Summit of Amon Obel
The central town of the Haladin is situated upon the flattened crest of the high hill of Amon Obel. Several trees are surrounded by tufts of lush grass, in some places tracked by the folk who traverse across it.

For the most part, the wooden houses that are the dwellings of those who live up on the hill are in the southern reaches. Gardens, in some places wild and others well tended, are here and there amid the landscape.

Between the trees and structures occasional glimpses of the running rivers that border the forest in the east and south can be seen in those directions, while the dark mountains of the north contrast with the ever brighter light of the Western horizon.

A breeze wafts gently through the courtyard of Amon Obel, the only release from the almost oppressive summer heat and humidity. From the hilltop fort, one can see the forest all around, illuminated in warm amber tones by the rays of the late afternoon sun. A few Haladin pass through the courtyard, meandering slowly by, but most have dispersed begun the journey home for the evening.

Among the Haladin that still remain is Leana, her red locks tugged gently at by the breeze as she sits on a convenient bench, humming idly to herself and enjoying a few moments of near solitude.

Exiting from one of the guest pavilions is Emeldir, having just risen from a short yet necessary nap. Her coloring is much better than it has been in weeks, nearly normal yet still a bit palish. She stretchs out her arms as she walks slowly about the summit's courtyard, the circulation beginning to return to her limbs now. She bows her head in polite greeting to those Haladin she has met, pausing to inquire of Lord Halmir's whereabouts.

Aldawin seems to be in search of something--or someone--as she comes to the summit of Amon Obel. Her seemingly ever-present satchel slung over her right shoulder, the healer's steps are unhurried even amidst her searching gaze. And reaching the crest of the path, she takes a moment to look back over her shoulder and gaze out over the far-reaching vista of forest and river captured of a golden-amber light. After a moment, she continues upon the path, winding among the trees towards the courtyard, though still too far off from either the Lady or Leana to have noticed them yet.

Cresting the wooded hill and approaching the gates, Finnabair walks under the branches of the trees that line the path until she enters through to the town that lies ahead. Passing amongst the homes of the Haladin, she shoulders a small pack and her bow as she pauses at the corner of one home, looking up the pathway where she catches a glimpse of the courtyard not far along. The lowering sun still beats down and the Beorian woman turns her face toward the slight breeze, welcoming its relief with eyes shut a moment before continuing onward to the centre of the town.

Shifting in place idly, Leana turns sideways on the bench and draws a knee up to her chest, not being among those whom Emeldir knows, nor would she know Halmir's whereabouts. Pulling her bag up from the ground beside her, she shifts through the contents with one hand as the other is wrapped about her knee, the tell-tale dull clanking of iron emitting from the bag as she moves the contents about. Her rough clothes are darkened with soot from time in the smithy, and her hands seem red and even a bit raw. She does not notice Aldawin, the only person in the courtyard she knows, as her gaze is focused on the contents of the bag.

Being told that the Lord is away for a few days, Emeldir thanks the young man, then turns to scan the surrounding courtyard, looking for a familiar face. She espies Finnabair first, approaching the summit of Amon Obel, and calls out in greeting to her young friend, "Finnabair! Tis good to see ye once more," raising a hand to wave to the Ranger to catch her attention. Just then, Aldawin comes into her line of vision as well, and she calls to the younger healer too, "Greetings, Lady Aldawin!"

Aldawin crosses through a particularly dense stand of birches; their silvery-white trunks are colored with the gold-glow of evening, the tips of the green leaves turning yellow with the season. Stopping briefly to pull at a curling of bark on one of the trees, Aldawin continues on into the courtyard and, given a greater scope of the open area, now sees the familiar figure of Emeldir near the Pavillions. A smile lifts the younger healer's face, and almost at the same moment is heard the Lady's greeting. Heard also is Finnabair's name in that welcome, and as Aldawin scans the courtyard for the ranger, her gaze briefly settles upon the Haladin smith who rummages through a bag. "Lady Emeldir!" Aldawin returns the greeting, looking now to the elder healer and espying the ranger now out of the corner of her eye. With swift steps towards the Pavillions, she approaches.

After passing a well tended and abundant garden lying before one of the wooden houses, Finnabair comes out into the courtyard to Emeldir's greeting. The pack drops from her shoulder to hang in her hand down at her side as she returns the woman's words and strides toward her, "My Lady.", she says sedately, dropping the pack at her feet as she stops before the woman. Turning to the other that the older woman addresses, Finnabair looks to where Aldawin approaches, lifting a dusty hand to the healer. "We have returned from the north.", she tells them both.

Leana listens in intently on the conversation, more interested than she would ever dare let on. She stops her rather off-tune humming and turns again on the bench, leaning forward to place her elbows on her knees and stare at the ground.

A warm smile spreads across Emeldir's face as both her friends draw closer. "Tis good to see ye, both of ye, again. Will ye be staying at Amon Obel, either of ye?" she asks, a hopeful to her voice. "Lord Halmir made a most gracious and generous welcome to us, and in return I promised that the Beorians would willingly work alongside our Haladin kin for our keep," she shares with the pair, her brow furrowing briefly. "I.. I've been considering if we should send a messenger back into Dorthonion," she tells them, her voice lowered now. "Twould be very dangerous, though ... I am anxious if there is any word. There have been no messages from our homeland," she confides somberly.

"Good even, Lady, Finnabair," Aldawin says with a welcoming glance to each and an understated smile. The look she gives to the elder healer is faintly appraising as she notes the coloring of her face and the strength of her bearing, though she speaks nothing of her concerns just yet, quelled to silence of the Lady's words. Her glance darts to Finnabair briefly as Emeldir speaks of sending a message to Dorthonion, the corners of her mouth pulling faintly into a frown. "Tis good we have been so welcomed, Lady," Aldawin at last says. "I may be returning to Corrin's yet, though it seems he is back now." And the gaze is returned to the ranger. "Tis well you are back safe, Finnabair. What of your journey?" she wonders, "For surely the news you bring from the north will have some bearing upon any messages we may send to Dorthonion..."

Finnabair notices the layer of dust covering her hand and draws it back, wiping some of the grime off upon the edge of her sleeve. Silent while Emeldir relays her meeting with the Haladin's chief, the ranger frowns at the woman's final wish. "I do not think that possible, m'Lady.", she says carefully, "Anach had a very light foothold on Dorthonion when we left it and I do not think it will have gone well for them there. It is likely that it no longer stands.", she says, her words heavy and grim and she shifts her gaze to answer Aldawin's query, "Morgoth holds the way north. Minas Tirith is fallen and yrch and gaurs run freely to the south of it. With luck we happened upon a warden of the Haladin who had already ventured north for news of the island and he warned us of what would lie ahead for us, which is why we have returned sooner then thought.", and she nods, adding, "Corrin is indeed back and will have returned to his home, I would think."

The news bears a heavy weight, which lies visibly upon the healer in the form of a deepening frown and downcast gaze. "Anach cannot have fallen," she hisses more than whispers, the grey gaze flashing as she returns it to the ranger. "Even with Minas Tirith taken..there must be some hold in Dorthonion left." She raises her right hand to grasp about the satchel's strap upon her shoulder, tugging at it absently in tandem with her thoughts. "There still must be some way to find out about the fort," she insists. "Did this warden say aught of Anach, or only the of the island?"

"There must be some hold in Dorthonion left," Leana mocks, her voice quite loud enough to be heard. It appears the morning of civility wore the Haladin smith down quite quickly, and she's back to her arrogant, insufferable self. "Give it up. If all the elves in Minas Tirith couldn't have kept it from falling, whatever weak hold left in Dorthonion is bound to be gone by now. Just be glad you had somewhere safe to retreat to, and stop prating on with vain hope."

Finnabair sets the tip of her bow to the ground, leaning lightly upon it as she shakes her head, "He did not.", she answers, "His way only took him north upon the road that leads into the vale of Sirion and not far along that either." Interrupted by the mocking tones that address them, Finnabair turns toward them and rests her gaze upon the woman who voiced them, "Hold your tongue, child.", she utters levelly, turning back to Aldawin, "At first we sought to follow the Sirion north but were turned back by a band of yrch on its east bank. My guess would be that Anach has fallen.", she surmises blackly.

Aldawin flinches visibly at the smith's words, which sting sharp as any dart yielded by the enemy. Emotion rises, thick in her throat, and she swallows heavily against the anger as she steels her gaze to the dirt pathway at her feet as her left hand clenches in a fist and her right grips the leather strap of her satchel tighter. She hears Finnabair's report, yet answers only with a nod and an upward glance to the other Beorian. "Aye, then," is all she utters quietly, but does not seem accepting, still. The healer at last raises her gaze in an unyielding stare to the smith. "You would do well to keep silence on things you have no idea of," she says to her levelly. "After you have been run from your home and have lost three brothers to war, then you may well mock me." With a sharp inward breath, Aldawin turns heel and looks to Finnabair. "I will be at the Healer's Garden," she says in her own tongue, then strides away towards the birches without another look back.

Leana fairly seethes at the appelation of 'child', glaring at Finnabair with a vehemence that only reinforces that 'child' is one of the kinder names that suit her -- 'brat' usually works far better. "I am no child," she say fiercely. "I am in my twentieth year--" That sounds much better than 'nineteen' -- "And I will speak when I like, and won't be told what to do by some foreigner."

When Aldawin leaves, a pensive look comes over her face -- one might even say penitent, were it not Leana's face on which the emotion betrayed itself before hardening again. She begins to call something after the healer, a sharp retort by the first tones in her voice, but cuts herself and returns her gaze to Finnabair, awaiting the inevitable calling-out she expects to receive.

Finnabair leaves Aldawin to issue harsher words to the Haladin woman, nodding as the healer departs and bending to retrieve the pack resting at her feet. As she rises to stand, shouldering the pack and hefting the weight of the greatbow up into her hands, she turns to receive the glare that has already begun to dimishin upon the Haladin girl, "If you be no child, than act not like one. You shame your folk with such words.", she returns, giving the girl a last, stern look before striding off between a set of trees on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Leana scowls fiercely at her boots as she is abandoned in the courtyard, adding one mental count to the number of times she's been told she's a disgrace to her people. It is, of course, the one remark she has no retort to, for it is wrenchingly true. She kicks savagely at the bench, annoyed at herself and at the Dorthonians, and receives but a sore toe for her efforts. At least she has the self-control not to grimace at her pain and /thoroughly/ make a fool out of herself as she snatches up her heavy bag and storms off, headed for her own place of solitude in order to cool down.