================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Midday < About 12:17 PM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 40 Ethuil <Spring>
Moon phase: First Quarter <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Tue Jun 26 13:05:55 2007
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Before Orthanc -- Rath Tarma: Harnarth
Here stands a tower of marvellous shape. It was fashioned by the builders of old who smoothed the Ring of Isengard, and yet it seems a thing not made by the craft of Men, but riven from the bones of the earth in the ancient torment of the hills. A peak and isle of rock it is, black and gleaming hard: four mighty piers of many-sided stone are welded into one, but near the summit they open into gaping horns, their pinnacles sharp as the points of spears, keen-edged as knives. Between them is a narrow space where a man might stand 500' above the plain. This is Orthanc, the citadel of Saruman, the name of which has a twofold meaning; in the elvish speech _Orthanc_ signifies Mount Fang, but in the language of the Mark of old, the Cunning Mind.

Roads spoke out from the center piece, in each of the cardinal directions. While a smaller road wraps itself sungly around the tower in search of the entrance.

Contents:
Galharth
Maglind
Niinaeth

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The midday sun shines down upon Isengard, highlighting the deep greens and delicate shrubbery of the ring surrounding the tall and imposing Orthanc. Light itself seems to be absorbed into the black matted surface of the tower, giving it an ominous appearance for those who look upon it. A wind bows down into the circle, bringing with it the heady scents of spring in full bloom. Somewhere nearby a garden grows, as the perfumed scent of flowers mingles with the other scents carried upon the breeze.

On this day, Galharth stands before the tower staring upwards. Crystal blue eyes flicker from one window to the next, in what seems a search for activity. "How long..." he mutters softly, clearly impatient for an audience with the resident of the tower.

The height of the tower casts a shadow on the ground, looming over and dwarfing another. "What do you think he's doing?" asks Maglind, tapping his foot on the ground.

"Testing us perhaps?" the clothier mutters softly. "Perhaps he waits to see if we have dedication towards finding the information in which we seek." Shaking his head, Galharth turns his head from his tower gazing and looks towards the Warden. "I know so little of those who are not elven, that I can not say what he does. I think we've been more than patient." Looking back to the tower he sighs. "Three more days I think, and we must return home."

"It was just a shipwreck," answers Maglind, impatience creeping into his voice. "We have waited too long. And blood has been shed."

A shadow of guilt flickers in the clothier's eyes. "I'm sorry my friend, had I known the perils, I might have asked to go alone rather than to risk the safety of others." Lower his eyes, Galharth turns his head slightly to glance at the others within the camp. "Still, it has been an eye opening experience. This place is strange is it not? Counted among the good peoples, yet so odd and almost unfriendly."

"It is strange," echoes the warden in agreement. "There have been ever more enemies roaming the plains. Perhaps he is unwilling to come out, even though his fortress is impregnable?"

Long distance to Taradel: Galharth has been waiting for RP with Saruman for a week now, so I would have LOVED you're taking it. We really need help here.

"Unwilling?" Galharth says with surprise, "Nay, I can not believe that Curunir would be afraid of anything." Sweeping a hand to the ring, he adds, "His defenses are beyond compare, and he's surrounded by the good peoples of Middle Earth, so there is nothing for him to fear."

Taking a deep breath and kicking a pebble upon the path, the clothier's voice lowers. "Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, the questions that we ask has no real merit."

"Who knows?" Maglind asks, and he sits down heavily upon the ground. "We came this far. And our history is not of no merit. Turning back now would be a waste."

"At least we agree on that, Maglind." Galharth says firmly as his gaze moves towards the Warden. "I suppose, at the very least, we can explore the grounds while we wait." Chuckling softly, a hand sweeps towards Rhibi, sitting off in the distance. "Do you know the boy wanted to pry a stone loose from the ring because it sparkled just so and showed itself as Alqualonde. I had to make him promise not to tear apart Curunir's property."

"It is a beautiful place," says Maglind, slowly rising to his feet. "Perhaps Curunir is walking in his gardens. Let us search."

Sweeping a hand towards the northwest, Galharth's brow lifts, "Lead the way, Warden of Lothlorien, for I, a simple Tailor, can do not but follow." With his final word, the clothier grins mischeviously.

"I have never been here," sighs Maglind, sidestepping to allow Galharth forward, but he walks on nevertheless.

"Nor have I." Galharth says as he follows along hehind the Warden. "Still, the land seems so pure and untouched, like the worries of the world have passed Isengard by. Or...." he says pausing, "at the very least these worries have ignored this land."

Arriving in the garden, the Tailor visibly relaxes. "Ah, so like home. Tender leaves, and gentle grasses." he says with a smile. "Catching sight of a large black bird, the clothier peers, and it is gone and flying away before he has a chance to identify it.

"It sounds so much like Lo... our home." Maglind squints into the noontime sky. "That is a raven, is it not? I would think it is a sign of wisdom."

Peering towards the bird, Galharth's face pinches in concentration. "Perhaps, but it moves quickly." Shrugging his shoulders his gaze turns once again towards the towar. "oh Curunir, Oh Curunir, come forth to offer your adice!" Pausing a moment he awaits a response, and finding none he shakes his head. "Alas, this land is unique."

"It is said that this was built by the Southern Kingdom as a watchtower. I should think this is a memory of their West." Maglind walks slowly, heading ever closer to the broken wall.

Galharth peers at Maglind with a measure of respect. "I knew not of this place. Never really cared of the dealings of those not elven." Bending slightly to cup a blossom with one hand he closes his eyes to inhale the fragrance. "It is Curunir that is wise, not I. I hope to gain something from his wisdom."

"But would he know of history?" asks Maglind, curiously looking at the wall that seeps gas. "The wise say he came over Sea, but when?"

"Again, you ask that which I know not. Be it history so close or distant past I know not." Galharth says with a tilted head. "Niinaeth seems to think he would know, and I can do no else but trust her opinion."

"I trust her. Let us go further," suggests the warden, eyes still locked on the wall, "and see what new ... flowers ... Curunir our host has cultured."

"As do I," Galharth admits in a soft voice as he moves to look upon another flower. "Niinaeth knows more than I, and I have no ego raised that might object to her words. All she says is to wait for him to make his appearance." Laughing softly, the clothier steps away from the flower and turns once more to the tower. "still, I find myself growing impatient."

Maglind turns back, away from the seeping wall. "Should we head back? If we are close, he might notice us."

Nodding softly, the clothier sweeps a hand towards the pathway. "Indeed, we should get back to the camp for if Curunir arrives, I would prefer to be among those to meet him." After taking a step, Galharth bursts out a laugh, "Should Rhibi be the one to meet with him, we are lost. Let us hurry!" His steps along the path pick up and the Tailor hurries along.

"Eru forbid," cries Maglind, as he turns tail and sprints after.

"Ack!" Galharth calls out as he arrives behind the Warden in the race back to camp from the Isengard Gardens. "I see none but our own folk, so clearly he keeps us in suspense."

"Then sit and wait," replies Maglind, already seating himself on the ground, "for there are cloaks to repair and arrows to fletch. We need not be caught idle."

Bending his head, the clothier digs into his pockets. "Ah, ha," he says softly as he withdraws a threaded needle. "Perhaps I can fix your cloak from our encounter with the Troll." Galharth suggests with a tilt of his head.

"You might," says Maglind ruefully, "but I have fixed it myself already." He pulls the cloak over his chest; there is a ragged tear, over which are wide, jagged stitches, already pulling loose.

Crystal blue eyes widen in shock.... no horror, as they peer at the jagged stitches. "What have you done!" The horror evident in the Tailor's voice is comparable to the sound of grief heard when news of a relative dying is told. Reaching out a hand, yet flinching back before touching, the craftes face pinces in distress. "The fabric itself must be stressed with the attempt you have forced upon it. How unnatural, how.... rough and harsh." Galharth's voice quivers slightly. "Give the cloak to me, and I shall undo that which was done.... if indeed the possibility is still reachable."

"Well you know I have a rip in my drawers...how about fixing them too?"

Maglind glances once at the Clothier's face, and begins to undo the clasp with shaking hands. "Sorry. Sorry. It was lying bloody and mangled in my tent, and I thought you might weep when you saw it... I took it, washed it and closed the tear while I was healing. I could have asked you."

"Give me...." Galharth mutters with an outstretched hand. "To do that to cloth... unthinkable!" Clearly the Tailor is distressed, and yet it becomes moreso when Niinaeth speaks.

Turning his head in slow motion, and narrowing his eyes as a frown forms upon his lips. "Drop them dear lady and they will be mended," he says with a voice that his cool and stiff, "And... as any good tailor of my standing, I'll not ask how you ripped them."

Laughing the Minister approaches the pair and bends over, displaying a large tear in the seam of her pants. "It was rather simple to be honest. Maglind did it. Something about to arms, an arrow, and whip snap he tore a hole in them." As she stands, she pulls at the seam to close it and shrugs, "You know how those Order people are Galharth, forever battling something. This time it was my clothing."

"Perhaps you could have asked the torog to avoid the cloak when he struck me. Or, perhaps, to go into battle devoid of cloth," mutters Maglind, tossing the cloak and uncaring whether the clothier catches it or not.

His mouth opens in a wide O when the Minister speaks: "I did not! It was to your own fault for hanging them so close to my target." And then he storms off to the grey tents, bow and quiver flapping loose without the cloak to secure them.