Brethil Hall
The long and spacious Brethil Hall is an open, airy inviting space. This is the meeting and festival hall of the woods folk of Brethil, and often many gather here after a days toil to spend time with friends and family. A brightly burning fire is central to the long hall, the smoke curling off the burning embers to be carried upwards through open ducts atop the high, gabled ceiling. Trunks of trees, the bark still intact, rise as pillars from the wooden planked floors to support the long running beams of the ceiling. Long and low oaken tables are placed here and there, with stubby tree trunk sections to sit upon.

This warm summer even there seems to be some sort of planned gathering in the Hall upon Amon Obel's summit. For while the large hall is not filled to capacity, there is a fair share more of folk gathered--most of them Haladin, though a few of the people of Beor sit amongst the benches and tables. Near the hearth--which only flickers with the glow of embers--sit a group of men and a few women. Mostly men of a grizzled mien, they seem to be sharing stories or tales one at a time, their expressions vivid and gesticulations liberally added to their words. Every now and again, a laugh is raised as one in response, and then hushes again to hear the words of the speaker.

Seated farthest from the hearth, at a table that finds its way half between shadow and light, sits Aldawin. A mug of ale is before her, but untouched, the still liquid within looking as dark glass near its rim. The Beorian healer's grey eyes are anything but still, watching those who come and go, and gazing in between at the speakers near the hearth. All in all, she looks weary, or bored. Or both.

The doorway to the Hall opens, creaking loudly on its hinges, and Leana enters, hobbling on her crutch, yet defiantly unaided. She moves over to the table where Aldawin sits, saying in a stage whisper so as not to interrupt the performances, "Good even, Aldawin. Um ... Can I sit here?" The healer from Ladros at first looks surprised to hear her name spoken of another in this gathering of those mostly unfamiliar. Yet, she seems even more surprised to see it is the apprentice smith. Moving from her half-slouched lean against the table, Aldawin sits up straighter, clearing her throat and giving a nod to Leana. "Aye," she says, regarding the other curiously. "Sit down." And she motions to one of the chairs.

Leaning against a post, Geleviel delicately pulls thin branches of needled shrub from a basket hanging on her hip. She twists them together and attaches them to a wooden frame. Looking up, she sees Aldawin and Leana at a table. She brushes past the swarthy young men who linger in back near the woods and passes though the crowd. "Hello Aldawin, " she says. "I didn't notice you, but I get lost in these things." Looking at Leana, she asks, "How are you?" and smiles. Holding up the wreath the weaver says, "I can make more with these oddities then I ever could in Dorthonion by weaving. The Haladim are wild for new techniques and I am teaching a class now. It's quite exciting. I feel almost famous."

"Thank you," Leana says, taking a seat and pulling out another to perch her leg on. Strangely talkative, she adds, "Have you been enjoying the storytelling? I always came into town for these when I was small." Her voice is just loud enough to illicet some stares from people at tables nearby, but not quite loud enough to truly interrupt the performance. The smith runs a hand through her shorn locks, tugging quickly at the tangles, before continuing. "My father even performed in them, though he has not done so for several years. I spoke to him about organizing a hunt for your father to participate in, and he said he'd think about it. Which, given my father, is fairly close to a 'yes' ..." A brief look of regret passes over her face before it is quickly shunted away.

Turning to Geleviel, she frowns slightly, looking as though a rude remark is on the very tip of her tongue. "I am fine," she finally says gruffly, her eyes flickering over the wreath only briefly before turning to gaze out into the distance, deliberately neutral.

At Geleviel's greeting, Aldawin squints to look in the slight dim of the tavern, recognising the voice but not yet seeing the weaver it belongs to. At last as the other Beorian passes through the crowd and can be seen, Aldawin smiles in response, looking gladly to the familiar face, yet flashing the same expression to Leana as she sits. "Aye, Geleviel," she says, and the faintest flicker of mirth is heard in her voice. "Have you gotten lost in the forest again?" she wonders, though by the healer's expression it is clear that she jests. "I have not seen you often," she says, and this is, indeed a statement. As Leana begins to speak--unusually talkative at that--Aldawin is put to silence and listens, nodding with a grin as she speaks the storytelling. "Aye, there used to be stories told oft in the hall and tavern in Ladros," she says; the smile turns somewhat sad. "But a hunt sounds fair indeed," she adds, and then looks to the weaver as if she might pose some question to her.

Geleviel looks at Leana's protracted gaze and turns to Aldawin. "Yes I am mostly away at a smaller village to the east. I have made friends with a weaver who knows some relations I have among the Haladim. My mother Galenore was Haladim, as well as Celebelen my grandmother. We have been catching up professionally. The village makes many of the clothes for sale here, and why I am in town. There is a standing loom, out in the rain, and marvelous. It doesn't weather. It was bartered with the dwarves for a common metal. I have never seen another like it."

It is possible that Leana could be more disinterested in the topic of weaving, but it seems unlikely. She fidgits as Geleviel speaks, using the silence after her words only to nod at Aldawin and remark absently, "You should have one of your fellows offer to tell a tale ... I am sure there are many stories from Dorthonion that have not yet been heard about here, and this one that is being told right now has been well-worn, to the point of being bothersome." That said, she lapses into a careful silence.

Aldawin seems intrigued by the weaver's last comment and, quite forgetting the drink set before her, slides it aside to place her elbows upon the table, clasping her hands together and leaning forward. "And how do you find the weavers' work, compared to that of Dorthonion?" she asks, speaking in as low a tone as possible. "I was going to commission a shirt of two of the best wool fabric I could find. And, knowing there is little left or brought of Dorthonion, did not know whom I should approach? Would you be interested at all in making them?" Leana's following comments on the storytellers turns the healer's gaze from the weaver to the Haladin, and Aldawin's mouth curves slowly to a smile. "There are no doubt some tales new from Dorthonion, though I am certainly not the one to tell them," she says with a light chuckle. "And to us," she adds, "all these tales are new. But perchance one..of my fellows..will be bold enough to offer. Especially if they are offered a drink for it." And she grins, though a lingering thought seems to taint the mirth of it.

"The style is more of my grandmother's talent then my mother's. The Dorthonion weave was required. Dorthonions are very practical about clothing, you know. Try to make anything more artful then a pine tree and you fall into disgrace. I was mocked for changing the sleeve knots on Beren's coat to face outward. I had to re-tie the whole shift. Beren, " the weaver looks troubled and looks away a moment. "that band that stayed. I wonder if we shall see or hear of them again." I hope in their safety, or may they have victories untold and come to speak here." She smiles and looks thoughtfully to the venue and the two chairs where storytellers sit. "Oh," she recalls, "Much has changed with weaving. An elf comes to use the loom. Imagine, we have one better then the Eldar here. Our technique is effected. He guides us and I am afraid I am particularly slow. I became a weaver not for my skill, but as a legacy. In Dorthonion I was good. Among elven taught Haladim I am like a child."

"I have heard enough of this, and it is a poor telling too," Leana finally growls, unable to keep her temper at bay for another moment, though she directs her tongue to the storyteller, rather than the weaver. "I should go be taking advantage of the evening's coolness while I can, and not frittering it away in idle conversation." She bows her head briefly in farewell to both of them, before turning a slightly forced smile at Geleviel. "I know naught of weavers, Haladin or no, but I appreciate the esteem you hold my people in," she says formally. The apprentice smith turns and begins to hobble on out, her lopsided step almost comical in her haste.

Surprised as Leana seems to lose all patience and makes to move out of the hall, Aldawin calls after her, "You will not buy one of my fellows a drink then?" But seeing the other seems determined, she shrugs lightly, watching as the Haladin leaves the hall. The next is spoken in utter contrast, however. For the weaver's words have beckoned memories of her kin. And while Aldawin forces a smile, it is clear that the words pain her in some measure. "Aye," she says softly, drawing the mug of ale closer. "I think daily of Eril. And I believe they will return as they have said, with many great tales to keep us upon our way back to Dorthonion." Aldawin grips the mug handle now and takes a long drink of it, seeming to force it down rather than enjoying it. "But tell me, Geleviel," she continues, setting the mug down and looking to the weaver in earnest. "I've need of two woolen shirts. Not for me, but my father. Would you be willing to make them?"

"There are no rabbit pelts like in Ladros with soft fur for thread, but we keep sheep at the village and there is a goat creature with long hair that makes a fine wool. Your father would probably pale in wearing a fabric as that. I am wearing a thin shirt underneath, made of the goat fur. Touch." she suggests pulling her top lightly up to show an amber colored silken shirt. "These goats are not good at hiding in the forest, but dries the cloth dries very quickly", she hushes, "Really if you sweat you wont know it". She laughs quietly and throws her head cockily. "Two shirts, and your father...," she thinks to herself and produces a knotted string, "Should I measure him? I remember his size enough, but if you aren't happy with the wares perhaps a measurement is needed." She points outside, "Perhaps you should visit the weaver's tent. We set it up in the afternoon. Have you seen? Some things are, er, you could say enchanting." She laughs. "You have never seen some of these make."

The healer must smile again at the weaver's words, and does reach out to touch the fabric of the shirt that she talks about. Chuckling, Aldawin shakes her head. "Aye, that is indeed a nice fabric. But you may trust my words," she assures with a grin, "the most practical and sturdy of woolen flannels will do. Anything more...enchanting...would be a waste. And, actually, I may bring you one of my father's shirts if that would help," she offers. "I aye might want a third shirt, too. Of the same dimensions but longer in the sleeves and length." She ponders this a minute. And as for how to pay you. I've but little money, but much in the way of rememdies and salves, or might make for you a special salve perhaps?" She takes another swift drink of the ale, gazing towards the hearth. "Also, my mother has been about making candle and soaps, if you've need of that as well?"

"Yes fine, a shirt will do and two you shall receive. If it is another loose shirt for yourself, I don't think I need measure you, with all the time we spent in camp during the war. You were mighty and far and away oft, I shall not forget. Still the weaver tent is worth a look, much of the finery goes unpurchased and we more sell to the ruffians and traveling bands of the woods such things as are... delicate." She leans toward Aldawin, "I hear tell of fabrics that blends very naturally with the forest, but none I've seen. I will set aside this fabric for you if ever I see it, though I suspect the Sindar keep it secret." She stops. "I am parched." Without excusing herself Geleviel returns to the crowd but leaves the basket of branches at the table. A noise rises outside, shouting above the storyteller, who halts midsentace. As the crowd changes it's attention, Geleviel appears with a tankard. "What is the commotion?" she asks.

Hearing the commotion as well, Aldawin looks towards the double doors, uncertain as the weaver at what it might be. "I know not," she muses, looking back to Geleviel, question evident of the expression. "I imagine with this many people here the reason will soon become clear, however...." Something else tugs at the healer's thoughts, however, and with a look of curiosity, Aldawin says, "A fabric that blended with the forest would be a great thing, indeed. Do set some aside if ever you find some. But I must tell you the last shirt is not for myself, but for Istadris. He has been seeing to my weapons training, and I wish to give the shirt in gratitude and payment. So it must needs be of sturdy fabric and the colors of the forest, a grey-green or some such color would be best." Her glance flits between the doors and the weaver. "And you must let me know what you should want for payment, as well, Geleviel."

"Oh yes, payment. I forget sometimes in dealing with my won people now. Candles I have, soap, how does she make it? The soap I am using makes my skin too dry. I once bought a soap that was itchless and hardly burnt your eyes, but that woman seems to be absent." Otherwise a portion of your salted meat is sufficient, as precious as that has become. But don't starve yourself. If you have little meat I will take candles. They are always good and if one has too many dressing a boring night with plentiful flames can be exciting. But if it lye soap I have that and sometimes prefer a little grime." Geleviel shrugs. "Seems there is a fist fight brewing outside. These people are mild tempered and quiet though. What is that Leana's problem. She is too gruff for my liking."

At the weaver's question of Leana, Aldawin can only smile and shake her head. "She is indeed a gruff one," comes the answer. "Though she is that way with all, it seems, and finds difficulty staying pleasant for long." The healer shrugs her shoulders. "It is how she is, I must accept. As for the soap my mother makes, I am not certain, though she has one made with the petals of wildflowers that smells quite fair. Remember also, that I make salves and would gladly give you of the summer herbs that are now available. Nettles are in abundance here and grow just about everywhere, and I have been experimenting with them and have a worthy balm for skin that is especially good for hands and the face." Tipping the last of the ale from the mug, Aldawin drinks of that, then stands. "And there is some of salted meat in our stock that may be spared," she adds with a faint smile. "I shall find you in a week or so to see how your labor goes, but for now, I think I have rested here long enough." Gazing to the storytellers, Aldawin looks at last to the door. "Be well, Geleviel," she says with a last glance to the weaver, and offering a smile. "I shall speak with you again soon."

Geleviel holds Aldawin for a moment in her admiration. "A salve would be nice. It is hard to work a weave with cracked skin. I shall return to the village with the band that traveled here. So I am afraid it may be a fortnight before I have an escort back. But it is a friendly village on a tributary of the Sirion. Ask for directions in the weaver's tent before we leave, if you care for a visit. The trail is something of an adventure. You would like it, and the meadows along the way have an abundance of flower, herb and fern." Till we stand together again, friend." The weaver smiles.