hand, finally pulling out the pouches she wants. There's a small wooden bowl in the bag as
well, and this is retrieved and set on the ground to fill with water. The rest is hastily tucked away again and covered from
the rain.

The healer first sprinkles a few ground herbs into the bowl and swishes it around a bit to help them dissolve. She leans
forward and very carefully reaches to try and slide her hand behind Gal's head, trying to prop him up a bit, "Drink this. It
will help with the pain. Drink it." She urges, repeating the words a few times as she holds the bowl to his lips.

Accepting the drink offered, the Tailor coughs a the taste and strangeness of the potion. Though his head clearly swims in
confusion, both the pain and the taste of the liquid bring him a moment of clarity. His eyes draw focus for a moment and as
if for the first time he notes who attends him. "Cecilia? Thank you." he says in common tongue, as his eyes grow weary as if
he might sleep in the next instant. "Is the Troll gone?"

Stepping quietly between rows of tents and crowds of Men, Maglind comes near to the healers. There he sits quietly some
distance away, quiet gaze bent upon the figure of Galharth, and the healer who attends him.

"Yes.. it's gone. Drink the rest. I know it tastes bad, I'm sorry for that. I don't have the means to make
tea and mask the flavor." Once Cecilia is satisfied, she rinses the bowl out and takes up another pouch. This herb is mixed
more thickly and applied to his bruised flesh after she delicately pulls away his clothing. Her touch is light and careful,
as if she has a solid understanding of the pain the elf is feeling. She glances up once when Maglind approaches but looks
back to her work soon enough.

'I'd rather wine.' he mutters as he downs the last of the horrible liquid. Looking saddly at his clothing, at least what
hasn't been pulled back or removed, he signs, though strangely he says nothing. Clearly the tailor is injured. Turning his
gaze away from the human, he catches sight of Maglind. "<Sindarin> Is everyone alright?" Galharth asks Maglind in their
native tongue.

"<Sindarin> Yes," Maglind replies, startling as Galharth speaks. Shuffling a little closer, he nods over to another cluster
of healers. "<Sindarin> Celemir was hit as well," he confirms. "<Sindarin> I am sorry that I was not involved, mellon. It
seems trolls come and find you, whereever you go."

A swift glance towards Cecilia, and he stoops a little closer to her patient, speaking in suspiciously murmured tones.
"<Sindarin> If you would like ... I have a flask of wine."

Cecilia rewraps any bandages, and adds in some extras of her own. She speaks in a kind but insistant tone, the girlish
fondness of before absent for the moment. "Don't move around too much. You might have cracked bones. You'll need your left
arm in a sling, too." Her gray eyes lift curiously to Maglind again, but she obviously has no comprehension of Sindarin. Now
that she's done tending to Galharth, her grief and guilt from earlier returns and the young woman looks around for others to
aid as she grabs up her supplies.

'It's not broken, only bruised.' Galharth says, wincing slightly as the human woman bandages his arm. 'Perhaps we look
delicate, but we're a sturdy lot.' To her recomendation for a sling, he sighs softly and looks downwards into the wet ground
beneath him. What can be said when one hears words of wisdom spoken?

Looking up as Maglind speaks, embarrassment flickers over his expression. "<Sindarin> Fool that I was, I taunted it so the
bards and non combatants could be given time to get out of its reach. Arrows came, but little good there was against one
such as a Troll." Shaking his head, he adds, "<Sindarin> There was little Celemir could have done to help I fear." While
speaking Sindarin, one word spoken is recognizable.... a name. Celemir.

At the mention of wine, Galharth looks up hopefully. "<Sindarin> You would do this for me? Risk the wrath of the healers? A
gesture I would gladly accept for the human's brews are far worse than any our healers might make."

"<Sindarin> Alas," Maglind says, sitting on the muddy, cold ground. "<Sindarin> And how often have you chided me for rushing
into such things? Do follow what you say, mellon." He sighs with disapproval, and yet a small smile hides within the creases
of his face.

"<Sindarin> I will get it," the marchwarden continues, chin raising slightly. "<Sindarin> Surely Niinaeth will not mind...."

Cecilia glances between the two, then pushes up to her feet and picks up her things. "Make sure you rest.." She says with a
smile for Galharth, then turns to move on and help others.

"Thank you," the Tailor whispers as he watches the woman move on. Watching only a moment, he turns back to the Marchwarden.
"I will likely follow my own advise as often as you might heed such things." Galharth says with a pouted lower lip. "Given
the choice between facing beasts as we faced today and allowing the untrained to face them, the results will always be the
same. Let us not fool ourselves into believing otherwise." Tilting his head and wincing for the effort, he seems to perk
slightly. "You'd have my gratitude, mellon, but be warned, should you get caught, I will no doubt deny any knowledge of your
actions." Weak though he is, filled with pain and no small amount of confusion, the corner of his mouth rises slightly.
"Fear I have for the Healers, but that does not compare to the fear I hold for the Minister."

"I do not heed, you do not follow, and we will both end up in convalescence," Maglind replies gently, rolling his eyes in a
gesture of despair. "Such things cannot be good for the body, Galharth."

"I have a flask of potent vintage from Imladris -- from what is left of their cellar. Perhaps I might sneak it in
unnoticed."

"Ah, but we are not this body, and such deeds serve to make our inner fires strong. A trade off perhaps?" Galharth says,
closing his eyes for a moment. when his eyes reopen, he stares upwards into the rain, allowing the cool droplets to cleanse
his face. Is he lost in a maze of confusion again? Nay.... the Tailor blinks. "A true friend, Maglind." he says of the
mention of wine. Again the Craftmasters eyes close, staying closed this time. Clearly struggling to speak, his voice comes
in a whisper. "I think the potion given has set me to the path of sleep...." With that the injured ellon drifts off into a
healing sleep.

"And still the one is injured." Rising as the Craftsmaster sleeps, Maglind stares into the sky -- which gives no sign of
relenting its torrent -- and stalks off, away from the healers and arguing camp.