"Opening Ceremonies and Ensuing Events"
Logged on Saturday, October 19th by Nyashcala

The training ground of the Tirith Imladhrim is a broad, verdant lawn, stretching a hundred paces in any given direction. The southern half is dedicated to the practice of archery, the great skill of the Eldar: there rests upon the southeast corner a multitude of targets of a bullseye design. At the other corner--the southwest corner--is the firing line, and also a barrel of practice arrows. Through the center of the field running east-west is the meadow path; east is the bright guardhouse, and to the west is the armoury complex Another path runs southwards to the Imladris stables.At the northern end of the field are many dummies of straw, fit to practice bladework upon; past them tower many trees, a thick forest. Rising above all are the cliffs of the valley wall, looming to the north.

Tall timbered grandstands, constructed to seat the multitude of observers, nearly obscure the guardhouse from the field. Along the railings of each are twined garlands of summer blooms. A long, low platform sits in the northeast corner. Upon it are many fine wooden seats, clearly meant for the judges of the games, and similarly decorated in a fine summer festive spirit.

Almost in the middle of this field, though a little further toward the north, is an immense rosebush. It's flowers are of the purest white, and their sweet scent hangs on the Training Grounds heavily. Thickly limbed, the thorns on the branches are long and sharp-looking, discouraging any sort of trespass onto the ground claimed by the rosebush.


A clear, silvery chime is heard throughout the valley, issuing from the tower. It peals again, summoning all to assemble for the Opening Ceremonies of the Feast of Games.

The clear ringing of a bell is followed by a volley of trumpets, calling the inhabitants of the Last Homely House and their visitors to come to the training grounds for the opening ceremony of the Feast of Games.


A large, emerald-green field and the blue sky on a summer afternoon make bright contrast to the stream of edhil and ellith in their finery entering the training grounds. There, the large grandstand, which had been gradually taking shape over the past weeks, is filling with spectators buzzing with lively conversation and laughter. At the far end of the field, long tables spread with white tablecloths are set with casks of wine ready to quench the thirsts of festival-goers. On either side of the grandstand a row of horses in ceremonial, brightly colored tack stand at attention, held by grooms, and directly in front of them the line of trumpeters who had summoned all to this occasion. As spectators step up onto the grandstand from either side, they are greeted by representatives of the vintners of Imladris, handing out flower garlands to the ellith and brightly-colored cushions to anyone who wants one.

Though the mood of the tournament grounds is merry, there is an air of anticipation as of waiting. The ceremony is soon to begin.


After the trumpet fanfare another volley of music strikes up from an assembled group at the far end of the field. Instruments of many kinds sound crisp and clear across the field, the resonant tones of horns, dulect harps, the deep throbbing of drums. The resulting sound is one reminiscant of martial precision--almost a marching tune but not quite, it has an undertone that is too light-hearted to actually be a march. The melody sounds as the guests and competitors arrive.

Standing close by them and keeping a close watch on the 'orchestra' is Linnor Faerlin, judging from her expression, she is pleased with their work.


The clear ring of music draws the edhel, Celebren, towards the Training Grounds. A gleam of exitment is in his eyes. Anticipation of the upcoming events is almost unbearable as the quendi arrives from the south. As he sees the wonderful display of decorations he is taken with awe. A smile parts his lips as he approaches.


Harkening the sounds about her that barely jostle her rambling mind to reality, Galena, a visiting Galadhrim, is pulled along with the rush of the crowd. Her glistening, golden hair drifts lazily about her feet and catches the breeze as she goes. Eyes of chartruese hue look about in an odd and painfully blank stare. Though all ellith about her are dressed in their finest, this maid's clothing is the same dust cloaked garb she has worn for quiet a few days now. A golden harp hangs from one side of a wide leather belt slung low about her hips, a moderately sized pouch upon the other. Upon her back, a large, black leather pack is slung, heavy by it's bulging appearance.


Among the elves arriving at the training grounds is a remarkable pair, both dark and light. Clad in white, the Master of the Valley, Elrond, leads his daughter towards the stands, pausing here and there to exchange a greeting or a kind word. Equally warm of expression though more quiet, Arwen walks wordlessly by her father's side, a faint smile on her face at sight of the decorations, visible, audible, and living.


Alone, with an impassive expression, Caelwen steps silently into the area. Arrayed in the finery of her people-- circlet glittering at her brow, ornamental dagger at her hip, symbols embroidered thickly-- her raiment is a contrast to her shyly bowed head and the freckles burned into her skin by the hot summer sun. Glittering peridot eyes trip here and there, and as the band strikes up, her gaze lingers oddly on Galena. She does not approach this elleth, but hangs at the edge of the crowd. Her flesh is marred by a multitude of old, well-healing cuts and abraisions, but no bruises discolor the freckles.


Carefully walking, here is an elleth that for once take great care of looking fine today. She is barely reconizable, but yes, it is Olathlinn that proudly makes her way in, searching for people she knows in the crowd.


Verily it is a day for feast and laughter! Moods to be enjoyed as much as the ood and drinks provided; once more the hospitality of Elrond's Vale is proven. As the procession of quende starts to crowd the grandstand, there is one who observes aught with a smile -- eyes bright with anticipation, for indeed this shall be a splendid Tournament...

He is Randinen, garbed in white attire, blue banes to drape from his shoulders along his lean frame, graced with silver trimmings. His back is guarded by a sweeping mantle, blue, its rim of white. Yet upon his chest prides fiery the Sigil of Nos Olormaranwe; such is his task today, Arphedor, representative of his House. His raven locks spill generously along his back, as he brushes them aside, presenting a chime of pleasant laughter.

He does not move among the many others, remaining at the side, near the lines of horses. At the arrival of the Heryn and the Herdir, however, Randinen falls silent. More anxious grows his mien, for now surely soon it will all commence...


At least one vintner is not among those greeting the spectators at the grandstand. Tatharwen stands near the judges' platform on the northeast corner along with one or two Hirvaethor, and surveys the scene on the training grounds. Her chestnut hair is wound into a long braid tied with ribbons, and her gown gives a hint of the role she is most likely playing here. It is burgundy velvet, the color of a rich red wine, and indeed it is as representative of the vintners that she awaits the start of the ceremony. She does not look altogether comfortable in the role, though her hands are clasped lightly in front of her, with a glint in her eye indicating it is, after all, a festive occasion.


Standing at the east end of the grandstands is Hirvaethor Thileithel. He is arrayed in white and gold and silver raiment, and his visage is free of worry. About him are proud members of the Tirith. They are dressed in merry colors, but remain together, awaiting an last minute tasks that may arise at so large an event.


Faerlin leans close to a dark haired edhel, who is playing a horn, and murmers something to him--words of encouragement probably, he smiles and plays with more enthusiasm. The Linnor is dressed in her customary sage green but her long dark hair is adorned with tiny green-amber beads to match the pendant that she always wears.


As if by some sense beyond her ken, Galena feels Caelwen's glance fall upon her and it draws her gaze. Silently, cautiously she makes her way towards the potter. The braclets at her wrists give off a trepidatious twitter. Tucking a stray hair behind a leaf shaped ear, she is soon arrived to her destination. A curtsy and she reaches out her hand to the elleth. "Forgive me, mellon. I have much weight upon my fea and do wish you would ease that much of my burden."


A flutter of wind ignites the features of Maegiaracha into a full chorus of derelict hair and flushed cheeks. Graceful is her step, smiling are her lips, observant are her eyes. Through this, she moves little, silently and almost unknowingly, undeniably appearing as a lost one in this crowd, but despite this her step is consistent if still slow, ebbing slowly from those around her.


Glasiel slips quietly to the edge of the festivities, making her way toward two of the visiting Galadhrim. She finds them already in conversation, and so waits patiently nearby.


Standing along the periphery of the Training grounds, more closer towards the south near the stables, is a groom. She is dressed in fine riding gear that is not too ostentations, but not typically shabby either. An intense gaze drifts across those who are gathered at the stand and an enthusiastic wave along with a cheery smile is passed out now and then to someone she recognizes. Keen ears pick up on the delightful music and Naurelin grins as she watches Faerlin run the musical show with such masterful expertise. Her smile broadens upon the arrival of the Master of the Valley and his daughter, for this means the Festival of Games is about to open. All around her the air throbs and hums with exhilaration, as anxious spectators look out with baited breath towards the grounds.


Tatharwen watches the growing crowd in all their splendid dress. Only the occasional clench of her hands shows that she wishes she was in the grandstand. Among a gathering of vintners who are now beginning to take their seats in the grandstands, one catches her eye who likely knows exactly what she is thinking. He gives her a smile and nod, and with this encouragement of her proud father, Tatharwen smiles and seems to relax.


Like some odd sort of shy woodland creature who knows not even the kindness of elves, Caelwen slips a step or two away from Galena, bright eyes wide and wary. "And now I must ask for your forgiveness, mellon," comes her low reply, a still-cut hand grasping the hilt of her dagger as though begging for her family's support. "I have borne far too much grieving of my own of late to bear any further burden. I must beg that we speak on this another time."

The young Indiri turns then from her fellow Galadhrim, ignoring her hand, and pastes a thin smile on her face for Glasiel. "How fare you?" she queries, her voice strained but friendly. "Has my cousin been yet to see you? I pray that he has." She tilts her head toward the music, curls falling down her side.


Picking his way through the crowd slowly, Celebren's eyes earch the countless faces. He is obviously looking for someone particular, and he doesn't seem to be having any luck finding them.


A nervous tension seems to surround the musicians, who keenly watch for signs to tone down the intensity of their playing. Faerlin's expression mirror's the tense mood of her musicians..she paces along the line, nodding at some, smiling and occasional whispering something.


The muinthdor of Glasiel stands aloof, silent and observing at the edge of the watching crowd. Nonetheless, today he looks different, for he has put on a white gown of ecclesiastical vestments. He seems eager for the ceremony to commence and proceed on with the games.


Galena turns from the two to mask the tears that fill her eyes. Gaining control of some semblance of herself she nods and whispers, "Another time.", then walks away. The shadows of nearby trees all but overtake her and she crumples to the ground. Here she lets her heavy pack fall away to rest upon soft grass. Slender hands wipe at her alabaster cheeks, staining them with light streaks of dirt.


A commanding voice gives a signal, then the line of trumpeters pull up their instruments in one choreographed movement and sound a short salutary call. The din of the crowd begins to hush to a low hum of voices and movement as the spectators find their seats.

The call of the trumpets is the signal for the surcease of the 'march' being played--the music fades gradually till only a drum echoes and finally silences.


Caelwen's shoulder's tighten in a wince as Galena walks away, but the fair din of trumpets slice the air and the Cennan turns in another direction. With a small smile and a gesture to Glasiel, she finds a seat nearby in the stands and settles herself gingerly there, smoothing wrinkles in her dark silvern skirt.


Glasiel steps softly between the two Galadhrim, quietly taking Caelwen's hand for a moment of greeting. Her eyes bespeak strong feelings of concern and deep caring, although she sighs and shakes her head. "Nay, and I have been anxiously awaiting his visit. I feared to chase after him, lest he retreat even further. . ." Her words fall away as she sees her cousin turn and leave. "Forgive me? I should see to Galena. She seems much disturbed of fea."


Olathlinn revolves in crowd, almost carefree. She takes great care to keep a space between her and people which surrounds her. She has to move back to let pass some children who ran around and she backs into poor Maegiaracha who was just passing behind her. "I am confused my dear mellon! Pardon me, are you well?"
The jingling of bells can be heard long before Rhulalaith comes into view. Light, jingling silver bells, tinkling softly. Rhulalaith strolls in from the path westwards. He has a flute tucked under his arm and a bucket and trowel.

The gaudily-clad elf sidles towards the grandstand, the red, bell-tipped tails of his hat swinging.


With a final nod, Elrond disengages from conversation with a green-clad elf, and leads Arwen towards the raised seats that have been prepared for them. Both halfelves sit down, bending their heads together to exchange a few quiet words between themselves as the last elves find their place in the assembling crowd.


A nod shakes bright curls at Glasiel. "Aye, I am sure she could use a friend, and a cousin no less," Caelwen replies, and throws a brief, nigh-frightened glance to Galena before returning her attention to the fore. Something catches her eye, and now she watches Rhulalaith.


The immaculately dressed Thileithel turns to a Maethor and gives a few orders. Finished with that task, the Hirvaethor slips away and moves around to a place in front of the grandstand where Elrond and his daughter may be both seen and heard at once. As he waits for the Master's words to begin, he looks up into the stands, scanning the faces that are present.


A ray glitters across the garment of Maegiaracha, then several more seem to shatter in radiance, chased in sparkling clusters with dire speed. Her face, though calm, is filled with a pleasant happiness, her eyes gleaming with a love of all around her. Slowly she makes her way towards the grandstand, thinking of this decision and blankly moving forward.

A sudden jerk brings a blink and flash of light to this Bathril's eyes, though no other sudden movement can be seem from her. Almost appearing her hands, slip gently to the sides of Olathlinn and steady her, "My dear Olathlinn," she replies, a tinge of anxiety in her eyes, "Forgive me, but shall we look for some seats?" With that Maegiaracha grabs the Elisthir's hand and begins to move again, "Come sit with me," she urges glancing back to Olathlinn.


Glasiel nods, taking her leave from Caelwen and moving swiftly to Galena. She kneels down beside the younger elleth, taking one of her hands in her own. "Cousin? What ails you on this festival day? Please, let me ease your burden, if I am able?"


Tatharwen follows a Hirvaethor onto the platform and they give a bow of recognition to the Herdir and his daughter who are seated there. As the Hirvaethor begins to address the crowd, Tatharwen stands quietly nearby, glad it is he who is speaking. "Friends, guests! The Tirith and Gwinthaer of Imladris welcome you to this Feast of Games! Please take your seats." He then steps back and bows to Elrond and Arwen once again, giving them the place of honor in welcoming the assembly.


Scanning the merry and colorful gathering, the Nethordur Ailiell paces near the horses, her demeanor puzzled. Offering a brief, warm smile to Randinen, her glance flickers over and beyond him -- finding none that she seeks. Her Hir, Ist-Amra, Martion...She frowns very slightly, worried by their absence. One great steed turns his head then to look on her with a small huffing of breath, and she whispers to him absentmindedly, stroking his silken face.

All seems ready, the crowd expectant, the trumpets sound, and the elleth makes a quick decision. No mantle has she, but the sigil of nos Fithurin -- a crystal etched with a rose-- glimmers on her green-clad breast, and the banner is on hand. As the Hirvaethor calls out the welcome, the Arphedil slips into place in the line, with one more troubled glance over the crowd.


Faerlin slips into a spare seat amongst the other musicians, she smoothes her tunic and settles backto watch the activity. A smile now graces her lips at the thought that the first performance has gone to plan. Seeing many she knows she sits up a little to see what they make of all this.


Naurelin's attention is immediately caught by the brigtly clad Lalaithdir of Imladris, for no one can possibly miss his entrance and the jingling of his merry bells that herald his presence. An impish grins alights her face and she moves further into the crowd, unbirdled excitement locked in the blue gaze of her eyes, which are now directed towards Hir Elrond and Heryn Arwen. She eagerly awaits to hear them speak and call the festivities to order.


Ceasing the search for his friend, Celebren now makes his way through the crowd to an empty seat.


Both Arwen and her father rise, and the Master clears his throat. The sound is faint, not even audible above the fading talk and laughter among the elves, but still, conversation fades as most turn their attention towards the Herdir.

"Friends and welcome guests," he starts, in a voice both ringing and clear, "we have come together to celebrate and be merry at the beginning of festive days. Undoubtedly we will see the best of all who will take part in the competitions to take place, and perhaps a shadow of the old glory that once was the elves' will be glimpsed through you and your deeds; no matter whether you will call yourselves winners or defeated, it is the bearing you will show that makes you stand out as honoured." Elrond reaches out and takes up a glass, "Even the vintners of the Valley acknowledge this, and half the credit for what you see is rightfully theirs." He raises his goblet in silent salute, taking a sip of the red wine before both he and the Lady take their seats again.


The glindis raises the edge of her robe for not tripping on it, since she is following Maegiaracha who goes much more quickly than she, and it now can make her fall unwillingly. The two ellith end up finding two seats close to one another, thanks to charming edhel who agreed to move a little towards the line.


From under her sheltering hands, Galena's vioce comes ragged and shakey. "Oh, Glasiel.. do not let my burden ruin this day for you.. I beg forgiveness for my actions in the greenhouse, yet Caelwen has none for me, I can not find Lothdaimoth and Erinstar is dead. Cousin, you have no idea how much I cared for that one. How many times have I healed his wounds and begged him to take care for himself..." Anew the tears flow and Galena pulls her bag towards her. "I will go. Perhaps I should seek him out."


Moving into the midst of the crowd, Rhulalaith peers about, looking for a place to deposit his bucket and flute.


Only the warm smile of the Nethordur Ailiell succeeds to momentarily distract Randinen. Yet then the Hirvaethor -- as she has passed -- returns his attention towards the grandstand, the gathering folk, smiling to himself as they seek their seats.

More then once recognition brightens his visage. And as the Herdir makes his speech, the Hirvaethor turns to behold him and listen attentively.


In the hushed stir of the crowd, drummers begin to sound a steady, stirring beat. The rows of horses in decorated tack, which had been standing at attention near the grandstand, now bear equally finely-dressed riders. They are representatives of the Noble Houses of Imladris. To each of these, attendants hand the appropriate banner, and as a drum roll sounds, the riders step forward through the line of trumpeters. Interspersed among them are also riders of various squads of the Imladris Guard, bearing the uniforms and polished weapons that attest to their particular skill. From the platform, the Hirvaethor, acting now as herald, begins to call out the names of the Noble Houses. One by one they step onto the field from either end, passing in front of the audience in two lines.

"Nos Airenelen!" he calls, starting the procession.

"Nos Ecthelion!" As the procession continues, Tatharwen stares in wonder at the spectacle of riders and banners. On the platform, heads of the Tirith have taken seats next to Elrond and Arwen according to their rank. She sits on the far end and watches the parade go by. "Nos Fithurin!"


Being amongst the representatives of the Houses, Randinen has mounted one of the horses. With a gracious smile he accepts the sable banner of Nos Olormaranwe; upon it pride a yellow sunburst with flames rising to a single argent star.

Readying the banner, Randinen follows in the line, awaiting his turn to be announced.


Thileithel slips up onto the platform and assumes his place as Hirvaethor, seated behind and to the left of Elrond and Arwen. He nods to his colleagues and remains silent, watching the banners of the Noble Houses pass by.


Swinging herself lightly onto a glossy red stallion, Ailiell catches up her banner from an attendant, and follows the line out --dressed with less finery, perhaps, than those about her, but no less proud. The banner billows out behind the Arphedil, with the emblem of Gonnmar that was lost, steadily raised aloft in the midday sun.


Disregarding Galena's protestations, Glasiel reaches out and gathers her young cousin in her arms, cradling her as a mother would her child. Her words float softly, as a lullaby, while she rocks the distressed Galena gently. "Rest, Cousin. Rest and release your burden. You thought that Caelwen was lost, and here she is. You thought that Lothdaimoth was lost, and he has arrived. Think not of what /might/ be, and wait until you know what /is/." Her words end and she hums softly to Galena, into her ear, that same calming tune. After a few moments, she helps her away, probably to the halls of healing.


"Nos Losloriel!" The colorful procession of Noble House representatives and Tirith continues, and when the riders have passed before the grandstand, they turn to make a line around the whole of the tournament field. At each corner and spaced in between, riders stop and attendants take the banners, securing them into the earth. Gradually the field begins to be hemmed in by a line of brightly colored banners, snapping smartly in the breeze, and in between the riders now again standing at attention. Its rider needing to wait no longer, the call is given for"Nos Olormaranwe!"


Rhunedhel appears next, Martion beside him. The banner with its rose in crystal billows, an emblem of the eastern city that was lost, as so many have been lost. They ride proudly, though, and if Martion seems a panther, Rhunedhel is every inch the image of wisdom and grace.


"Nos Ruigano!" the herald continues his call. "Nos Menelmen!"


Faerlin shuffles in her seat and whispers to an elleth next to her before she stoops and produces a bundle of papers under from under her chair. She shuffles through them, her keen hazel eyes skimming the words as she contemplates what's next for her troupe to do.


Finally, there is a stir of clapping as the well-loved banner of the Lords of Imladris appears on the field. It is appropriately the largest and most grand, and its bearer places it directly behind the platform where Elrond and Arwen are seated. "Nos Earendil!" The applause, for the moment, takes over the ceremony and the air of regality once again turns more to merriment.


Rh�lalaith finds himself a seat. His bright eyes glitter as he sets down the bucket in front of him, puts the flute beside him, and watches.


Simple maybe her gear and raiments, but with a majestic yet, humble expression on her face, Naurelin holds the boldly fluttering banner of Nos Menelmen's banner, with the House Crest is the great Ship of the Moon, Isil, sailing a sea of stars embossed on a silken sheet in her hands. The pride of being a part of house that is made up of the forward thinkers of Imladris, the open-minded and patient elves is clearly visible on her fine features.


Up the path from the stables, slowly walks Gilion, a wide smile on his lips. He steps onto the grass of the training grounds, looking for an open seat in the stands not too far off. He pusres his lips, having no luck finding such a spot for this very busy ceremony. He simply chooses to stand next the stands, watching contently.


Olathlinn is so deep in her thought that she does not see nor hear if the banner of Nos Olormaranwe have been annonced or not. She looks right and left. Where is the banner of the House she is so proud to belong to? She suddenly sees an edhel that she knows arriving and standing. She kindly waves to Gilion and signals him the empty seat just beside her and Maegiaracha.


Striding from the east comes Daurcweth, one of the many philosophers and poets in Imladris. Not wanting to miss anymore of the Opening Ceremonies, he starts jogging, but stops suddenly as he comes to his final destination, the Training Grounds. Staring in awe at the mass crowd of quendi, he immediatly notices Elrond and Arwen. He walks slowly over to the seating area, trying to find a good seat, but finding most of them taken.


As the riders stand at attention all around the field and the drummers fall silent, the Hirvaethor waits for the applause to die down. Once again he clears his throat and addresses the crowd. "Fellow Imladhrim and guests, we have a fine array of events planned for you during this festival. We will be challenged by a race across the Valley which will test all of our wits as well as our speed..."


As Gilion looks about the grounds and stands, he smiles and nods to friends he has not seen in quite some time. He catches Olathlinn waving him over, but respectfully raises his hand, seeming content with his vantange point of all around him.


"The proud arts of archery and fencing..." the herald continues, his clear voice ringing out over the mass of Quendi. He must indeed speak loudly, for there is yet a buzz among the crowd.


From the east comes Helegrhofel, pacing slowly. Dressed in fine clothes, as appropriate to the situation, the Seinobennasdir stands for a moment, gazing at the crowd and then he quickly moves on to join the others. As he makes his way through the quendi, he greets familiar faces. He finally stands before the stage, watching at the riders. An applause is given to the them as they stand around the field.


Martion sits at attention behind the banner Ailiell holds, Rhunedhel at his side. He listens intently.


Caelwen's eyes, bright and studious, watch the Imladrim curiously, particular attention being paid to the riders and to Tatharwen. Her fingers curl around the edge of her seat, and she leans forward slightly.


Having carefully handed down the rose-broidered banner to a brightly arrayed attendant, Ailiell takes a small breath, and surveys the crowd once more -- coming face to face with the proud figures of Martion and Hir Rhunedhel. Startled, she laughs softly and beams on them with mild relief. With the knowledge now, that all is well, she hearkens to the Hirvaethor happily.


Tatharwen stirs in her chair, but follows the herald's words with rapt attention. "A test of horsemanship and nerve, the joust! And a 'battle' where the ability to cooperate is one's greatest weapon. These and more will be on offer..."


Celebren sits in the stands somewhat unsettled. His green eyes flash back and forth through the crowds, scanning for his friend. He seems rather disappointed at his unsuccessfulness.


Rhunedhel nods to Ailiell, smiling.


The time has come, and the Gwinthaer elleth's pale complexion has grown a bit paler. Though as the herald turns slightly in his address to signal her, that pallor turns to a flush. She stands and walks to the front of the platform next to the herald. "But lest you think the festival is of arms alone, the Tirith share this hosting platform with the vintners of Imladris, who have prepared a feast of delights for your enjoyment." The Hirvaethor then turns to Tatharwen and steps back to allow her to speak.


Faerlin quietly reads her notes from her place amongst the whispering edhil and ellith who form the 'orchestra' that had played the 'marching' music. However from time to time she looks up--taking note of the various arrivals, she especially notes the presence of Rhunedhel and she smiles and resumes rumaging through her parchments as if she were looking for something in particular.


Olathlinn's face looks like alabaster. She smiles to Gilion, chosing to stand on his own, and shrugs to him. Though radiant she was before, she now seems to return to her own thoughts, apparently not amusing ones.


An edhel clad in green and silver passes near her, and Caelwen looks away from the field and up. A bright smile that does not reach her eyes is given to Celebren, and she turns to glance behind her, as though wondering what he is searching for. Still seated alone, the Galadhrim elleth looks forward again, up at the edhel near, then back to the field.


Thileithel listens to the list of the events of the coming days, and winces slightly at the sound of the word 'fencing'. Quickly regaining his composure, the Hirvaethor looks around, waiting for any further developments that might need his attention.


Martion sits at attention, though it might be that he winks at Ailiell.


Faerlin beams as she finds what she sought, excitedly she leans to talk to Nyashcala who sits next to her "Mellon I have found these notes, they're idea for some form of riddle contest..I want to talk to Rhunedhel about if he'd act as judge at a forthcoming contest..if it goes ahead. Do you think I should?" She adds "I thought you did a particulary good job..your drumming was excellent."


Tatharwen has marshaled her courage and speaks out with a clear voice. "The vintners of Imladris wish to join the Herdir, Heryn and the Tirith in welcoming all to this Feast of Games. In honor of the occasion, a new vintage of wine is being unveiled for the first time during these games. The winners of each event will be the first to receive a bottle." Tatharwen pauses and takes a breath, then continues on. "However, the whole Valley will have opportunity to sample the new vintage at a garden party near the end of the festivities. In the meantime, the more familiar fruits of the Valley are already on offer for your enjoyment after this ceremony." Tatharwen gestures to the refreshments table at the end of the field, then both she and the Hirvaethor step back and glance over at the Heryn in order to give her the platform.


With the banner of Menelmen proudly displayed along the stands, Naurelin slides off the horse. That one bucket in Rhulalaith's hand's has sure grabbed Naurelin's attention and now that her job is over, she goes to investigate the contents of it. Sneaking up with absolutely quiet footsteps behind the jester, she taps him on the shoulder and whispers in his ears, "And what have we bought to these games? Do you have a costume in the bucket to take part in the races? Or are there frogs and snails so that you might create havoc in the stands?" A devilish gleam dances in her eyes and from her tone, Naurelin it does not look like the Arnethril is upto any good!


Noticing the smile of an unknown elleth, Celebren moves through the crowd towards Caelwen. As he approachs a wide smile can be seen on his face. He speaks loudly to the elleth, so as to be heard over the crowd. "Mae govannen! I am Celebren, Nethordur a Celebdan o Imladris. Would you mind if I sat next to you, for it seems most other seats are filled."


Again, the Master and his daugher rise, but this time it is the Lady who speaks. "What we have seen today makes me hopeful that the ocming days will be enjoyable and more for all of us. The spirit that leads us together may allow a peaceful competition, and may we all be together by the end of these festive days again, to celebrate all who have mastered the various tasks that are before them. May the days be bright, and the nights filled with song. The tournament is opened. Now let us all join in feast and song until the first competition is to start."


Nyashcala blushes at the compliment afforded to her by her friend, and leans in with a nervous glance to stage. "What notes are these, mellon?" Her flute-like voice is low and hushed, sliding easily under the ceremony's noise. She looks them over as well she can from this position, and smiles brightly. "I think you should, indeed! It would give those of us who cannot fight as well something to do...You know I pulled myself out of the archery contest--Ailiell told me of an accident not too long since with a snapping bowstring...I do not want to put myself at such a risk..not now." Her hand brushes over the skin of her largest drum, and she looks up as Elrond calls for more music, blushing faintly at being 'caught' in chatter.


The Hirvaethor Randinen remains as he was, seated atop a grey, decorated, steed; his form is straight, stature noble, banner held firmly in his grasp.

Only his eyes move, from face to face, resting most of the time with the Announcer of the events. At this his smile grows, delight glittering visibly within his visage. Only as the Herdir declares the Tournament opened, does Randinen stir...


Taking her father's arm, Arwen weaves into the crowd along with him, her expression bright as she speaks a word here or there with a resident or guest, slowly disappearing into the crowd.


The elisthir sighs, part excited, part appreciative. Her look could have bewitched many people, but inside she is feeling nervous. The hot sun beating down worries her, and she passes her hand amoing her braids. "I am happy to be sitting here and not on a horse." she whispers to herself.


Martion and Rhunedhel slip from their horses as grooms enter the field to take them back to the stable. They seem well-pleased with the event. Rhunedhel calls out to Ailiell, "come on, Arphedil, let the horse feast so we can too!"


As the Lady finishes her speech and the rulers depart, a company of Tirith steps onto the field in regal military procession. They form tight lines and march in the confident, coordinated fashion of elven warriors. Soon nearly the whole field is filled with Quendi warriors at attention.


The Lalaithdir stiffens slightly, tilting his head towards Naurelin. A thoughtful pause; a wicked grin. The jester whispers ...


And again Caelwen's eyes are drawn to colors alike to her own. "Aye, do sit by me!" she calls in answer. "I am alone-- it seems none of my kinsmen have come! I am Caelwen, Cennen en Gwaith-I-Thein o Lothlorien. Tell me, please, what we are watching? Tell me what your people celebrate!" Her smile is, indeed, friendly, but strain shows in faint, unnatural creases beside her eyes and upon her freckled and wounded brow. A palm scabbed over pats the seat beside her.


Rhulalaith whispers to Naurelin, ".... ...-... ashes. ... for ... the ... .... ... ... ... ... ... ... it. ... ... you, ... can ... ... ... ... ... yeah, ... ... ... ...."


Suddenly, the Tirith are joined on the fields by more of their members bearing a curious weapon... baskets of flower petals! With a shout they run to the grandstand and begin dousing the crowd with a fragrant shower and equally sweet, if raucous laughter.


As if expecting the arriving warriors, Randinen grins at their appearance; his eyes on the field he observes them closely. Mien stern, as if to judge their performance today. So he not yet dismounts, only giving up the banner to one of the grooms.


Some of the strain apparent in Caelwen's mien is eased at the sudden shower of flower petals. She ducks her head, a soft laugh falling from her lips, and raises it again, soft petals now tangled in her curls.


With a merry chuckle, Ailiell complies, patting the animal once in parting. Before she can respond, however, a mouthful of petals is hers to feast upon. Laughing as she daintily plucks them out, she calls, "Lead on, then!"


Martion laughs, and holds his arm out to Ailiell. "Let's get off the field," he suggests wryly, "So we can dance better."


Tatharwen dissolves in laughter as the disciplined procession of warriors commences their flower attack. She can't stop laughing even when some of the guard, emboldened by the fact that the rulers of the Valley no longer occupy the judges' platform, douse her and the Hirvaethor remaining there with blossoms.


Celebren leans towards Caelwen underneath a shower of petals and says gleefully, "'Tis the Opening Ceremony of the Tournament to come in days following. Today is a day to cast aside worries and enjoy the Merriment!" With that he cannot help but laugh with joy.


"Lindir is not near around, I wonder if we could ask Hivator Randinen to race for the House, Maegiaracha?" whispered Olathlinn. "I haven't managed so far to have the Coat of Arms on something to wear so far, but it would please me to compete for Olornamanwe instead of for my own name." she states.


Helegrhofel laughs ands claps at the warriors while accepting the 'shower'. Leaving worries and work aside, he decides to have some fun.


The orchestra strikes up again, a similar tune to the opening one, but this is a lighter tune and not quite as militaristic in timbre. Faerlin still sits amidst the playing musicians with mellon-Nyashcala "Maybe later I'll ask..." She raises a brow "If I am honest I think you did right to pull out of the contest.."


Gilion laughs joyously while flowers rain down onto the wide rim of his hat. He reaches out and catches a flower, a beautifully coloured blue and white flower, and tucks it's stem into a button hole in his tunic. The flower glows in contrast to his worn leather clothes.


Naurelin quirks a brow, "Eh? And I what about the trouble I shall get into?" She grins maniacally and then, grabbing the bucket, she sprints forwards. She calls out behind her, "Their garments shall only get sullied if you catch me. That you shalln't but you can sure try!" A bit of brownish-black powder stains her the corners of her shirt, as she holds the bucket in her arms, "Catch me if you can.. " she repeats, teasingly and with that, she runs off meandering through the crowd of dancing elves.


Caelwen's returning smile to Celebren is fair, yet still faintly akin to the painful clenching of teeth. "Then I will try, mellon." Her hands fidget, then clasp together in her lap. "You remind me of someone from home, a Laiquende named Methenauth. I am glad to have met you!" Her gaze strays to the crowd, idly searching.


And as seats are abandoned for the appealing benefit of beverage and food, flowers spread to feed also merriment, there is one still upon horseback... and he does not follow to crowd the tables. Rather a booming laughter Randinen raises -- for it is he -- pulling the reins of his steed.

"And whilst you feast, dance and chatter, I shall..." bright is the gleam in his eye, brows cocked with laughter, "ride to practice arms, speed and wit! My feast will be at the end, when the prizes are awarded. Farewell!"

Thus the Arphedor wheels round, steering clear from the former audience, ignoring the rushing grooms, as he rides away and shortly after disappears.


Nyashcala nods her head, although quite in time with the music as her drum is lending is throaty voice to the music's rhythm. The largest of her beaters--twice as long as her hand, easily, and doubleheaded--flickers along the plain skin without seeming direction from the elleth. Somehow, she manages to speak to Faerlin even as she plays. "I did not enjoy entertaining the idea of having an arrow through any part of me, particularly not if it also involved the child. I am pleased to see, however, that Tatharwen seems very well and not damaged from the incident.."


A merry smile is upon Maegiaracha's lips. Her eyes gleam and surge, watching petals, specific ones, fall to their destinations. The merriment around her seems to wear off on her, though there is no outburst of laughter, only silent smiles of precious gleaming joy. Then suddenly she stands and looks around, quickly inhaling the fresh fragrance of air around her. A refreshing breeze of air touches her cheeks, her eyes close, and her nose delights in this added sense.


Turning to Olathlinn she opens her eyes, smiling brightly, "If you would like to ask I shall come, shall we try to find one to ask now?"


"Thief, thief!" screeches Rhulalaith, leaping after Naurelin. He dashes after the bucket; sweeping off his jester's cap he waves it wildly about -- sending great clouds of dust hither and thither -- and pursues Naurelin. "She has my bucket!" he cries.


Alone, a bubble of silence seeming to envelop him despite the noise and gaiety of the crowd, a tall figure stands near the base of the grandstands. Charcoal eyes watch the festivities and a small smile sits oddly on his face. Lothdaimoth's glance lights on the far figure of Caelwen and the smile freezes, replacing it at once, he looks away - and incidentally doesn't allow his gaze to return to that section of the stands.


The Nethordur takes Martion's offered arm with a formal inclining of her dark head. "Away from the...horse remnants, you mean?" asks Ailiell demurely. "Or perhaps the full-bloomed Tirith is reason enough to flee." Lifting then several bright blue flowers from her gown, she anchors one behind her ear -- and smartly and subtly tucks one into Martion's dark hair. "There now," says she with a nod.


Faerlin giggles as she sees the antics of Naurelin and Rhulalaith. Between the beats she grins and murmers "I think Naurelin would make a fine lalaithdis"


Olathlinn gets up in a very aristrocratic way and nods to Maegiaracha. She starts moving toward Randinen, pulling softly on the hand of Maegiaracha. Now it is she that looks like running.


Celebren smiles at Caelwen's words, but is also saddened by her obvious pain. He wishes to ask her what is wrong, but fears it will only worsen it. In an attempt to lighten the mood, "Will you accompany me to the banquet table? The food all looks delicious."


With Rhunedhel a few paces behind, Martion leads Ailiell toward the place where more and more of the crowd is congregating. Coincidentally, it takes them away from where Naurelin is running, as it is too congested to play hide and seek where the food will soon arrive.


Nyashcala giggles, and the rhythm almost hiccups with her laughter. "Indeed, but I am not too sure that I would be the one to tell her such."


Several of the Tirith shout at Naurelin and Rhulalaith. "Stop that! You're getting dust all over the place!" And the raise flower filled hands as if used to wielding more convincing arguments.


Her part in the ceremony now done, but perhaps for a scan of the wine supply, Tatharwen steps from the platform. Still brushing flower petals from her hair and garments, her eyes still sparkling with laughter, she scans the crowd for familiar faces.


Maegiaracha smiles with a widening of her eyes, her senses still longing to remain still from moving feet and pressing thoughts. Despite this she lets her feet pass forward in quick chase of Olathlinn.


Faerlin looks mischieviously at Nyashcala "You might not tell her but if she comes over here...I will" The Linnor grins almost and folds her arms across her chest whilst trying to look innocent.


Gilion remains standing by the stands as the crowd moves toward the feasting tables. His eyes seem to be scanning the crowd, looking for someone. Despite his keen eyes, Gilion takes in a deep breath of disappointment, shaking his head with a crooked grin. He gives himself a little shoulder-shrug, before slowly meandering his way to the tables.


Caelwen's vaguely searching eyes alight upon a dark-haired edhel in the crowd, and she watches him rather intently for a while, the false smile on her face falling into sorrow. There is a brief pause after Celebren speaks, and she struggles to force a smile back on. "Aye, please," lilts her friendly voice. "I would love to taste more of your bakers' craft. Mayhap later I can even try to dance!" She stands, then, slowly and painfully with her face set against the hurt of her hroa, and smiles weakly again to her new companion ere she weaves her way toward the crowd and tables.


Olathlinn stops moving. "He disappeared!" she says.


Again, Nyashcala laughs, and this time the drum's tune does suffer a trifle for it. "Ah...well, I must play my cards carefully of late, hmm? Although...I do not believe Naurelin would be inclined to accost me for such a statement. Perhaps I will nod in agreement to support you." And here, she winks.


And as it happens, with the jester on her tail, Naurelin decides to head in the direction of where the crowd is gathered so that the Lalaithdir may not find her that easily! The black dust spews all around, and just out of some crazy instinct, Naurelin grabs a fistfull of the black stuff and throws it in the air. She looks like an utter clown, a soot covered face, blacked garments, and hair flying all over her face as she flies through the crowd. "Catch me.. catch me.. for I have your bucket! You don't catch on that quickly for a jester, do you?" she mocks, her taunts carried with the wind behind her back.


Thileithel rises from his chair on the platform and moves down and over toward the tables where the huge platters of fare have been laid out for consumption by the Elves. He smiles and waves to those he passes as he comes to the first table, the wine table, and finds his usual drink, the red known far and wide, the culyave of Imladris. Taking up a goblet from the crushed snow it was half buried in, the Hirvaethor moves to the next table and savors the smell of the food before him.


Turning her head curiously as a soot-faced Naurelin darts by, Ailiell murmurs with a dark chuckle, "This...oh, this does not bode well."


"Give me my bucket," Rhulalaith calls, waving his sock-like hat about and splashing great clouds of dust at practically every elf he passes. He dashes closer to Naurelin, the bells on his hat jingling wildly. "My bucket and spade!"


As if drawn to the substance of her work, Tatharwen weaves her way through the crowd to the refreshments table where casks of wine are being drained into glasses as stewards briskly replenish the rows of crystal. Bathril, also, are at work, bringing trays of ripe summer fruit, pastries and cheese to accompany the wines. Tatharwen quietly converses with those working at the tables, inquiring if they have all they need. She spots the Miruvorthaer Gilion nearby, but is distracted by another war of flung particles...this time not flower petals but ash, and the culprits are Naurelin and Rhulalaith. The Idherveld gives a smirk and takes a glass of wine for herself as she watches.


Caelwen finds herself walking straight into a storm of black powder raining down. Now, along with the freckles, flowerpetals, and old scrapes adorning her skin, there is also black soot covering her and melding into the dark silver of her gown. She breathes in another cloud of the dust, and coughs harshly, whining sharply in pain beneath her breath and clutching at her ribs. She bends over, blood draining from a tense face.


"Oh" says Olathlinn with a sad look. "He will be hard to reach the next few days." She sighs. "The heck with it! Let's party, Maegiaracha, I will do it for the House even without permission given. I am quite stubborn!"


Martion nods with an amused grin. "It doesn't really matter," he observes. "Soot washes off."


Naurelin calls out, "Your bucket? My bucket! You practically gave it to me.. why.. why you yourself told me to take it." She shoves the spade in the bucket and runs like a mad-hatter all over the place, leaving a trail of black soot. "I shall not give what was given to me and if you want it, you shall have to pry it from my living hands!" she states. That looks very nearly like a challenge. "Jester, come get me!". Ah! The healer sure knows how to rile someone up.


A decision reached, Lothdaimoth starts to work his way down the field towards the musicians. The laughter and antics all around seem to widen his smile, still, it never reaches his eyes. Dark and shadowed, they remain impassive and a bit aloof. At last reaching those who play, he stops near one recognized face. "Faerlin is it not?" His voice is cheerful on the surface.


Thileithel, ever vigilant for the extraordinary, indeed, he yet lives after so long in the wild, notices the coughing of an elleth, whom he recognizes. Moving out of line, he strides in her direction and comes up along side her. "Caelwen, are you well?" The question needs no answer. "Have a bit of this wine and we'll find you a chair out of the way."


A dark figure wavers on the edge of the happy scene, leaden feet eventually finding their way into the stands and depositing the elleth they were attached to on the edge of the crowd. Fairenel, wearing slight but noticable dark circles under her eyes, watched the proceedings with a half-disinterested gaze, for the moment content to sit by herself.


Celebren quickly looks to Caelwen with grave concern. "Are you alright?! Oh goodness!" He rushes to the tables and quickly brings back a glass of water to his couhing companion. "Drink this!" He hands the glass to Caelwen.


Gilion makes a sudden twitch to his left, as a sooty elf dashes by, "My!" he bellows in surprise. Deciding to stay out of the soot as best he can. he quickens his pace toward the table of wines where Tatharwen is. As much old dust flies off his pants as soot, while he pats at them on his way.


Faerlin glances to the pregnant elleth beside her again "It seems, maybe fortunately, that the Lalaithdir and the 'lalaithdis' as I shall call her, intend to stay away from us.." Her voice trails off a little as she looks up at the edhel who approaches "Yes, you're right, how are you finding the...entertainments?"


Rhulalaith spins, cutting off to one side. He's headed towards Naurelin, still, but it's more headed towards Naurelin by way of anyone in the way. Dashing towards Gilion, he swings his hat; jingle! Swish! More dust.


Martion says sotto voce, "of course, anyone who gets dust on me is assured that I shall put even more on him. Or her." And he winks at Ailiell.


"Stay here Maegiaracha, I will come back with more food and drink, those two can hurt you." Olathlinn moves trying to escape the bucket party to reach the table.


"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Caelwen coughs to Thileithel and Celebren, straightening again slowly with a hand supportively curled about her ribs. She takes the glass from the second edhel, grateful smile given, and drinks the water deeply. The cup lowered again. "I don't want to sit again, thank you... but I could always do with more of this fine Imladris wine." Her hand is passed briefly over her eyes, she glances again to another of the Galadhrim and trembles. "Come, now, where is it?" she lilts in a faintly cheerful tone, then weaves her way toward the tables anew.


"Greetings, Gilion," Tatharwen says cheerfully as she bats the air in front of her, coughing slightly in the haze of ash that it seems no one can escape. "A merry welcome to the Valley for you, Miruvorthaer, even if 'rowdy' might better describe it! How do you find the wines of Imladris since your return?"


Helegrhofel moves on to taste the goodies. Upon arriving by the table, he takes a sweet and says, "It seems you have put all of your art in making them, Maegiaracha, didn't you?", and then laughs, "They are exceptional". He then fills a glass with Himhithlin and moves on, searching for other tempting pastries. He waves at Tatharwen, who is apparently busy with the Bathril. As he scans the faces around him, he spots a familiar one, or so he thinks. Walking closer he inspects Caelwen for a while. Then with a smile he says, "Caelwen? You here, too? But how?", he laughs, being still not sure but curious about the elleth, "am I mistaken?"


Happily soot-free, Ailiell laughs in response. "Oh, take care. Soot may wash away, but vengeance sleeps below the skin. You may find yourself assailed long after this day." She turns her eyes from the scene long enough to pillage the laden tables.


"Indeed." Nyashcala agrees, watching the clouds of soot waft and dance with the bright flowerpetals like the night sky dances with stars. "I am not sure I would like to be in the midst of all that dust. Her gaze traces over Caelwen, and she frowns in concern. However, another as approached, and she looks up at his voice even though he speaks to Faerlin. It appears, for the moment, that the drummer has left percussing to the others.


On seeing Olathlinn bedecked in such a pretty outfit and not a speck of dust on her face, Naurelin grins, as she finds her new path to move towards. With careless abandon, she runs towards Olathlinn. Unfortuantely, Naurelin trips over her own two feet and lo and behold! The bucket that was in the healers hand is now heading straight of Olathlinn's head!


"Everyone seems to be having a very good time," Lothdaimoth observes with a bit of a laugh. With a courtly bow in Nyashcala's direction that contrasts quite a bit with his (still) stained and somewhat ragged clothing, he says, "I am Lothdaimoth. I haven't yet met you.." Inquiry raises his tone and one dark brow.


Gilion smiles to Tatharwen as he approaches the table, "Things seem to have been rather well... OOOF!" The miruvothaer gets whacked in the face with a sooty jester hat. His face full of complete surprise, he teeters back a few steps, then falls to his bum, "Why those two!" he says loudly, red lips quavering through his now black soot covered face.


Martion hmms thoughtfully to Ailiell. "Maybe I better go get this under control, before any dust gets in the wine!" From where he stands, he does not see Naurelin tripping, which may explain his calm tones and slightly amused demeanor.


There is no way that the elisthir can see it comming. She is concentrating on the food scene that is before her. The bucket arrives and empties all its contents on the poor Olathlinn.


Maegiaracha quickly follows after Olathlinn, and upon hearing Helegrhofel's compliment she attempts to turn away. Turning back quickly she bows slowly and slightly, saying, "There is much more behind the preperation than such a simple Bathril as I. Thank you kindly, I will share you gratitude with the others who are now even making more food for the rest of the day."

At this moment this slightly anxious Bathril doesn't seem to know at all about the bucket moving for Olathlinn who is close to her, and in a thankful pose she remains.


"I am Nyashcala." The elleth offers her name in return, smiling warmly at Lothdaimoth. "I am not quite as mobile as I once was, perhaps that is part of the reason we have not yet met." Her hand, still holding the beater, adjusts her dress over the ever-growing swell of her abdomen, almost self-consciously. Then, suddenly, her eyes go a mite distant, and her smile unfocused. "I have long heard tales of the great trees on Lothlorien...but never met one who could tell me of them.."


Caelwen's eyes, green and bruised like clover crushed, are suddenly drawn to an edhel calling her name before she can find the wine she was heading for. Fiery brows-- one sliced by a healing cut-- draw together in confusion as she studies him. "Hel.." she attempts uncertainly. "Helegrhofel? I.. I am visting with the rest of the Galadhrim party. I know, it is very odd to see me travelling." Again, that smile that is almost like teeth gritted against pain. "How fare you?" She turns and looks longingly toward the wine again.


Rh�lalaith dashes off after Naurelin -- as the healer stumbles, the Lalaithdir goes head-over-heels over her, landing lightly on his feet.

The problem is that his feet are on his silver flute.


Martion begins walking toward the crowd where Naurelin and now Rhulalaith are ... and thus hidden from his view by shoulders and faces.


Olathlinn coughes. "Naurelin!"she shouts. "What is that digusting smelling thing?"


Tatharwen jumps back as Gilion is pushed to the ground, but her exclamation of surprise is soon drowned in shouts from a different direction...from Olathlinn's direction, as she guesses more than sees. For Olathlinn is now the fair red-haired elleth no longer, rather an apparition of black.


"I am well", Helegrhofel answers to the elleth, "and what about you? What about my family and Lothlorien?", he asks without taking a breath. "It has not been long since I left but I have missed some things and some people", he adds as he take a drink from his glass.


Celebren takes notice of the talk between Caelwen and Helegrhofel and offers, "I shall go get the wine you wished for Caelwen." With that he makes for the tables.


Turning back from the table, Ailiell finds the events much changed. All heads seem to be turned in one direction. She edges around two gaping edhil, to find Olathlinn -- blackened from head to foot, and quite a black storm-cloud growing in her countenance.


"And I.." Lothdaimoth's voice falters and then regains its strength. "I have been spending most of my times since arriving here in the vineyards." One shoulder goes up in a shrugs. "Thus with little opportunity for seeing new faces." Black hair, rough from lack of care, catches on the material of his shirt with each movement. Smiling down at the other, he asks, "What would you know? I daresay I could tell you some few things about them..."


Faerlin's attention shifts momentarily to her parchements again before laughingly answering Lothdaimoth "Quite the crowd but it is good to see so many having a good time. How's the arm healing now you have had a little chance to rest? and what exactly happened, I have only heard whispers and tales..I too would like to hear of fair Lorien though.."


Gilion's brow is furled tight as he stands. He pulls a clean hanky from under his tunic, and wipes some soot off his face. His head shakes, as he watches yet another fall victim to the soot. He turns to Tatharwen, "I hope they enjoy labouring in the vineyards these two... I have the feeling they'll be spending much time there in the coming days," he says, still two dark circles of soot on his face, one on each eye, making the old miruvorthaer looking rather like a racoon.


Rhulalaith steps off his smashed flute mournfully, not amused in the least. He bends down and picks it up, brushing at it with a sooty hand as he attempts to ascertain the damage. Prank forgotten for the moment the Lalaithdir examines the instrument.


More the elleth tries to remove the black substance, more she seems to spread it over.


Caelwen flushes beneath the soot and freckles. "I... well, I must admit I do not oft' talk with your family, mellon, but I think they are fine. And Lothlorien is as well as ever, though a fire marred Raavindonserke talan recently." A heartfelt, greatful glance is thrown to Celebren, along with, "I am forever in your debt." Her fingers tighten around her waterglass, and she stares long at Lothdaimoth, shoulders hunching a little.


Sitting on the spot where she fell, utterly black with soot and dust all over her, Naurelin just blinks and stares at Olathlinn. Then, with wide eyes and a hangdog expression on her face, she stammers, "Olathlinn...erm... mellon.." she bites her lips, which are stained with dust that now coats the tips of her teeth, "..ermm...mellon, you should not have stood in my way! You would not have got soot all over you, had you stayed away from my path." Then, turning to look up at the jester who has the hidden talents of an acrobat, she narrows her eyes and gives him a mean stare, "If I get into any trouble for his, Lalaithdir, you are going down with me!" she barks out.


Nyashcala nods with understanding, but does not pry. She has heard enough, on rumour alone, of the sadness that surrounded the Galadrhim's arrival. She does not want to echo the pain further. "When you have time, mellon, I would hear as much of the great trees as you could tell. I have lived my whole life in Elrond's valley, and the greatest tree I know is our Great Oak. I should think such trees as the fabled mallorn would lend to a wonderful song."


Rhunedhel takes that moment to reappear from wherever he had gone to ... the food tables, it looks like, from the loaded plate, he carries, and he observes in a bright voice to Rhulalaith. "Another one, I see."


Meanwhile Martion enters the scene from the other direction, with raised eyebrows and a very amused expression competing with it.


Tatharwen raises her brow in mock surprise at Gilion's words. "Work in the vineyards? Those two? Naurelin perhaps, but I shudder to think what might become of Imladris' wine supply if we let the Lalaithdir loose amongst our vines." She reaches for a napkin from the table to help the edhel wipe his face.


Rh�lalaith reaches into a pocket thoughtfully, removing a hand full of ... something ... from the pocket. Grains of light, ashy dust slip through his fingers ... he steals a glance at Martion's garments.


Olathlinn puts her hand on her waist. She hesitates between many emotions, not wanting to be angry at Naurelin, but being quite sad to have ruined her only great robe.


Maegiaracha gives a dreadfully sad look in Olathlinn's direction. Slowly she steps back, a look upon her face seldom seen to any. She seems torn apart, perhaps wondering if she should move to aid the black mess of Olathlinn or stay clean.

It is decided, though reluctance of touching anything dirty is clearly upon her face. She steps forward grasping Olathlinn and helps her to her feet, "Oh my," she expresses in dire care, "You don't look so well."


Biting back her laughter, Ailiell retreats to the table and takes up a length of cloth which had been wrapped about a hot dish, and fills a bowl with water. Quietly she makes her way towards the elisthir and Maegiaracha. "I fear this will only smear things about," she says, chuckling. "But, really...it can't hurt, now can it."


The mask of cheer abruptly cracks. But it is replace bare seconds later and the tall Galadhrim counsel looks down at his bandaged arm. "I do not know how it heals," he says, all uncaring. "Twas an arrow wound." Were any emotion to be seen in his expression, it would be relief as he turns towards Nyashcala. "There is nothing like them anywhere. I know of your Oak, I have climbed it and it is indeed a grand tree, but the mallyrn..." His eyes unfocus - seeing things only found in memory, or many many miles off. "I never made a song about them, although a poem once. They are.. wondrous above all else that I have seen."


"Well, perhaps..." Gilion responds, "I may not have knew much of these to prior to this day, but they won't soon leave my memory," he continues, snaping his hanky in the air to free it from some of the soot. At that moment, Gilion notices Martion amoung the crowd, and his amused expression. He also notices Rhulalaith eyeing Martion, and gets a rather amused grin on his own face.


Two white spheres are peering to Maegiaracha in all this black, Olathlinn's eyes, then, her teeth appear as she smiles. "Thanks Maegiaracha, but I know who will help me further!" She moves toward Rhulalaith and Naurelin, then takes the face of Naurelin in both her palms, leaving black impression of them on Naurelin's cheeks. "There you go! Where is the other clown now?"


Helegrhofel greets Celebren and asks Caelwen, "Well, do you like Imladris?" as he glances at the table. "Have you been here before?", he adds with a smile. "You will certainly have fun though, the following days, due to the events that have been prepared", says he as he greets a friend.


Maegiaracha almost seems to argue with Olathlinn as she turns. In gaping awe she watches Olathlinn's actions. One hand slowly slips up to cover her lips and an expression of fear charges to her eyes, which now appear like brewing thunder, an inner expression seldom expressed upon her demeanor.


Celebren hands Caelwen a crisp glass of culyave, "Here you go. This should satisfy your thirst." He greets Helegrhofel with a warm smile.


Caelwen blinks once at Helegrhofel, her attention broken from Lothdaimoth again. "Nay, of course I have never been here before. And... yes, I suppose I do hope to have some fun. Ai! Celebren!" She takes the chill glass from the edhel, and immediately raises it to her mouth for a long swallow. A small sigh of pleasure. "What is this? I have never tasted it before."


Olathlinn runs toward Rhulalaith. "Come here big boy!" she says, hand first toward the edhel face.


Seeing that Olathlinn has decided to take revenge for messing up her dress, Naurelin shrugs and winks, "Mellon, now you really shouldn't have done that you know! My cheeks were spotless clean and now look what you have gone and done!" The healer clenches her hands with soot from the gounds and getting up on her feet, sudden and quick movements, Naurelin dashes for nethordyr Maegiaracha and Ailiell. She sprinkles both the elleth with black dust and with an evil grin on her lips, she says, "Now I can't let you two pretty ladies remain untainted can I? You must join our jolly band of blackened merry makers!"


Martion reaches a hand out for Naurelin as she passes him on the way toward Ailiell. He seems amused, but his intent is clear: to grab her and halt her midstride.


Faerlin listens solemnly to Lothdaimoth's words, whilst she listens she fold up a sheet of cream parchemnt marked with a flowing script in black in. "There are many here who have cousins in Lorien..so many whose families are spread across the leagues. My own family for example, though my sister is here, with her husband and daughter, are still in Amon Thranduil.." She sighs but pushes the distance between the places to the back of her mind.


Celebren replies Caelwen with comment through his grin. "Culyave. The finest wine in Imladris, or so it is in my opinion."


"Good luck and enjoy the party, Gilion!" Leaving the Miruvorthaer to his own defenses in the soot war, Tatharwen moves away as she sees her parents among the crowd. Amidst the merriment they had not been able to find her, yet guessed where she might be. Greeting friends as she passes by, and managing to dodge the ash war further on, she goes towards the center of the field to join them.


"I prefer the Himhithlin, though", comments Helegrhofel. "I like its unique taste and its fine colour, accompanied by a gentle scent", he adds. The smiling he says, "But that again is personal taste"


Olathlinn coughs again as laughing so hard makes more dust come in her nose and mouth. She is therefore forced to spit some on the ground, but continues to try to catch the elusive edhel. "Rhulalaith, stop dodging me and accept your punishment, bad boy!" Olathlinn is now part running and has to stop as she laughs.


Seeing the Arnethril's charge, Ailiell takes a fighting stance, wielding her bowl of water before her grimly. "Naur...e..LIN!" she yells, the cry breaking into a laughing yelp as the soot flies. "That's it!" Looking rather dangerous with her new black freckles she launches the contents of the bowl in the mad merry-maker's direction.


Rhulalaith backs up swiftly, hurling his handful of dust not at Olathlinn ... but at Martion. It's a bit of a long shot ...


As the soot antics continue on, Gilion talks to the gwinthaer he thought was beside him, "Well, lets just hope the soot stays over in tha..." he pauses, seeing Tatharwen wander off with words of good luck, "Seems I'm left to myself..." he says, looking over the wines present for the feast.


Maegiaracha watches in astonishment, but not for long. Her eyes turn towards Naurelin. The dust menaces towards her, two hands shoot up, one from her lips and the other from her side. Her head ducks, too late, her eyes are filled with choking black particles. The last image her mind remains as that of Martion's actions attempting to halt Naurelin.

The Bathril now tumbles to the ground, her eyes swelling with tears to clear her eyes. Quickly she rolls to her side, and into a fetal position before rolling to her stomach. Like this she lays on the ground with her hands held tight to her face.


Lothdaimoth nods. "My own sister and her family live here in Imladris. She had been home to spend some time with us, and came back again just now."


"I suppose I have been fortunate in that none of my family is sundered from the rest of it. We are all still here in Imladris...except for my grand-parents, who have gone West some time ago..." She shakes her head a bit, and smiles back at the two. "I do not think I can quite grasp the idea..." Then, suddenly, she rummages about her, and frowns. "Oh, bother, I've left my songbook in the flet." Nyashcala turns to Faerlin. "Have you a spare piece of parchment and quill? Otherwise, I am afraid I will need to trust my memory..."


After another long sip, Caelwen smiles again to Celebren. "My House is known for our wines. We have the best Vinters in Lothlorien." She nods once to Helegrhofel. "But then, I suppose you know that. I should like to try that Himhithlin, too. The miruvor is quite good." Again her gaze strays to the battered black-haired edhel far away. "My cousin is a fine Vinter. I think he would like to speak with those here," she adds in a smaller voice.


Seeing what happend to Maegiaracha, Olathlinn stops running toward Rhulalaith. She rather come back to the Bathril, worries for a second. "Not in the eyes... now it is personal! I really don't find it funny!"


"A sister here? What's her name?" Linnor Faerlin asks as a reply to Lothdaimoth. Her nimble fingers select a clean sheet of parchment and slide it across to the other elleth. Stooping again she produces a fine quill and a crystal bottle full of jet black ink. "It is rare, mellyn, that I am without these.."


Easing his arm a little against his side, Lothdaimoth lets his eyes wander across the crowd while Nyashcala hunts for paper. Attention recalled by Faerlin's voice, he looks back with a tiny frown; clearly trying to recall the words of the question. "Ah. Tiinwaia. She married and came here long ago." The frown is smoothed away and half-grin replaced.


After examining the wines, Gilion's attention turns to the elves enjoying the fine wines present. He walks along the tables toward Celebren and Caelwen, a smile now upon his racoon-like face, black soot still in the eye sockets.


Nyashcala's face lights a bit at the sight of the parchment offered, and she smiles gratefully at Faerlin. "Thank you, Faerlin-mellon. I shall owe you a favor now." She casts her eyes about again, slightly, before resting the large drum on the ground, leaning up against her chair's leg. Then, she leans up over as much as she may, spreading the parchment over her leg and scribbling quick notes upon it.


Ah well! Caught in Gweithir Martion's grasp makes it a little difficult for Naurelin to reach her targets and halted in her track, she lets the dust fly out of her hands and towards the nethordyr. Finding a prompt reply to her actions from Ailiell with the shower of water, Naurelin stands there -- black, soot-covered and drenched. Her hair fall over her face like a wet mop, little rivulets of black flowing down her face. "That was not very nice gweithir! I have a right to involve my nethordyr in all guild activity." she remarks.


Martion does not see Rhulalaith aiming at him, focused as he is on Naurelin. As the soot goes into the air, he is saying to Naurelin, "Guild activity? What do the healers' guild have to do with this?"

That is about when Rhulalaith's ash goes splat against the back of his head.


But in the meantime Rhunedhel has come up behind Rhulalaith, and he is reaching out to get a handle on the second culprit in the affair.


Maegiaracha lets forth a choking sound that might sound like laughter but it mingles into the grass quicker than it would to any ear. Upon the ground she remains, senseless to what is going on around her. Her ears churn with sound, all inaudible to her mind. Her hands remain desperately clinging to her cheeks and eyes.


Olathlinn says, "Oh dear, oh dear! Maegiaracha!" She does not know that to do, and runs in place.


Caelwen bows her head for a little while, flowerpetals falling to the ground around her, and abandons the waterglass to the table, favoring instead the wine. She holds this cup with both hands, shaking a little, then suddenly jerks her head up again at Gilion's approach. She eyes his sooty features with a half-smile, then turns her attention back to Celebren after a brief pause in her conversation with Helegrhofel. "What did you say your work is, again?"


Rh�lalaith yelps as he is seized. "I'm innocent," he declares. "I did it for my flute!"


Celebren replies Caelwen rather eagerly, "Nethordur a Celebdan!" A smile brightens his face.


Olathlinn says, "Ailiell! Martion, Someone! I can't help her I am all dirty!" Olathlinn is moving as a bee around a flower.


Faerlin smiles "I can't say I know your sister..I hope she and her family are happy here. My sister and I have been very content here and have many good friends" At this point she beams at Nyashcala "Indeed, some close enough so that they feel like family.."


Rhunedhel says in a rather clear voice, "Rhulalaith, as Hirlin of the Singers' Guild, I must protest that this joke is in very bad taste. If Gilion wishes your help in the vineyards, I am sure we can spare you for a bit."


Freezing in place, emptied bowl still extended, Ailiell's jaw drops and she laughs silently at the chain-reaction. The sodden, sooty Naurelin in the quick hands of Martion -- newly be-sooted by Rhulalaith, in the hands of Rhunedhel. But Olathlinn's desperate cry turns her head and she looks, startled to where Maegiaracha lies crumpled on the grass. Kneeling by her, she reaches for the Nethordur's hands. "Let go, Maegiaracha," she says softly. "Let go, let me see..."


"I heal fea," Rhulalaith replies saucily, not quite contrite yet. "I judged that many people here are soul-weary and in need of amusement and distraction."


Helegrhofel says "It was nice to see you Caelwen", as he takes down a sip of his drink, "We may talk later, I am going to have a walk now". With a warm smile, he walks past the elleth and Celebren and disappears in the crowd.


Martion has his hands on Naurelin still. The soot drops all over him, and his only reaction is to shake his head, which sends more soot drifting from his head to his shoulders. He does not break attention on Naurelin, but awaits her answer.


Olathlinn nerves falls on Rhulalaith: "Oh you!" she says not laughing at all, even if you cannot see the color of her skin, she is so seldomly raging that maybe she is red as a rose under her dust.


Just as Gilion approaches the elves enjoying their, he hears Rhunedhel's words. He spins around, "Rhunedhel! Yes indeed, the vineyards can always use a pair of young hands!" he smiles wide now, "And to you Rhlalaith, the vineyards do wonders fo the fea!" Gilion laughs.


Maegiaracha's movements seem to calm, her head is now risen, her elbows are firmly upon the ground supporting her hands which still cling to her face. Slowly the words of Ailiell begin to mingle with sense her in turmoil ridden mind.

Slowly the Bathril's hands disperse from her face, her eyes still shut with all force. A smile is now fully evident on her lips but they say nothing.


The commotion some distance away has been successfully ignored until now, but some word spoken catches Lothdaimoth's ear. Turning, he peers down the field. Over his shoulder, he replies. "Yes, she likes it here very much. Only occasionally does she miss our home."


"A silversmith!" Caelwen latches onto this, some spark returning to her eyes. "My aunt is a silversmith-- my cousin is a jewelsmith. Tell me more of the Crafters o Imladris. What of the Potters? Or Bakers?" She gives a terse little laugh. "My family-- my whole house, really-- has many in the Gwaith-I-Thein."


Looking up from her scribblings, Nyashcala peers down the field. "What is going on down there?"


Naurelin hands move to disentangle herself from Martion's grasp, but turning her face to him and says, "I have not had a chance to give the two nethordyr a proper welcome and initiation into the Guild of Healer and this opening ceremony with its festivites was the perfect opportunity for me to do that. The soot acted as a petal welcome, and had you not caught hold of me, I would have embraced them with open arms into the guild." She tries to step away, "And if my welcome was not very acceptable, then I shall accept whatever ruling you pass out to Rhulalaith, for I was an accomplice in his tasteless act of merry-making."


Olathlinn takes really deep breath, calming herself down slowly.


Encouraged by Maegiaracha's silent grin, she answers with one of her own, unseen though it may be by the Bathril. "Aren't we lucky to have such a...funny... jester?" Looking up to the wrathful Olathlinn, she reaches out to tug on her hem. "Mellon, you seem in need of occupation. Refill this bowl with water?"


Martion laughs. "Naurelin, unless they have already passed their final exam, you have to do that still! I suggest that you go get washed off, and give them the exam Harchdolas was telling me about. In the meantime I shall speak to Harchdolas and see if he feels that Gilion needs your help in the vineyard in your free time from Healer duty!" He releases her, winking. "Is that a deal? Mind you don't go to the backwater, though, as I plan to bathe there!"


Faerlin shakes her head "I have no idea, maybe I should go and see?" With that she stands up and squeezes between the chairs, a brief glance over her shoulder and she strides down the field to see what the commotion is about. The Tellenistril stands on her tiptoes to see what's happening. In a clear voice she asks, to noone in particular "Just what is happening here?"


"What?" Olathlinn shouts. "Oh sorry mellon!"She reply more softly, "Water? Give me that!" and she takes the bowl.


Maegiaracha heeds the voice of Ailiell and responds, "Yes.. a jester indeed." Her hands lay against the ground, straining to return to her eyes. Her breath becomes again a passive routine and all thoughts turn blank -- her mind waits -- drifts with questions, thoughts of what just happened, but all seems black and she longs to open her eyes.


Olathlinn coughs again.


"After inspecting the cellars this morning, I've been thinking of re-arranging them a little," Gilion says, walking toward the two guilty elves, "We could some strong arms to move the barrels about... lets just hope I don;t change my mind too often." he chuckles.


"If you would excuse me?" The words are directed at Nyashcala as Lothdaimoth takes a few steps after Faerlin. "It was nice to meet you..." A few more strides are taken, then more - and quite soon he is also standing on the outskirts of the crowd.


Catching the words of the Gweithir and Naurelin's stretched protestations, Ailiell laughs as well. "With a mess like this?" she says quietly to Maegiaracha. "Let us hope Harchdolas never knows the extent of it. Vineyards! Lucky if she walked away with her life...Keep your eyes closed now, mellon." She pats the Bathril's hands.


Olathlinn ran to fill the bowl and came back. "Ailiell?, here is the water!"she kneels down.


Speaking with common interest Celebren replies to Caelwen with, "There are fine potters and jewelmiths here. There work is quite amazing."


Maegiaracha waits, her eyes fluttering gently.


Olathlinn carefully turn her head to coughs again, away of the bowl of water.


Naurelin shrugs she says, "If you nethordyr still want to take that test, once you are cleaned up, I shall be in the Lore Depository. Find me there and that test you shall have." She turns to the Gweithir once again, "And if I am need by the Vintner, I have just said where you can find me." With that said, she heads for the direction of the stables, a black trail of droplets marking her path.


Rhunedhel releases Rhulalaith, and says smiling, "aye, wash up yourself too, then report to Gilion for duty. After that, go and see the craftsmen about making a new flute, and tell them it has to be made out of triple thickness steel." He smiles. "We can't have you destroying every journeyman's instrument that is given to you."


"Many thanks, Olathlinn." Frowning slightly, she considers the sooty face before her. "Really, we should do this in the Infirmary. A proper eye-wash..." Her hands are still clean, however, as is the bit of linen she had originally procured for the elisthir. "We can at least wash some of this away." Gently she moves to tilt her friend's chin up and to one side, gently dabbing away the loose soot with the clean edge of her cloak before taking the water-soaked cloth to it. "Don't open your eyes yet..."


Rhulalaith scowls. "Triple thickness!" he mutters. "New poems ..." He starts stalking away, grumbling, "... lampooning ... Fithurin ... yes."


Maegiaracha remains quiet, motionless, her eyes continuing to flutter under dabbing of the water at her eyes.


A stomach is gurgling with hunger. Olathlinn is coughing and laughing then sits on her bottom. "Well, *cough*, with all that I forgot to eat,*cough**cough*."


Gilion wipes his hand over his brow to clear some sweat, some of the soot around his eyes marking his hand, "Well, it seems I need to clean up myself..." he says, being sure to throw a look both at Rhulalaith and Naurelin as he begins to head toward the house.


"I hope to meet them. The potters in particular," Caelwen replies absently, her gaze again drawn to Lothdaimoth as he moves to the edge of the crowd. The young potter drains her cup, then sets it aside, looking back to Celebren. "Thank you for your company, mellon. You have been most kind." The soot-bedecked elleth then turns and walks away, her path very near to her cousin but she obviously intends to pass by him, her gaze studiously elsewhere.


Faerlin shrugs, having not recieved a clear answer as to what is happening, and with a clearly called "Namarie" she turns around and stalks away in search of her friend Nyashcala.


Olathlinn giggles like a squirrel: "Do you want*cough* help from a dirty elleth mellon,*cough**cough*" she offers to Maegiaracha.


Through the thinning crowd, one elleth's rather determined path is easily visible, a straight line towards him where others move at random. Barely noticeable, Lothdaimoth's shoulders tense, his smile turning somewhat uncertain. Dark eyes go to those around him, and he takes a small sideways step, then another - clearly hoping to still manage to lose himself out of Caelwen's path.


The majority of the black dust cleared away, Ailiell peers down at the Bathril's tightly closed eyes. A fine silt can be seen on her lash line, and the healer sighs grumpily. "Maegiaracha, we really should use a proper wash." Putting one hand under her friend's elbow she says, "Carefully now, keep those eyes shut. But not too tightly, if you can help it." She grins then to Olathlinn. "We are all thoroughly dirty now. You may as well keep her feet from stumbling as we go."


Maegiaracha's lips move to say something but her voice is inaudible. Soon she is upon her feet, eyes still shut, hoping that she will remain upright for the journey.


Subtly, slowly, with each step Caelwen's path bends, taking her more obviously aside of Lothdaimoth. Her head is down, curls nearly curtaining her sorrowfull and sooty features, gems at her brow glimmering like real teardrops instead of simple peridots carved in the shape. Shoulders hunched, the younger cousin tangles her fingers in her belt as she walks past the elder, giving him a good wide berth.


Olathlinn excuses herself thoroughly for the dirt she put on Maegiaracha's clothes, but she takes a solid grip on her friend, leading the way to the infirmary. "I should leave you at the porch since I will wash all that in the waterfalls, mellyn." she says, coughing every two words.


Helegrhofel, after roaming for a while and tasting the several flavours, he notices his friend Faerlin. Quickly he moves towards her, "Well met my friend", he says, "how did the 'party' feel?" and gives a warm smile to the Tracker.


Maegiaracha's small arms surges under Olathlinn's grip, and then quickly subsides to a relaxed presence. Her face appears thankful for such a steady support upon her blind path.


"That's it. We'll not let you fall," says Ailiell cheerily as she moves with her sooty friends up the path towards the house. Passing by Nyaschala, she grins wrily. "And the games begin."


Looking up at her friend's voice, an expression of concern passes over Nyashcala's fine features shortly. "Aye, so I see. I hope that she is okay..." As Ailiell and Maegiaracha pass out of the Training Grounds, again the elleth looks to the crowd.


Despite his determined efforts to ignore his cousin, Lothdaimoth's charcoal grey eyes flicker ever and again to her drooping figure. And for the second time, his facade of merriment and good cheer breaks open. Underneath, a burden of guilt and anguish appears; so swiftly hidden again that it would not be seen by any not looking at his face in that instant. "Caelwen.." he says, so soft as to be almost unheard - and then the mask drops again. The smile is pasted back in place, and his face hardens imperceptibly. A little further into the crowd, he edges. Only his eyes yet betray him, and that for a no more than a minute.


But the leaf-shaped ears of Caelwen are sensitive, and she is not far from Lothdaimoth when he speaks softly her name. She halts instantly, turning to him, just in time to catch him edging into the crowd with his wounded eyes. She hesitates long, uncertain, her own gaze crushed as her fingers cover her mouth, smearing a little soot. She watches him in silence for a time, then turns away again, closing her bright eyes.


Behind him now, Caelwen stops and then starts away again. And hearing it all, Lothdaimoth's eyes shut in pain. Deliberately, he pushes it away and moves further from her - towards the tables that are still laden with food.


Linnor Faerlin, who has been wandering amongst the remaining gathering in search of Nyashcala, seems to have trodden a roughly circular path--for now she returns to the proximity of the banquet tables and the Galadhrim gathered about it. "Nyashcala is proving most elusive, it seems, so if you will put up with my company.." she smiles in an attempt to possibly lighten the mood that seems to have settled. "Oh there you are Lothdaimoth, it seems my earlier 'namarie' was quite unnecessary.."


"Your company requires no 'putting up with'," is Lothdaimoth's courteous response. Dark eyes are firmly shuttered again, smile plastered in place and no sign of his earlier faltering can be seen. But his gaze never stops its restless roaming: from table to Faerlin to wine and back. At last he moves closer to the table and reaches for a glass. "Would you like a drink?"


Faerlin nods barely perceptibly but replies swiftly enough "Yes, that would be wonderful a glass of something red and I shall be happy.." The Tracker doesn't fail to notice the edhel's restlessnes as it seems to contrast with the smile that is seemingly carved into his face--her tone drops to one of almost confidential nature "Though that is more than I would say of you, mellon, despite that smile."


Caelwen trembles there for a while, back to the crowd and her arms wrapped protectively about herself. For a while, the foriegn elf just stands there, a pale and dirtied statue carved from wax, unable to move. Several breaths taken to calm herself-- not too deep-- and she opens her eyes, and determinedly takes another step away.


Faerlin's request turns Lothdaimoth towards the bottes of red wine, and he reaches with his injured arm for one at random. A wince tightens the muscles of his face, but he ignores it and begins to pour. "Tell me a little about your wines, if you can?" he says chattily. Wary eyes lift swiftly to her face at the quiet comment, but then return to the burbling flow of liquid that splashes into the glass.


Faerlin muses for a moment, watching as the crimson liquid is poured like liquid velvet into the crystal glass. "Well.." she begins and then pauses, a note of amusement in her eyes "..I don't know anything of note about them other than that if it's red I usually like it..Tatharwen's family.. I take it you met her?..produce some excellent vintages, I have had the good fortune to taste some." She smiles "I don't believe you told me what you do..I may be mistaken of course."


"No. I have not met Tatharwen or her family. At least, not that I know of." Filled nearly to the brim, the glass is held out for Faerlin to take; and then the bottle is returned to its place. Beneath the white cloth about Lothdaimoth's arm, a small spreading stain darkens his grey sleeve. "I am a vintner," he says lightly. "As well as a member of the Arnpand."


Faerlin takes the glass between nimble fingers and admires the colour for a moment "I sall have to tell Tatharwen to speak with you then, she'll want to swap thoughts on wine making I am sure. I think I said, I'm a singer primarily, though also a tracker.." After these words she raises the glass to her lips and takes a sip, enjoying the warm and complex taste.


Lothdaimoth's wandering gaze lights on the wine so recently set aside, flickers away and then returns. Some seconds pass while he stares at the bottle frowning a little, and then a small nod of decision pulls rough and tangled black hair across his shoulders. Pouring another glass, bottle held loosely by the neck, he lifts it to his lips and drains the ruby liquid. "I am sure I would enjoy speaking with her as well," he remarks when he has finished. The glass is filled again, carelessly so that some droplets splash out onto his shirt. "You sing and track, you say?"


"Yes that's right, if you will be in the valley I may perform a piece I wrote recently..it was recieved well. I shall have to find Nyashcala if I am to do that her drumming was the pefect acompaniment to my words." She glances around looking for the said elleth hopefully. "Singing was something my father taught me and as for Tracking, I suppose I just have an affinity with the woods and the creatures that live therin."


Stepping into the training ground, the young elf smiles slightly, her eyes lighting up. She wipes her hands on her tunic, leaving lines of horse-dirt which she attempts to brush off... Placing her hands on her hips she nods to herself a little seeing the wine and the people who seem to be attracted to the wine... She glances about and chews her lip slightly wondering where to begin or who to introduce herself to...


The aftenoon is still warm despite the blanket of clouds which mask the sun's lazy descent, the air thick and almost stifling in the late of summer. Unrelenting, until now, for the faintest of winds that suddenly stirs and slips away, fading as abruptly and inexplicably as it had come. All returns to stillness then, as if unchanged by such a curious stroke of chance, except... Far in the corner of the eye, an unobtrusive shadow lurks. Motionless, unassuming, it simply stands upon the northern field beside the sprawl of roses as a solitary statue taken from its place. Sable raiment clings ragged to pale and bloodied skin, and stormy eyes shift wearily from the earth unto the sky with an unspoken prayer.


From the outer reaches of the Training Grounds, some place hereto undisclosed, Nyashcala appears headed towards the knot of elven folk who remain by the wine table. Trailing behind her like a larger shadow, but that he is attached by one hand, is a silver-haired edhel who bears a rather bemused expression. Brightly, Nyashcala smiles upon the gathered, waving her free hand. "Ah, here you are, mellyn. I have finally drug my husband from hiding." Sensing, however, that she has perhaps interrupted something, the drummer pauses in her words. Ansraer stands behind her as if he is attempting to hide from the crowd behind his shorter wife. In the interlude between her words, Nyashcala's blue eyes stray to and lock onto the rows of empty goblets and half-full wine bottles, interest evident.


No footsteps confirm the entrance, but the elleth Miraniel enters the training grounds from the stables with silent feet. She momentarily pauses as she looks on at those already there with a warmly modest smile, probably to see if there is any of whom she recognises, though whether there is or not seems unimportant. "Hello." She says.


Faerlin stares into the velvet depths of her glass but smiles as Nyashcala and Ansraer appear as if at her summoning "Mellyn, there you are I was just talking about you..were your ears burning Nyashcala?" Noting the appearance of other Imladhrim she raises a glass "Come to join the festivities mellyn?" For now the strange figure in the distance eveades her glance, as there are quendi gathered close about her.


Caelwen's head is still bowed as she flees the gathering, and in her semi-privacy, she allows a tear to trace the curve of her cheek. A sniffle, and her head lifts as she brushes firmly at the tear, and her eyes glance without curiosity at a shadowy figure some distance yet before her. Her gaze trails away, and then back again, fiery brows furrowed. Suddenly, this graceless firstborn maid stumbles in her step. "Elbereth! Lothdaimoth!" she screams, ere the blood drains from her skin beneath the freckles, her eyes roll up and she crumples forward to the ground.


Wandering back down the path from the Infirmary, Ailiell takes in the lingering crowd with some surprise. Her eyes linger on the form of the teithor crouching behind his patient wife and she grins, altering her steps to meet them. But a heart-rending cry stops her breath and her steps, and, whirling she looks wildly for its source.


Turning, Cuitheryn spies another elf entering from the stables... A slight smile appears on her face and the turns at the sound of a greeting.. "Mae Govanenn," another smile and she glances back out to the Wine-table and the other people. She knows no one there and so feels somewhat out of place but knows that Elves are friendly-enough people and would let her join if she wished... for the time, she was happy standing on the sidelines.


Lothdaimoth is starting to turn to greet Nyashcala and her husband when Caelwen's scream brings his head whipping around. Dark eyes go immediately to where she lies in a heap on the ground and almost throwing the wine bottle aside, he runs full-tilt across the field towards her - woe betide any in his way. The half-full glass is still clutched in one hand, and his careening course is marked by a wet red trail. Skidding to his knees beside his cousin, he reaches for her head - only to realize one hand is still occupied. A brief puzzled frown - where did that come from? - and the glass is dropped.

"What is it? Caelwen!" Even as he speaks, frantic hands feel at her head, her neck; and his eyes search the field hunting what could have caused such distress. And so, as hers before him, they light upon the figure of ... a ghost. The blood drains from his face, leaving it white and all movement ceases. For minutes uncounted, he stares; then one shaking hand is lifted to his temple. "E-Erinstar?" Tis no more than a hoarse whisper. Stumbling to his feet, his cousin forgotten, the counsel stands swaying. His eyes never leave this apparition that has returned to the living from beyond the shores of hope.


Faerlin's eyes widen at the ensuing scene but she turns to the couple besides her, figuring that there are plenty present who can deal with whatever or fetch the required personages from the House or wherever they are to be found at this time.


Taking her skirts in hand, the young healer flies after the edhel, light feet only just skimming the ground as she follows in his steps. Taking in the fallen elleth and the silent apparition all at a glance, Ailiell murmurs an oath before calling back firmly, "Someone, go to the Halls of Healing. Fetch help. Now!"


The scene plays itself out before Nyashcala's horrifed eyes in a theatric slow-motion, elleth crumpling to the ground and edhel racing to her aid. Her attention tracks Lothdaimoth as he runs, however, and she is ignorant of the bottle over-ending towards her. Instead, she blinks with concern at the figure at the far end of the field--it is all moving too fast for her.

Luck, however, is placed with the elleth this day. In an uncharacteristic display of agility, Ansraer takes his wife and spins her quickly to one side, elliciting a rather startled squeal from the child-laden Nyashcala. The glass of the bottle only brushes Ansraer's wildly splayed hair as it passes, staining silver with a thick crimson of red wine.


Turning as Caelwen cries out and falls, the Herald of Galadriel - for it is indeed, he - steps forward at last. Slowly, deliberately, he strides across the field with agonizing effort. No glorious cloak flutters behind him as he moves, no brightly emblazoned shield adorns his arm, yet still despite his torment, the Aracarach is ever graceful. Gliding to a halt finally before the maid and her cousin, he kneels with a grimace beside her head. One hand, still gloved, falls lightly upon her brow while the other clutches at his own ribcage with the movement. After a time, he utters to the Counsel softly, still hoarse, "Your arm is bleeding."


For a moment the healer wavers, uncertain who is in most dire need of assistance. Swiftly she kneels by the ashen elleth, though her eyes remain on the bloody stranger. Unloosing her cloak, she quickly folds it into a bundle and gently lifts Caelwen's head, sliding it underneath. Turning her dark glance briefly on Lothdaimoth she frowns. "What...?" she asks, supremely bewildered. "How have you injured yourself...?" One hand goes out then to the edhel's arm, the other fumbles for a pouch about her waist, and it seems she is lacking the third, fourth and fifth needed. "Oh, this is ridiculous," she mutters, and looking back over her shoulder calls, once more, more sharply this time, "Please, mellyn. Someone fetch more aid!"


Nyashcala detaches herself from her husband, nodding at him as if he is to understand her movements. Then, taking charge as she is unused to doing, she catches the nearest standing edhel that is not Ansraer, whose name she knows not, and pulls him closer. "You heard Ailiell, did you not? Run! To the Halls of the Healers. We need them." Confronted by two anxious elleth, the elf races in the direction of the House as soon as Nyashcala releases him. The pregnant elleth nods, and then carefully moves to Ailiell's side. "How may I help you, mellon? I know nothing but the things my mother taught me of cuts and bruises when I was younger...but you need extra hands, I can see."


Lothdaimoth's eyes track every motion the Herald makes, until he drops to his knees beside Caelwen's motionless form. In utter confusion, shock still holding him silent, he gazes downwards. But the few words Erinstar speaks, so incongruous compared with his own injuries jar the counsel to movement. Falling to his own knees, this only partially controlled, he shakes his head. No, the Herald is still there. Slowly, he reaches out across the fallen elleth - fingers just brushing Erinstar's shoulder before they are pulled back. And the dam that was erected breaks. Burying his face in both hands, he crouches motionless. Ailiell's question and touch aren't even noticed as first one tear and then another seep out from between his fingers.


With a quick, grateful glance for Nyashcala, Ailiell unfastens her belt, handing it to her. "Catnip, geranium root powder..." she mutters to herself, thinking quickly for a moment. "No, all else must be brought from the Infirmary. Er...we may crush the catnip beneath Caelwen's nose, though I've little confidence it will wake her. Weariness and grief have weighed heavily on her for days on end." With calm focus, she turns back then to the bleeding edhil. "First, though -- mellon, please..." she begins softly, touching Lothdaimoth. "We need to stop this bleeding." She glances grimly to Nyashcala, whispering, "If he will let you, put pressure on his wound." Looking then to the haggard Erinstar she continues, "Friend, how are you injured? Will you sit, please? I'll not have you following Caelwen's lead."


Maegiaracha hurriedly rushes forward with a few bandages, some boiled Comfrey Root prepared in poultice from and several Tulaxar leaves. There are several other assortments of healing necessities with her, but all help close and quite out of view. At her sides, and beginning to pass her now, are three edhil, large and lithe like young saplings. Two carry a stretcher and the third is bountifully adorned with bandages hanging over his hands, upon their faces is a look of concern.


The group of four quickly draw nigh those gathered around the three wounded. These approaching Quendi slow upon their approach, the two with the stretcher quickly setting it down. Maegiaracha and the bandage laden edhil gaze at those upon the ground, somewhat determining what to do.


Cloudy eyes rise to meet Lothdaimoth's, and Erinstar gently places a hand upon the other's shoulder in reassurance. "Spare your grief, friend. All is well, and by your hand. You have my thanks, and respect." Still without breaking his gaze, he offers a vague nod to the healer who hovers nearby, though whether in agreement or simply acknowledgement is hard to tell. Still, he does not move, but simply remains kneeling upon the earth at the side of his kinsmen, relieved and grateful if only for their presence.


"I did nothing, save abandon you to death," comes the whispered reply. "And not once, but twice. Thank me not." At last, Lothdaimoth lowers his hands and lifts his head, tears (though now of gratitude) still spilling unashamedly down his cheeks. "But tell me, how have you come here? I looked for days - until Caelwen fell ill - and found no sign of you save your armor." Such unimportant matters as an unhealing arrow wound, the healers who gather around them; all are dismissed as dark eyes hold to lighter ones.


Nyashcala nods her acknowledgement to Ailiell, and touches Lothdaimoth's arm silently, her eyebrows raised. However, her attention is garnered elsewhere as Maegiaracha arrives with the edhil--one of them the young elf Nyashcala had sent to fetch the healers--and her confidence flutters a bit, as if she is not sure that she is still neaded.


Nodding briefly with restrained, grateful relief to Maegiaracha and her band of sturdy edhil, Ailiell turns back to peer into Erinstar's pale face. Apparently satisfied that no immediate danger is on hand, she rises to speak quickly with her fellow healer. "Caelwen has fainted," she says in a low voice. "Weariness, shock and injury taking their toll, I fear." She glances to Erinstar. "That one...I know not. But the other bleeds." She nods then to the drummer, and with a backward glance for Maegiaracha, kneels once more by Lothdaimoth. Little though her words may be marked, she speaks them anyway. "Friend, let us see. Let us tend you."


Maegiaracha kneels down next to Ailiell and from her lips emerge a graceful surge of words, "Why aren't these who are injured within the infirmary?" She swallows hard and begins to align around her the things brought up.

"What shall I do with these?" inquires the bandage laden edhil, but Maegiaracha is slow to respond turning to Ailiell once again, "I brought quite a few things as was requested," her voice tapers off quickly. Now she glances around at those injured, compassionately, "Oh right here," she says now turning to the edhil, "Right here."

With that her arms are quickly covered with an assortment of bandages. Over the span of a few moments she moves these down to her gray garment and organizes them, along with the completion of many other things. Finally she seems set. "I think this will work," she adds, sending a glimmer of hope ringing through the air.

The two edhil who brought the stretcher move around to a spot where they are seemingly out of way, "Which one is the stretcher for and when shall we move them upon it?" one asks quickly. The other seems to almost dance and jog in his standing position upon the voicing of this question, tilting his head from side to side and then looking around contently.

"Here," Maegiaracha states, lifting a bit of the Comfrey Root poultice she brought with her, "Use this on the bleeding if it is bad, or we can bind it with some of these fresh bandages and that should help as well." She glances towards the wound, eyeing carefully, "Elevate it if needed. As for Caelwen, I must fear the worst, fear for her fea, though it may mearly be exhaustion, is she the one the stretcher was brought up for?" Maegiarcha seemingly could go on and on, but appears to await a response to all that has gone on.


"Yet I am not dead, and Caelwen lives by your wisdom. Twas not an easy path I left you to tread, and I apologize for that." Bowing his head but a moment, Erinstar inhales deeply as his expression grows pained before swiftly masked. "By the grace of the Valar, or whatever luck still resides within me, I managed to shed my armour before it drown me and drag myself to shore. I hid myself then, and lay as if dead for many days - the passage of time I cannot recall. When I recovered, it was the sound of battle which stirred me, and the trail of your blood which led me safely here. I know not what hands may guide my fate, but I am glad that they have allowed me to see you once more alive and well." Quieting then, he motions with a tilt of his head towards the growing cluster of attendants, as if to direct the Counsel to their ministrations. The Herald himself remains still, folding his hands within his lap as he waits in silence.


Nyashcala frowns, suddenly, and a side of her hereto unseen exposes itself again as she addresses Lothdaimoth sternly. "Look, now, you. You'll have the real healers see to that arm, or I'll tear it off myself, have them fix it, and sew it back on you again."


"Apologize! For saving her life?" Healers are fussing around them, annoyances easily brushed aside. "By their grace indeed." Lothdaimoth shakes his head slowly, amazement and disbelief melding in his face, and finally looks away. His eyes go to the one closest to him, Ailiell. "He jumped from the cliff to free her." The counsel's face turns inward as memories crowd through his mind. "I heard .. heard him hit the water. And then the rocks." Now that he is no longer keeping an impassive, even cheerful mask fixed in place, each passing thought brings a corresponding expression. "Then he freed her and brought her to shore, only to loose hold of the rope and vanish. I know not how long he was under water - tis a thing beyond all hope that he yet lives." Sharply he turns back to the Herald. "Your ribs.. they must have broken in the impact. And that you still could carry her..."


Erinstar looks vaguely uncomfortable as Lothdaimoth begins to retell the events past, eventually raising a hand and murmuring gently, "Peace, Lothdaimoth. I am no Hero, and you are in no condition to be distraught. Let it pass, for now. I will rest here a time, and we may speak when you are recovered... Caelwen should be tended 'fore she wakes, and I shall think your company will ease her heart when she does. Go with them, if for her only." A brief glance is turned towards Nyashcala then, a subtle nod accompanied by a weak smile. "Thank you," He adds, though to whom is unclear.


Nodding to Maegiaracha, Ailiell answers in a terse whisper, "Aye, the stretcher is for Caelwen." More cannot be said at that time, however, as Nyashcala's strong voice cuts through her consciousness and she works to fight back a deeply inappropriate laugh. Instead she looks mildly and sturdily on Lothdaimoth, hands hovering over his arm -- seeming altogether quite able to aid the drummer in her threat.


However, then the edhel looks to her, a dark, painful complexity of expression written in his face. Absently she lowers her hands, carefully attending his tale. By its conclusion, her attention has shifted quite thoroughly to the kneeling Erinstar. She frowns then. "Nay, mellon, I fear we shall not leave you here, either." Looking back to Lothdaimoth she adds with a gentle smile, "And neither shall you escape our ministrations." And with that, she quickly and deftly ties a stretch of linen about his arm, and gently lifts it to her shoulder level. "Until it can be laid bare in our halls..."


The two edhil are directed to their target, Caelwen, by the talking of Maegiaracha and Ailiell. Without another moment of delay their tall and flowing forms move forward with surging empathy, preparing to move her for the stretcher.


Maegiaracha's eyes pierce onward, watching them, a thunderous tumult of passion building in her eyes. A blink clears all of this; sudden but elongated it is, wiping her mind of clouding thoughts of twirling memories. Like a flash of l ightning this brings her back to what is at hand. Her eyes gaze is upon Erinstar now, though without knowledge of his name. Continually she peers at him like a pounding drum trying to wisp something from him. She continues on and on, watching his eyes as if there was nothing else to look at around her. Time drills on, perhaps only a few moments have passed in all when suddenly her voices flowers the air like wind in the trees, "May I tend to you?" she asks, her voice slipping outward like fingers and sounding as a whisper among them.

Slowly Maegiaracha moves over to Erinstar after placing all that was upon her garment upon the ground.


"Hero or no, let those who hear judge. I tell no more than I saw." Wincing a little at the tightness of this new bandage, Lothdaimoth still seems indifferent to the state of his wounded arm, although now perhaps the reasons are beginning to change. A glance is spared for the afflicted limb, but no more and his voice is absent, uncaring, as he replies. "If you will." At last, his mind is cleared enough to return to Caelwen and he watches long enough to be reassured. Those who care for her will do well by his cousin. And now, the first shock of discovery over, a different sort of lostness grows in the depths of his dark eyes. Seeking something unfound, he looks from one person to the next to the next and finally stands up, shaking Ailiell's hand from his arm as if it were no more than a pestersome insect: not worth the trouble of attending to. "Thank you," he says as an afterthought, but his steps already carry him from the field. First slowly, then faster, born by the intensity of some inner urging, he disappears from sight.

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