================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Early Morning About 7:14 AM
IC day is: Orithil Moon-day
IC date is: 49 Firith Fading
Moon phase: New VISIBLE
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 4 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3028
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RL time: Tue Apr 08 18:24:44 2003
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Gladden River, North Bank
Here the river comes boiling from a gorge, and slows, winding in meandering courses ever toward the Anduin. The Misty Mountains glimmer to the west, their peaks reaching toward the heavens. Gently rolling hills stretch to the north, each foothill bearing the weight of the soft snow and frost. The light breeze around feels cold and dry and the snow-covered ground crumbles beneath your feet. The ford is a morass, trampled like a cattle wade. Anyone attempting to cross can expect to get muddied and wet.

It is snowing. The early morning winter air is cold and dry around you. The moon is new.


The snow falls before the unfaltering gaze of Haler in large visible shapes, each uniquely different and cold to the touch. Like the snow covered grass the Knight-Bachelor's head is caked with a bunch of snow and his hair seems to have changed from a silver color to an almost gray color. Sometimes the snow falls out of his hair onto his snow covered shoulders and like and avalanche knocks all the other snow down off of his body. The breeze is cool and oddly comforting for the elf as he stands about the traveling camp with his close companions.

The Misty Mountains stand before them like an overwhelming obstacle, this is what Haler stares at. "I cannot wait to get to Imladhris to meet Elrond and the other elves that abide there" says Haler to his companions happily. It is still very early in the morning so the sun is still rising and barely visible, though all things are clear to Haler's eyes. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and says to his companions to Mithlond, "This trip is going quite well and almost give me a yearning to be a traveler for the rest of my days, and the weather adds to this feeling, such wonderful weather." Birds chirp from many places up in the sky in the early morning.


"It is unlikely that we will meet Elrond as he holds a Council not long after our arrival." Vinyarod says as he appears behind the young Guard. Looking to the North throught the soft snowfall the Warden frowns slightly. "Better to think of the travels and the issues we face before we reach our destination." Leaning heavily upon his spear, a cold breeze causes the snow to whirl about them in delicate patterns. Frowning slightly, Vinyarod turns his gaze fully upon the Bachelor. "Traveler all your days? What strange thoughts you have for a Galadhrim. Do you not miss our home and find the lands we've crossed to be strange and unwelcome to our kind?"


Lairelin seems to step from out of nowhere as she comes from one of the nearly invisible tents. She looks up toward where the barely visible sun is and smiles as the snowflakes tickle her face and gather on her eyelashes. Looking about her with inquisitive eyes, the Ivonwen hefts the mail she is carrying higher on her arm and makes her way across the camp. She heads for the Warden.


Apart a little, yet still obviously one of the small group that stands in the drifting snow, Fyaeglim turns hooded silver-grey eyes onto the young knight bachelor. "Travel is not an end to be desired of itself, young friend. Be not too eager to leave your woods of safety." Fat flakes float unceasingly down from grey clouds, landing in his black hair and frosting it with a coat of white. And then he turns his gaze back into the distance.


As Fyaeglim, one of the nearby companions speaks out, Haler diverts his gaze from the towering mountains to the Minister. "Oh! I certainly love my home above all things else. It's just the moment that captivates me, I'm sort of caught up in it." The snow crunches as the Warden walks up to them from behind and then leans on his spear. The Knight-Bachelor steps to the side alittle, inviting the Warden to give him some room to speak. "Home is dear to my heart, and as I said to the Minister, it's something of myself being caught in the moment of the adventure.


Opposite the Misty Mountains Lairelin walks through the snow toward the group with something in her arms and the bachelor gives the Warden a heads up. "Vinyarod, I believe you have someone looking for you." The breeze starts to pick up and the snow blows about them all and so much so that Haler has to blink his eyes often to keep them safe from the breezes punishment of whipping the snow about.


"Be wary that you're not so caught in the moment that you miss the obvious Bachelor. This is no longer a land which welcomes our kind. Our travels have been free of trouble till now but as we near the land of the Beornings that will change." Looking Northwards once more Vinyarod narrows his eyes as if searching for movement or some sign of what he speaks. "They are a moody lot and if we pass whilst they are dissatisfied with outsiders we will have difficulties." Turning to look upon the mountains he shakes his head. "Passed that there are Uruk and Troll who would bar our way if either the Beornings or Imladhrim have been unable to keep the pass clear. Then beyond that Trolls lay in wait." He sighs heavily.

Turning as Haler points out that someone seeks him, the Warden raises a hand in greeting. "Well met Lairelin." Eyeing the armor in her arms he raises a brow slightly. "Is there something I can help you with?"


Lairelin smiles brightly as she is greeted by the Warden. "Well met, indeed, Vinyarod," she responds. Holding up the chainmail slightly, she ruefully adds, "I've managed to loosen one of the buckles somehow and I don't have the right kind of tools to put it back." She glances around the small group, "I wonder if anyone can help me out?" she asks.


A brief nod accepts Haler's explanation, though the clear gaze never wavers. In the hush of the falling snow, the goldsmith stands in equal silence, listening it might seem, to something very far off and paying no heed to the conversation around him. Until a dry voice floats over one shoulder, "I am afraid my tools would be of little use to you, else I would gladly offer them for your use.."


Haler heeds the warden's words and before his departure he says to him, "Warden I thank you for that comment, I will reflect on it tonight for I realize that we are indeed in a wholly different situation not suited to what I had been engaged in. Now it happens that I year.." he grins, "..for home!" The Bachelor waves to all his companions "Namarie friends. I'm off to the camp to do things of personal importance." Then Haler leaves the presence of the others and heads into the camp like a shadow in the confusion of the snowfall.


Lairelin's typically intent gaze turns toward Fyaeglim at his words and she nods in greeting. "Thank you, sir, but I believe you're correct that your tools will not help with this," she says with a twinkle in her eye. "In fact it would probably just break your arrows."


"While I am no weapons master, let me have a look to see if it is something I can manage." Vinyarod says as he reaches out to take the armor. Turning his gaze to Haler, the Warden nods thoughtfully and returns his focus to the armor in Lairelin's hands. "If I can't fix it there should be someone in the party with the skills needed to fix it before it is needed."


Once again, Fyaeglim's snow-crusted head turns towards the others. A faint glimmer of humor lightens his grey eyes and turns the corners of his mouth upwards. "I spoke not of my arrows, mellon... but of the tools of my trade. Still, I would not have them broken or damaged by being set to work unfit for them." For a time distracted from his thoughts, he watches Vinyarod and Lairelin.


Lairelin gratefully hands the armor to Vinyarod. She leans in a bit pointing to the hapless clasp. "See right here...it won't go through the opening," she says releasing it into his strong hands. Straightening, she looks over at Fyaeglim with a challange in her eye, "I did guess you weren't talking about your arrows but that's all I could see!"


The metal of the ringmail softly clatters as small bells as he turns over the armor to gain a better view of the damage. "It doesn't appear broken." He comments aloud as he bends the clasp back and forth. Pursing his lips tightly he looks up at the healer. "Possibly a little of the salve you carry for burns would lubricate it enough to allow for you to fasten it without too much difficulty. It is rather stiff and would give one not used to fastening it a fair amount of trouble."


And the smile grows a little larger, the challenging look met with an assurance of his own. Fyaeglim makes a small motion with one hand and a bundle of small tools appears in his palm. The glitter of metal shows at each end of dull tan leather. "Indeed, it would hardly have been possible for you to have seen them," he says, the almost sardonic humor in his eyes threading through his voice as well. "The arrows /are/ much more obvious."


Lairelin laughs delightedly as the tool bundle blossoms before her. She looks up at Fyaeglim with a grin, "Ah, now I understand your reluctance to share your tools, mellon. Those /are/ absolutely the wrong ones," she says understandingly and adds, "As wrong as an arrow would be." Turning back to Vinyarod, she reaches for the chainmail saying, "And now I feel foolish for having the correct tool right in my own bag! I should have thought of lubricating it." The elfmaid looks between the two with a woeful smile on her face.


Vinyarod chuckles softly and returns the mail to the healer. "There is nothing foolish about. One normally does not know the tricks of the trade until they are in the trade." he says warmly. Glancing to Fyaeglim and then to his tools a moment of sadness passes through his eyes. "One with your skills will be sorely missed." he says softly.


The goldsmith's smile grows a millimeter wider and the small bundle vanishes with as little fuss as it appeared. "Unless of course, you desired some scrollwork perhaps?" Without moving, he somehow gives the impression of bending over the mail solicitously. "I would be more than pleased... perhaps a tracing of flowers along the sleeves?" He glances up at Lairelin, one eyebrow arching quizzically, before Vinyarod's comment brings a strange intensity of passion to his eyes. "There are others who learn," he says quieter, and his gaze flicks westward for the briefest of moments.


Lairelin pauses as she takes the armor from Vinyarod listening to the goldsmith's description of an enhancement to the cold metal. She holds it in front of her, looking over the top at him, "Aye, it would be a lovely touch," she says. Her quick eyes dart between the two as their exchange of words hints of departure finally resting on Fyaeglim. She clasps the armor to her chest, "If you'd like to work on it, I'd be honored to wear it. Let me know if you have time."


Vinyarod chuckles at the offer made by Fyaeglim. "Nay, unless that armor is Lairelin's own nothing is to be put upon the general stores armor, but if you're looking for a task then I need two rings made quickly." he says, ignoring the comment about others learning a fletchers craft for it was an issue that would not be won.


A swift look is bent upon Vinyarod. "I can," Fyaeglim comments ambiguously, and then clarifies. "Show me the place they will go." Though the snow still falls, the sky has brightened a little; the clouds turning from grey to white. "I will have time," he says then to Lairelin. "There is little else to take my attention. If you wish it and," he bows a little, a delicate irony shading his tone, "as the Knight Warden here requires, it is your own, I will make whatever pattern you deem pleasant."


Lairelin grins awkwardly, and draws out "Wellll...It actually does belong to the guards. I didn't manage to make it back with mine on my last trip." She glances at Vinyarod then looks apologetically at the goldsmith saying "I'm sorry...I didn't know it was against the rules to decorate theirs. Mine had some wonderful designs along the borders!"


The cold wind from the north blows once more, and the Warden shifts his cloak slightly to fully cover his gleeming armor. "The common stores armor is kept neutral in appearance, but individual armor is decorated to each Guard." The snow continues to fall, coating Vinyarod's golden hair and shoulders with a blanket of white. Turning to Fyaeglim he smiles. "The rings I mention are wedding rings." Slipping his hand from under his cloak he holds his hand up to display his silver ring. "The time approaches for this to be replaced."


"Then," Fyaeglim says politely, "We will refrain from both decorating and offending the sensibilities of our guards." His eagle gaze drops to Vinyarod's hand and for a moment softens, a memory treasured thousands of years almost warming the steely grey. "Ahhh. I would be honored. Wish you that they be plain, or carven?"


Lairelin smiles conspiratorially at the goldsmith. "Yes, we shall refrain from both of those," she agrees. She too looks toward the ring proffered by the Warden with interest.


"You've misunderstood. The common armor is left undecorated, but all Guard do so with their own." Vinyarod says with a shake of his head. Withdrawing his hand back under his cloak he shakes the snow from his shoulders. "I'd like the rings to be carven if possible. Delicate as the flower to which I am to wed." Vinyarod says as his smile reaches his eyes.


The subject of armor has been left behind and Vinyarod's comment is dismissed with an absent flick of long thin fingers. Fyaeglim's hooded brooding eyes have gone distant again; patterns and tracery dancing through their depths. "It is possible..." Sudden keenness focuses the goldsmith's gaze again onto the Warden. "What is she like?" he demands.


Lairelin's eyes brighten as she watches Fyaeglim disappear into his thoughts. She grins at the sudden question directed toward the Warden and turns to hear his response the unadorned armor forgotten in her arms.


The Warden's eyes grow distant as if a white bird lost within the snow storm. "What is she like? Oerwen is as the breeze upon a clear summer day and yet as fine and delicate as a fine wine aged to prefection." he says softly. "She is fair to look upon with golden hair and eyes as a rare and polished topaz." Vinyarod's eyes focus and he turns his gaze upon the Goldsmith. "She is a linguist by profession and has a calm personality that is as the Aqualonde on a breezeless day." Tilting his head slightly he smiles. "Is this what you wished to hear?"


And Fyaeglim listens intently, already rings and carvings and thin delicate tools running golden through his thoughts. "Yes," he says abruptly and turns away. "I will have them for you." Swift steps carry him through the pale grey and white landscape until his tall spare figure disappears among the nearly hidden tents.