Strife Foretold of Arrows Alone

Gladden River, North Bank

The sounds of a river can be heard to the south, quite close by, though there
are sounds of cataracts roaring in the distance. It is difficult to see much in
this night, though you can plainly see a row of foothills to the north, marking
the Misty Mountains to the west. Eastward the cool and damp ground can be seen
to level out, and from this small hill can be seen the glimmer of the Anduin
snaking it's way southward. A path runs at your feet toward the south and forks
to the northeast and northwest. Another track runs to the east. The air around
is warm, reminding you of the long summer that has aged into autumn.

The sky is clear. The late night autumn air is warm around you. The moon is not
visible.

The dome of the predawn sky, though moonless, looks down upon the river valley
with its rash of fading stars, their last light reflected in eyes turned
heavenward. Low rolling hills lean toward the river in the distance, the murmur
of its flow just enough to conceal the footfalls of a party descending toward
it.

Cloaks hide many faces, some lifted towards the sky while most focus on the
lands around them. Towards the middle of their numbers do most travel,
maintaining steady steps even with their closeness. Some drift further to the
front and sides, ever watchful, yet never too far. Their pace is swift, though
as nearer to the banks they draw, it slows at the bidding of those foremost
among their numbers. Drifting forward from the front of the larger cluster is
the Silmaethor Eryndae, cloaked in a deep silvered green, flaxen hair spilling
forth as her hood is pushed back.

The noise of the river and the rapids drowns out most sounds, and the darkness
of night still masks sight. Yet perhaps elven ears might hear a rustling in the
woods--something animal-like and large? But no, perhaps it is the sound of
footsteps? Whatever the cause, something is coming nearer.

Mornferedir stalks a bit in front of the cluster, away from most of the others.
The silver haired elf trots to a tree and quickly climbs it, peering out with
his eyes for better vision. As the sound of something approaching sounds the elf
drops from the tree, landing in a crouch but making almost no sound. He holds
out his bow, strung but not knocked. His keen eyes fix on the woods as he starts
to stalk forward..

Like immovable, almost among the last elfes before the tirith rear
guard, an elleth dresses herself while standing on a flat rock and she looks at
the caravan of Quendi scrolling down. So many head!So many happy eyes and lithe
feet walking beneath the cloak. By time to time, one step out, running to join
farther a friend or slowing his pace to wait for one. Olathlinn knows, by day
time that the Gladden unfolds its glimmering waves on the landscape just aside.
The trip was long, but are all easy one pleasing it was! Olathlinn eyes shine,
but she does not shows any hasten. In fact, several elleth and edhel easily pass
her, receiving all a polite nods from her part and, for some, a small
encouragement or a specific word to make them smile. All murmured so low that
only the aimed person seems to hear it. The elesthir does not seem really to
decide to advance. Nevertheless, she finishes to follow, quietly. The call of
Home is stronger now than she there almost and her feet seems to put itself in
some walks without she thinking to it.Some quick steps for against to balance
the downward from her observation point, then a pace more distant and dreamy.
Deeply in thought, her _expression changing by moment from calm to nervous or
happier to sad and in the other way. A moment she looks back, but she continue
her walk.

Whether due to something seen, something heard, or the watchfulness everpresent
in her nature, Eryndae heightens her search of the night at the bidding of none
but her own feeling. A murmur to the officers is all the veteran offers before
drifting soundlessly to the side of the main party. To Mornferedir she whispers
in passing, "Thandir. Be ready to move on at orders. We have met more trouble in
these valleys in past seasons than I'd care to repeat." Rather than pressing
further away from the party, Eryndae turns back once more, fleetingly. "Keep
your pace!" she whispers, nearly a hiss in her effort to be heard at that soft a
volume.

Traveling in the middle of the group, the Olvaristdil Glasiel does indeed keep
her pace, gathering her cloak closely about her as she keeps in step with the
others.

The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

The noise from the woods continues, yet also gets harder to hear--indeed now,
instead of the clear steady footsteps of a man, it seems that an animal is
passing through the forest...or perhaps the leaves are rustling steadily in the
wind? Those with keen sight might now and then see a large black shape moving
steadily through the trees, what little light of the stars that is still left
glinting off black eyes and fur.

So as the sun gets up ,Olathlinn considerably accelerates her pace, taking to
the serious one the call of the Silmaethor. Some small jumps for her to avoid
falling when its feet meets an obstacle and the here a little more near than she
was of the group.

Mornferedir looks up at the sky as the sun enchances his sight, then his eyes
return to the woods and he watches it critically. He begins to stalk faster, at
a stealthy trot he follows the black figure although he doesn't go much closer.
An arrow is slowly drawn from his quiver and he pulls up the hood of his cloak.
The hooded elf continues to stalk while he nocks his bow, just in case.

Walking with the fairer kind, this morn is another. Mornaer, his cloak pulled
tight about him, he moves off and to the side, not even bothering to look up to
the sun as it comes forth, however, his eyes watch something in the forest,
pausing to inspect something along the trail that the group appears to be on
before standing back up, a slight raise of brow as leaves rstle and eyes spy
something moving in the shadowed wood.

With the dawn, it would be easier to catch a glimpse of the beast prowling these
woods, yet somehow it seems to blend into the very trees. As one of the group in
the woods nocks his bow, though, the beast reveals itself--at least in sound
only, emitting a warning growl, so low and deep that it shakes the very ground.
The beast seems fearsome indeed, yet surely some of those from Rivendell might
recognize in its growl the voice of the shapeshifter Grimbeorn, whose lands they
are near and who visited Rivendell itself this very summer.

Coming from the other direction, a rather nondescript shadow makes his way. The
man walks openly, not trying to hide himself much, except to tread lightly on
the ground. With as many scars of experience that mar his face, it obviously
doesn't take him long to know that something is peculiar. The growl that then
reaches his ears, still fairly distant from where he walks, doesn't make him
fearful though. Indeed, this seems to make him trod faster.

Olathlinn is still at the last portion of the group, but she is near to be
gobble in it. She pauses, downing the hands on the thighs at the moment of the
eath start shaking. The elisthir gets white and up herself slowly, still not
moving so she lets a distance now.

The morning's first rays light the champagne tresses of the Olvaristdil as her
hood is pushed back. Her gaze turns to the wood, and the sound of that familiar
growl. "Ai!" comes a sharp whisper from her lips, and a smile emerges. She waits
to see whether or not her ears play her tricks.

Mornaer looks up as the growl comes up and eyes look about, yet he draws no
weapon, eyes however flick about the group of elves as he stands up slowly. A
low whistle is let loose as if calling to whomever got the growl to hold back.
The ranger then looks to the woods. "Where did that come from.." he grumbles as
eyes continue their search.

The beast's growl brings elven feet to an uncomfortable halt. Though it inspires
little fear in Eryndae's eyes, it certainly would had she not known better the
source. "We are now the visitors, and unnanounced," she murmurs in an aside to
Mornaer. Wariness slows her steps, but she advances no less. Her call is to
Mornferedir, though her eyes flicker toward the woodlands. "Lower you bow,
mellon."

Mornferedir takes his arrow from his bow and slides it into his quiver, being
the closest to the woods he continues to move forward. He slides his bow over
his shoulder and continues to move on, his eyes fixing on that black being. His
hands remain ready though if the being appears hostile his bow would be back out
and nocked in seconds.

Ceorn sees nothing at all, nor any elven company nor his kinsman... All is green
and bushy about him as he travels the wood, bow and arrow in hand, even if not
notched. Yet, even if blinded by the forest thickness, the morning air carries
some voices to him, and the among the foreign, the voice of a bear near;
powerful and rolling.. Ceorn halts to listen better.

Great_Bear growls again as Mornferedir continues to approach, though the sound
now seems somehow like speech, even. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" As Mornferedir
seems to have spotted him, the bear slips deeper into the brush, moving
surprisingly quickly for the massive beast that he is. Soon, his burnt umber fur
can no longer be seen admist the forest.

The Ranger looks towards Mornferedir as he nears the scout. Eyes look to him as
hushed words leave "Next time, wait for more than a growl to draw a weapon when
so close to your ally's lands.." a slight shake of his head as he moves towards
where Eryndae is within the group. "Watch out for your skittish ones.."

Agron continues at a normal pace, now easily visible to anyone looking his way.
However, he notices that most of the... he can't make them out quite yet... the
travellers are gazing out in the woods rather than toward the bank of the river.
Hearing the familiar language from the woods, however, he comes forward.
"What're you doing?" he calls out, neither accusing nor befriending, simply
waiting to see how they react.

Glasiel arrives with the main party of elves, all stopping behind the leading
group and whispering among themselves, so softly that the sound blends with that
of the rushing water. The Olvaristdil steps forward, the better to see what's
happening. She murmurs to Eryndae, "All is well, I trust, Silmaethor?"

If the order to lower the bow is given, then that reassure the elleth. Olathlinn
begins to walk again, or to almost run now that she have to catch up with the
middle of the group. Her hood fall down on her shoulders and her coppers braid
waves with each steps she gets forward.

Making her way up from the utter rear of the faltering group, Ailiell pauses,
befuddled by the alert, still faces around her. Unaware of the source of the
tension, she creeps alongside Glasiel, scanning the treeline bemusedly before
casting a sidelong glance at her. Opening her mouth to speak, she manages only a
vague, "Wh..?" before, 'wh' becomes quite apparent. A decisive growl, and a
human voice asking her question for her.

The hooded Elf near the woods continues to stalk beside them, ignoring Mornaer
with a slight shake of his head. His keen eyes and ears tune in on the woods and
try to ignore the camp, he concentrates on finding what is out there.

Glasiel silently takes her fellow Nethril's hand, and smiles, though the tension
of the moment shows in her face. She begins to hum gently, for the ears of those
close by, a melody of calm and of friendship. Her eyes watch the woods intently.

Ceorn moves forward as the bear voice carries some meaning for him; perhaps in
the darkness of the wood he misses the massive form of the bear but soon where
the bear showed a small patch of fur, Ceorn appears, his bow in hand watching
the company of elves. He stands there under the eaves, joining his challenge to
Agron, "Who comes here ?" he asks using the plain Common Speech.

Finally she makes it in getting near Glasiel, Eryndae and Ailiell. Olathlinn
puts her hood back on. She is at a breath away from the three ellith. Her eyes
catching up the concern. She swallows nd mirror instantinuously the general
feeling while walking now among the other, with some looks at her back.

Mornaer looks up and halts, with that his hand goes up, eyes look to theelves
about him before eyes look towards where Ceorn's voice comes from. He turns his
head towards Eryndae and raises a brow.

"Should I speak or you?"asks the Ranger before he looks back towards the eaves.
"Tis your caravan, but I move with you all just the same..."

Being the closest to the woods, Mornferedir stops in front of Ceorn peering at
him intently he then begins to reply in the same speech, "Hail friend, we come
from Rivendell and our on our journey to the woods of Lorien." he says with a
nod as his eyes search the woods for any other then he continues, "We pass in
peace if you people will it." he then looks back to the cluster, "Perhaps you
would speak to my superiors, good man?" he asks softly, trying to sound as
polite as possible. He pulls his hood off his head, revealing his head of silver
hair. Maybe he would appear more friendly that way.

During this time of hearing no response toward him, Agron has been making his
way closer. Now he can definently tell that they are elves. He stops again. His
hands at first waver to his daggers, but then instead to his food pouch, where
he pulls out some dry nuts, biting into one. "Hello," he offers awkwardly on
seeing none of their bows out. He stands several paces away now, gazing warily.

The Ranger's glance is met before Eryndae regards the men, a quiet aside before
raising her voice to all. "Let us both speak then." Thus does she step forward,
a subtle nod for Mornaer to accompany. "It is as the squire says. We mean only
to pass through, now and in later days when we shall return home," she answers
plainly, in common speech and crystalline tone. Agron's approach is noted with a
discerning glance.

Linnuial finally reaches the scene, having jogged from the rear of the camp
where he was conversing with the Elentiri. A hand rests upon the bow which is
fastened to his back, but he makes no move to draw it out. His gaze quickly
sweeps over the new faces, trying to place them. Seeing that Eryndae has already
spoken for the party, he makes no move to repeat her words.

Squeezing Glasiel's hand briefly, with a smile for the melody, Ailiell quietly
watches the proceedings. Though she likewise eyes the men with wariness, and
affords more of the same for the rash Mornferedir, her face betrays nothing but
rampant curiosity.

As the elves identify themselves, somehow the tension that was in the air seems
to ease. The bear--who was barely visible in flashes through the trees
before--abruptly disappears. A moment or so later, the huge figure of Grimbeorn
appears on the path to the northwest. "Elrond's folk, eh?" he says loud enough
for all to hear as he approaches, carefully studying the visitors.

The early light veils more surprises. For not all elves are currently present at
the camp. Or so it would seem as a small group approaches the North Bank in
modest formation. Unmistakably these are warriors of the Fair race, and all they
bear a longbow upon their back.

At the head of this small group strides tall and dignified the Commander,
Randinen. He is quick to assess the meeting betwixt First -and Secondborn...
Dismissing the other Bowmen, the Hirvaethor approaches alone. Curiously he
frowns, walking up to the eldest present -- Eryndae.

"A good morn, mellyn." speaks he eloquent in the Westron tongue, his step
relentless.

The elisthir shivers. No word added, curiosity slowy take place in Olathlinn
glance at the place of suspicion.

Ceorn observes long the elf who spoke to him and his pale eyes stares at one
things, the arrows filling his quiver. "Friends.. Perhaps." Ceorn nods quietly,
lowering his already low weapon and gathering it in his both hands. "That you
pass or not isn't mine to decide, someone will soon. But that you go in peace is
your choice. Where are you going ? To the north or to the south ?" Ceorn then
inquires.

"Grimbeorn !" Ceorn feints surprise and smiles at the elves, "He will decide
your fate." he adds and turns to welcome the huge man, a walking tree. "Let
check their arrows, they look... right...".

Thus, with the arrival of the master of these lands, the Olvaristdil smiles,
tension relieved. She nods silently at the Hirvaethor as he arrives, and
continues to wait for instructions.

Agron gazes at Grimbeorn with sudden confidence. Seeing that nothing can go
wrong if he trusts these people so, he gives an amiable nod to Ceorn and then
walks into the woods, aiming to make a circle around them so that he can
continue to walk the shore uninterrupted of such disturbances.

Mornferedir smiles lightly at Grimbeorn as the large figure emerges from the
woods. The silver haired elf makes no move only nods and speaks to them,
"Elrond's folk we are, if you wish to call us. We plead to pass in peace to the
woods of Lorien near south," he says quietly but loud enough to be heard by the
two. "Please mellyn, come speak with my superiors." he turns motioning to the
Elves at the front of the cluster with his hand and gives them a smile.

Olathlinn have not enough of her two eyes to grasp the situation.
She gasp and her head go in all direction, trying to see the more things she
can, missing probably a lot doing so.

Linnuial steps behind Mornferedir and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder, perhaps
with the slightest tug backward.

Jorunn says in Eothrik, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"I think there was good fishing
along this river Yeut. At least there were few folk here when I passed
through."<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

"Indeed we are," Eryndae replies simply to Grimbeorn, the smooth low soprano of
her voice a definite contrast to his bellowing. She elaborates little more on
the matter as both Randinen and Linnuial arrive, offering a sidelong gaze to
both as she falls silent. Thus does the Silmaethor step gracefully aside, focus
alighting upon Ceorn last of all, flaxen eyebrows curiously arched.

"Lorien?!" Grimbeorn says loudly, turning to look at Ceorn as he does so. "You
go to the sorceress in the Golden Wood? We have...business.. with them. Who are
your leaders here again?" he asks, looking from Mornferedir to Linnuial as that
elf pulls the other back. Grimbeorn hesitates, though, as his name is called.
"Jorunn," he says, "....and ...Yeut." This brings a frown. "Well, in any case,
we'll need your eyes, Jorunn, and Ceorn's to compare their arrows.

Yeut stares at the group before her. Her eyes traveling to the bows, the arrows,
then one by one to her fellow Anduin's. She points at one of the quivers, "Those
look like...Aren't they..." A look from Grimbeorn stops her speech. She stares
back at the elves. Distrust and defiance forms in her eyes.

Mornaer smiles nodding to Ernydae, , the Ranger now steps forth "Aye, and there
are tohers besides the elves coming through your lands, mainly us men from north
of Bree, but that is the extent of it. We are accompanying them to Lorien, for
the same reasons as they go." a slight smile as he bows his head respectivly.

The language spoken by the stranger attrackted the ear of the seeker in
Olathlinn, no it is not something she actually understand. Each time the former
beast speaks, she nervously jumps on place. She moves more in the middle of the
group now, as if she was feeling more secure in that way.

In silent observation Randinen's attention flickers to Mornferedir. Approvingly
he smiles at the intervention of Linnuial. "Accept our pardon, mellon. It is not
our custom to greet friendly folk with bow and arrow." And to display indeed
good intent, Randinen removes the bow from his back to set it aside.

"My own group was on a scouting trip. As we are cautious for our dark memories
attached to these parts." Falling once more silent the Hirvaethor nods as if to
confirm the Ranger's words. Now clearly his keen eye is with the tall man who
addressed them.

Mornferedir gives a quick and slight nod to Linnuial as he steps back, looking
slightly abashed, he goes to stand a bit behind the Hirvaethor. He keeps his bow
over his shoulder and folds his arms, his cloak draped over him.

"Ahem", Unas clears his throat to be noticed, "and, Laird, if I can help... I
mean, with the arrows,..." The tall man seems smaller and smaller compared to
Grimbeorn as he nears the group on the Beorning side. In his own, however, he
would not be rated short. Playing with his blonde beardhair, he offers a gentle
smile to the Laird, adding in Eothrik, "I have learned some skills while
travelling, and a great smith from Rivendell, Gilathan, showed me some of their
craft, even if it surpassed me". So far, he has blatantly ignored the elves.

Linnuial cringes at Grimbeorn's loudness, his own brows starting to bend
downward with suspicion and distrust as the tension once again increases. His
mouth opens as if to speak, but noticing Randinen and his fluent Westron, he
opts instead to remain silent. His gaze falls back upon the rear of the party,
where already his blue-clad soldiers have moved to a defensive position around
their charge. Turning back to Grimbeorn, he adds after Randinen, "Your tone
hints at ill business between you and our cousins in the Golden Wood. I know not
of what you speak, but there is great danger and tension in these lands, and it
is easy for intents to be mistaken. I can assure you neither we, nor the
Galadhrim, are your enemy."

Ceorn offers the departing guide a thankful nod and refocus his attention on the
elves and some of the men accompanying them. From Grimbeorn he looks at Eryndae
and the approaching Mornaer. Both earn a greeting nod of his part. "To Lorien,
to the Golden Wood, so indeed elves live there" Ceorn nods pensively. "I have a
few questions and I would like to see some of the arrows your bowmen carries."
Ceorn declares and pulls one of his quiver, one finely crafted, a state of the
art arrow like human's hands would be hard to wright.

Ailiell looks from Randinen to the man she last saw dwarfing the hearth in the
Hall of Fire, and beyond him to the strange party of humans. A pleasant smile is
afforded all, though her gaze lingers on the woman, Yeut. "<Sindarin> What is
this about arrows?" she hisses to the Olvaristdil.

At the mention of an elven name, Randinen's tilts head and gaze, to study Unas.
"Gilathan?" exclaims he in modest voice, to weave a hint of merit in his voice,
"I know him well. He also has come upon this venture, mellon. Perhaps if you
wish, later you may speak with him?"

And yet the words spoken by another of the men, calls forth a frown from the
Hirvaethor. "Our arrows you ask?" inquires he gently.

The Ranger looks to Grimbeorn and then back towards the others as they speak of
arrows before looking to Ernydae whislt raising a brow, before he looks back to
the massive man. A slight smile comes to his lips. "As my kind are not from
around here, is it usual custom, to check arrows, or is something amiss?"
Mornaer tilts his head as he awaits a response.

"Aye, easy for intent to be mistaken," Grimbeorn answers Linnuial, following
that elf's gaze. "And what do folk of Elrond have to fear from the kin of
Beorn?" he asks, eyes on the guards in the back. "Goblins in these parts, yes,
but I can assure you there are no goblins about this morning," he grins, pride
in his smile. "Our folk won't attack you. You have my word and your captain
Elrond would back me up on that, I'd venture. Now as for arrows, as Ceorn here
speaks--" The shapeshifter nods to the arrows that Ceorn displays. "Our folk
passed near the Golden Wood by accident. Orcs attacked them--or so we thought.
But the arrow that killed one of our kin are clearly elven. See for yourself,"
he nods to Mornaer.

The Olvaristdil Glasiel, still standing just behind Eryndae, smiles pleasantly a
greeting to the leader of the Beorning, remembering the mead they shared on the
porch of Hir Elrond's house. Ailiell's words call her back to the present, and
she murmurs back, in her usual sing-song tone, "I know not, mellon."

Olathlinn says in Sindarin, "Olathlinn looks at Ailiell and simply say, as a
possible explanation:""You reconize the Archer to its arrows, maybe they have
previous problem and want to know if we are involved?" her voice is soft as she
knows nothing either, but thinks loud."

Ceorn lets Grimbeorn explains briefly the situation and turns to Unas. "What do
you think of it, in the making of the head, I am a bit clueless, but you..."
Ceorn smiles at the smith and passes him the arrow, the time the elves shows
their own.

Mornferedir remains behind the Hirvaethor, still looking slightly abashed with
his arms folded. He keeps quiet so not to make a fool of himself again.

"This is... ill news." admits Randinen, lowering his gaze for a short moment.

"But, verily we will not gainsay the kin of Beorn..." and reaching for his own
quiver the Hirvaethor fetches an arrow. The projectile held in two hands as an
offering of sorts, he steps towards Ceorn.

"These are ones we use most common. Yet you say you were nigh the Golden Wood
when attacked... None of the folk of Elrond were in those parts, as you can see
we only just arrived."

At the sound of the strange language Yeut looks around and sees that one of the
elves is watching her. She fondles the hilt of the fishknife at her waist and
speaks to Jorunn, though her gaze never leaves the face of the elf. Her words
are in whisper, but it is a whisper meant to be heard by all. "All this talk of
mistakes and intents seems foolish to me. Elves are elves. They attacked us. Why
do we not respond in kind?"

Linnuial regards Grimbeorn a long moment after he speaks, considering his words
and weighing their sincerity. Finally, he raises a hand and calls to the
clustered guards far to the back of the camp. "At ease!" The dozen or so
blue-clad elves--clearly a special guard of some sort, move away from the group
of elves they were guarding. "As we are just now arriving, I find no purpose in
examining our arrows. Clearly, we are elves, as are our Galadhrim cousins. Our
arrows may be similar, but then again, there are some methods of fletching
unique to our warriors. Regardless, we had no part in the attack. If it is true
that the elves of Lorien did, then we will discover that truth when we arrive. I
promise you." His eyes narrow at Yeut's impatience.

Watching from the small group of men with the elves, Tolaglar listens as the
talks turn from arrows to elves to being attacked. He rubs his nose with a muddy
glove, smearing his already smudged face. Briefly, he glances across the parties
towards his kinsman Mornaer, curious as to what is being spoken there, but does
not move from his position within the group of elves. As the tensions seem to
rise,his eyes narrow in anticipation.

"Gilathan the Hirdan ? on this journey !", Unas bursts to Randinen as he
mentions the Edhel's name, "Excuse me, I am Unas, smith, I had not yet heard
that you are from Rivendell", then partly to himself, muttering "Really ! that
our paths would cross each other so soon", he smiles and his eyes shine at the
remembrance of what he lived in Elrond's house. But then, as his Laird mention
the death of his fellow travelling companion, his face darkens, and comments,
"Yes, beautiful and efficient arms they make, alas a wrong victim is always one
too much..."

Mornaer nods towards Grimbeorn "Excuse me then Sir, as I shall investigate as
well. I would not like it if allies fired about allies." a slight smile before
he turns, making his way, over to Ceorn and the other elves who present their
arrows. Eyes flick back towards Linnuial, then to the others.

"Come, friend, there is no need to worry about it. Show your arrows as a sign of
good faith, even if it is true you naer partook of such an attack."

The arrow which Randinen shows, is indeed slender. Only in grace, however, does
this arrow resemble the other found. For its tip and fletching is slightly
different, where the colour is a dark shade green and not grey.

Ceorn turns his bright glance to Linnuial, while twiddling Mornferedir's arrow
between in his fingers "Who did accuse you ? I can see now indeed that your
arrows and mine are similar, different but sharing certain qualities that makes
them elven enough to brand your cousins of the south with murder and
assassination of innocent travellers." he finishes before handing back the
slender shaft.

Mornferedir takes back the arrow and slips it into his quiver under his cloak,
then goes back to silence, his eyes watching the one fondling the knife a bit
warily.

Having no arrows to present to anyone, Glasiel remains watchful as the tension
fails to dissipate. So softly her healing melodies float once more from her
lips, to tickle the ears of those gathered with sounds of fellowship and
caution, gently warning without words against rash actions.

Her smile fading away, Ailiell's brows climb slowly towards her hairline upon
Yeut's words. Her head tilts a bit on one side as she continues to meet the
woman's eyes, searching her face curiously. Another moment, and her glance
flickers away then to the presented arrow and the hard words spoken over it.
"Murder?" she murmurs, a faint frown darkening her countenance.

Argent eyes aged by millennia fall intently upon the arrow Ceorn extended.
Content though Eryndae may be to let Randinen and Linnuial speak, her musings
confirm what the others might say, to the immediate company of those near her.
"Nor would I deny the elven craftsmanship in such a specimen. But the Hirvaethor
speaks true, as none of our kin have been abroad until now." Yeut earns little
more than a passing glance from the elven woman, one that spares no warmth in
response to words likewise cold. But when next she speaks, to all, it is with
undertones of sorrow. "Would you condemn them so without inviting the truth of
their own lips? Or have I mistaken this business you have with them for aught of
a darker nature?"

Grimbeorn snaps around as the teenager's voice speaks loudly of attack.
"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he snaps at Yeut. His tone, though harsh, somehow
reminds one of the sound of a bear growling at its wayward cubs.
"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he growls.

That said, the Laird's mood clears and he turns his attention back to the
arrows. 'If Elrond's folk say they were not in the woods, then the folk of the
Anduin village believe them,' he says loudly, shooting another sharp look at
Yeut. 'Yet the arrows that killed Dristan are elven, that we can see,' he says,
nodding in agreement with Ceorn. 'Do the folk of the Golden Wood go about
killing honest men?'

Jorunn puts her hand on Yeut's arm near the knife. "Remain calm, Yeut, these
things take time to sort out," she mumbles in the same sotto voice as the girl
used. Turning to the elves, she speaks aloud, "Indeed, the arrow is slightly
different than the one I remember. But surely, it was not an orcish arrow that
killed our kinsman." Her eyes flash at Erydae. "The truth from their lips would
be welcomed, as our business is only to find clarity in the situation."

Olathlinn is surprise as what she thought is the reason of the men behavior
appears to be right. She reaches her chin and rub it. Seeing and hearing the
tone on whats follow make her shakes her head and close her eyes in a grin.

"Even if the Galadhrim are guilty of this accident," Linnuial snaps out, "you
speak as if we should suffer the blame for their actions, simply because we are
of the same race." His temper having gotten the better of his patience,
continues: "Perhaps you would have us retaliate upon you for the crimes of your
'cousins' in the East, who serve the Ene--" Laird's sudden concession of trust
silences the young edhel, and his eyes fall upon the ground shamefully.

Lending Unas a friendly smile, Randinen nods to reply to the man's enthusiasm.
"Aye, he has come, well met Unas... I pray you will have a chance to speak with
the Hirdan, most certainly he would enjoy to hear from a friend."

And yet not long cheery mood remains. Swiftly it wanes from his features, mien
once more grave and solemn. These are no light accusations spoken... There more
so is Randinen relieved to hear their own folk cleared of blame. "They act not
without reason... or so I dare say..."

More words are swallowed, a sharp breath drawn, as Randinen's gaze flashes to
his fellow Hirvaethor, "Peace..." he murmurs, eyes settling upon Grimbeorn.

The teenager snatches her hand from the blade hilt and stands stiffly placing
her hands behind her back. Her eyes fill with tears of anger and shame, but
still defiant. She bites her lip and looks anywhere but at elves.

Mornferedir takes a step closer to Linnuial and murmurs softly to his superior
yet younger Elf, just a soft suggestion the silver haired elf makes, "<Sindarin>
Calm yourself mellon, speak with patience even if others do not. It serves
better." He then takes a step back again to watch everyone carefully, but not as
warily now.

"Not 'even if', master elf, they are guilty, and it isn't an accident. One arrow
can be shot by accident, not many dozens without the single warning." Ceorn
flares up with a quickness matching Linnuial's. "You are like them, you would
shoot first and discuss later, it's fortunate Grimbeorn or I didn't have the
same idea today."

Unas seems not to be able to contain his assent to Grimbeorn's words, and emits
a growly "Yeah ! what about honest men being killed there ?", before realising
that some deep, dark feelings have briefly taken control. "Rhem" he grunts and
frowns, "all these killings, gets one's temper...a young lad he was,...",...

Then he replies to Randinen, "Yes, well met, mellon, I have been at your place,
and I will not forget that fast the wonders I saw there, thanks to the Hirdan.
Send him my regards when back at your encampment.

As Tolaglar listens to the words, the vagabondish woodsman mutters to himself,
"Or iffin' they e'en care." But, these words are low and undirected towards
anybody. A quiet voice, a spoken thought.

Ceorn's words somehow strike Grimbeorn as funny, because the shapeshifter bursts
out with a great belly laugh that echos across the forest. "Ha!!" he roars.
"Yes, if we shot at all that moved through our lands, you'd be a great
pincushion full of arrows, with the stripes of a bear claw to decorate your
hind!" He chuckles to himself a bit, then coughs, looking to Ceorn and Unas.

"As you see, my folk are upset. Ceorn, cousin of the slain Dristan, seeks
retribution. I cannot condone killing elves--I will stop their hands from that.
Yet...something must be done. You go to the Golden Wood? I would not send my
folk there, only to have them shot again before they can speak!" Grimbeorn's
voice grows angry at this. "But you can speak to them for us? Perhaps you can
take one of the deadly arrows?"

Eyes filled with worry flit from face to face, pleading in silence to those
around her. Glasiel searches into the eyes of the Laird, then her gwador, then
the Vintner, her healing melody growing in strength and force to float on the
breeze, in her efforts to calm the fea of those so angry and suspicious.
Grimbeorn's next words ease the stress on her face somewhat, though her melody
continues, as an undercurrent to the atmosphere.

Linnuial, having realized the error in releasing his sharp tongue, now receives
not one, but several reproachful mutterings from his comrades. More to silence
them than anything else, he offers, "I apologize for my outburst..." Then, to
Grimbeorn's request, he nods. "Indeed, I offered before to discover the truth
when we reach their city, and I hold to that." He extends a hand to take the
guilty arrow.

The ranger looks back towards Tolaglar as he seemingly comes into conscience. A
slight smile as he nods to him "Aye.." a slight smile before looking back
towards Grimbeorn then to Eryndae, a raised brow before looking back towards
Grimbeorn. "Trust him.." a nod towards Linnuial. "I also will see to it. My Kind
don't need hostility to travelers goin about now. Makes it harder on the good
folk that move about."

"<Sindarin> We need not provoke them. Their anger is not for us." speaks
Randinen in the fair tongue, words soft and smooth, though a certain urgency
entwines with the vocals.

Curtly then he nods to Grimbeorn, 'A small favor you ask, mellon. Gladly shall
we aid your folk, along with those of the Golden Wood, to unravel this grave
misunderstanding. And judge us not harshly, only the young and inexperienced
reach too swift for their bows. Forgive them their folly.' remarks the tall elf
with a delicate smile, and a merry twinkle shines in his eye.

Mornferedir tilts his head and steps forward to speak softly, his position in
the guard is low but he is fairly new to them and having been a elder among many
he speaks, regardless of his position, "It may not neccesarily be our cousins in
the Golden Wood, our cousins from the Mirkwood also travel to the woods of
Lorien if I am not mistaken. " he offers, maybe to make the Beornings think for
a moment. He then takes a step back for those to contemplate his suggestion or
ignore it and go on. His eyebrows narrow slightly at being called young but he
smooths his features out soon enough.

Ceorn hands the arrow to Linnuial but keeps it even as the elven hand closes
upon it. "No, you don't understand, it's not a quest for truth or to clarify a
misunderstanding. I want some justice be made, or I will do it myself and as
blindly as them. They killed my cousin, I'd like the one, or the ones who did
this swear to not touch a bow for the rest of their life, and as proof of their
good will in such oath, they can severe themselves two fingers." Ceorn shrugs
"Or more if they fancy, I don't mind."

Looking at all this, from her point, Olathlinn cant help that to
compare those reaction with her own a little while ago. She bits her lips and
looks where she knows the river flows.

Eryndae says, "Nor would I fault you for seeking it," Eryndae intones mildly to
Jorunn, a vague sadness still present in both countenance and demeanor. The
rising tension between Linnuial and Ceorn exhales in a whispered sigh past her
lips. "We seek not to belittle your loss. But neither can we pronounce its
import on behalf of those you blame, for we know no more of the incident than
you yourselves have told." Serenity veils her words, eyes speaking of pure
intent as she steps back from the woman to stand beside Randinen and Linnuial.
"If it would serve both our allies sundered by the Anduin, you shall find few
with the mind to refuse." Tucking her chin low in a respectful nod, the lady
steps back once more, regarding the ellith behind her with a wearied
half-smile."

"Mornferedir." bids Randinen in stronger voice, "We have not come to make
unfounded accusations. Be wiser and speak not of blame. We will do as we are
asked and perhaps aid thusly in the resolvement of this matter." And now clearly
the Hirvaethor sighs, slightly agitated it seems.

At the words about the young and inexperienced, Yeut blushes a deep red. She
glances back at the elves and sees a mild abashment of some faces there as well.
Ceorn asking for the fingers of the killers seems too gentle. She would ask for
more, but she dares not say another word. She is too near Grimbeorn to risk his
fury any more this day.

Mornferedir frowns lightly at Randinen but then gives a slight nod to the
Hirvaethor as he steps back and starts to retreat back to the cluster of Elves.

Glasiel returns the Vintner's smile, and continues to send her healing melody
out upon the breeze, doing the only thing in her power to help, small as her
efforts may be as compared to others'. Her eyes close lightly with the effort of
her task.

Grimbeorn raises one eyebrow at Ceorn's request, but does not comment on it.
"You will carry this request to the sorceress? Say to her that the Grimbeorn's
folk were lost and starving. Attacked by orcs, they fled to the woods, where
twice more the orcs attacked. On the third attack, orcs in trees slew
Dristan--or so we thought, until we found elven arrows. The folk of the Anduin
valley gladly give their lives to fight the goblins. But we demand this payment
for elves killing our folk. " The Laird sighs and shakes his head.

Jorunn's head inclines in the affirmative at the request of Grimbeorn. "Forgive
us, indeed, if we seem too eager to blame the elves of the Golden Wood. But the
fallen man, he was a good man, and kind. Our caravan was much tired by then, and
had been attacked many times on the road. Death at the hands of the elves,
whatever wood they inhabit, is not apt to be taken easily, especially by his
kindred." She nods towards Ceorn. "Help us resolve this, as a token of
friendship. Too many rash deeds have already passed between us all."

Linnuial's eyes, still sharp but also somewhat calmed by Glasiel's song, remain
locked on Ceorn's as he makes his 'request'. "We will request they make
restitution for your loss; yet perhaps it will be of a more productive nature. I
am certain the archer who fired this arrow will be punished harshly, but elves
do not discipline through pain." Hearing Grimbeorn talk of starving, he then
offers, "The Galadhrim have many goods that can aid your people in your travels.
I shall suggest a gift of such items."

It is only now Unas seems to have noticed the two men who speak the language of
elves, and he looks at them more intently, coming closer to Ceorn and asking,
not so low that it would be called a whisper, "Who are those men ? what are they
doing in the company of elves ? and why are they so keen on travelers being left
in peace ? this all seems weird to me, by the Eagle ! Do you know anything I
don't ?"

Then he seems to get catch of the philosophical speach of the elves, so confused
he is by the intricate and elaborate language of those people, "Laird, it seems
to me they try to babble us stupid with their "sunder here,... those you
blame,...belittle... cousins there...", he growls, "one man is dead, it's an
elven arrow, no babbling : find the one who did it, and send him drink with his
ancestors to thing a while about it, by the B..." a uncertain look at Grimbeorn
tells him he better not call on the Bear, and he waves in the air "ah, well,
Grimbeorn, you know well..." he tempests.

Meeting Eryndae's tired eyes, Ailiell offers a soft smile of encouragement
before looking back to the grieving Ceorn, and angered Unas. Shrewdly she
considers him a moment, listening to the suggestions of punishment and
retribution flying about. Aware of Glasiel's tension, the healer squeezes her
hand once more and takes up a very soft counterpoint to her song, adding her
voice to strengthen it.

"I trust you as does Grimbeorn your folk that you will carry this request to
them" Ceorn nods and releases the arrow as he stares at Linnuial then Eryndae
before bowing to them. He listens the Laird politely and Jorunn the same under
the charm of the melody perhaps. But finally his head shakes left and right,
"For an archer, two fingers are a high price, it's more than any gold, stone or
item. And my cousin life was worthless. So I insist please. This as proof of
their good will."

Yeut opens her mouth to speak but snaps it shut again, but cannot contain
herself. "Items? They want to give us 'items' in exchange for a life? What price
do we put on a man's life then?" Yeut steps slightly behind Jornum lest the
Great Bear decide to take a swipe at her.

Mornaer looks to Eryndae and smiles slightly before looking back to Grimbeorn
"We will that something comes of this, and we will tell what you have said. And
hopefully all shall be set back to the way it was, and there will be no more
killings of Beornings, by elves, if by fact it was an elf, and not goblins who
might have found stray arrows." a slight sad smile "Again I am sorry for your
loss, but hopefully we can find the truth out and prevent more from happening."

"Bah! Gifts! What can gifts do when a man's life has been senselessly ended?"
Grimbeorn snaps, nodding in agreement as Unas speaks behind him. "Tell the
sorceress we have no need of her gifts!" The Laird turns, growling and pushing
his way through the group of gathered Beornings. Just at the point where the
path through the woods disappears from sight, he turns back. "You have the
arrows. You have our tale. It is up to the folk of the Golden Wood now. Elrond's
folk will always be welcome..." Grimbeorn looks at the group, then shakes his
head. "But if this can't be settled, then the folk of the Golden Wood will be
barred from our lands, on pain of death." With that, he stalks off into the
woods.

Grunting as he listens further to the heated words of Ceorn, Tolaglar's eyes
narrow: "Ye want *that* kind of justice, Laddie? Ye do it yerself... ye don't
ask good folk t' do yer own dirty work fer ye. If ye been wronged, then ye don't
ask someone else t' wrong themselves on yerbehalf... its disgraceful." He snorts
as he glares towards Unas as he speaks to his Lord, "An' if ye go around
thinkin' that ye can jus' go an' ask fer yer version of justice without a fight
from the accused, then yer as blind as th' folk who shot ye... assumin' they
didn't have no purpose." He shrugs, "But... maybe they did do it."

Olathlinn may be still looking at the horizon, but her ear continue to gather
all the information, the accent and to the change in the mood, all her face
answer. Things moves too fast for her soon and she drift in a sort of second
state near the dream but still awake, leaning on her staff, her cheek on it.

Listening attentively to Ceorn's words, Randinen -- still posed nigh Eryndae and
Linnuial -- nods his aproval, shrouded in a moment of contemplating silence.
Till another of Beorn's folk words grief. Thus his grey glance settling upon
Yeut. "We will deliver your message, and perhaps add our own wisdom, yet no more
can or ought we ask of our cousins. This matter concerns /not/ the folk of
Elrond. While your loss is great, little can we offer to ease your hurt..."

"The Ranger's words hold merit." adds Randinen in a softer tone, nodding to
Mornaer, "Perhaps others are involved, their influence unseen."

Jorunn says in Eothrik, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Jorunn begins defensively, but
then shrugs. She knows that Grimbeorn has given the final word on the subject,
and so she begins, 'Indeed, we are indebted to your efforts at resolving this.
We thank you for that,' she finishes as turns to follow the Laird. She leaves
the company, turning on her heel and following the path east along the river,
the way she came."

As if there weren't enough of them already, another elf seems to pop
up out of the ground from near the back of the huddled cluster of elves. Ever
since the small company had come to a halt, Cendalire has opted to stay close to
the ground in a low squat, though this is not to say that he's been completely
hidden from the numerous watchful eyes more experienced in tracking than he is
in hidding. He stretchesout his arms, adjusting the strap of his lyre at his
shoulder before he sends a brief glance towards Grimbeorn and his people. "Such
things," he intones in quiet Sindarin, as soft as a breeze, murmuring to
himself, "may serve to be an ill omen for what lies ahead... on this journey or
otherwise.

Mornaer nods back to Randinen "Thank you Mellon..." a slight smile before he
looks back to Ernydae. "I am going to head further up the trail and look about,
I will return shortly... I have things I wish to discuss..." a slight smile and
with that the ranger heads off into the trees.

"Man" Ceorn addresses then Mornaer with a sad shake of head. "Goblins or orc
would never fire back an elven arrow; they do barely ours. And this arrow is too
long for their short bows" Ceorn sighs as if he was explaining the man the sky
was blue.

And following the huge man leaving, Ceorn sighs a last time, last glance for
Linnuial and Eryndae. "Good luck..." and last words for Tolaglar and Randinen,
"The Ranger ?" he frowns and observes the rag covered man, "Perhaps not in your
land, and Bree is full of honorless thieves, but here Grimbeorn rules, so if he
says it's so, then it's this way, and not another. Understand this."

Linnuial examines the arrow for a moment, eyeing its tip, before slipping it
into his own quiver. A sigh, and then he moves back toward the Elentiri.

As strong as empathy flows in her spirit, and as clearly as Glasiel's melody
rings in her ears, Eryndae follows the departure of Grimbeorn and many of his
people with lingering sorrow, though well hidden by a resolve that weakens as
she meets Mornaer's gaze. "Very well then," she replies absently, then turning
back to Linnuial and Randinen. "Perhaps we should take this as passage, and
continue on our path. It unsettles me to think we may linger still upon the
banks when the night comes."

Unas snorts loud, then cheers at his Laird's words, yet, before himself
following Grimbeorn, he can't help but come a bit closer to Randinen, saying,
"Mellon, although in grief and anger from the loss of that child, the warm
memories of your Halls convince me even more than any beautiful words you can
say. Not all of ours have been lucky to learn in their flesh that elves are
good. I was. I very much hope I will be able to meet your Hirdan, but maybe our
group will soon head back to the Village. So please send my respect to Gilathan,
and tell him the dagger was brought back to his owner." Having said so he bows
and adds, "Your folks can be trusted, I know, but do not forget that each land
has its rules, and try to understand ours, I hope you can help us find Dristan's
murderer, farewell !"

He turns on his heels and rejoins the other leaving Beornings.

Glasiel lets her voice ring more clearly as those departing head off into the
woods, sending one last offer of friendship with her melody on the air. Finally,
her song fades to its end, and her eyes open once more. She sighs, swaying
slightly with the force of her effort.

Yeut is slow to follow her fellow countrymen. She gives the elves one last
glare, then walks away. But slowly, and never completely turning her back on
them as she goes.

Mornferedir frowns slightly then continues to stalk forward towards their
ultimate destination of Lorien. He keeps his eyes on the woods warily and slowly
drifts towards Linnuial then murmurs to him, "<Sindarin> Hirvaethor, I was not
aware it was wrong to be prepared for attack." with a slight frown.

"I shall!" cries Randinen in reply to the departing Beorning smith, his frown
held for the other fading by might of a smile.

Only when they disappear from sight, does the Hirvaethor turn, watching Eryndae.
"If their eyes protect these banks, there is no haste to drive us forth rashly.
Let us discuss with the others, ere we decide what path to take."

As Mornferedir draws close, Randinen seems to remark him. For he peers up, to
look upon the Thandir.

Linnuial pauses as he walks back toward the Elentiri, turning to reply to
Mornferedir, "<Sindarin> It was not. In fact, I am pleased you were so alert.
Others would say that tact should be our first reaction--yet in these lands..."
He pauses, eyes roaming about the dark shadows that surround the river,
"<Sindarin> ...I contest we must first be cautious."

Linnuial's words reaching her ears, Ailiell eyes the surroundings uncomfortably,
clearly unhappy with the thought of remaining here after dark has settled. But
no further thought does she give this, as Glasiel sways by her side. Putting a
steadying hand around her shoulder, she peers into her face with a slight frown.
"Are you well, mellon? Or shall we sit..."

Mornferedir frowns lightly as his eyes watch the woods a tad warily. He tosses
hair out of his face and brings his gray cloak about him closer, "<Sindarin> As
a feredir, arrows are always knocked as you never know where prey may be. You
cannot tell an enemy from a friend from a growl, I thought it would be wise to
be ready, although it seems Randinen Hirvaethor disagrees with me." he finishes
with a look at the mentioned Elf with a slight tilt of the head. He then
continues on, "<Sindarin> I doubt our cousins in the Golden Wood would shoot
innocents. There must have been a reason or a strange circumstance."

Glasiel smiles wearily at Ailiell, waving a hand lightly and answering in quiet
tone. "I am well, mellon. Worry not. Perhaps, though, I have need of rest, after
that song." Her face is pale, but not sad; her eyes tired, and yet satisfied.
She has done what she could to help.

Eryndae's nod is her only initial reply to Randinen. "Then I shall seek the
Gweithir's opinion on the matter." Thus with a lingering glance of concern to
Glasiel and Ailiell, the Silmaethor turns to rejoin the ranks of quendi,
disappearing into their numbers with a murmur of their questions following in
her wake.

"And so you accuse Thranduil's folk?" speaks Randinen in a calm voice, tongue
once more rich with the soothing speech of the Fair Race. Experience sits upon
his brow, the light of ages kindled in his keen visage. Thus he beholds the
other quende, and still his mien is void of either scorn or approval.

"Not cautious, yet subtle... that we can be without too much effort. Lest our
kindred has indeed lost its grace the latter Age. Trust you not to the sentries
we have posted to watch our flanks? What of signals of alarm? I heard none."
Only Eryndae succeeds to rouse the Arphedor's attention.

"Thank you for your wisdom, mellon-Eryndae."

Seeming to come from the east and the glare of sun, a hint of motion
is easy caught by firstborn eyes. A light bobbing of shape and it looms closer
to come out of the glare and reveal itself to be Tiramen. Almost by instinct, he
comes to stand nearby Randinen with a look of mild concern. "Good morn to you
Hirvaethor. Tell me, did my ears hear aright the Beornings claim one of their
own slain by elven arrow?" By his former position, he was most likely sentry to
camp until this moment and the ill words spoken.

Linnuial sighs as Randinen releases a caustic barb toward Mornferedir. "The
Thandir is not the only one who spoke poorly at times. Indeed, we should have
delegated all to you, Hirvaethor," the young edhel replies, though his tone is
ambiguous--perhaps it is sincere, or perhaps it is patronizing. "Yet when we are
on this river, guarding perhaps the most precious jewel of our people, I find no
wrongdoing in Mornferedir's initiative. It is possible that our scouts may
indeed fail to notice lurking yrch, or they may be wiped out without our
knowing. We can hope our sentries aid us--but to depend upon them, to allow only
one barrier between the Enemy and our charge would be folly."

"Indeed they have, mellon-Tiramen." flows the curt reply from the Hirvaethor,
although he needs not turn to recognize a voice, "And yet the fletching was the
typical grey used by those of Lothlorien. And now, perhaps we have erred... for
the Beornings seem keen on finding their loss compensated. If it were not for
their leader their tempers might have caused more unfortunate
misunderstandings."

Then to Linnuial he glances, a faint smile to grace his lips, "Your 'jewel'
benefits not if we are to rouse the anger of allies, people who were guests of
the Herdir not so long ago. Some of you have spoken out of turn, the Gweithir
will hear of this. Where I do take offense in your lack of trust of your fellows
in arms, Linnuial."

Out of the silence comes Helegrhofel who was patiently and quietly leaning on
the bark of a lone tree. He moves slowly towards the Hirvaethir and stands for a
moment to greet Tiramen. "And what are we doing now?", he asks with a feeling of
bewilderment on his face.

Mornferedir nods lightly at the young Hirvaethor then looks to Randinen,
"Hirvaethor, I accuse no one. I only say that I do not think the Galadhrim would
shoot innocents. I only say I think the circumstance is intricate and we cannot
see it at this small glance." he says softly, giving a slight shrug.

Ailiell nods absently to Glasiel, her attention caught by the rising tension
betwixt Hirvaethors. With her lips pressed in a grim line, she watches the
volleys thoughtfully, holding her peace. Looking back to the Olvaristdil she
smiles. "Then take rest, mellon. We seem to be stalled for the moment."

Tiramen grows thoughtful and at the words of Mornferedir he seems to
nod. "More than once has the dark sought to mislead those of impressionable
mien. And I know the Golden Wood. Either this man sought to trespass beyond his
means or there is ill wind upon this. Few have the elves of Loth'lorien lost to
yrch but in those few no small number of their fletching would have come to evil
hands. And thus perhaps plot this mischief." He seems to speak to no one save
his own thoughts and yet he turns his gaze to Randinen. "And I believe this to
be a warning. I command no more but the ethiriath should be ever the more
vigilant now."

Still keeping much to himself as the assembled quendi make to return
to the encampment, Cendalire clasps his hand sbehind his neck, being mindful of
where his elbows stray of course. "Caution and zealousness draw a fine line
between each other," he whispers to himself. Suddenly stretching his neck, he
turns to looks towards the others around him. "Mellyn," he intones, "I dare
confess that this talk seems ill-favored and with no apparent end. It would
serve us all best to try and let this tension lay as is, as we can do naught but
think until our cousins of the Golden Wood hear well of our tale and that of the
Beorning. Talk of suspicions and who would or would not lay hands to fire one
arrow will just as soon get us to Lorien as walking backwards with our hands
tied and our eyes and ears covered."

Linnuial's eyes narrow at mention of the Gweithir, and he stops in his tracks,
turning to face Randinen fully. "I would trust any member of the Tirith with my
life, including Thandir Mornferedir. Indeed, I would trust your life in his
hands as well. Yet my duty is clear and explicit--I am to protect the Master's
daughter at all costs--at the expense of diplomacy, tact, and yes, even trust in
my men. We are not perfect--we have faced defeat in battle many times before.
Thus, to act as Mornferedir did--to assume the worst and rely not on others, but
on himself, was altogether appropriate in my mind. He acted only with the safety
of the party in mind--that is the quality I look for in our /guard/." A
frustrated sigh then, and Linnuial's eyes again seek the ground, one hand
raising to hopefully give Randinen pause before his response. "... but... I am
fatigued, and my temper holds greater sway over me than my reason. Forgive me,
Hirvaethor, and allow me an moment's rest before we continue this discussion."

"Then you should have spoken as you do now, fair and with good intent." replies
Randinen, as he turns once more to behold Mornferedir, "There was no need to
name Thranduil's folk. Our lore may be rich and elaborate, yet other races are
less informed of their past."

Frowning visibly now Randinen steps back, countenance dark with discomfort.
"Your words ring true, Tiramen, worry not... In benefit to our vigilance I had
ordered a scouting trip... your warning is felt by me also. As I share your
opinion on the watchers of Lothlorien. We must not judge ere this has been
brought to their attention."

Linnuial's words, however, strikes the Arphedor with wonder, "You mistake your
care for the Lady with mistrust, Hirvaethor. Consider your words ere you speak
them, they can be as the sword or bow some are so eager to wield. And with that
you can endanger her still. But have your rest, as I will have mine."

So sits the Olvaristdil, gently and fluid of motion. Her strength may be sapped
by her recent efforts, but she spares not herself as the tensions among the fair
folk remain high. Thus does she renew her efforts, with a new song. This song is
one of peace and caution, aiming to dispell the rising of tempers and to urge
patience. Her eyes close once more as she sings.

Mornferedir nods lightly, "Rest well Hirvaethor, I apologize if I offended you
in any way mellon." he says to Randinen sincerely with a slight smile. He then
gives another nod to Linnuial, "Rest well, mellon."

Linnuial merely nods in response to both Randinen's reproach and Mornferedir's
farewell. "Thank you... Namarie." Eyes still kept low, as if making contact with
another's would prove shameful now, he turns toward the Elentiri. Those of them
close enough to hear the brief exchange of words eye him with bent brows, but as
he approaches, they move to go about their business as before.

As the tension once more seems to dissipate, Ailiell looks between the edhil
cautiously, awaiting another outburst. As none seems forthcoming, she once more
glances along the darkling way before them. Some unsettling thought flickers
over her features and, distractedly, she slips away into the thick of the group,
one corner of her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Tiramen nods once to Randinen and again finds a point of elevation
but not so far from the camp this time. Elensul resting lightly in his hand, he
kneels aside a gnarled bush and seems to make himself its cousin in his stance.
"Peace is so very easily disturbed. But let the song of your spirits speak to
the truth of this and not the shadow of contempt." And with those words he
assumes a counterpoint to the song sung now with his lightened tenor.

The verse has its mark, for merit ripples from Randinen's lips. A
spark of joy ignites, and warmly it engulfs his features. Naught of darkness
remains, as no words suffice to protest against the uttered wisdom of Tiramen.

"This is true, mellon, so let us preserve peace. In our generous nature,
however, we ought share what we harvest of this prolonged peace. I thank you for
your song..." to both Glasiel and Tiramen is offered a curt nod, "... refreshing
to spirits weary with concern. Wisdom must wait another day and no offence was
taken, mellon-Mornferedir."

In echo of the joy in Randinen's face, a smile breaks out on the Olvaristdil's
lips. Her song having effected what she hoped, she lets it fade, gently, and
opens her eyes. She returns the Awardan's nod, but does not rise from her seat
on the ground. She is weary from the day's efforts.
 

Fri Nov 29 2002