Brithiach: West Bank of Sirion
The river Sirion flows quietly from the northeast here. Windswept plains of gorse and grass grow right up to its edge. The river is shallow enough here to be forded and the road seems to continue on the other side. To the West the road skirts along the north edge of a forest. Silvery green birches and pines dominate its growth, and a high hill amidst stands out as well to the south.

Hidden archers watch the river banks from their posts high up in the great trees at the edge of the woods.

Snow falls lightly, from the skies now awash a silvery grey reaching unto the horizon. A cool wind, crisp and cold blows steadily through the campground , harrying the small cooking fires that burn low , flickering in the day's shedding light. The sharp glow of the morning sun, casts harsh light on the fallen snow rendering the formless earth as a mass of white. Blinding, and painful to behold. It is at one of the cooking fires that the young Beorian messenger Sionell finds herself this morn, eyes studiously uplifted, her grey flecked gaze directed towards the hazy horizon. What lies therein that requires such depth of thought one cannot tell, for her face is expressionless though the curve of her mouth yields somewhat, to the inclination of her mind. A frown forms, and shaking her head, the grey clad figure half rises, one booted foot proding the slush at her feet.

And as she has for the week previous, Aldawin now leaves the healer's tent upon a walk outside the confines of the shelter. It is not without a narrowed glance from Meg, who has insisted that the healer take a steadying staff with her--despite the fact that the Beor needs no help in walking, itself. Aldawin still wears a white woolen shift amidst her bandaged shoulder and arm, making her one with the clearing surrounding the encampment--except for her long dark hair, which looks to have been recently washed and combed.

A garment folded under one arm and a small leather case in hand, Finnabair comes walking through the snows from her small tent toward the small fire Sionell stands, squinting against the sharp white of the wintered land. "Good morrow, Sionell.", she says in greeting, coughing and settling herself down upon a hacked log that serves as a bench. "No messages today?", she asks without looking from the piece of clothing she unfolds and then lays the case upon, removing from it a fine needle and thread.

Rounding the side of the large tent, Aldawin hears voices familiar, and turning towards the sound, yields a smile. "Finnabair, Sionell," her own gladdened greeting is given as she crosses upon a packed snow trail to where the women sit by the fire.

"Good morn Finnabair" The frown replaces itself with a smile of some sort, and a shake of the head is given by way of answer. "No messages today , though I will be glad if you have any need of an errand-runner.." Gripping tightly the folds of her grey travelling cloak the messenger's eyes fall upon the needle and thread and as if curious she asks, "Are you mending something Mi'lady?" The crunching of approaching footsteps , brings a greeting from her lips and a widening of the smile . "Good morn Alda..escaped from the tents I see?"

Finnabair tilts her head up to the healer's greeting and looks taken aback by the sight of her, "Aldawin!", she calls back, half rising and grabbing for the things falling from her lap, "You have not gone yet.", she notes unecessarily and makes room for her to take the seat on the bench. "A torn sleeve.", she answers Sionell in between, "And Aldawin is just in time to mend it for me. She has been idle long enough, time to put her to some use.", she grins, taking a step toward the healer to give her assistance should it be needed.

"More and more," the Beor healer says in an answer edged with relief to Sionell; even so she hastens a quick glance behind her towards the healers tent. A soft, almost soundless chuckle sounds as Finnabair almost upturns the things upon her lap, and Aldawin shakes her head with a grateful look to the ranger as she slowly takes a seat upon the hewn log. Turning the smoothed wooden walking staff in her left hand, she digs at the snow with it. "Meg insists upon the staff, though I feel quite well if moving my arm and shoulder are not included," she says to both, but her gaze lingers upon Finnabair. "Did you have your arm looked after the other day." The grey eyes then look pointedly to the torn sleeve.

Gone? " This brings a quizzical raise of the eyebrow and a slight tilt of the head from the messenger. "Oh..that's right. " The absent minded mutterings , may not be audible enough for the two ladies to hear perhaps but Sionell grants both a grin anyway, seating herself upon the log without much ceremony. "I wonder if I have somethings in need of mending , also.." is the thoughtful reply more directed towards herself than to any other. " What happened to your arm Finnabair?" The look of concern given to the other is further elaborated by the silence that follows, as she listens to both speak, looking between each with interest.

Finnabair gives a nod to Aldawin, "I did. Your keeper, Meg, is not one to be ignored.", she says with another grin, glancing over at the healer's tent, "But mending the arm took less work that the shirt will.", she replies and turns away to the other woman, "It was just a small nick from an arrow, Sionell, nothing to be concerned about.", she assures her, pulling back her sleeve as proof. "It is nothing in comparison to Aldawin's. Still, you have one arm to use. Here is the needle.", she says, stepping forward and laying both it and the shirt on the healer's lap.

The gaze Aldawin raises to the ranger is one of vague incredulity, though she laughs despite herself. "You are not serious," she says with widened grey eyes, glancing down at the needle and fabric. "Do not tell me that you may string a bow but cannot string a needle?" The obvious taunt is threaded with mirth, though the healer makes no move to take up the mending yet.

Finnabair looks back soberly at Aldawin, "Of course I can, but you will do it better.", she says, matter-of-factly, stepping back toward her tent, "And since you mention my bow, I would then be able to set a new string to it.", she calls over her shoulder as she reaches inside and brings out the great length of it. "Unless of course you would prefer to simply sit?", she questions, standing aright again and lifting a brow the healer, "I will not be able to keep my promise if I am not properly outfitted."

A sidelong glance to the ranger is all that is given by Aldawin at first, who sets the staff down to the ground and shadows the wry curve of a smile as she lowers her head to look at the tear upon the sleeve. Even with her arm and shoulder bandaged so as to be immobile, the Beor has full use of her hand and fingers, and easily takes hold of the needle once it is raised to her grip. Gathering the split edges of the fabric together, Aldawin then sets the needle and thread to work, showing only a slight edge of discomfort in the motions of her right hand. "I still await escort to Nargothrond," she then offers in belated reply to the other Beor's first remark, diverting her glace from mending a moment to look at the longbow which gains the ranger's attention.

Finnabair comes round to stand at the opposite side of the fire, placing the tip of the bow down in the snow and nestling it against the inside of her foot to steady it, "What is the delay?", she asks, looking away to the healer who has finally set herself to plying needle and thread, "The snows are not so heavy to prevent the journey.", she adds with a shake of her head as she bends the bow and slips off the old bowstring, "Who is to escort you?"

"That iself seems to be the delay," Aldawin says with an upraised glance to Finnabair. "There are few willing to leave the borders for a journey to Nargothrond, it seems. The first party met with some unexpected difficulties which suspended the trip, and another has not yet been assembled. I've not seen anything of the Wardens to speak with them further." She looks down to the rent sleeve and resumes stitching, slowly. "I did see a horse in the south reaches of the camp yesterday, which was part of a wagon bearing supplies from the Hill." Now she grins, pulling the string taut to the fabric's edges with her left hand. "Perhaps I should 'borrow' it and simply ride the way to Nargothrond myself."

A gentle snow still settles down over the camp, and the pale sun is covered over by a mass of billowing storm clouds, shadowing the morning. Finnabair lifts the bow and unslips the string from its nock, wrapping it around her fingers and stowing it away in one of her small pockets while drawing out a new one, along with a nub of wax. Running the string across it, she looks thoughtfully over at the healer, "You know the way?", she asks without sign of a smile.

"Not really," Aldawin admits, stopping to examine her stitches with a sullen look--though whether that is caused by her answer or the stitches themselves is not clear. "Besides, I do not think the owner of the horse would take kindly to me 'borrowing' it for the trip." The low campfire crackles as the blackened wood upon its embers shifts and settles, though the Beor healer pays it no mind as she continues to stitch quietly. A moment draws on in silence, and then the healer's inhaled breath is audible before the next. "Have you found the Haladin welcoming of you, Finnabair? As you work with them on the borders..in the woods. Are we accepted here, yet, do you think?" Though Aldawin has stopped stitching, her grey gaze is still trained downwards.

Finnabair tugs at her ear and shrugs, "We might ask to borrow it.", she replies, grinning to herself once the healer looks back down at her mending, "Fear not, Aldawin, we will get you to Nargothrond.", she adds, "Even if I must take you myself. It is a high price for a few stitches,", she shakes her head, "But I pay my debts." Finished with the waxing, she puts away the nub and runs the string through her fingers to smooth it, sneaking a few looks at the somber healer as she does, "I find they keep themselves apart but are friendly enough. Well, except for Leana.", she laughs, making a loop at one end, "She is young though. Though it has been more than two years since we crossed into Brethil, I think it will be yet a while before we are both accustomed to living side by side.", she answers, "Why do you ask?", she queries with a simple look, "Have you felt unwelcomed?"

Finnabair's jest about Leana--if jest it is--brings a smile to Aldawin as she finds herself half-finished with mending the sleeve. She draws back to allow the morning sunlight to fall, unshadowed, upon the fabric and her brow furrows as she considers the other's answer. "Perhaps that is it," she says with a look to the other Beor once more. "Side by side..." The needle plunges into the torn sleeve once more. "And there is little to find in comraderie with the Enemy pressing so as it does. It hardly seems two years." Another several stitches pass before Aldawin speaks again. "What will you do when this conflict is ended?" There is a tentativeness in the way it is asked, though curiosity draws the question out. "Where will you settle in Brethil?"

The morning sun shines upon the stark, white landscape of snow, though grey clouds hinder from time to time. Aldawin and Finnabair sit close to one of the low-burning fires away from the healer's tent and in quiet conversation. The ranger works upon setting a new string to her bow, while Aldawin slowly stitches a torn sleeve.

Finnabair is bending the greatbow and about to slip the string into the topmost notch when Aldawin's question stops her, "When it is ended?", she frowns, dumbstruck by the thought for a moment. Finally easing the string over the top of the bow and into place, she answers slowly, "I think it will be a long time yet before I must think of where I will spend the rest of my days...and doing what, I do not know.", she muses, the corners of her eyes creased with laughter, "I was once nothing more than a simple forester, did you know?", she asks, glancing up at Aldawin.

"I cannot help but think that there must be an end to it," Aldawin says, if stubbornly. By now, she is used to this awkward form of stitching and the final half of the mending goes smoother than the first. "If only to think on it," she adds more softly, though seems heartened by the ranger's laughter. "I did not," the healer answers. "Though what is simple about being a forester?" she then queries, tugging again with her left hand upon the thread that joins the two frayed edges of fabric together. Following suit in smiling, she continues, "My father was but a huntsman in Dorthonion. And nothing simple about that, either." Her smile broadens "Did you ever travel the pine forest just outside of Ladros, to the crescent meadow there? That was a favorite hunting place for my father."

Finnabair smiles, "Woodcraft is simple.", she answers, "That was its joy. A less dangerous craft than that of a Ranger.", she answers, walking around the fire to lean her bow against one of the small makeshift tables set there, "I liked it well and knew the forests paths and highlands. Someone took note of that and asked me to turn my axe to defending our lands, rather than tending them.", she adds, quieter as she runs her hand over the elven design on the light wood of the bow thoughtfully, "I would be a forester again, but it would be in different lands.", she says and nods, "I know the spot you speak of. Did you hunt with your father there?"

Leaving her mending for a moment to listen to Finnabair, Aldawin reaches her left hand closer to the campfire's flames to warm it as the ranger speaks, drawing back after a moment. "I did," she answers to the other's question about hunting with her father. "And my brothers, though Deorlas was closer to Ladros than the others for most of the time." Her glance drifts to the trees edging the encampment. "I find I do not mind the heavy woodlands here. I rather like them, though I miss so many pines," Aldawin admits. Returning her gaze to the ranger, the healer nods to the elven-designed bow. "Where did you get such a bow?" she wonders. "It is of fine make."

Finnabair darts a look over at Aldawin, "It was passed on to me from a friend.", comes her short answer, "Are you finished mending, Aldawin?", she asks quickly after, picking up the bow, "Will you leave it by my tent when you are finished? I should speak with one of the Wardens before nightfalls and he is away on watch.", she says, talking in a hurry but halting abruptly and looks back as though to say something else. But standing there silent, she only nods and turns away, whisking through the snows toward the western edge of the camp.

There are but two or three stitches left to set the garment as new, though as Finnabair rises and says little of the bow in answer and instead seems pressed to be on her way, the healer makes no hurry to hasten the mending. "Aye, I will do that, Finnabair," she answers instead. "Farewell." The grey gaze--once more solemned--watches after the other woman a moment before lowering to her work. And once so given, there is still a long pause before the needle finalizes the stitches.