================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 2:53 AM >
IC day is: Orbelain <Valar-day>
IC date is: 40 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Last Quarter <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 16 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3040>
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RL time: Mon May 14 17:58:01 2007
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A Meadow in the Forest with a Stream

You stand in a meadow admidst a Winter forest. The surrounding mallorn trees, their golden leaves filling thier boughs as
they sleep the winter away, are thick about you and form a large clearing that is criss-crossed by paths. Looking about the
meadow, you 'view' a brook with a small waterfall that runs through, bubbling softly as it tumbles over some rocks. Soft
moonlight bathes the night meadow in a silver light while the brighter stars glitter through the leafy canopy.

Participants:
Galharth
Maglind
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Night, dark heavy winter's night, blankets Lorien like a mantle trimmed with jewels. The forest is quiet, broken only by the
melody of a burbling stream. Dew gathers on the crisp grass.

By the stream, there is a swish. A figure sits bent, sweeping long fingers through the waters.

Walking northward along the Forest path, Galharth seems to be moving with purpose. As a light breeze picks up, he turns to
the sound of water moving. Catching sight of the Warden, he pauses. "Hello?" he calls out towards the figure. Taking a step
from the path, the clothier tilts his head, eagerly waiting for a response from the figure.

"Hail --"

Maglind jerks his hands back quickly, almost as if he had been burnt by the waters. Awkwardly he turns around, blinking
owlishly. "Hello," he echoes. "What are you doing in the forest so late at night?"

"Maglind," Galharth mutters softly as he takes a step closer. "You're exactly who I was looking for."

Taking a breath and releasing it slowly, his lips curl into a smile. "I wanted to let you know that I've spoken with Rhibi,
and we'll be heading into the foothills within the next three days."

Maglind looks up at him, laying a hand on the moss. "It is midwinter outside, is it not?" he laughs breathlessly, running
the other hand through his pale hair. "A fine time to be caught in the foothills. -- Have you need of me? I will come with
you."

"Of course it's winter. And snow remains upon the ground," the clothier says, with a humorous tone, "This is why we've had
the time to delay the retrieval."

At Maglind's words, Galharth purses his lips. "Haldir said he'd send word that I would have need of an escort. I had assumed
that you would be part of that escort, if not the leader, since you've been to the site that I now wish to return."

The Warden plucks grass from the meadow, rolling the dewy strands between his fingers. "I did hear it," he says uneasily at
length. "I thought someone more capable might take the task. Not me."

He looks up. "Unless you do not... remember the way back?"

The pursed lips turn to a frown. A very deep frown. "More capable? Forgive me, but why would you say such a thing? Of course
you're capable!" The Crafter's words are pointed, and delivered with no hint of reservations. "How many lives must you save
before you convince yourself of that?"

Shaking his head to dislodge his disagreement with the Warden's words, he adds, "I know the way, but honestly, my lesson was
learned on my last excursion. Both the boy and I need skilled escort."

Maglind buries a smile in his arms. "How many do you think we will need?" he asks, muffled. "The frame might be buried in a
blizzard, for all we know. We will need more than swords."

"I have my own sword." Galharth says firmly, "And I don't expect to use it. I would say travel light. Perhaps we would do
well with three or four who weild a bow?"

Once he speaks the clothier chuckles softly. "Listen to me, I know not of the dangers that lay beyond our borders, and yet I
speak."

"I think you know them full well, mellon," replies Maglind, a faint frown creasing his visage. "I hope we shall meet no foe.
Yet, for the snow, might I suggest shovels?"

"We go to retrieve a catapult, and come home." Galharth says with a smile, "What could happen?"

Sweeping his hand before him, the clothier dismisses the concerns. "What I do need to know this. If we do indeed meet
something along the foothills. What is it that the Guards wish us to do? Run or stand and fight with the Guard?"

A shadow of indecision flickers over Maglind's pale face. A glance here, a glance there, into his empty quiver --

"If it comes to it," he says slowly, "then flee. We would follow soon after."

"I will inform Rhibi at the earliest moment. We will flee in the face of any encounter." Galharth confirms. "Let the winter
cover our tracks. It seems reasonable and wise."

A strange smile lights upon the Crafters lips, and he tilts his head, signaling a change in the topic. "I have thought more
about your harp playing Maglind. I honestly thing the Wood in general would benefit if your joined the Bards formally.
You've a wonderful skill and it seems the best choice to follow it."

"Nay, nay," chuckles Maglind with a wave of his hand, "I wish not to belong to the guild. For then I would have to practice
long hours in their halls, under the tutelage of an ancient master, instead of in the woods which I love. I prefer to be
alone."

"Then a forester, perhaps?" Galharth says with a smile. The smile turns to a laughs and the crafter takes a step back. "How
strange I might appear. Forgive me, but it seems well and good to set folk upon a path of enlightenment and growth. What
surprises me the most, was that I did not attempt to draw you into the world of craft....as perhaps a armorsmith or
metalsmith."

At his last words, though not issued in invitation, are issued with a wondering glance.

"I have burned my hand on a hot forge," replies Maglind with a young, knowing smile. "Forgive me, but I would remain a mere
Warden for today. Who knows what tomorrow might bring? Perhaps I will explore their respective telain, and see what draws
me."

"Forgive me Maglind," Galharth says with a concerned voice. "The violence of your profession, or the little I've seen of it,
seems in great need of a more positive release. Either Bard or Crafter seems well suited to that negativity you face as a
Guard."

Smiling he once more tilts his head. "Can you forgive me?"

"I can," Maglind replies mildly, shaking the last drops of dew from his fingers. He rises, the starlight rippling in patches
on his yellow head. "No matter. We try only to preserve, and protect, and too often we protect with weapons."

"It is a narrow path you walk, and for that I thank you for your efforts." Galharth says taking a step towards the Forest
path. "For now, I need to prepare for the journey." The Clothier pauses a moment and turns a smile towards the Warden.
"Should you need a cloak or other warm clothing, feel free to come see me and I can have it constructed in short order."

With that he turns and retreats along the southern route leading back to the city.