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. The night brings quiet to the town, spoiled only by the faint din carrying from within the cottages and houses, tavern or hall. Overhead, the trees shimmer with the cool light of the stars wheeling above.

Early morning streams bright this summer day atop Amon Obel's hill with abundant golden light sending the silver birches to an amber gleam. Not to be outdone, the avian inhabitants of these trees join in an almost raucous song--their offerings at times more bother than bliss. At least to one of the woodsmen of Brethil, who, walking under one of the sturdy birches glances up and hollers a shout, as if to calm them down. Chuckling, he continues on his way with a smile, nodding his head to the young Beorian woman who passes him upon the way.

The young woman is Aldawin, who has just come from the northward path. She bears no satchel this morn, and rather looks to be in somewhat of a hurry as she continues along the path, though the simple measure of a smile graces her face.

The early morning streams do little to illuminate the dark cloud that hovers about the broad shouldered, brown cloaked man that hikes up the hill. Using an axe as a walking staff, he makes his way towards the cluster of houses atop Amon Obel, hood drawn up over his head - that head downcast, watching the ground ahead of him. His pace is fluid and graceful, sturdy and powerful, all bunched up into a flowing stride.

A handcart drawn of a lad comes now in sight of the Beorian healer. Laden with split wood, it is an unwieldy load to haul, and Aldawin steps to the side to allow the other easier passage, though as she continues, her glance is drawn back to watch as the young man--Haladin in appearance- turns towards the courtyard, the wooden wheels making a clamour upon the stone-laid surface. Though her pace has slowed, Aldawin's steps carry her forward, and seemingly in the path of the approaching man in the brown cloak...

His head flickers up for just a moment as you near, dark eyes narrowing in the depths of his hood. He doesn't move, however, from his steady pace forward. Instead, thick arms raise from within the folds of his cloak, stretching out to halt your movement. His square, calloused hands thunk firmly into both of your shoulders, abruptly halting any further progress. The motion seems effortless to the man as he, too, stops.

"Watch yerself there, lass. Gonna get yerself hurt." His voice is deep, a rasping almost-growl, and most definately not friendly. As he raises his head, the bright beams of sunlight seep into his hood enough to give a faint glimpse of his features.

Startled by the sudden press of hands upon her shoulders, Aldawin snaps her glance to the fore again, even more surprised, by the face--shadowed and half-concealed as it is--that meets her view. "I beg pardon--" she begins with a step back and a bow of her head, then realises she has spoken in Beorian. Amending this to the common, she speaks the same with the added, "I was not paying attention, obviously." And offers a mollifying smile. Though she has stepped back to let the other by, her gaze is still upon him, slightly studying of his appearance and demeanor--which differs even from his Haladin kin. "And I bid you good morn," she adds of a thought.

Though you can barely see his eyes, you may almost feel them boring into you from underneath his hood. His arms fall back within his cloak, shifting about for a moment before becoming still. He doesn't answer your words right away - he simply stands, staring. Then, with a large drawn in breath, he speaks. Aye. Obviously." One of those calloused hands finds it's way out of the darkness of his cloak and moves gracefully up to push back the man's hood, letting it fall to a rest on his shoulders. His features are no less gently than his voice, his brows narrowed judgementally in your direction.

To say that Aldawin shifts under the other's gaze would be an exaggeration, though there is some slight reservation that glints of the grey eyes. Still, the mouth remains curved of its smile and more of curiosity is given of the expression as she speaks on, seeming to try to disperse the slight tenseness that hangs in the air. "It is a fair morn," she says with an upward glance to the trees overhead. "What brings you to the hill on this day?"

His gaze never leaves your eyes, chisled features remaining frozen, as if fixed in stone. "Do you think that be 'ny yor business, lass?" His eyes narrow. "Do you?" Swallowing, his lips bulge as he runs his tongue along his teeth, slowly turning to look over your shoulder, up towards the villiage. Despite his previous words, he answers your question. "I be checkin' in, lass. See what's the news. See why bunches of injured folk be trompin' through my woods." Those dark eyes once again fix on you.

Contemplation edges the adaneth's expression, and the grey eyes shift from curiosity back to their more sober mein. "You will forgive me, I hope," Aldawin says next, the words calm and evenly spoken. "I, myself am not long arrived in Brethil, and so such things as distractions are aplenty." Her brows furrow of the next thought, and she draws in a breath as she turns an idle gaze about the summit's way. "But these wounded you speak of," she says, her gaze returning to you with a hint of its former curiosity. "Do you know how they came to be so?"

Pursing his lips, Darian turns to look back the way he came, towards the sprawling woodlands. The muscles in his neck flex and bulge at this motion, before relaxing to their normal state when he turns back around. "I 'spect it has something t' do with the recent battles 'n such." His eyes narrow as he peers at you, that same, acusitory glare. "They look similar to you, lass . . . and you don't be knowin' anything of it?"

With this last disclosure, Aldawin's eyes brighten in understanding. "Ahhh...you speak of those of us who have come from Dorthonion," she says, her gaze straying to the courtyard. "Yes, there have been no few wounded among us, and your people have been kind enough to take us into shelter until we may return to our homes." There is gratitude in the healer's gaze. "Have you not heard of the threat to the north?" she wonders, her brow raising in question.

"Heard of the threat to the north, lass? I been killin' the threats o' the north fer months, now," he spits out contemptuosly. "Not till recently have you all been trompin' through my woods, though." He grunts, gritting his teeth, looking quite agitated. Taking in a deep breath, he reaches up to grasp the edge of his hood, drawing it up and over his head once more. "I be goin' on my way now, lass. You best be watchin' where you step from 'ere on." With that, he doesn't give you much of a chance to respond before he steps aside and continues on up.

There is no little question betrayed in the Beorian's eyes as the man gives her warning. Indeed, even as he reaches up to grasp the edge of his hood to draw it over his head once more and starts past her, Aldawin follows with her gaze, daring to ask after him, "What do you mean?" even if those steps continue. Brows furrowing, the healer continues to watch the figure--cloaked more in shadow than in else--as he continues on, seemingly heedless of the bright sun and golden dawn that illuminates the hill.