November 8, 2001

Old Road, Northwest Corner of Forest Brethil

The trail leads into the forest, the silvery trees growing closer together as it winds among them. The birchs here are not as tall as those deeper within the woods, so there is some light slanting down between the branches. The forest floor is covered with dried leaves and twigs, the packed earth of the path kept cleared. A few wild flowers poke their heads up from between the leaves and debris, and the trunks of some of the older trees are covered by a soft, dark green moss.

The sky to the east blazes red through the top of the trees with the rising of the sun, pushing back the night and the absence of any cloud promising a bright and clear day ahead. The earthy smell of wet leaves fills the air and several grey watchers stand unmoving and facing outward from the camp which lies quiet in the early hour. Finnabair sits alone on the ground, not far from the camp's only fire, and there she diligently sharpens the blade of the axe held in her lap, the soft, repeating whisper of it sounding with each pass of the stone.

Not far beyond the light of the flickery campfire, hidden nearly entirely from sight by a thicket of brambly bushes and a leafy evergreen tree, walks Istadris. The Beor woodsman's easy strides carry him along the eastern perimeter of camp, away from the low-hanging shelter he occupies and under the gloomy shade cast by the overhanging canopy of branches. His lean frame moves unburdened by armour today, and his customary cloak of forest green hangs slung easily over his right shoulder beside the sheathed longsword. The tracker does, however, carry both strung longbow and quiver at his side. With quiet steps, he begins to approach the encampment's central fire, near where Finnabair sits. "Ay, Finna." He calls quietly, after passing through the brush and walking out into the sunlit clearing.

Finnabair pauses in her efforts to regard the edge of the blade with a scrutinzing look, idly answering the coming of woodsman, "Good morning, Istadris.", she says, putting the stone back to work and looking up at him, "Just returning from watch?", she asks, smoothly moving across the blade while considering him, "Any sign of trouble from the north this past night? You seem untouched, so I think the answer no.", she concludes with a satisfied nod, then musing, "Perhaps another visit from the Eldar then. Will you sit?"

Istadris idly paces halfway around the fire until reaching the low, flat boulder used by many as a sitting stone. There, he drapes his cloak and then sinks down upon it. "I returned a good while ago." He answers Finnabair, his bleary grey eyes lifting to seek the treetops before turning to the other, "No sign of the creatures, last night. Yet, the sounds of wolves in the north was ceaseless for most of my watch." The woodsman slips the sheathed longsword from his side and lays it down in front of his feet, along with both bowstaff and quiver. "There was another visit from the Eldar some days ago, aye." He adds then, frowning thoughtfully and stooping forward to stretch his hands towards the fire, "It was Branwyn, the Marchwarden." His gaze lifts questioningly to Finnabair then, as he asks, "Do you remember her?"

Finnabair absently continues to sharpen the blade, listening to the recount of the night, a troubled look passing over her at the mention of the wolves. "You bring ill news on such a fine morning, Istadris.", she complains. Several more figures rise from out of the tents scattered about the trees, their soft movements quickly disrupting her brief, dour mood. Laying aside her axe and stone, she folds her hands in her lap and leans back against the narrow white birch behind her. Frowning in thought for a moment, she shakes her head, "No, I do not remember her. Should I?", she asks.

From a tent several paces away from the fireside where Finnabair and Istadris converse , Aldawin ducks to exit out of the shelter--not the healer's tent she is usually found in, but another of the warden's tents. She bears in her hand an empty wooden basin and several folded, clean bandages; her leather satchel has its usual place at her left side. Rounding the shelter to return to her own, the healer hears the voices of the two other Beorians in conversation. Stopping and looking over her shoulder, she confirms it is they and draws her steps towards them, offering a quiet, "Good morn, Finna. Ista," as she nears.

The woodsman lifts the quiver of arrows to his lap and begins to tug at each of the shafts, casually testing the black fletching as he hears Finnabair's response. "Aye, I thought you would remember her." He replies, glancing up at the ranger over the leaping flames of the low-burning campfire, "We met near Anach. At the pass, in fact, during...troubled times." Without clear sight of the healer's arrival from the shelters at his back, Istadris fails to notice her approach and gives no greeting until her voice rings quietly over the fire. "Good morn, Alda." He offers back, flashing the younger Beor a rather weary smile over one shoulder. His narrowing eyes drop to the objects that the healer carries, and his head cocks curiously, "Is the Marchwarden in camp, still? Branwyn, who arrived just some days ago?"

Finnabair turns away to Aldawin, watching as the healer comes bearing items of her craft, "Good morrow, Aldawin. Put aside your work a moment and take a seat with us.", she says with a preoccupied gesture, looking back to Istadris with a frown returning. Holding still, her gaze grows distant and then suddenly widens with surprise, "Branwyn!", she exclaims, nodding emphatically, "Yes, I do remember now. The great gaur, in the pass.", she nods. "She is here?", she asks too, looking about the camp.

Aldawin smiles somewhat wearily in return to both kinsmen. "Aye. Thanks, I will," she says upon Finnabair's invitation, coming to take a seat upon the ground near the boulder whereupon Istadris sits. Putting the bandages inside the bowl, she sets both down at her side, stifling a yawn. "Are we all in need of sleep with the new day?" she wonders, though presses her lips together in thought of the next, shaking her head. "I have not seen Branwyn since our first meeting, though I have not been looking for her, either," Aldawin says following Finnabair's question. Her mouth twists in a brief frown. "I *have* been looking for Lee, however. Though she seems to be avoiding me." Her grey gaze meets each of the others'. "I trust all is well, otherwise?"

Upon hearing Finnabair's surprised words, Istadris drops the quiver of arrows carelessly aside and sits up straight upon the flat boulder. "Aye, with the Gaur." He repeats, scowling, "The blue mane." His gaze lifts to Aldawin as she sits down, however, and only in distracted afterthought does he offer his crumpled cloak to the young healer. "All is well." He mumbles with a nod, as he too looks about the quiet encampment and to the few figures still visible amidst the trees and foliage. "I've not seen her since, either." He adds, with a quick look to both of the Beorians, "But i have been away frequently. Perhaps she found her kinsmen and departed with them. Was it Bremen she sought? And his companion, Vollonwe?"

Finnabair shakes her head, "Not I. I have managed a full night of rest and will off to scout up the road a ways.", she says in answer to Aldawin's question, patting the axe laid at her side, "My blade is sharp and ready now. But why should Leana avoid you?", she asks, taking a moment to slip the leather cover over the head of the axe, "Has she fallen into some trouble? She had best not have wandered from the camp alone.", she adds with a nod to Istadris' guess, "Vollonwe Ranedhel has returned? And who, now, is Bremen? It seems our camp is much trafficked.", she says, bemused.

Aldawin accepts the cloak given her and thanks the woodsman with a smile as she uses it for cover against the chilly morn. Scooting a little closer to the fire, she holds her hands out before her, palms forward, for more warmth. As Finnabair voices more questions, it seems that Aldawin has at least one of her own as her brows furrow and she repeats, "The blue mane...a Gaur?" The next words she offers, however, are answers to the other rangers' questions. "Aye, I do believe that Branwyn was in search of those two," she ways with a look to Istadris. "And as for Lee, she cut her thumb, quite deeply...Doing as you are doing there, apparently," the healer adds, making a motion to Finnabair's sharpening of the axe. "She was supposed to check with me yesterday, but never did."

Istadris' bleary grey eyes lower, and he begins to thoughtfully study the curved staff of the great bow at his feet as the two others exchange further words. His thin lips purse disdainfully at Aldawin's mention of the blue Gaur--and yet he keeps focused on the weapon at hand, offering no response to her query. "Bremen and Vollonwe are a pair of marchwardens as well, I believe." He adds after a brief delay in response to the ranger, "At least, I thought they were." A rather wry smile splits his lips suddenly, and he glances up to look to the healer, "Lee injured herself, did she? Why has she not come to me for help with that axe? Or to Finnabair, for that matter. Seems she has much to learn, if she sliced herself while sharpening."

Finnabair begins to rise, catching up her axe as she does, "Leana will receive a great many more cuts if she intends to use that axe in seriousness.", she answers them both, "One nick of the thumb will do her no harm." Casting a sideways glance at the contemptuous woodsman, she repositions the straps about her, easing the axe to its place on her back and then crosses her arms in front of her, "I have met Vollonwe, and besides many other titles that he gave himself, Marchwarden was indeed one of them. Bremen I have not met, unless it was his taciturn companion that was with him that day." A few grey and silent figures emerge from the trees, heading into the camp and with a look to the brightening sky, Finnabair says, "The night is long over. I should be heading out now."

Morning is just wakening in the eastern sky, and the dampness of rain lingers from a passing storm. Three figures sit about a low-burning though warming fire--Finnabair, Istadris and Aldawin. The first has risen and looks to be readying to leave. Aldawin chuckles at Istadris' earlier observation. "Aye'n maybe she does," she says of Leana, "though she was very annoyed at the incident, as you might imagine. The cut is stitched, so I am not so worried, I suppose." She falls silent as Finnabair speaks out and prepares to leave. "I know not any of them very well, though I am promised a new sword to replace that which was stolen, and however many names they each bear matters not to me." This is followed by a wry grin.

Tulnor returns from his quest for dry tabacco looking somewhat disapointed. He pulls some tobacco out of his pouch, muttering something about "wet" and "tabacco" and a few choice words and lights his pipe. he looks towards a fire and notices a small cluster of people.

The woodsman's own amused grin is subdued slightly at Finnabair's words, and he too rises as she sets to depart along with the other Haladin sentries. "Take care while by the road, Finnabair." He cautions in all seriousness, "And watch for Gaur. Take to the trees, if need be." Looking with renewed interest t Aldawin now, he stoops down to retrieve both quiver and bow, and sets both weapons to his shoulder before speaking. "So they are to bring you a new sword, Aldawin?" He asks, edging a step away from the fire and taking up his sheathed sword from the ground, "What sort? And from where? Surely, they've not brought forges with them." The Beor's grey eyes are drawn briefly away, past Aldawin and to where tulnor has emerged from beyond the treeline at the edge of the small glade. His head dips wordlessly in a nod of greeting.

Tulnor takes a puff from his pipe and releases a smoke ring. with a nod and "greetings" to Istadris. Looking at the others he gives with a somewhat smile a nod.

Finnabair looks at Aldawin, "With so many years lived, tis no surprise they earn so many titles.", she shrugs and turns to cant her head to the woodsman, "I shall, Istadris. I will look for their tracks, see which paths they take.", she says, stern now. With a few last tugs at the buckles and straps on her, she steps away to the small tent set in the trees behind, retrieving her longbow, carrying it back in her hand. With a curious glance at Tulnor's arrival, questioning Istadris and Aldawin with a look, though she bids them farewell and says, "I will be back before the sun sets.", and picking her way across the camp, slips away into the forest.

With a wave to Finnabair as she departs, Aldawin watches after the other woman a moment, though next brings her gaze up to meet with the woodsman's. "It was quite by chance. The day I had met with the orc near the trees, I mentioned to the Elf Bremen afterwards how I regretted not having a shorter blade to defend myself. He spoke of the matter that there would surely be weapons among his kin nearby, and offered a trade for the longer sword." Tulnor's mutters, too, draw Aldawin's gaze away from the fireside to the Haladin; her smile is curious. "Good day, Tulnor. I hope it finds you well?"

"Aye, it do find me me, but not well, all my tobacco do be wet" says tulnor. Tulnor stares at the fire.

With his strung bow slung over one shoulder, and his sheathed sword about the other, Istadris turns slowly on his heel to look curiously upon the pipe-smoking man. "Good day, Tulnor." He greets quietly, gaze drawn back to Aldawin as she speaks of her trade with Bremen. "I am rather surprised he wanted your other sword." He says, shrugging, "Perhaps as a curiousity: A Haladin-forged blade." Turning back to the Haladin hunter, Istadris speaks on. "The Wardens were very grateful and pleased at your offering of the slain bear, Tulnor." He says, grinning, "It was a welcome change from dry rations, even if bear meat is not near my favourite meal." "glad do i be to oblige" Tulnor responds, his gaze remaining focused on the fire.

Taking an arrow from his quiver, Tulnor sticks the head into the fire. After the the head is good and hot he lifts his sleeve revealin a gash on the left forearm. taking the arrow, he presses it on to the fresh wound.

Aldawin chuckles at the woodsman's response as she looks to him. "A Haladin blade forged by an apprentice, no less. It was a show of kindness, Ista." Her smile broadens with the thought, though next she turns to look to Tulnor as the woodsman speaks of the hunter's kill. "But why is the tobacco dampened?" the healer wonders. "Perhaps you need a better tin in which to keep it?"

"Aye a better tin perhaps, it do be wet from when i fetched your water yesterday, i dropped while re-filling my pipe into the stream." says tulnor as he looks at his handiwork on his arm. Aldawin raises a brow at the hunter's act of cauterization. Her brows lower over the narrowing grey gaze. "Are you certain that was just necessary?" she wonders, reaching for one of the bandages in the bowl near her side.