8/29/2008


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 refreshing and brisk, desolate and unpleasant. Only grey and damp thorny shrubs grow in this
cold and windblown land.

Lighting flashes brutally across the sky, followed by a rumbling thunder, shaking the very foundations of the Misty
Mountains. Perhaps it would be wise to look for shelter, for this will be a long and stormy day. The late morning autumn air
is refreshing and brisk.

Contents:
Cecilia
Mobeorn
Thorhur
Galharth
Oisin
Maglind



Cecilia is sitting off by herself, still feeling horrible about her accidental shooting of the elf, but trying not to let it
dampen her spirits too much. Though, it has subdued her interaction with the elves considerably, if only in the form of a
new shyness in the Beorning healer.

On the eastern descent of the pass, lightning still cracks the sky and the thunder is deafening, though
the sun has risen. Elves and Beornings alike had taken refuge under an overhanging rock face to escape the storm at night,
and now they stir, looking to pack camp quickly and move east toward the village. In the distance, the large form of a man,
recognizable to the Beornings, approaches the rock face--looking decidedly angry, probably from the broken haft of an arrow
that sticks out of his left upper shoulder. He comes silently toward the camp.

Cecilia looks up when she sees Mobeorn approaching, noticing the arrow wound almost immediately. She jumps her feet,
exclaiming in Eothrik, "What happened? Did a goblin shoot you?!" The young woman rushes towards the large man, reaching for
his arm to tug him back to the rocks where her gear is sitting safe from the rain.

"Orc?" Mobeorn snorts. "No. An elf. Deliberately shot at me," Mobeorn growls in Eothrik. "I'm going to
wring his neck, too. By the Bear!! What is -wrong- with this elves?! First they're too cowardly to fight, then when they
fight they can't do more than give an orc a wounded toenail and THEN ...." It looks like Mobeorn's hair is starting to stand
on edge, and there is a fire of fury in his eyes, "THEN they shoot at a bear!! A bear!!"

"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Cecilia says, still trying to tug the angry Mobeorn along as she casts nervous glances
around. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

'A bear!!' Mobeorn repeats, his voice loud and angry and in the Common Tongue. 'IDIOTS! Don't they have any
common sense?!' He lets Cecilia tug him, though, following her lead and sitting with a THUD in the camp. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE
SPEECH>" he growls in Eothrik, then winces. The arrow wound is slowly bleeding. 'Get this damn thing out of me. Fool
elves...'

Sounds of yelling arouse the guard on duty at the Galadhrim Camp. It is none other than the Knight
Thorhur, his cloaks fluttering behind him as he approaches the Beornings.

"Good day," the ellon says kindly in the Common Tongue, barely catching the words spoken in Eothrik, "Is everything all
right over here?"

"I will, I will.. " The Beorning girl says, reaching for her pack and beginning to pull out supplies. The
first thing she retrieves is a couple of dried leaves. She hands these to the man, "Chew them up and swallow them." She
instructs, then begins mixing some other herbs together, her face tight in concentration as she works up thick paste in a
small wooden bowl. The elf is ignored for the moment as the healer focuses on her task. Once the herbal mix is ready she
carefully dabs it around where the arrow is embedded in his leg.

Grumbling, the shapechanger takes the leaves and chews them sullenly. The look he gives to the elf's question is
equally sullen. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Whatever Mobeorn says to Cecilia in the tongue of the Northmen is vehement
sounding.

Then he looks at Thorhur. 'Bears. Do you know of bears here? Are your people totally ignorant of the Beornings? Of our
Laird?'

Thorhur is utterly taken aback. "I do not know what you mean? Why, were you attacked by one of our own?"
The Knight raises a brow and sees the arrow. "We have respect for your Lord and people. Were you indeed attacked by an elf?"

Cecilia frowns when he mentions her mistake, but says nothing. It's while he's continuing to rant that the
Beorning woman carefully wraps her fingers around the shaft and takes up a small knife in her other hand. She attempts to
work it out, tugging and digging with the blade if necessary. There's no delicate way to do it, but the herbal paste she
smeared around the wound should help numb the pain to a small degree.

"OW! Watch it!" Mobeorn snaps at the woman grumpily, despite the paste she's smeared on his shoulder. The
arrow comes out, at least, though his tunic is now a bloody mess. "Yes, one of your own fired at me. I sent him packing off
to find one of your healers, but Cecilia here has the right touch. And look..." he grimaces, pointing to the arrow the
healer holds, "it's elven. Fired at me!! What is wrong with you folk?!"

Yelling? Attack? Mud slide? Expectation is clearly written on the Tailor's face when he emerges from his tent. One arm in a
sling, and in the other hand he half drags his weapon. "What? What's wrong?" Galharth says in a tone notably weaker than
normal. Catching sight of Cecilia with Mobeorn, the expectation turns to concern. "What's happened?" He asks as he lowers
his sword to act more as a support. Slow and clearly still healing himself, pain and unsturdy on his feet, the Craftmaster
takes another step forward and stops as Moeborn makes his accusation and his gaze falls upon the elven arrow. "How?" he
mutters, "An accident?"

Cecilia gives Mobeorn a soft, symapthetic look for his pain. "I know.. I'm sorry." She answers when he loudly yells at her.
The arrow is set aside and she scoops the rest of the paste from the bowl to smear in the bleeding wound. Then she reaches
to pull his shirt up and off if he'll let her. "I have to bind it, it's bleeding. Did the elf apologize or offer any
explanation?" She looks over as Galharth's voice reaches them. "How are you feeling?"

"He was in...shock, I think," Mobeorn grunts. He looks up at Galharth. "Find me some mead and maybe I'll tell you what
happened. But you look like you need some herbs yourself," he notes, then falls silent.

"We carry no mead, and only the Minister has a stash of wine. I fear I can be of no help...." Galharth says weakly as he
continues to stare at the arrow. Looking up as Cecilia speaks, he seems to consider her words a moment, before he responds.
"I'm fair. I've been better and I've been worse." he says softly. Glancing towards Moeborn, the Craftmaster frowns. "Shock?
Did he perhaps see you transform?"

The Knight shakes his head at all this talk. "I couldn't imagine he'd be in shock," he muses, turning to
Galharth with a furrowed brow, "It is not as if there are scarier things in the world." At the thought of mead, Thorhur
smiles and even chuckles. "What a delight mead would be...you know I had great mead whilst in Bree..."

'I can see to you when I am done here, if you like?' The healer offers, then turns her attention back to the
Beorning. She tugs his shirt off and pulls out some bandages, pressing a thick dressing against the wound before binding it
tightly with longer strips. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" She says softly to the beijibar, giving him a gentle pat.

Nodding his head once, the Tailor glances at Thorhur, almost as if he doesn't comprehend what the Knight had said. Confusion
flicker in his eyes as he returns his gaze to the human healer and Mobeorn. "Will he be alright?" Galharth asks.

"Thorhur, you must come back to the camp." These are the words of a young squire who appears at the
Knight's side. Thorhur nods. "Forgive me everyone. Things must be attended to it seems. Farewell." with a small wave, the
Knight departs.

Cecilia stands, brushing her hands off and turning her attention to Galharth. "Yes. It came out cleanly and that is good."
She says, then approaches the elf. "Can I look at your arm and side?"
Of course, the first thing the beijabar does is move his arm, circling it around to test it out. "Feels
good," he says, nodding to Cecilia. "Thanks." Putting his shirt back on, he turns to watch the healer tend Galharth. "So.
How many of your folk -don't- know the role of bears in the lands of Grimbeorn?" he says.

"I still don't understand how it could have happened." Galharth says as he gingerly removes his arm from the sling so to
allow Cecilia access. Turning to look at Mobeorn, the Tailor's brow furrows. "Many," the Craftmaster says flatly. "Our
guards are likely the better informed, but not entirely so as our Squire and Sentinel's have limited knowledge beyond what
lurks on our bourders." Shaking his head, he sighs. "Many a beast has attacked....I know not what else can be said."

Cecilia reaches for Galharth's arm, carefully running her fingers along the muscles and gently twisting and turning the
limb. "Tell me if it hurts.." She murmurs, concentrating. "Can you take your shirt off, so I can check your chest?" One
might think she were only looking to unclothe the elf she's had such a crush on, but for the serious expression on the young
woman's face.

"He attacked a bear," Mobeorn growls, each word stated slowly, clearly and with growing fury. "Drew his
bow and sent four...five? arrows toward me, hitting me with two. A bear.....Tell me, tailor, just how ignorant are your
folks? It's bad enough you're a bunch of flower-hopping cowards who can barely do more than the children of Beorning against
the orcs and trolls of the Pass...do they have to also try to kill the kin of Grimbeorn? Why do you folk bother to come out
of your cursed woods if this is the kind of help you bring us?" His anger grows, his words getting harsher as he continues
to speak. There's some shimmering of light around him, too, his anger starting to get his hackles up.



Emerging from behind a rock, Oisin makes his way towards the overhanging rock to join the others. He shakes his leg
occasionally as he walks letting stray drops of urine escape. The woodman sits down and produces a pipe. Upon hearing the
female Beorning's wishes to strip an Elf, the woodsman shakes his head and begins stuffing tobacco into the pipe. "Darn
woman's in heat again." he mutters and lights a match.

Ducking quietly from behind a tent, Maglind walks quietly along the edge of the overhang, half dry and half soaked. The
raised voices rouse him, and he looks that way sharply, standing on his toes.

"It HURTS!" Galharth snaps out as the healer twists his arm. Drawing his arm back protectively the Tailor eyes Cecilia
suspiciously. "You're not going to poke me are you? I can save you the trouble, it still hurts....."

At the Beorning's insult, the pain, and the general sense of frustration at being downed by yet another troll, the
Craftmaster turns his head and glares. For the moment, he dismisses the healers request. "Then you must be a child, for I've
been told you were sent bouncing down the mountain, much like I had the fortune of doing. And you boast, but did you kill
it? Did you even chip it's stone like skin?" Anger rises in the ellon's words, and with it seems to bring forth some inner
strength. "Save your insults Bear. Until you can show me your worth is greather than our own in some manner other than the
extrodinary ability to pad yourself up the mountain on four paws, then I think you might want to just quiet yourself."

Frowning deeply, he stabs the soil with his longsword, using the weapon for leverage to rise. "All of us paid a price to
keep all people in our party safe, elf and beorning alike. If that isn't good enough, then there is clearly no means to
please you." Turning as Oisin makes his noise he offers a stern glare. "Civilized behavior has clearly skipped certain
people."

Raising an eyebrow at the elf having a hissy-fit, Oisin clears a great gob of spit in his throat and hocks it at the
ground. Not a million miles from the elfs foot. "Usually I'd piss where I stand, it was because we had guests I went behind
a rock." He sniffs and draws a large cload of smoke from his pipe. "There's no pleasing some people."

Cecilia listens quietly to Mobeorn's rant, rolling her eyes when Galharth grows so touchy about her checking his arm. The
elf gets wrapped up in arguing with the beijibar and Cecilia looks over at Oisin as his crass words catch her attention.
"Keep it in a sling. I can't check the bruises on your chest if you don't take your shirt off." The young woman says
absently and walks over to Oisin, smiling that same sweet smile she often uses. Then she clenches her fist and takes a swing
for his face, a scowl replacing the pleasant smile.

Cecilia attacks Oisin with her Bare Hands and mildly wounds him!

Mobeorn says in Sindarin, "'Worth? Worth?!' Mobeorn roars, starting to his feet and trying to get nose to nose
with the tailor. 'I took out half a troop of orcs single handedly on the way up here, I'll have you know! Warg riders! Do
you want to meet warg riders, tailor?'

Stabbing his finger toward Oisin, Mobeorn continues. 'As for the ways of the folk of the Anduin village, that's none of your
damn business. The folk of Beorning killed your precious one-eyed troll! Or would you rather that we hadn't risked our lives
for you and let it roam the lands still? Would you have preferred that I not have spent a month with my chest ripped open
from trying to kill the orc that walks in the sunlight? Would...'

Mobeorn pauses, though, turning swiftly as Cecilia punches Oisin. Then...he laughs, anger gone, just like that. "Then again,
he continues in a low voice to the elf, that one is particularly vulgar. But I think our healer can teach him a lesson or
two."

'Worth? Worth?!' Mobeorn roars, starting to his feet and trying to get nose to nose with the tailor. 'I took out
half a troop of orcs single handedly on the way up here, I'll have you know! Warg riders! Do you want to meet warg riders,
tailor?'

Stabbing his finger toward Oisin, Mobeorn continues. 'As for the ways of the folk of the Anduin village, that's none of your
damn business. The folk of Beorning killed your precious one-eyed troll! Or would you rather that we hadn't risked our lives
for you and let it roam the lands still? Would you have preferred that I not have spent a month with my chest ripped open
from trying to kill the orc that walks in the sunlight? Would...'

Mobeorn pauses, though, turning swiftly as Cecilia punches Oisin. Then...he laughs, anger gone, just like that. "<Sindarin>
Then again, he ********* in a low voice to the elf, that one is particularly ******. But I think our healer can teach him a
lesson or two."

Oisin's pipe goes flying at the smack. He lets out a deep sigh and hardly blinking, outstretches his hand and attempts to
grab the females nipple to give it a mighty painful twist, while nodding nonchalantly in agreement to Mobeorns words.

Oisin attacks Cecilia with his Bare Hands, but he misses by a hair.

Blinking as he comes across this scene, Maglind lingers on the edge for a moment more, and takes a few steps back --
hopefully before being seen.

Glaring straight into the angry Beorning's face, the Tailor remains neutral. "You should be proud, for you did as well as
our guard have done, although there is some difference, our guards took down the orc with arrows, and you with your.....
claws." He says in a weak, yet sarcastically flat tone. Narrowing his gaze, he adds, "Warg riders? Day walking Orc, day
walking Troll, wolves, boar, and even a few very nasty squirrel.... I've faced them all and yet I am no warrior.... I'm a
crafter, nothing more, nothing less."

His pace faulters and one leg threatens to fold under him, but pride manages to hold him upright. "You've been injured, well
look around, you're not alone either in the past or the future. It's a price paid for standing your ground. Expect no
applaude or special recognition." Again the Craftmaster faulter, frowning and turning to glance at Oisin as Mobeorn ends his
words. "He deserves more for such behavior. Orc track by scent, and he's leaving a trail that will only have them following
us."

Cecilia dances back out of the way when Oisin makes the grab for her chest, smirking now. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE
SPEECH>" She says, her words gentle and sweet.

Then the woman turns to walk back to the elf. 'In the sling!' She insists, as if she didn't just punch Oisin, gesturing
emphatically for him to sling his arm up again.

"In the name of the Bear ! " replies Oisin, rolling his eyes to the darkening sky and addressing the over moisturised elf.
"If an orc can smell my scent over your 'perfume', he'd be worthy of a fight. " The woodsman, turns his frown to Cecilia,
"The fact that I missed you brest is more to do with the pathetic size of them than my ability. " he grunts.

Another of the eldar approaches this unpleasant encounter from the concealing darkness, silent footsteps
purposeful, face blazing not in anger, nor concern, but determined intent. It is with a smooth but sharp motion that Ostiel
deftly steps infront of Cecilia, shoulders draw back and chest puffed out in an almost animalistic posture. Though the
elleth says naught, her intent is clear. Back off, she announces silently, then turns to the Tailor with a sharp 'tsk',
reaching out to steady him. This is unusual behavior indeed for Ostiel, and she smiles weakly up at him in apology.

"We've all been injured, aye," Mobeorn replies, but it's not with anger at this point, amusement at
whatever Cecilia has said to Oisin seeming to have knocked the rage out of him for the moment at least. A glance towards
Oisin, but Mobeorn shrugs, letting the folk of the Anduin village work things out.

Mobeorn's business is with Galhart, it might seem, and Maglind, who he gestures to. "We need to talk. Before this gets
worse."

Alas, he is spotted. The Elf inches towards the Beijabar and his friend, a rueful glance given to Ostiel as he backs into a
crevice, glancing at Mobeorn.

Following the Beornings glance, he catches sight of the Marchwarden. "Perhaps, you're right, but ..... " His words go silent
as he hears the 'tsk' and the touch of the healers hand. Pale though he is from injury, he grows paler still. "<Sindarin>I
only stepped away for a moment," Galharth says quickly.

Cecilia draws back as the elf suddenly moves between her and Galharth, confusion on her face. "I'm a trained healer.. " She
says, frowning at Ostiel. "He needs to keep his arm in a sling, it is still mending." Oisin is not forgotten, but the young
woman is distracted now, watching the elf with a wary gaze.

"If not now, when?" Mobeorn replies to Galhart, giving Ostiel a quick look. He turns to direct his words
to Maglind. "Your folk must know not to shoot a bear in these lands. The bears here are -not- the enemy. Far from it."

"And yet," Ostiel murmurs in Sindarin, looking Galharth over with a critical eye. "You manage, as always,
to become the target of danger. Will this never end?" She touches his hair fleetingly in an almost warm gesture, if it
wasn't so, well, irritated. To Cecilia she now offers a faint smile, shaking her head. "I will tend to him," she says, the
elvish words slipping off her tongue quietly. "Thank you for your generosity."

"I will tell my guards," Maglind replies meekly to the Beijabar, wedging himself into a narrow crevice, as if to get more
shelter from the storm. "It was partly my failure, for the one you speak of was newly inducted into the Maethyr, and I have
not had a chance to speak with him. Many of our party are not familiar with war."

Retrieving his pipe, Oisin gives a filthy look at Cecilia and regains his seat. Another match is produced and within a few
moments his pipe is relit and producing a sweet smell of cherrywood mixed with almonds. The woodsman listens to the
conversation intently his eyes never wavering too far from the rather quick hands of the female Beorning.

"She thanks you for your generosity," Galharth says in common tongue to Cecilia. "She says she will tend to my needs." He
says, swallowing softly with a glance to the Edhel healer. "And I offer my thanks as well, and I think it best that I obey
her else I'll find myself in an uncomfortable situation."

Turning to Mobeorn, the Tailor frowns. "I defer to Maglind, for as the guard of rank, he commands all that wield a weapon.
While I am of the Royal Court, in matters of battle, even I defer to him."

Then, turning to Ostiel, the silver haired ellon offers a shrug of one shoulder as he falls back into the elven language of
Sindarin. "Ostiel, I do what I must, I can do no less."

Cecilia gives Ostiel a nod when Galharth translates, her gray eyes flickering between the elven healer and
tailor, 'I owe you my thanks as well, for your rescue that night. If you had not warned me, that boulder would have crushed
me.' She smiles, then the Beorning turns to go pack up her supplies, some things still out from when she was treating
Mobeorn's arrow wound. Once her herbs and other tools are safely stowed away she lets her gaze wander to Oisin.
"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

"Right, then," Mobeorn continues, frowning as he rubs his shoulder where Cecilia bandaged it minutes ago.
He looks to Maglind and gestures out of the overhang of rock where the group has taken shelter. "There's a crevice in the
rock that way where an orc got himself stuck and then disappeared in just before dawn. That's what I was out investigating
when your...scout...?" He frowns briefly, "when one of your group mistook me for the enemy. In any case, the orc still lives
as far as I can tell, though the crevice is too narrow for him to crawl back up out of. But he may have found a way into the
caves under the mountain and gone to get reinforcements.. We should move east, and as soon as possible this day. Lingering
here any longer is foolish."

Oisin regards the female Beorning with a frown but does not reply. He ponders asking her to lance a boil on his backside
that has been bugging him for a few days but thinks better of it. Instead he knocks out his pipe and decides to retire for
the night. Keeping one eye open.

"Yes, yes. But there are the wounded," Maglind replies to the Beorning, a concerned glance given to Ostiel and Galharth.
"Perhaps a litter could be made for those who cannot walk at the moment .... Either way, it is best to move off this
mountain, to where your people are."

Oisin doesn't answer and Cecilia doesn't press him. Instead she gives him a smile, as if all is well
again, and moves off to attend to other things, chatting animatedly with some of the other guides.

"I would yet utilize the sling, maiden of Beorn," Ostiel calls after Cecilia, musical, elven words not
imperious, but quietly requesting. "You," Ostiel whispers, turning back to Galharth with a faint, wry smile, "Offer far too
much of yourself than is natural for one of your trade. Are you certain that you are in the right field of practice?" This
is said partly in jest, accompanied by gentle, near silent laughter that softens the air about her. "Don't move your arm,
please. It won't do to injure it further."

Maglind mentions a litter, and Ostiel turns towards the conversation with a thoughtful nod.

"She says to use the sling," Mobeorn tells Cecilia, gesturing with his head toward Ostiel. "As for a
litter...it's a steep slope, and a rocky ride down, but it could be done. Our folk get injured here and brought back down as
needed. But we'll need to collect wood to construct one, and that's not to be found this high up. You would want to linger
here still?"

"He has it.." Cecilia says, looking back with a shrug. Then she goes back to joking with one of the
guards, distancing herself from the possesive elven healer.

"If the wounded are not many, perhaps pairs of spears could be used ...." Maglind suggests. "We should avoid as many
confrontations with them as possible, so perhaps we might leave as soon as we are able?"

The slight is not lost on Ostiel, who stiffens imperceptibly, eyes narrowing at Cecilia's back. But this
being is not as young as she looks, and gracefully turns away without a word. "Perhaps we should get you onto a carrier,"
she murmurs to Galharth, who protests weakly.

Oisin sits upright and groans, it looks like he's not going to get any sleep with all this molly-coddling of the elf.
"Right ! " he exclaims "I'll carry the delicate flower down the mountain meself, it'll stop all yer bantering."

"Ah!" Mobeorn grins, nodding toward Oisin and then looking at Maglind. "We'll carry you're wounded down. I
can carry the tailor, perhaps, and Oisin can carry Celemir. Yes, that'll work just fine. Agreed?" He seems rather pleased
with this idea.

Maglind hesitates, perhaps fearing of both the Men, but he nods in agreement. "I would be in your debt. And your kin --
perhaps those who are strong might be able to carry them also, or we could spare a few spears and cloaks."

"When they are ready," the marchwarden says, nodding to the wounded, "we must be also ready to leave."

"Cloaks and spears? You're going to rig a sling out of a cloak? Won't it tear?" Mobeorn frowns at Maglind.
"Better to just carry folk down the trail here than to risk cloaks tearing on the rocks." He scratches his chin. "You folk
haven't been much over the pass, have you? The trail is rocky and steep down to our lands--rough going, rougher in this
rain. The fees will be high, I'm afraid."

"Perhaps," Maglind murmurs. " ... Then I will pay you for this. It was intended for purposes further west, but we had
planned to take the Redhorn. It is no matter -- I will follow you."

"Then we should make haste and cover as much of the way before the skies darken more. A storm is threatening and the blood
in my alcohol stream is thinning." remarks Oisin. "Right then, Celemir was it? "

"Pay the captain of the guides on this trip," Mobeorn notes to the elf. "He's the one who'll arrange our
fee with you. I'm just hear to kill elves," he grins, flashing a set of fine white teeth.

"Celemir, yes. Has his arrow wound been tended to? If not, it should be done as soon as possible, and we should move east
before the storm traps us here for the day or worse," he nods, agreeing with Oisin. "I'm going to scout ahead some," the
beijabar continues--stopping before he steps out from the overhang and looking back toward Maglind. "Make sure none of your
folk decide that bears are evil again."

"What does he say, Maglind," Ostiel interrupts quietly, leading Galharth to stand closer to the other elf.
She looks at the Beornings with an unreadable expression, though perhaps a bit of misgiving can be seen in her guarded eyes.

"Um, yes," Maglind says, following the beijabar with an uneasy gaze. "At least not in the Anduin Vale."

"<Sindarin> We need to move quickly," the Elf explains to Ostiel in a soft, susurrant tongue. "They have agreed to carry the
wounded for us, and we must pay them as is custom."

"A word of warning, mellon," the marchwarden continues, voice sinking lower. "Perhaps their leader has saved our lives in
these battles, but they are still Men. Stay away from them if you can."

Mobeorn has paused just before stepping out into the storm-ridden open area of the pass, and as Maglind
answers the elven healer, he laughs. "<Sindarin> Nay, not all of us are men," he grins to the guard. "<Sindarin> As, to
their shock, some of your kind are finding out. And those of the Anduin village who have allied with my kin are men of good
and true heart--they are men of the North, loyal to Grimbeorn and foes of our common enemy."

"I can do without a litter," Galharth says in common tongue, continuing his protest, though growing a bit more bold in the
protest the closer he gets to having to enter the contraption. "A staff or spear is enough to give me the footing I'll need
to move with the group." Glancing to Ostiel, he tilts his head slightly and softly says, "Please. it'll help me rebuild my
strength."

Frowning he looks to Mobeorn and nods as he listens to the words spoken. What he nods to is uncertain.

"An hour or two...not more," Mobeorn warns. "If the pass is clear and the weather cooperates. I'll be
back." With that he steps out onto the pass and gloomy day, man shifting rapidly into the form of a large brown bear as he
does so.

Ostiel frowns disapprovingly at the Tailor, lips pursed. "I do not recommend walking just yet, Galharth,
but it your own choice to make. If you feel even slightly discomforted, however, you must rest on one of the litters." She
emphasizes 'must' with a finger waggle, adjusting her hold around the Tailor's waist. "I will stay with you."

"Whatever you wish," Maglind says with a small smile, nodding to the Beorning as he leaves. "But now, it seems I will need
to rouse the camp. Preparations must be made for the downward trek ...."

An apologetic glance to Galharth suggests that he meant to do something more, but a polite bow to Ostiel is all that
follows.

"I promise," Galharth says in Sindarin, with wide eyes and a meek smile. "I've only need of a staff, and you to keep me
stable." Frowning towards Maglind, he shakes his head. "He's not saved us much that our own people could not not. Fair price
indeed, already it seems over blown." Muttering softly as the Marchwarden moves away to prepare the elves. "Let us not be
cheated, Maglind," he calls out softly.

"Indeed," Ostiel agrees quietly, checking over the sling with her free hand, "These men are not quite
trustworthy, though I do wish to trust them, if only for the sake of peace." She adjusts the strap. "How do you feel,
Galharth?"

"I am no skilled bargainer," replies the marchwarden carefully. Looking to Galharth, he says in a guarded voice, "I will
bring it next time, mellon."

"We leave soon," Maglind calls, and steps away.

At Maglind's reply, the Tailor nods softly, but says nothing, and reveals no hint to the private agreement between the
ellon. "There is trust between us," Galharth says as he turns his gaze towards the Beornings gathering to leave, seeking and
and staring at Mobeorn as he moves. Sighing softly, he turns to look at Ostiel. "I feel as if I've been hit by a mace.
Thankfully it was whilst moving so the strike wasn't quite as it was intended."

Ostiel hums absently, leading the Tailor towards the shadows, where her medical supplies lie alongside her
personal pack. "I will give you something for the pain, but not much. You must be alert if you are to walk tonight. Can you
sit?"

"I would not refuse it," Galharth mutters at the mention of something to dull the pain. "It seems so very weak that I might
wish it, considering injuries received in the past, but in this damp rain and the effort to move along the path, I find the
discomfort far from something I might be able to endure."

Smiling weakly he nods. "I can sit, and walk. The injury comes to my shoulder and side." Pausing he frowns as if to remember
a throbbing head, "And of course my head aches still."

Ostiel leans the Tailor against the stone wall, kneeling gracefully to open her pack. "Sit then, and I will
tend to you, while there is still time for such things." She withdraws a packet of crushed herbs from her pack, as well as
silver flask. The flask she extends to him. "Miruvor. Take but a sip...I would save it for more trying times, though I hope
that none come this journey."

A stab of light from the horizon, and the sun rises cold and distant.

Taking the flask, "You would ply me with this sweet elven nectar? While renewed strength is assured, surely if you are at my
side I can endure without the boost in strength." Galharth asks with a slight rise to the corner of his mouth. Is a teasing
glance given in the short instant that follows? Or are the shadows of the rock overhang playing with the minds of those now
hurrying to move? Backing against the stone wall, the Tailor slowly lowers himself to sit upon the dry ground.

"And you," Ostiel murmurs, glancing up at the Tailor from beneath dark lashes, "You offer me the nectar of
flattery, mellon nin. There is little difference between the two." She mixes a palmful of the herbs with a bit of water,
making a rough paste. "Perhaps we are both healers, of a sorts. I seek to heal from inside out, with counsel and
treatments." She places the mixture aside and moves to Galharth's side, professionally laying her fingertips on his arm,
prodding efficiently. "You seek to heal from the outside in, through actions and involvements."

"Flattery? Nay, not I. I speak the truth as I always do." Galharth says with a soft chuckle that ends up earning him a wince
against the pain. Pausing as if to collect his thoughts, or perhaps to vanquish the pain, he sips the Miruvor and offers the
flask back to the Healer. "There is a difference between us Ostiel," the Tailor says in a firm voice, closing his eyes as
the sweet wine trickles down his throat, releasing its qualities to his injured form. "But indeed, we both seek to do
something in times that seem dark."

Opening his eyes, he looks directly into Ostiel's eyes. "Would you change anything? Or seek the path to the undying lands
where no challenge marks your days?"

"Would you banish Anor from the heavens, simply because she burnt the grasses in the fields? Or tell the
waterfall to become a simple pond, because you lost a companion to it's height? You know not what you ask, mellon nin."
Ostiel shakes her head, hands traveling from Galharth's arm, across his chest, down to his torso. Gently does she prod,
looking not at the wounds but up into the Tailor's eyes, her own gaze frank but soft. "It is not my right to question fate."

"Question all that needs questioned, and never satisfy yourself to the simplest of choices" Galharth says as he grasps the
healers wrist so to end her prodding. Drawing the elleth near, he whispers against her cheek. "That hurts, let us not
aggravate my hurts." Pausing a moment, the Tailor releases Ostiel so that she might draw back. And with this, as his hand
drops, his head tilts against the stone to his back. Closing his eyes a moment, he breathes in deeply as if to focus his
strength and his thoughts. "You comfuse me Ostiel, weaving words and thoughts that are best left untouched. Let me be who I
am and what I might become....."

"I do not understand," Ostiel whispers after a moment of stunned silence, her cheeks pale but her eyes
blazing with a heat that belies her words. "You ask for my opinion, then do not wish to heard the wisdom I offer." She does
not touch the Tailor's side again, but neither does she move away, as he may expect. Instead, she begins to examine his
lolling head in silence, mouth pursed not in concentration, but apparent distress. White hands stroke over his hair, at
first impersonal, then with a different sort of touch. The fingers linger, caressing as if off their own accord. Ostiel
stares at her own limbs as if bewitched, unable to halt them. "You must explain to me."

"We are clearly joined in a lack of understanding," Galharth huffs softly, still keeping his eyes closed and his head
against the stone. "Heads against rock, our finest wine, and gentle touches though most prod painful spots all combine to
create confusion. How might I explain this? I can not."

Opening his eyes, crystal blue orbs peer intently into Ostiel's own, and his next words are soft and filled with a hint of
emotion that is nearly impossible to identify. "I can not speak of that which I can know understand myself. Let me think
about the matter, and perhaps in time I'll know what to say...."

"That is fair," Ostiel agrees after a moment's thought, hand lifting off of the Tailor's hair quickly, as
if burnt. She does not now reach for the paste, but sits with both hands in her lap, eyes cast down. Healer though she may
be, and a strong personality, Ostiel O' Cuigrithweg seems very vulnerable at the moment, biting her lower lip in what could
be self-chastisement, or perhaps something else. It really is difficult to tell.

The Tailor reaches up his right hand and traces a line against the Healers cheek with two fingers. "I ask no more than
fairness. And I promise not to trouble you more than I should." Drawing his hand back, the Tailor rises to his feet. "I need
to move Ostiel, or I'll be lost to the affects of the wine and the pain." While not wise, the Craftmaster wanders away.

This is not acceptable behavior to Ostiel, who steels her jaw and bolts to her feet. "If you would stay
still long enough to let me apply medicine," she sighs, giving chase, "Then you would not have to walk it off. I will not
allow our personal...issues, to prevent your getting home in the best possible health."