Northern Base of Amon Obel

The woods here are as thick as anywhere else in the forest. Even in the daytime, only a greenish glow permeates the space in between the huge trees that reach upwards. Still there is a wholesome feel to the ancient forest, and with a little care the paths from the river to Amon Obel can be found and traversed safely.

Leaves rustle with a light summer breeze and the sun lowers behind the trees, the last of its red and gold hues filtering through the thick ancient woods that surround this place. Quiet, narrow paths wend their way in through the forest, converging upon the river that lies beyond and on either side are spaced dozens upon dozens of small tents. Men and women walk amongst them, quietly preparing meals and talking amongst themselves, their voices carrying clearly on the breeze. Against a wide tree Finnabair leans, her back to the encampment, gazing off into the press of the forest.

The fresh forest air grows gradually cooler with the approach of evening, and though the surrounding mess of trees shelter the Beorian's encampment from the spring breezes, their chill can still at times be felt by those who walk amidst the tents. The wounded woodsman, Istadris, trudges heavily along one of the narrow trails. His heavily bandaged left arm hangs limply at his side, no longer upon its constraining sling, but covered partly by the loose green cloak at his shoulders. His spear is carried clutched in hand, and though his steps are slowly and heavy, the lean Beorian no longer leans upon the weapon for support. His casual, strolling pace bears him along the center of the encampment and towards where Finnabair stands seemingly at ease.

Walking towards the Beorian encampment from out of the apparently trackless forest, Corrin seems perfectly at ease with his surroundings and it is clear to see that this is a man who is exactly where he wants to be. At home. As he approaches, he nods to Finnabair, who is the first person he sees.

Appearing out of the trees ahead of her, Finnabair sees the figure of a man come walking: tall, brown of hair and eye and dressed in the manner of one who walks the forests often. Turning her eye more fully upon him, she returns his greeting with a hestitant one of her own, saying, "Evening.", in the tongue of the Beor. The breeze picks up suddenly, masking the approach of Istadris along with the sounds of the camp and Finnabair frowns in thought, still gazing absently upon the tall Haladin.

Spear held firmly in hand, Istadris veers in his path to approach the upon which Finnabair leans. "Well, Finnabair..." He calls lightly, only to trail off as he first notes Corrin's presence. The wounded man halts before the young ranger and his own cousin, glancing between each in turn before venturing a crooked smile and looking questioningly to the Haladin man. "Have you met Finnabair?" He asks him somewhat haltingly in the Haladin's own language. His curious gaze is directed to the Beorian woman next, as he tugs idly at the folds of his cloak and speaks on, this time in the common tongue. "Corrin is my mother's brother's son, Finna." He explains, with a light, uneven shrug of his shoulders.

"No, not yet," Corrin answers Istadris immediately in his own tongue as he comes to a stop a few feet away from the pair. Inclining his head politely to Finnabair, he continues in his own tongue, forgetting for the moment to speak common, "The sun shines bright upon our meeting, lady. I am honoured to meet you." Then, seeming to recollect himself, he switches to common, and says more slowly, "Good day, Finnabair."

Amongst the trees, not far from the edges of the Beorian camp, stand three figures: Finnabair, Corrin and Istadris, engaged in conversation as the sun sets in the west, casting the last of its light through the thick forest and the night encloses around them.

Finnabair glances over her shoulder when she hears her name spoken and finds Istadris there, slowly making his way toward her through the trees with spear in hand. "Istadris.", she greets him, smiling as she pushes away from the tree she leans against so she can turn half-way toward him. With the barest flicker of her gaze, she notes the bandaged arm and then lifts her grey eyes quickly, frowning at the question he speaks in language of the Haladin. His explanation comes quickly after and her brows lift, her mouth forming a silent "o" as she glances between the two men several times. But Corrin's added greeting returns the frown upon her and she gives him a puzzled look first at the Haladin and then to Istadris for translation, until the man ends with the common. "Ah!", she says, understanding him now, "Well met, Corrin. Cousins?", she asks them, "Truly?"

Istadris stands back, a few short paces away from the other two edain as they exchange greetings. The woodsman slowly turns the haft of the spear in his grip until its iron-tipped point is aimed towards the ground, and then shoves it firmly into the grassy soil by his side. With his unharmed right hand, he clutches the weapon's worn haft and leans lightly upon it, all the while looking between Corrin and Finnabair. "Aye, truly." He answers the ranger, his own smile broadening. The lean Beorian looks to his cousin then, and speaks on. "Most of our folk have decided where they shall go and with whom." He informs the Haladin, "I would wish to go with you, to see the rest of the family, Corrin."

His expression serious, Corrin nods to Istadris. "Good," he says in the brief and clipped manner he prefers when speaking common. Rubbing his chin between one thumb and index finger, he seems to consider saying more for a moment, but then decides against expending the unnecessary effort.

Finnabair only nods as Istadris explains again and smiling slightly she allows the two cousins to talk together while around them the forest darkens and small fires begin to spring up through the trees. Woodsmoke drifts on the evening breeze and Finnabair shifts her gaze toward them while interrupting with a question, "What of the Lady Emeldir? Where will she stay?"

Leaves whisper with rumours of a breeze passing overhead, and campfires are given the greater light as the orange glow of the sun's final rays withdraws to the west. Most in the camp seem to settle and quiet in this evening muse, but the sound of voices familiar and close by draws one of the Beorians from the tent where she has been resting. Free of the draping blue length of her cloak, and cradling her injured left arm of her right, the healer Aldawin stoops through the opening of the dark canvas shelter, her gaze searching in the dimming light. Seeing those familiar close by, a smile lifts of her face as her steps carry her towards the wide-girthed tree where Finnabair, Istadris, and the Haladin warden Corrin stand in conversation. "Good even, friends," she says in her usual quiet manner, her gaze resting up each in turn: warden, ranger and the woodsman last.

The cloak-clad woodsman leans lightly into the spear standing at his side, his left hand curling up to grasp at the thick folds of the cloak that covers much of his bandaged arm. "The Lady wishes to stay in Amon Obel." He says to Finnabair, while drawing a short pace backwards, "I believe she wishes to meet Lord Haldir, there." The lean Beorian glances over to his Haladin cousin, his brow arching in question. "Does Haldir reside there, then, and will he meet with the Lady?" He asks, just before noting Aldawin's approach. "Good even, Alda." He greets, turning aside to flash the young healer a welcoming smile.

Corrin nods to the approaching healer before answering Istadris's question. "Yes, he lives at Amon Obel," he says gruffly, "Your lady will stay with him when we are there. It is very near now." There's a brief hesitation before the Haladin speaks again, this time to ask, "Your lady is a healer, is she not?"

From a pathway within the forests emerges Emeldir, the older Beorian lady have taken a solitary stroll from the encampment, both to gather her thoughts and to explore, somewhat, their new surroundings. She makes her way to where others have gathered, bowing her head as she offers greeting, "Good even, friends," she says, smiling as she looks about, eyes resting on Corrin lastly. "Do we move to the village at Amon Obel in the morn, then, milord Corrin?" she inquires of the Haladin.

On a branch nearby, above, and off the clearing Geleviel ponders her life and rests snugly inside the mounding fall of huge vining leaves. The flat branch is a natural seat and vine seems made for shelter. Here there are nuts, pretty, but untried. She wonders if this hut of dark green leaves, no more a cave of fern, she wonders; elven work, the Haladim, or perhaps Yavanna?

Finnabair nods to Corrin, "You will find the Lady Emeldir a masterful healer, Corrin.", she says, answering his question as Aldawin and then the Lady Emeldir herself arrive at the place where the three stand among the trees. "Evening.", she says to both the woman, shifting uncomfortably as the number of the group grows. Her brows press together and her eyes flick toward the shadows of the forest before she steps aside, looking over to Corrin, "It was good to meet you, Corrin.", she adds politely before quietly retreating from the group and turning to walk just beyond the furthest of the fires, evading its light.

Bowing politely to Emeldir as she approaches, Corrin speaks without waiting for the answer to his question. "Yes, lady," he says, "It is very near now. When your people are ready, we may go." Hesitating slightly, he seems about to say more, then suddenly addresses Istadris in his own tongue, "Cousin," he says, his words coming fluently but urgently now, "Word has reached me that my wife is not well. We live even closer to here than Amon Obel. Would one of your healers come see her?"

Returning a smile to Istadris of his greeting. Aldawin's attention is drawn away in a moment to the Lady Emeldir with the elder healer's question. Though next the glance is given Corrin in turn, and a question forms upon her thoughts, though is withheld from being voiced until the warden has answered Emeldir's inquiry. As Corrin speaks, Aldawin nods with the Haladin's concern. "Aye, Lady," she now speaks of her earlier thoughts. "I told Corrin that I should recommend your opinion in the case of this illness..." The grey gaze is hopeful upon the elder healer.

Istadris' head dips politely as Emeldir emerges from the trees near which they stand, and he stands aside to let her pass unimpeded. "Good eve, m'lady." He greets quietly. The injured woodsman looks questioningly to Finnabair as she turns to depart, his slightly widened eyes betraying mild surprise. "Good night, Finnabair." He calls out after the ranger, before she has vanished into the deepening shadow beyond the fire's light. Turning now to his cousin, the Beorian's brow furrows slightly and he strains to make out the quickly-spoken words of the Haladin. "I was told, aye." He mutters, again in the other man's own tongue, "Perhaps you should speak to the Lady of this, cousin. She is skilled... reknowned in these matters." His sharp eyes turn briefly to Emeldir, though he says nothing and instead glances up into the shadowy tree boughs overhead. The former ranger's eyes widen as he at last notes Geleviel high upon one of the branches above, though he says nothing to the others.

Emeldir looks with concern to Corrin, then glances towards Aldawin as the younger healer speaks up, giving an acknowledging nod of her head before returning her attention to Corrin. "I would gladly go with ye, milord, to see if we are able to tend to your wife," she offers politely, indicating that Aldawin would accompany as well. Taking a step closer, she inquires, "What is it that ails milady?" her voice sufficiently lowered now.

Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand in a gesture of unease, Corrin looks relieved when Emeldir speaks, and says quietly, "She is having..fits? I do not know the right words. She is with child and doing poorly. If you would come, she is not very far from this place. Between here and Amon Obel. You could spend the night at our home."

Emeldir's brow furrows on hearing this news, and she nods her head to the Haladin, "If tis not far, milord, could we go here now?" she suggests, keeping her tone as even as possible, though it is evident from her question that the problem is likely an urgent one. Unasked is where the Haladin healers are that they are not keeping a closer watch on a woman so close to delivery date, "I will get my satchel now," she adds quietly, starting to turn towards her tent.

Geleviel stares down right at Istadris, of all people she detests him and respects as much too, remembering her father's commanding arguments or the noise of crashing waterfalls, but she withdraws to hide away from sight Waving her hand before him in the firelight below she wishes his opinion in this matter: of a house of leaves; who has woven this vine! She stands on the limb easily even as the low fires cast this yellowed shadow above. "Come look", Geleviel calls, "I have found a nut hardened and trustworthy, but never eater! She towers above the camp excited by her find and lofty position. " I dare the hearty to taste this nut and we will eat of this tree, Nay I can not. I will eat of this tree with the hearty!