================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Evening < About 6:39 PM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 48 Echuir <Stirring>
Moon phase: Full <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: Sun Jun 10 15:13:23 2007
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Center of Fangorn
You are embarking through the boughs of Fangorn. A path lies here, seemingly made by large and heavy beings as the dirt is packed and smooth. The trees about you have an ominous way about them, making you feel uneasy to be here. The trees themselves seem to make the path, as all other ways are blocked. Continue carefully, for there are things unheardof that live within these woods. The daylight sun beams across the forest of Fangorn, illuminating the paths through the foliage.

Contents:
Galharth
Galaslagor
Maglind
Niinaeth
=====================================================================

Early evening falls upon Fangorn, bringing forth soft sounds of night creatures in movement. There is a strange whisper in the canopy overhead, adding a eeire tone to the coming night. In the Galadhrim camp, that silence is mirrored by several as the previous days events weigh upon all to various degrees.

Laying peacefully upon the ground, appearing to be asleep, the Clothier Galharth begins to move slightly. Then, when it appears as if he calms, he suddenly sits up with a gasp. "Ow!" he mutters, bringing his hands to hold his head. "What happened?"

A startled Galaslagor stands up from the roots in which he was perched, keeping Watch over the camp, and runs over to Galharth, "Ah mellon, seems you have finally regained conciousness!" He gives a small smile and sits next to Galharth. "It seems you have ran into a Troll, and you where knocked out cold." He puts his Bow on his shoulder. "Luck was with you.

Maglind was hurt as well, but he's healing, thanfuly. How do you feel?" He inquires, passing him a small flask with water.

Seated on the ground, leaning heavily on the poles of his flimsy tent, Maglind looks up from where he is winding bloody cloths about his person. And then he looks down again.

Raising a hand from his head, and waving it slightly at the whirl of words surrounding him, the clothier whispers, "Slow down, mellon. Too much, too fast." Accepting the flask, Galharth takes a long drink of the water, swallowing uncomfortably. After a moment, he returns the flask to Galaslagor. Turning, towards the Warden, he winces at the pain to his head. "Do you want help with that, Maglind? Mia has doctored me enough that I think I could be of some use to you."

A swift glance at Maglind and back to the clothier. "I wish my fair Nariel was here. She could have been of help in the healing matters of this camp." He smiles at the memory of her promised elleth. "Well, when you recover fully, Maglind and I have something of dependable importance to show you..." He takes out the scroll and waits for the Tailor to get the better of his condition.

"I'll be fine," calls the warden with some effort, even as the sticky bandage pulls at the wound, spreading red blood over shaking fingers. He turns away. "...I can do this myself."

As of yet upon this venture, one of the travelers has remained completely silent. A word not spoken to any. Odd that it may be, for it is the Minister. This is not her wont, for she speaks readily and often as most will tell. It however has taken until the sight before her for the elleth to at last broach speech as she approaches Maglind. "Stubborn hard headed mule." Here she hands him a small satchel with a shake of her head, "Go on, torture yourself more, great one of the Order. Pull at it, make it bleed even more. Or put your stubborn pride aside and use the ointment in the bag." With a sigh, she turns and returns to the camp.

"Injury was not expected," Galharth mutters softly as he rises to rummage through their collective supplies. A frown appears upon his face as his search is fruitless. "Simple things we can handle. But that looks like it's beyond simple."

Looking up, he watches speechlessly as Niinaeth sweeps in and drops off the bag that had been the object of his search. "I suppose she told us," he mutters as he rises up and moves towards Maglind's side. "Let me," he says firmly as he opens the satchel. Withdrawing both ointment and fresh bandages, he sits them upon his cloak. "Go ahead Galaslagor, I'm listening."

The sentinel gives a quick nod as he unrolls the old parchment. "Tis a forestry scroll, one that by a simple hand-movement, can give us the kind of tree the symbols represent and what does the herder of said tree looks like." He puts a hand over the willow symbol and awaits an answer.

Maglind sighs as deeply as his chest will allow him, and lets the bloody bandage flutter to the ground. "Fine."

He closes his eyes and listens.

Peering at Galaslagor with confusion, Galharth's frown deepens, and suddenly it disappears and is replaced with a chuckle. "One can not summon a being who's age rivals these lands. It was amazing that we encountered the one we did."

Falling silent, the clothier sets about cleaning Maglind's wound. As he works he offers a weak smile. "Don't expect me to sing, unless you want embroidery work done on your wound."

Sighs as he shakes his head. "I hope the Onodrim appreciate this piece of Lore in Forestry." He looks at Maglind's wounds.
"That troll did quite some damage..." He looked around. "I hope no more of it's kind approaches us...the consequences would not be good for EITHER side." A soft chuckle.

The warden stifles a laugh. "Please don't, Clothier." He sits still as the large, unattractive gash across his chest ceases to weep. "How is your head?" he whispers.

"He speaks true. I appear when and only when I make my mind too. " Large footfalls can easily be heard coming from the entwash, the voice deep and easily carried upon the slight breeze as Willoweg appears from the south. In his hands he carries a stone bowl filled with water and herbs, as his deep set amber eyes come to rest upon Galharth, "Drink firstborn."

With the wound clean, the clothier smirks as he smears the ointment over Maglind's chest. "You're loss. At least I can fix your cloak before we go much further." Turning to Galaslagor, he winces again at the pain in his head rears up. After releasing a soft ow, he focuses his gaze upon the Sentinel. "It could have been worse, I can attest to that." Sighing softly he adds, "Should we meet another, we would sadly do poorly. There are few among us able to handle a threat such as that."

No sooner does he speak that the crafters eyes grow wide as they are approached. Fear flickers in his eyes, but grows to a glance of amazement as his gaze sweeps up to take in the most noble of creatures. "I...I... " he studders as he reaches out to take the bow. "Thank you..." he says softly.

He nods at Galharth's words but suddenly he notices the Ent, and his eyes widen, and amazement fills them. "Ah...umm..." He says stupidly until he gets the compusture to speak normally, "Ah, tree-herder, Onodrim, Ent of Fangorn I have something that might interest you." He unrolls the scroll and shows Willoweg the same procedure he gave Galharth, only with more interruptions on his part, "...and when you cover the lower half of the tree-symbol, you see the form of the tree-herder of said tr-tree." He hands the scroll over to branchy fingers of the Onodrim.

Maglind, too, nods his speechless thanks. He allows himself a peek at the bowl. "It's ... water," he whispers to Galharth, bemused.

Long brown fingers, long scared and knotted take the scroll and stares at it. "Hooormm...rubbish." Willoweg quickly hands the scroll back to the elf and steps back into the trees.. "Cover them, eat them...you see what we allow." A nod to Maglind and the ent once again steps forward. "Surrounded you are, yet cannot see."

As Galaslagor speaks to the Ent, the crafter converses softly with the Warden. Wrinkling his nose, he shakes his head, closing his eyes to the wave of discomfort. "Nay, it's something more," Galharth whispers as he lifts the bowl to take a drink. Swallowing, he passes the bowl to the Warden, "Drink. I think it will help." Turning back towards the Herder, the Clothier rises to his feet and bows respectfully. "It is most fortunate that we were indeed watched. You saved our lives and for this I offer my most respectful thanks." Rising up, he flinches slightly from the ache in his head. "I am Galharth, and this is Maglind, and Galaslagor." He pauses a moment and looks up towards the face upon the tree.

"I understand" He tosses the scroll aside and mimics Galharth and bows, "I am Galaslagor, a mere Sentinel and I greet and thank you for the aid you have provided, Ancient one." He looks up at the Ent as he speaks.

Maglind cannot stand, but he touches a bloody hand to his forehead in respect. Taking the stone bowl from Galharth, he lifts it to his lips and drinks deeply.

The warden trembles; the vessel nearly slips from his hands as he swallows and breathes deeply.

"Willoweg.." Moving toward Maglind, the great creature kneels and begins to inspect the wound. "Not mere water, ent wash..
herbs." The ent continues to look at the wound with wide eyes and bows his head, bringing his boughs to shade those gathered. "The child?" A single question.. "Come with me.. Now." Standing to his full height, he points to Maglind and then to Galharth, "Bring him.." Slowly long branches are lowered to the ground near the elves giving them the ability to climb if they choose.

Glaharth glances at the discarded scroll, "We'll talk about the scroll,

Galaslagor, I'm curious about it." he whispers softly. Stepping back to give Willoweg room to look upon Maglind, he lifts a brow at the question of a child. "Rhibi?" he asks, peering around the camp. "Likely exploring. He has a history within this wood and a great fondness if I remember the story told." Stooping, the clothier bends to help Maglind to his feet so that they might rise into the sturdy branches offered. "Where are we to go?"

Maglind clings to Galharth awkwardly, peering up the ancient limbs. And then he acquiesces, and stumbles along.

=====================================================================
Willoweg
Of leaf, life, and branch is he, An ancient, wisened, willow tree. Wide and strong his roots go deep, Memories of the world he wishes not repeat. Anywhere where his boughs drape the ground, Wind does whisper through his leaves, a painful sorrowful sound. Orange, yellow, red, and green do come for most upon the bole, He is not afforded rest, his leaves a dying soul.
About his waist the thorny vine, Creeps to the ground about what is not thine Eyes that shimmer of brown and green,
A testament to that which is best unseen. Draped in rough hewn bark-gray and ashen, He moves without haste, only in passion.
Fire has ran like wild beasts, engulfing places in its wrath, Where cloudless drops of cool clear rain has wash its blackened path. Where a rock rests where anger and pain meet, Only felt upon movement of his feet.

Contents:
Galharth
Galaslagor
Maglind
=====================================================================

Galaslagor climbs the herder's branches and sits in the highest one, near the ent's head. He sees the camp down on the ground and grins, with one thought on his mind:"My fairest, thou shall hear the tales of Galaslagor and the Tree-herder with an amazed look upon your fair face, which is so dear to me"

=====================================================================
Wellinghall

Contents:
Willoweg
Galharth
Maglind
Galaslagor
=====================================================================

Maglind lies sprawled on the floor, and raises his head slightly to look around.

"Where are we?" he whispers: bewildered, disoriented, unsettled, though his voice echoes sussurant through the trees.

Set into a daze by Willoweg's movement, the scenery passes in a blur. Time passes, distance is covered, and yet Galharth can say nothing of the journey other than that it was a pleasant one. Too soon they are settled onto the ground. "What is this place?" he asks, mirroring Maglind's curiosity. Turning towards the Herder, he tilts his head awaiting an answer.

Willoweg does not answer their query, rather he stands searching the area for something or someone. There is respect, tremendous and perhaps feared in his manner. From the surroundings to the elves his gaze travels and back to the elves. For a long moment the ent clearly tries to decide his course action. Long moments pass before he rolls his face skyward and issues a tremendous call <Entish> "They.......are........here...." Once he settles back to watching the elves the ent begins to gently collect leaves which have fallen to the forest floor. "I do not know what to do. Another may."

He watches silently as he and his friends are taken to this unkown place. He enjoyed the ride terribly. As he looks around, the Ent startles him with his strange call. He listents to the Ent's words and simply stares, quite amazed.

Maglind crouches into a huddle, hugging his head as the call sounds and resounds. "Do ... what?" His voice is very small and rather frightened.

The sound startles, and yet does not cause alarm. As Maglind asks the question in response to Willoweg's understandable words, Galharth falls into his habit of silent observation. It is that or perhaps feeling the effects of the injury gained when his head fell upon the rock. Stepping back into shadows, he settles onto the ground. Out of nowhere a yawn issues forth from his lips, and he crosses his legs and lowers his head and drifts off, leaving his trust in the herders branches.

As Galharth rests, Galaslagor gets closer to the Herder. "I really would like to know what is happening at the moment..." He
smiles shyly. "Do what, exactly, as my good mellon has inquired already?" He rubs his bow nervously.

From one to the next his gaze travels as he moves about, placing first the leaves near Maglind. Then he begins to collect moss which is also laid near the elf. Once this is gathers, a stone bowl is filled with water and he returns to the elf. "Wound in not good..hoorummhumm..no good. Your life leaves you." With this he points to the blood as he begins to remove ong dead willow branches from himself, "I can not heal, do not know the way." He looks at the wound and back to Galaharth, "Clean, pack, wrap, tie."

Maglind props himself up on one bare arm, eyes flashing this way and that as he is surrounded with objects. "But ... it is only a little blood," he cries, looking up at the Herder. "Is it that bad? I tried to stop it..."

He looks at the Warden's wounds and back at the Herder. "I do hope with all my might that he heals, Mighty Onodrim." He puts a hand in Maglind's shoulder and sighs. "You will heal, mellon"

[OOC: Scene died out.]