================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Midnight < About 1:01 AM >
IC day is: Orithil <Moon-day>
IC date is: 49 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Waxing Crescent <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: Thu May 17 17:20:32 2007
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Training Field
On this wide field, boundry sticks and markers seem to rise up in a variety of patterns. Interspersed between all of these,
targets, dummies, and other devices for training stand in various levels of repair. Taking up one side of the field, an
archery range can be found. Along the opposite side, a long low hillock looking building that seems to be both a part of the
hill itself and the trees as it is built beneath grass and branch, the only entrance jutting out between two thick roots of
a tall mallorn.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
Haldir
=====================================================================

It is midnight in Lothlorien: the stars laugh, the crescent of a moon glimmers, and the breeze meanders. Silver light spills
upon the training field atop Caras Galadhon, illuminating the few that practice there this 'eve.

The songs of night -- from both Elf and bird -- rise as the evening progresses. Yet they are interrupted by the sudden,
harsh ring of metal striking metal, a sharp staccato amidst the medley's of the 'eve.

Haldir spars with one of the marchwardens: sword and shield are born upon both hands, and both are used in tandem.

"Do you ever give up?"

Stepping onto the training field, with his longsword hanging loosely in his hand, the clothier moves forward towards those
training diligently. Pausing a short distance away, Galharth catches sight of Haldir sparring. Crystal blues eyes light up
in awe, and the crafter stands watching in amazement.

Occasionally, the ellon swipes his sword one way and then the other as he mimics the Marchwardens movement. "Amazing," he
mutters softly.

Gently crushing the grass underneath bare feet, Maglind stops to watch the two. A naked blade rests in his hand, barely
touching the ground.

He murmurs to himself. "They're at it again."

"I will prevail yet," claims Haldir, determination writ upon Silvan face as brows knit together. Leather-clad feet carry him
to the side, and he begins to lunge forward ...

When the resounding -thwack- of the flat of steel upon cloth sounds upon the air.

"... in again proving that you are the better swordsman," finishes he, lowering a hand to rub idly upon the point of impact.
A stray glance to the side, alighting upon Maglind and Galharth briefly, and Haldir inclines his head to his opponent.

"Be well, friend. I will meet you in the Mar Vanwa Tyalieva. If you will excuse me, however, for the moment." The Silvan
steps to the side, and turns to face the two newcomers.

Turning as someone speaks, Galharth nods to Maglind's words.

As he turns back to watch he suddenly realizes that Haldir now faces him, no, them. Immediately the clothier lifts his hand
to wave the Marchwarden off. "Please, don't let me interrupt you," he mutters quickly. Pausing a moment he turns to Maglind,
"Unless the Warden here needs something, consider me a shadow that can be ignored."

"A shadow with a sword?" asks Maglind curiously, raising a hand to scratch his chin. "Well, I could practice on a dummy, but
I would be honored if you might spar with me. If you promise not to slay me."

Haldir pauses, considering Galharth's words momentarily, before replying with: "It is the ignored shadow that strikes the
greatest blow. But, you interrupt nothing, unless it be a conversation which was already delayed for later."

One brow arcs upwards upon Silvan face, belying the curiosity that wanders into the question the marchwarden asks: "You have
both come for practice with the blade? By all means: spar amongst yourself. I am already beat, and have not the heart to
attempt another bout."

Chuckling softly, the clothier turns towards Maglind with a smile. "Better to be said to be a shadow than a coward, and I
fear I'm close to the latter with all that I've experienced of late." Lifting his chin and sweeping his left hand outwards
with a flair, Galharth offers a dramatic bow. "I would be honored to spar with you good sir, especially since you've managed
to save my life what... twice already, or will you give the latest save to Rhibi?"

Stepping back, the crafter lifts his blade upwards at a ready stance. "I promise not to slay you Warden, if you in turn can
promise not to hurt me when you attack." His smile grows brighter and he steps back one step to ready for an attack.

"Most definitely Rhibi's," replies Maglind with a ringing laugh, stepping backwards and bringing up the bright blade. He
winks teasingly. "It is night. Shadows go first."

"You are not a coward," chides Haldir with a shake of his head, a brief pause punctuating the comment, "unless you accept it
as a matter of fact, in which case you are. You were misinformed. There is no cowardice in that."

Lowering blade and letting the tip rest lightly upon the grass, the marchwarden leans slightly upon his weapon, turning
watchful gaze to the two.

"To clarify our conversation of before: I do not withhold information with evil intent. In the past, I spoke freely, but was
told to not. Those not in the guard care not for the outside world."

Tensing his shoulders stiffly, the clothier nods. "Very Well, Warden, the shadow flickers," Galharth says with no small
measure of amusement.

Stepping forward, crystal blue eyes narrow as they sweep over the Warden's form. His expression remains neutral as his blade
sweeps down and outwards in an attempt to swat Maglind upon the thigh.

"Nay, I accept it not, but appearances call it otherwise." The crafter replies to Haldir. "Misinformation aside, all that
you've told me aside, I still hold fear in my heart, and I've yet to reconcile that matter."

Galharth attacks Maglind with his Longsword...
Galharth's attack against Maglind mildly wounds him!

Maglind says nothing, but he listens. Perhaps too intently, for the blade catches him unawares, causing him to stumble back,
barefooted.

The warden crouches, jabbing forward with the point turned harmlessly to the side.

Maglind attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and Galharth parry's his attack with his Longsword!

As his blade sweeps forward and lands, the clothier draws the weapon back into a ready position, angled from his left
shoulder to his right hip. Chewing lightly upon his lower lip, he reacts as the Warden jabs forward. Stepping back, he drops
the tip of his longsword downward and to the right, sweeping his opponents weapon with the act.

Grunting with effort and strain upon his shoulder, the return flight of the crafters longsword swings back towards Maglinds
chest. With the blades flat side presented, Galharth seeks to make a second impact.

Galharth attacks Maglind with his Longsword...
Galharth's attack against Maglind mildly wounds him!

Haldir watches the two, offering yet neither comment nor advice upon the matter of weapon and the sparring. Instead, the
speech that comes is directed towards the clothier.

"Fear of what?"

The sword strikes true: it would have pinned the embroidered lion to Maglind's chest, had it not been the flat.

"Fear," he smiles gently, sweeping at Galharth's shins, "it is a formidable foe, is it not?"

Maglind attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

With his swing following through, much to the crafters amazement, Galharth takes a step to his right while once more drawing
his blade back into a defensive position. "Fear of dying, fear of being hurt, fear of causing hurt to others! Take your pick
for they all apply!" the clothier calls out in reply to the Marchwarden. To Maglind, he smiles slightly, softening his
words, "To me it seems as if they disable be well before I have the chance to even try to face what lay beyond our borders."

Dodging yet another of the Warden's blow, a flicker of confidence appears and is quickly dashed in the crafters gaze.
"Still, I seem to be improving slightly... ever so slightly,"

Flicking the flat of his blade back and to the right, he aims to slap at Maglind's shoulder.

Galharth attacks Maglind with his Longsword...
Galharth's attack against Maglind mildly wounds him!

"Overconfidence is a more deadly foe than folly," comments Haldir dryly, leaning still upon his weapon, the tip of which by
now has sunk into the grass. "Loosen yourself: do not be tense."

"This is the ideal circumstance. You will never find yourself in such situation in a battle."

"You /are/ improving," insists Maglind, ruefully rubbing at his shoulder. "Or I am clumsy. But do not take me for your
measuring rod."

Lunging forward, he pokes at Galharth's chest again.

Maglind attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

"OverConfident? I will certainly be dead well before I would suffer from that, Haldir," Galharth blurts out as he hops back
to avoid Maglind's jab.

Stepping forward, swinging his blade once more, snapping it towards Maglind's hip. At the last instant, the clothier turns
his wrist to offer the flat of his blade.

Galharth attacks Maglind with his Longsword...
Galharth's attack against Maglind mildly wounds him!

"It is a combination of both, Maglind, of that I am certain," answers Haldir, sly jest twisting into words as he replies.
"For you, it seems you face an insurmountable foe: if you cannot win, or even perceive such, then make it impossible for him
to. Attack only so much as it allows you to escape."

A pause.

"That is standard when facing trolls."

Maglind's eyes widen for a moment, ere honed edge turns to flat and it strikes his hip, sending him a few paces to the left.
He shakes himself. "Then," he muses, blade flickering toward the Clothier's arm, "it is the standard to never fight trolls."

Maglind attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

"I would say it's better to never fight at all. One who swings will certainly be on the receiving end of a blade as
retaliation." Galharth says, taking a deep breath and stepping swiftly out of Maglind's sword path.

Stepping back he holds his blade at ready, and his other hand up in surrender. "Marchwarden, I fear I shall do Maglind harm
if we continue. Can we call this sparring to an end?"

Haldir shakes his head in thought, allowing brows to narrow as momentary question lingers in gaze. "Here is the true
question, and I leave it to you to answer, Galharth:"

Lifting a hand and gesturing towards Maglind, he queries, "Which is the greater harm? To continue the sparring, and cause a
few bruises now? Or, to cease the sparring now and remove the ability to learn more, which could cause much greater harm
later?"

Silent before the blade, Maglind stands waiting: blade lowered, jaw impassive, eyes searching.

"Not fair! There is no question as to what the choice is." Galharth says with clear frustration to Haldir's suggestion. "I
would choose to learn more, regardless of the bruises, or even blood drawn. Better to learn now in these calmer
circumstances than to face a beast unaware and untrained."

Turning his gaze to Maglind, an expression of pure apology flickers in his eyes. "I am sorry Warden," he mutters, lifting
his blade once more to ready. "Give the word Haldir, and we will resume! No question, no hesitation. I will not face a vile
beast again from a position of unskilled."

"I do not think it will come to drawing blood; nevertheless," the warden grins, closing in on Galharth's defense, "I shall
try not to be kind."

Maglind attacks Galharth with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

"It is fair," retorts Haldir with another, dismissive shake of his head, "I give no word. I watch and you two spar. You
started when you please, and end when you please."

Gritting his teeth as the Warden attacks, the clothier steps towards Maglind's left turning with the step and bringing his
blade around to strike his opponents stomach in what appears to be an opening. The swing is a bold one, and with Haldir's
words it comes to a halt before the strike can be fully completed.

"It pleases me to end." Galharth says flatly as he steps away.

Maglind shrinks back, but the blow never connects. He gazes at Galharth, eyes unreadable. "If you will defeat me, do it to
completion. Would you say that to a wounded foe on the field?"

Haldir is silent and watches: gray gaze darts from Galharth to Maglind, and then back again.

"It is not a choice of winning or losing, defeating nor being defeated, Warden." Galharth says with a strange glimmer of
satisfaction in his eyes. "Withholding my last strike is as much a skill for me as it is to strike." He chuckles softly as
he looks down at his longswords glimmering edge. "Regardless of what anyone here says on the matter, to me it seems the
first step I've taken to master the blade rather than to have it master me."

Maglind seems to accept this. "Good," he says faintly, reluctantly. "I have no wish to be cut in two."

"So be it," intones Haldir with an inclination of his head. "Do not let it be said that the crafters are not kind, nor
gracious."

"But, if you will excuse me," comments the marchwarden, "I believe that my presence is no longer necessary."

"How can you say that Haldir?" Galharth says looking up from his blade towards the Marchwarden. "What I have learned, is
mostly from your expertise. Your guidance is sorely needed, at least by me."

Maglind jabs his blade into the lawn, tenderly putting a hand to his shoulder and his chest.

"Because of that so called 'expertise', Galharth," quips Haldir, "I know when I am non-essential. We will meet again upon
this matter. Farewell."

And with that, the Silvan turns and departs, shadowy-cloak swallowing the marchwarden up into the night.