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.

A crisp, clear dawn heralds the start of a new spring day across Brethil's expansive forests. The forest's soil is soft and muddy, riddled with shallow puddles in places, and rather overgrown with the recent awakening's of spring's shrubby undergrowth. The tangled canopies of interwoven branches and leaves blot out much of the early sun's warm rays, and so the Haladin campgrounds are cast in an emerald-tinged haze that offers some illumination but little warmth to those who have risen early. The smells of boiling stew and roasting meats waft across the still campground air, and already several of the Haladin sentries are gathered 'round the cooking fires to await their morning meals.

It is not by the fires, but from the eastern edge of camp that Istadris emerges. The Beor tracker walks through the press of silvery trees towards camp, his cloak-clad form mudstained and rather ragged despite the early hour of day. A light pack rests behind his shoulders, along with his sheathed sword and the tall staff of his curved longbow.

Seated alone at a fire near the edge of the area where the Doriathrim are camped, Branwyn is sitting on a makeshift seat. Her longsword is laid across her lap and she carefully runs the whetstone down the edges of it. She stops to test it, finds a place where their is a small chip it in and goes back to work on it once more. Her hood is thrown back and her helm and longbow are laid next to her, as is her quiver.

Also at the edge of the sleepy camp, on its southern side, is Finnabair, accompanied by a small group of Haladin who quickly erect makeshift targets amongst the trees. Dressed neatly in armour and with her weapon in hand, she walks the line behind the archers, observing with dark bruises of sleeplness beneath her eyes as they take their first shots. Stopping at the last of them, she turns and looks back into the camp, finding the Elf, Branwyn, by the fire and Istadris entering from the eastern side. To neither does she offer a word, simply turning and readying her bow to join the practice.

As the sound of soft steps gets closer The Hunter shifs his cool grey eyes from the early dawn skies to his belt and secures several poches. Placing his Bow across his back he lays down the worn quarter staffe, mostly used as a walking stick, he had been using as a prop.

From behind a tree a voice calls out "Up early Woodsman?" the voice belonging to the huntsman Tulnor. He drops the small peace of wood he had been carving with his axe into his pocket. Noticing the movement about the area he looks around scanning the outlying area once more. A small squirrel scurries past but Tulnor gives it no heed, He already dropped off a nice boon of game to the cooks.

Slow, lengthy strides carry Istadris along the campgrounds' perimeter and towards where Finnabair and the other Haladin prepare for their morning excercises. His weary, bloodshot eyes slowly survey the gathering by the fire's side and his nostrils flare slightly as he sniffs out the smells of cooking breakfast. With a seemingly disgusted scowl, the Beor tracker turns away from the cooking fires and walks on towards the edge of the Doriathrim camp where Branwyn sits. His head dips in wordless greeting to Finnabair as he passes near her own gathering, and he looks quickly away as if to avoid the ranger's own gaze. Only Tulnor's called greeting causes him to pause in midstep, and he turns quickly, wheeling about to look upon the Haladin hunter. "Aye." He replies rather humourlessly, "And what of you? Should you not be with the others at the morning excercises?"

Now standing the huntsman walks out from the tree. Scanning the area once more he makes towards Istadris. "I've heard of a Boar in the area, i had hoped to catch it early but, i fret there is too much activity for it to come by this close now" Tulnor says with a solemn expression, he scans the area once more and stops by iIstadris

Glancing up as she heards Tulnor's voice call out, a small smile crosses her face at his words. Seeing Istadris speaking to him and not too far away, she waits to see where the Ranger is headed. Giving the longsword a final stroke, she picks up the rag to oil it before she sheathes it. A glance goes to where Finnabair and some of the Haladin are practicing, but her attention returns to what she is doing.

Bringing out a new cord, Finnabair makes a quick knot and, bracing the bow, slips the looped string over both ends of the slender wood. The sound of Istadris' passing steps do not cause her to turn immediately, not until the bow is ready and she reaches for her first arrow. With it in hand, she glances over her shoulder with a dour look as Tulnor joins he and Branwyn by the fire. Seemingly intent upon them, the Beorian ranger suddenly starts, the bowstrings snapping beside her calling her back and she fumbles with the arrow in hand.

Istadris' hands slide up the stout leather straps of his pack, and he begins to slip the light load from his shoulders as Tulnor speaks of the boar. "Boar is not the main concern these days." He utters in turn, while letting the supply pack drop to the ground behind his booted feet. The sounds of snapping bowstrings draw the woodsman's attention, and he looks over one shoulder off towards where the Haladin archers fire their shafts into the make-shift practice targets. "You should speak to Finnabair." He suggests, with only a sidelong glance to Tulnor, "See if you may join their practice." With a dip of his head in Branwyn's direction, he adds, "I must speak to the marchwarden." Without another word, then, the Beorian warrior turns on his heel and walks on across the campgrounds. He is soon nearly upon the elven warden, whom he greets with a wave of his hand and a wordless nod of his head.

A squirrel in mid fall from branch to branch catches Tulnor's eye. This time The huntsman is more in for sport. The bow is in his hands with an arrow knocked almost in a flash, he draws back and leads the prey downward and fires. The squirrel's projectory is interupted as the arrow hits true. Walking to his kill Tulnor says to himself 'hmm I think i shall join Finnabair.'

Branwyn lifts her head as the Beorian Ranger approaches, and nods back. "Good morn to you, mellon." She slides the longsword back into its sheath and picks up her longbow, though she does nothing with it yet. "Will you sit and join me? There is porrige on the fire, if you have no eaten yet." Her gaze is calm, though there is a hint of wariness in her eyes as she watches Istradris.

Finnabair steadies her hands and turns her left shoulder to the target, relaxing her posture and planting her feet firmly apart as she sets the arrow precisely to the string and lifts her bow, adjust the shaft slightly so its fletching will run smoothly past. With a long, tired breath inward, she draws the bow, centring her shot and holding it a few seconds before loosing. The arrow sings and the string hums with the release, landing adequately on the target amongst the Haladins' shots. As she reaches for another, the sound of a bowshot from behind her turns her eye upon Tulnor as he approaches, giving him a curt nod.

The woodsman's discarded pack is left seemingly forgotten on the soft, grassy soil near the trees just south of the campfire as he moves on to join Branwyn where she sits. The other's offer is declined with a slight shake of his head, and instead of sitting, Istadris leans aside against one of the tree trunks. "I had hoped you could tell me some news from further east." He says simply, before clearing his throat and tugging at the mud spattered edge of his green cloak. "You have recently returned from those parts?" He questions, "I have had little time to seek you out in the past few days."

Returning Finnabairs nod with one of his own, Tulnors grey eyes focus on the target and remarks on the shot with an other nod. A liitle away from the makeshift range Tulnor lays down his axe and several pouches, leaving just one fastened at his belt. He takes off his quiver and bow and gently lays them down. Then he tosses of his cloak unfastening it at the left shoulder and puts the bow and quiver back. The pipe hanging on his chest remains as he takes the quarter staff from his hand and slings it across his back. Walking toward Finnabair again he asks, "May i join" looking at all the targets.

Branwyn tilts her head a bit to the side as Istadris speaks, then rises, holding the unstrung bow in her right hand, the bottom of it touching the ground lightly. "Indeed, there is news I bring, but between catching up on things here and the skirmish the other night..." She shakes her head, frowning for a moment, before she smooths out her expression again.

Green eyes regard the Ranger soberly. "I covered the whole northern border this time back, since I have been too long away from some of my responsibilities. And the news is not good. Orcs have been seen passing much too close to Doriath's border, though the numbers have been small. The Yrch grow bold, it seems. I have sent word to Elu Thingol of that news, as well as of the situation here in Brethil, and I have asked for reinforcements. I also sent word to my commander, Lord Beleg, though I know not exactly where he is. I did not wait for an answer, but came back here as quickly as I could. Word should be sent, if reinforcements do arrive first."

Still looking to Tulnor, Finnabair ascents, with a nod, his request, "Of course. I am here only another moment", she adds in a thick voice, resting her bow gently on the soft earth. Stepping to the side, and the Haladin next to her doing the same, room at their invisible shooting line is given for Tulnor to join them. A quick break in the shooting allows one of the men to race up and tug loose the arrows as well as snatch up the few stray ones that lie nearby. "You are well equipped.", she comments, looking from his bow to the staff on his back and the axe he set down behind him. "

Istadris can only offer a nod in reply, his weary gaze drawn by the press of trees beyond Branwyn. The woodsman's left hand slides down the length of the curved bowstaff's taut string, and he slips the weapon from his shoulder to rest the tip lightly upon his booted left foot. "I was certain we had withstood the worst of it." He utters in lowered tones, as he looks to the marchwarden, "I was sure they would break and leave, if we moved the fight to their camp on the plains." With an uncertain shake of his head, the Beor tracker dismisses the thought and glances over towards where the others continue their practice. "I wish to watch the practice for a while. Come..." He says distractedly, before turning away once again and moving to approach Finnabair and Tulnor. GAME: Guest has disconnected.

"Meager items a Hunter would carry, The staffe sees little use, save when a boar sneeks up on me and the bow Some would call a club, but it seems to shoot fine for me" Says the huntsman resting the bow to his side. "My flechtings were just replaced the other nite and all the arrows in the quiver run true."

Branwyn sighs, having known the news would not please any who heard it. Snatching up her quiver, she moves to follow, catching up with a few quick strides. "I wish the I had better tidings to bring, or could have phrased them better. But it would not have changed the meaning." She pauses for a moment, then asks. "You attacked their camp while I was gone? I had heard there had been more fighting while I was gone, but not that."

Finnabair lifts a brow at the Huntsman, "Resourceful and industrious of you.", she says mildly to him, fingering the string of her bow as she stands there waiting for him to take his shot. Looking away she sees Istadris and Branwyn crossing the camp toward them and she lifts a hand to greet them. "Take your shot, Tulnor.", she adds, without looking back as bowstrings begin snapping again, "The competition is about to become more heated."

The elven marchwarden's query draws Istadris' attention, and his own strides slow momentarily as he looks to her. "Nay, we did not." He says in answer, with a sad shake of his head, "I had hoped to, and indeed we have been preparing to do so. The Haladin are not used to open warfare, and have been hesitant to strike out against such a large force beyond the shelter of these trees." The woodsman's eyes lower once more to the soft, rain-soaked soil before him. "But they are convinced that it must be done, I believe. Specially now." Istadris looks towards the archers as yet another volley of darts is loosed against the make-shift targets, and his own hand is raised in reply to Finnabair's quiet greeting.

Lifting a hand to Finna as well, Branwyn nods in understanding. "The Haladin are much better at hit and run tactics. But the wardens with me, and those I could pull off the border are seasoned enough, should the decision go for an attack. And if we get reinforcements from the inner forests..." A quick shake of her head. "Let me know soon, if you will. My people can travel fast, but I would need to send someone to the border for them." As they reach the Finnabair and the other archers, she surveys the line. "I have a new quiver of arrows, fletched and made here by the warden-smith. I might try a few, to see if they are well-make enough."

With a smile Tulnor selects a lesser decorated arrow with a loop at the end out of his quiver, lifting the bow he knocks it, feathers aligning perfectly in place. He aims briefly, pulls back and releases. The arrow soars and finds a mark on the target. He nods as if expecting better... but not much...

Finnabair steps back and slips her bow carefully over her shoulder, "Good morrow.", she says to both Istadris and Branwyn, now that they are closer, "The practice is well underway if you wish to join or else instruct.", she says, nodding to Branwyn, "Tulnor may not need it,", she says, watching his arrow land soundly upon the target, "But the others will. They are young scouts, newly come from the Hill. I would stay to help, but I have already planned to take another watch out this morning." Starting to walk past them, she utters quickly to Istadris, "You will have heard of Leana.", and with the sun rising through the trees, Finnabair moves off, seeking the northern edge of the camp to slip through the trees quietly.