Warm summer air wafts across the flagged terrace, bringing sounds of distant laughter and music with it; heavy with the scent of flowers. Cradled in the leafy branches of the tallest mallorn, the horned moon lies at peace.

The trees are strung with lights, like yellower larger cousins of the stars that spatter across the midnight sky. And here below the Mar, the largest and most numerous of the lights sway in all their multi-colored splendour.

The terrace is crowded with elves, talking, laughing, eating. Prominently among them are many members of the Royal Court, some of whom will shortly be leaving on a long, perilous journey. To one side, several tables appear to have been manhandled down from the talan above; they are covered with constantly replenished food and drink.


Late, another joins the crowd. Caelwen mingles herself with the fair Firstborn, sways around them, headed with a smile toward the table. Her destination reached and a cup of pallid wine secured in her hand, she finally turns and pauses a moment, peridot eyes scanning the gathering, flitting here and there. Her smile grows wider; she pushes away from the table to walk toward Lothdaimoth.


Dropping down from one of the branches, Cuardin joins the crowd on the terrace. He lands behind the well-lined tables, and fishes up a cluster of grapes on one hand. Plucking them one by one, he scrutinizes them one by one, methodically and precisely, while slowly wandering towards one of the sides of the terrace where he promptly sits down and focuses on the grapes.


Turning from those he speaks with, Lothdaimoth glances around the crowded terrace. His eyes light on Caelwen and he raises his glass to her, grinning widely. From above, a voice calls down, "Be careful! Something might fall in that glass, it is held so invitingly..." Another joins, breathless with laughter. "Something like ... a cherry? Or a leaf?" And as the word is spoken, a small twig drops unerringly towards the glass.

The tall counsel tilts his head back, black hair spilling across his shoulders, and moves his hand the tiniest bit - allowing the twig to fall into his drink with a splash. "Ah! A present. Thank you!"


The glow of the late night's summer moon pours light down from the heavens upon the Terrace as few voices can be heard chatting though the darkness. Light, ever so light footsteps can be heard from the stairway above. The figure of the maiden is hardly seen, though the rays of light flicker off her gown every so often. Her golden, braided hair tosses about her shoulders, as it is free from binding as she appears before the group gathered. Then it becomes vivid that the darkness has now found it's way to this part of the woods, and as the Maiden of Roses glances around the area at the amount of others out this eve, her emerlad gaze falls upon another Arnpand.

Not a moment later, the maiden o house Laiquendi stands before the tall Counsel. With a bow of her head, she smiles. "Good eve, Sir Counsel." Merilwen's eyes still glancing around the area, though the moonlight glitters down upon her.


Caelwen turns her face up to follow Lothdaimoth's gaze as she approaches, and her eyes catch the flight of the twig, widening a bit at the splash. She begins to giggle, and takes a careful sip of her own drink before lowering it and covering it up with a slim hand. 'Ruining a good cup of wine like that!' She smiles and nods to Merilwen, then leans to murmer to Lothdaimoth, "I do not remember. Did you tell me who this one is?" Her smile is returned to the Laiquende. 'Are you going to Imladris, mellon?' Another sip of wine is taken.


Swallowing the last of tis grapes, Cuardin studies the skelletal twigstructure remaining in his hand. With a twitch of his head, hd tosses it behind his back and stands up, also this in precise controlled motions. With merely a glance about, he sets of towards the tables once more, and is lost in the crowd.


A glint of pure humor lightens Lothdaimoth's eyes at Merilwen's address. Solemnly, he bows in return. "Mae govannen, Madam Counsel." Then laughter that cannot be surpressed bubbles up. "How are you, Merilwen?" A wink is sent sideways to Caelwen.


From the swinging branches overlooking the terrace comes an outbreak of giggles. "What?" says a voice, in mock astonishment. "The potter doesn't like our gifts!" The second answers, "We should be hurt!" And a third chimes in as well. "Give her some anyways!" In the wake of this, not a twig, but a shower of golden leaves falls; spilling themselves randomly through the air above Caelwen. And, incidentally, Lothdaimoth and Merilwen.


First a smile is given to the lady Caelwen at her address and question. "Yes, I shall be attending the party to the Master's Valley, m'lady." The Maiden of Roses says in a tone that nearly sighs at her own words, perhaps a bit worn of the topic; though a warm smile is given off from her words.

A the slight burst of flowing air, the lady Counsel turns her attention upwards, the reflection of the golden leaves in her green eyes. The sparkling golden leaves make their way down, in a bit of a minature whirlwind, around the small group. Then looking back to Lothdaimoth, her words flow softly, "Just fine, good sir. And I trust that you fare well?" Merilwen's words seem to get lost within the breeze.


Caelwen's grin stretches wide at Lothdaimoth, but just then a flurry of golden leaves fall on her and her companions. They entangle in her curls and a few stick to the lace of her gown, but her hand remains firm atop her cup. Her head tilts back, loosing a few leaves from her hair. Eyes sparkling like the gems on her brow, she sticks out her tongue and begins a giddy, nigh-gloating laughter.


Emerging once again from the crowd, the Nethron holds a well filled glass of wine in his hand. Pacing steadily towards where he sat, He gives the drink a spin, then tilts his head back and draws deep from the glass. Not looking where he is going, Cuardin bumps roughly into Lothdaimon, the impact causing two rivulets of wine to run down from the corners of his mouth.


A rough shove from the rear, and Lothdaimoth takes a step forward to keep his balance. His own wine splashes precariously, but only one small wave makes it over the edge to run down the smooth bowl of the glass. Turning, the counsel peers at Cuardin. 'Careful there, mellon. You will spill your wine.' A second glance, and he turns completely, leaving Caelwen and Merilwen to converse behind him. Softly, to be heard only by its intended recipient, he says, "Is all well?"


Eyes of green following Lothdaimoth as he turns from herself and lady Caelwen, Merilwen falls silent and turns her gaze upwards to the falling leaves of gold. They tumble down, few sticking in her golden braids, others landing upon the green of her silk gown and sliding down upon the ground.

The lady Counsel spins around in a half-circle, her gown flowing outward sligthly as another soft gust of wind sends more golden particals down upon the Quendi. The moonlight flickers off the gold, shimmering in the night.


But there is one here who stands apart from the gathered throng, shrouded in the half-shadow cast by a Summer's horned moon and a silver lamp that swings slowly in the mallorn-boughs above. Silent is he, and still: indeed, perhaps as a tall, young lord might this figure appear, were it not for the simple workman's-raiment he wears, and the dusting of ash and soot that darkens the bare skin of his strong arms, and the dark streaks that cross his pallid brow and taint the silver-gold of his tressed locks. But the hilt of a dagger, bright and rune-graven, glitters yet at his left hip. And bright too, bright and cold and void of all tale of his mood, are Rosgwaen's verdant eyes as their gaze falls upon his sister. But none yet have marked even his presence. And half-hidden as he stands, perhaps none yet will.


Not having very much wine left in his glass, Cuardin still manages to spill some of what remains on his by ink allready stained cuffs. Wiping his mouth with the other cuff, his gaze locks on that of the Counsel. "I hear that it pleases the Lady to send two apprentice healers to Imladhris so that they may learn the ways of the Valley." His eyebrows momentarily shoot upward, demanding a response.


Steps light and slow bring Galena down from the Mar Van Tyalieva, her bells chiming gently. Her melodious entrance is garnered by the soft strains of a nightengale's sonnet, sung from high above. The showering of golden leaves entrances the maid and she extends forth a hand to catch a few, her face also raised. The apprentice does not yet notice the massive gathering before her, the seduction of nature's glory is utterly complete.


Caelwen steps back as Lothdaimoth is bumped. "Your wine is not having a lucky time of it tonight." She takes another appreciative sip of her own cup, then covers it again with her hand. Lothdaimoth turns to the elf who bumped him, and Merilwen spins. The Cennan's gaze turns boredly away.. and lands on Rosgwaen. An immense grin wrinkles the corners of her eyes. She murmers, "Excuse me, please," and walks away from the Counsels, weaving her way through the crowd toward her brother.

Finally, she is free from the gathering and near him. She flings her arms around his neck in a generous hug, nearly spilling her wine down his back. "You came!" she crows happily, then cheerfully rushes more words at him. "I did not think you would come! There is food and drinks.. Lothdaimoth is here! You can say farewell to him! I think Tiinwaia may even be around here somewhere!" She laughs.


Lothdaimoth's black brows go up in surprise at Cuardin's tone. "Yes," he says. "You have heard truly. The ways of the Valley are different from ours, yet not inferior. No doubt the Lady feels it well that some such teachings be shared." Dark eyes hold on the other's face, scanning it intently. "Have you some objection to this?" Then a little recognition relaxes his face. "Are you not a healer yourself? If there is ought you would say, I would be glad to convey your concerns to our Lady..." Again eyebrows arch, inquiringly though.


Chuckling, a cold meaningless exhalation, since it touches neither his lips nor his eyes. the Nethron then relaxes, takes in a breath, and arranges his face in what could be called a smile. "Their ways are different? I know that. They are not inferior? I know that." He pauses merely to draw more breath, starting quickly as to ot let anyone come between. "How, you may ask? Because I thought the same. But that was over two centuriues ago. For it, I had to give up both house and what title I had. It seems times change, doesn't it."


Rosgwaen's head tilts, perhaps in wonder at his sister whose tread carries her now through the merry throng-- yet little time has he to wonder, for soon are her arms thrown around him, and his around her in return as her laughter seems to him to echo through the wood, bringing with it a smile to cross even the Indor's stoic mien, small but true. And holding her perhaps tighter than his wont, his eyes fall closed for a time, and a soft sigh escapes his lips. "Yea, Collwen. I am here." Soft words, and his eyes soon are opened, seeking a pair so alike to them in hue. A second smile is come and quickly gone, joy and melancholia twined within. "But food and drink are not for me this day, for I came but to speak to you. To see you once more, ere so many times the moon shall rise and fall before I see you again."


The counsel does not smile, instead gazing at Cuardin's face almost solemnly. Then he nods slowly. "Times do change, and not always for the better. But I think this is an improvement. That one need not forsake home and title for knowledge." Concentration wrinkles his forehead and tightens his mouth. "I do not remember..." he begins slowly. "Yet I was not of the Arnpand then.." The subject is changed abruptly and with it his tone. "Have you lived there then all these years?"


Galena steps closer to the throng, her eyes trained yet upwards. A Squire of the Order rushes up to her and offers a brief bow. In his arms, a suit of glittering chainmail is held out and he speaks. "M'lady. You are Galena o nos Laiquendi, are you not?" The apprentice smiles and nods her head, unsure of what the lad could want with her, or why he offers the armour. A look of encouragement crosses his young features and he speaks again. "The lady Miaulwen has ordered this brought to you. She has not been able to see you herself, but finds it of utmost nescessity that you bear this armour on your person for the trip." Galena curtsies to the young edhel and takes up his burden. Her eyes shadow a bit with self concern, yet retain her former joy. The Squire moves to depart, yet glances back anon to glimpse the fair Silvan face. A blush forms upon his cheeks and he skitters away into the darkened pall beyond lanterns' light.


Caelwen unwinds her arms carefully from Rosgwaen, remembering, perhaps, her wineglass, and a half step is backwards taken. A smile still adorns her lips. "Oh, I wanted to find you, too." She takes a long, fortifying draught of her wine, eyes on his. She lowers her cup, and words tumble from her in a rush. "I am very sorry for what happened. I mean-- well, I still do not understand what happened, but if I could do it over I would have.." Her words trail off, her brows furrow, and she seems to decide to just start over. Solemnly, she states, "I am very sorry, Rogin." A sigh, and she takes another gulp from her cup, nearly draining it now.


Finishing off the last of his wine, Cuardin looks into his empty glass, and seems to find something funny in its depths. Looking up, his eyes are still cold as steel, yet his face seems to have warmed a little. "Well, I suppose it is fair that the young gain from their predecessors better ideas, since they have to pay for their worse...." As he trails off, his voice reeks of cynicism. "Hm, It seems my cup is empty. I'll should remedy that I suppose."


Yet Rosgwaen's voice is calm, slow, gentle, an almost amusing contrast to to the haste with which his sister's earlier words sprung forth. "When would ever would I make thee go unforgiven, Sain-estel?" A step forward he takes to close the distance the cennan forged, and lightly the thavron's hand comes to rest upon her shoulder. "Nay. All is over now, my sister. And I am very sorry, as well."

Silence falls between them-- yet then, from the gathered crowd, a reveler begins a sprightly dance not far from where the brother and sister stand, and, his hand on her shoulder still, he begins to step further into the moonlit shadows of the trees. "Might you come with me for a time, sister, that they might not find me yet? For there is aught of which I wish to ask you."


"Aye. Yet would you have them repeat our errors for eternity when better can be found?" No more does Lothdaimoth say of the matter, merely gesturing towards the wine table with his own nearly empty glass. "Come. Try some of this, mellon - the red bottle is particularly good." An almost shy smile lights up his face. "I helped to bottle it myself.."


As the young squire leaves, Galena's attention is drawn back to her surroundings. Many of her friends and wine abound about her. From the corner and edhel of platnium hair smiles at her and winks. His shirt is stark white and his breeches of claret red. No adorment he wears save aa silver brooch upon his sholder that holds closed his ebony cloak. He raises his wine glass to her, his steel blue eyes dancing. The apprentice blushes and moves her gaze away, toward Lothdaimoth. A quick hand is raised in greeting to her friend. The edhel of black cloak begins moving towards the minstrel.


Caelwen's smile remains, though a bit tremulous and uncertain, as her brother places his hand on her shoulder. Her attention is stolen by an edhel dancing near, and her toes begin to tap in a beat alike to his merry jig. "Hmm?" the young Indiri turns her attention back to her brother. "Oh! Aye, yes of course. Just one moment." She dashes into the crowd, and returns quickly, with another full cup of wine. She follows Rosgwaen further into the trees.


As his initial indignation seems to have faded quite a bit, leaving only reserved politeness, Cuardin's eyes follow where the counselor gestures. "If you have bottled it, it would be a pleasure to try it." His eyes then shoot up towards the top of the hill, and down into his glass. Almost as if to himself, he mumbles. "Well, half of my life I have dreaded the day I must face the Lady once more, yet it seeems that I may live through it after all."


Down the wending stairs of marble staircase, onward with every step light despite his burden, in flutter of emerald cape and willowing wash of ashen-blonde locks there is Galindrion, approaching the terrace from above - smile no worse for any wear as it rests solid upon full lips. Deep gaze sweeping left to right as leather booted foot finds the grass, his path then quickly to side table - traveling pack slid from shoulders and tossed under to wait.

"My thanks," does the Counsel say only, as Courier approaches with wealth of purpose - handing him a scroll. Galindrion nods his head, and with all blatant disregard, tucks the scroll into a pocket and hustles towards the wine.


And so between bole and vine they tread, she in her slippers and he shod only in the ash of his work, silently slipping beyond sight, and beyond range of all but the sharpest of Quendi ears. "... is... ... to ..., ...-estel," Rosgwaen speaks at last, voice hushed beyond even his wont, hand falling now from the cennan's shoulder. "... ... ... is so often come ... ... .... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...." Silent then he falls, and his eyes raise to the sway of a golden lamp above, and to the light of Ithil's shard.


Galena's wave catches Lothdaimoth's eye and he grins at her, nodding instead of waving. The afore-mentioned red bottle is uncorked and Lothdaimoth holds it out in preparation to splashing some into Cuardin's glass. Another figure comes towards him, and the tall counsel starts to laugh. "I knew you would be here, Galindrion - here have a bottle. Or two." He grins at his friend before turning away and beginning to mutter to himself over the remaining bottles of wine.