Kids Say the Darndest Things

Open Meadow - Crossroads

This is a broad meadow, carpeted with grass. A huge oak stands in the midst of the meadow, a path passing close under its branches. The old oak looks like a pleasant place to pause and rest. The path itself is hard packed earth, clear of stones. Off to the north the meadow merges into fertile fields and pastures, and to there a path branches off from the east-west way. To the south is the House, and southwest is the bridge. In the west a stand of birches grow on the slopes before the cliffs. The greens of summer give way to the flame colours of fall, as leaves turn brown or gold or orange or red. The meadow around the ancient oak is covered with leaves of all colours as the tree prepares for the coming winter. The forests to the north is no longer a mountain of green, now it is a billowing flame of all colours, and the silver birches to the west have become golden clouds resting atop silver posts.

Contents:

Beorning Campsite

Huge Oak

Obvious exits:

North leads to Pasture.

East leads to Open Meadow - Valley Path.

South leads to Front Yard.

West leads to Meadow Path.

You follow the Meadow Path south.

Front Yard

A few trees stand here, just in front of the Last Homely House. An open meadow stretches off to the north and west. The seed heads of many grasses and flowers are visible all about, spreading the next year\'s generation of their kinds. Not far behind the house the trees close in to form a pleasant wood. Leaves of all sorts, from nearby and distant trees, lie on the ground here. The grasses are shorter than further out in the meadow, but many still carry seed heads. Two paths lead away from the house, one southwest and one north. Down the steep bank to the south is the shore of the Bruinen.

Contents:

Arthamon

Mobeorn

Rhifaroth

Arwen

Aeglirhaeron

Raugsaul

Galadhrim Camp Object

Tent

Obvious exits:

North leads to Open Meadow - Crossroads.

Front Porch leads to Front Porch.

Southwest leads to The Valley Shore.

Arthamon draws back at Rhifaroth\'s response and nods. \"You don\'t have to answer if you don\'t want to,\" he whispers, looking at the man with pity. He doesn\'t look at the parchment yet.

Mobeorn grows increasingly amused as the carpenter speaks. \"\" he says at last, waving a hand toward Aeglirhaeron. Then he addresses Arwen. \"\" he winks. \"\" he looks at the carpenter, \"\" He looks at the stick in his hand that he was whittling. \'I was just passing time,\' he shrugs.

Arthamon draws back at Rhifaroth\'s response and nods. \"You don\'t have to answer if you don\'t want to,\" he whispers to himself, looking at the man with pity. He doesn\'t look at the parchment yet. Instead he shakes Rhifaroth gently, not wanting to disturb him but eager for answers nonetheless.

Arwen laughs again, her eyes dancing as merrily as the Beornings when she tells him in all seriousness, \"Indeed you could, but it might scare some of the children if they happen to pass through.\"

Chuckling the elf takes a seat upon one of the steps, lying the flowers carefully beside her as her glance turns to the Beorning as she continues to speak in Westron, the dialect taking on a soft lilt beneath her tongue. \"What are you carving Aeglirhaeron?\"

Arthamon\'s hand upon his shoulder, jostling him gently, makes Rhifaroth blink and turn his head, \"What?\" he asks, voice rough. The man refocuses upon the Ranger and frowns a little. Then he picks up another piece of the loose leaves of parchment paper and lays it light over the one that has already dried. Upon it writes something quickly and tilts the writing board up so that Arthamon may easily see it.

The handwriting is neat. Arthamon is surprised at the styled letters. He scans the note, which reads, \"I apologize if I lost focus. What did you say?\", then repeats his question. \"What did Cordelia do to you Rhifaroth?\" he asks softly, trying to revert his gaze anywhere else...

\"Ah!\" Aeglirhaeron gasps, and if he had been up in a tree, he would\'ve fallen from it. As it is, he sways in surprise, speaking in his native tongue. \"You\'re the first man I\'ve come across that can converse fluidly. So many awkward conversations...\" Then he reddens. \"I\'m sorry you had to hear all that. Picking up this common tongue has been difficult. I find talking to birds easier... why not, in a tree?\"

When Arwen addresses him, he at first tries to hide what he\'s doing, but soon holds it out, turning it slowly for her to look at. So far it looks like a board which has been twisted on its ends so that the corners fold inward. \"It\'s a bowl. Or will be. I\'m trying to go with the shape I bent it into.\"

Arthamon\'s question this time is heard and understood. Rhifaroth turns part way where he is seated and looks at the other man for a moment, then looks down at the writing board and paper underneath his hands. Looks at his own right hand with the missing finger for a long, long few minutes.

Just when Arthamon might think that Rhifaroth has blanked out on him yet again, or won\'t answer the question, the man\'s maimed right hand begins to move again, writing once more in that tight, neat, style learnt in a city far from here.

The hand moves easily, writing out quickly and fluidly, without mishap or hesitation. Once or twice, the tattooed and scarred mans\'s eyes flick up to glance over those who are visible out here, but then he goes back to writing. It seems that Arthamon will need to be patient and wait for the reply, or read over Rhifaroth\'s shoulder.

At the Hiril\'s reply, Mobeorn chuckles. \'Scared one woman, in fact. Blonde haired. Human. ....I was just sitting in the garden, minding my own business, too. Next to that Seeker fellow...\' He shrugs. His words are in Westron, though Arwen addressed him in Sindarin.

A grin is flashed to the carpenter. \"\" He shrugs. \'The Laird taught me. Some of our folk know the elven tongue, too...\' He pauses. \"\"

It takes a while and much of the page, but then Rhifaroth stops and sets the quill aside. He had to rewet it with fresh ink several times. Whatever he patiently wrote out, the man now tilts his writing board up and hands it to Arthamon to read it.

Siv says, \"heheh\"

\"Humans do tend to scare rather easily,\" replies the Heryn in Westron as she idly picks a leaf from the hem of her skirt and twirls it between two elegant fingers, \"And the womenfolk are the worse of the sexes, they have a tendency to scream and cry for barely any reason at all.....\"

\"Bowls are hard to shape!\" Arwen adds switching back to Sindarin easily, \"Carving was never one of my forte\'s the wood never seems to take the shape I want it too.\"

Arthamon reads Rhifaroth\'s note. His eyes widen, the only visible expression of shock. It takes several moments for the words to sink in, and when they do, he shakes his head and hands it back. \"You need not answer any more,\" he says, \"You have given me enough to contemplate.

Rhifaroth accepts the writing board back with the parchment upon it and lays it back over his thighs, sitting cross legged. Looking at the other man carefully, he puts out the maimed hand that holds the quill to get Arthamon\'s attention.

Then, dipping the quill into the inkwell, Rhifaroth writes something more to the same page, lower down it.

The last rays of the sun through the gorge are lost as the night begins.

Wwwwhhiiiizzzz!

An errant arrow zips through the air with a little more wobble than zing and thuds into the tree seemingly centering the conversants. A silence follows its trail momentarily, to be followed by a young man, running with powerful strides, his broad chest moving up and down with each long movement of his legs. He also bounces, like a giselle, and when he notices that he is not alone, the giselle-like strides seem to be enhanced. He continues running towards the tree, but his running slows, and he sounds off with a proud yell for his \"kill\".

Having filled the page, the tattooed man hands the still wet parchment to Arthamon to read, and starts a new page at once to add one last thing quickly.

\"\" the carpenter replies to Arwen, nodding in sympathy. Aeglirhaeron then shakes his head to Mobeorn\'s query, tapping his temple with the hilt of his knife. \"\" He grins. \"\"

At the sound of an arrow, Aeglirhaeron falls behind the tree, peering around it. When no more arrows come, but only a shout, he climbs back onto the bottom branch of the tree.

Arwen\'s eyes narrow suddenly, just who is carelessly shooting arrows around her fathers house into her trees?

Standing quickly Arwen strides across the yard herself, shoulders thrown back and raven-hair dancing behind her. As the young man has slowed the storming elf-maid reaches the tree trunk afore the man and plucks the arrow from the trunk, her grey eyes turning to face the culprit.

Mobeorn seems about to answer both Arwen and the carpenter, but then an arrow thuds into the tree. The man jumps up--takes one look at the arrow, then roars something angrily. \'Breasal!!\' A pause, he switches to Eothrik. \" ARrows? In the presence of the Lord\'s daughter here?!!\"

Wanderer reads Rhifaroth\'s notes, taking in the information. It is several minutes before he replies, and when he does, it is solemnly. \"I do not know why our fellow kinsmen are angry with you. I do not think you will be allowed to return to Archet though, not yet at least. I will be going to Bree shortly, to find knowledge of this Cordelia and to speak with Gray. You should stay here, in my opinion. If this Cordelia is still in Bree, then a return there would be most unpleasant.\"

Watching Arthamon closely, Rhifaroth frowns at the younger man. Then, having set his writing quill down, he holds out his right hand wanting the parchments returned, not kept by the other. As before, the strangely marked Dunadan says nothing aloud, but his gaze for the moment is clear and sharp upon the Arnorian.

Breasal\'s slowing strides turn into a purposeful walk and he beams proudly. \'Quite a \'it, wou\'n\'t ye say?!\' he calls out, to no one and everyone at the same time. He saunters over to Arwen, and bows deeply, bring his right arm beneath his chest, but keeping his face upwards to watch her as he does so. \'Lady,\' he murmurs gently, \'I see ye\'ve found me arrow. Thank ye, Lady, thank ye.\' He smiles a big broad smile at her, while still in the bow and then slowly returns to the upright position. He turns to Mobeorn, not quite acknowledging the anger in his voice, and seemingly unaware of the large man\'s rather aggressive body language, \" By th\' Bear, \'twas jus\' testin\' me skills! \'Tis war upon us! Ne\'r a time to relax!\" He smiles proudly, his world only currently intruded upon by the Quende Lady and Grimbeorn\'s kin.

\'\'tis apparent I\'ve scared ye folk please do accept me apologies!\"  he announces, waving an arm in the air, palm facing outward.

\"Indeed I have,\" hisses Arwen quietly a hard-edge to her voice rarely to be found, \"And I would ask you kindly to put away your bow and stop shooting bits of wood around my home before you hurt someone by accident.\"

The Heryn\'s grey eyes boil thunderously, as she speaks, \"These, folk, are not scared except by your silliness... what if you had hit one of the children that play in the trees never mind the adults sitting beneath them?\"

His papers returned, Rhifaroth neatly tucks them beneath the two unused sheets remaining and secures them to his writing board, writing faced down so it can\'t be seen. As he begins to pack up his inkwell, and clean his writing quill, the Dunadan turns his head to see what the shouting was about. Someone seems to be getting scolded.

Uh-oh. Aeglirhaeron climbs up another couple of branches and climbs around the tree to peer down and the young upstart. Rather than direct confrontation like Arwen or Mobeorn, his approach is more subtle. When arrows don\'t appear to be spontaneously growing out of the figure\'s skin, he pops his head under the foliage and calls down in Westron, \"No arrow.\"

\"Lady, ye needn\'t fear,\" Breasal demures, still smiling, \"\'tis a Woodman, am I! Me own Captain wot was me own first teacher.\" The young (very young) man says this as though this should excuse anything, and, realistically, he hadn\'t anything to be apologetic for, save their responses. He devests himself of the long bow and leans it against the tree, deftly continuing the action with his quiver of arrows. \"But I won\' continue me practice, at yer request, Milady,\" again with the deep bow. He puts his hands to hips, standing akimbo, and assumes an Adonis-like pose. He seems completely oblivious to insult or anger directed at him.

\"No arrow, ye say?\" he quips back to the figure in the tree. \"Ye sit in a tree, like a woodland creature, an\' offer me advice? \'Tis a warrior to \'hom ye speak!\" Breasal\'s voice grows deep as he speaks of himself as a warrior, the pitch rendering an image of a seasoned war veteran claiming his due.

Tinnuestel enters from the House, a slight smile tracing its way along his lips. He looks up and sees all those gathered. He walks out to the gathering, and stands next to Arwen, to whom he offers a polite bow. He continues to smile slightly, but says nothing.

Aeglirhaeron listens intently, with slight nodding, and then says in a light accent and practiced phrasing, \"Hello Arier-teh-hom. I am Aeglirhaeron. Do you like trees?\" Even as he says it, he turns his sternness into an appeasing shrug, and he drops out of the tree a second time. \"I like trees. Arrow and tree, no.\"

Fury builds within the sweet tempered Heryn\'s eyes as the man adds wind to the tempest already brewing there.

\"Any warrior knows that you do not shoot near allies,\" she seethes, \"Clearly CHILD, you have not been properly taught in the safety of this weapon for no true warrior that I have met has ever treated his bow as a toy!\"

Incensed Elrond\'s daughter snatches up both bow and quiver from where they lean against the tree, the fletch of arrows slung over her shoulder. \"This, MY home, is a place where people turn for safety - not to have some errant and ignorant boy shoot arrows past their ears! My request, nae my COMMAND whilst you are in the shelter of this Valley. Your weapon will be returned to you upon your departure after I have spoken to your elders.\"

Smoke pours from Mt. Doom as the Dark One\'s evil sorcery lags the game.

The smoke clears as good triumphs and the database saves.

His things now gathered up and placed back into his writing case, Rhifaroth continues to sit on the edge of the porch. With his hands laying loose to dangle out just past his knees, the man seems content to watch the goings on in the yard. He is alone, no one bothering him, no one shepherding him.

A few minutes pass as the others deal with the errant, foolish young archer, then the tattooed man quietly gets to his feet and shoulders his writing kit.

A quiet glance back towards Hir Elrond\'s house, then Rhifaroth begins to walk away from it.

Tinnuestel arches his eyebrows at Arwen\'s actions. He takes a step back, the smile fading from his face. He stands to the side, his hands clasped behind his back.

Breasal is stunned, and his agape jaw is the most obvious indicator. \"Ye kinna take me bow!\" he yells, his voice suddenly raising in pitch, evidencing his true age, experience, and confidence. The strong, intentionally deep hum he had possessed before gives way and the teenager\'s face permeates astonishment in droves. He juts his lower jaw out, then brings it back in and begins tightening his muscles. He leans back, straightening himself and attempting to regain his composure. \"Ye kinna do tha\'. I was e\'n generous enough ta lay me bow down.\" A muscle twitches in his lower cheek and a blood vessel begins throbbing in his forehead, as his face begins to take on a reddish-hue. His composure bounces back and forth between anger and humiliation at being called a child, and the issuer of such a comment having evidence of such. \"Ye elves be all alike! Afraid o\' war! Ye don\' ge\' involved fer anyone else, hidin\' in yer woods an\' great \'ouses, whilst the rest of us suffer... Me own folk were murdered! Yet ye elves sit by, content t\' watch us!\" Breasal starts out loud, and angry, but it seems that the boy may actually have some sense of intelligence, and his voice lowers, almost to an inward mutter by the end of his accusal, as he realizes his words may have a far bigger effect, than just a mere spouting of a teenager\'s angst.

Aeglirhaeron\'s appeasement ends when the young man starts cowling and crying like a child. Seeing that Arwen is masterfully in charge of the situation, he shakes his head slightly at the young man, puts his finger to his mouth, and says as he turns and walks off. \"\"

\"Be glad I have not snapped your bow and turned you from this valley already, for you speak of things you know nothing about,\" speaks the Lady of the House as she shifts the quiver upon her shoulder.

\"It is only my love of your folk, both those I know now and those I knew many hundreds of years ago that has stayed me from doing so.\"

\"You dishonnour them with rash actions and words.\"

Tinnuestel obviously bristles at the young man\'s comments. \"Your words,\" He says, speaking for the first time and choosing his words carefully. \"They lend nothing to your defense. My only hope is that you realize the depth of your mistake, or all our sakes.\" He looks from the man back to Arwen. \"My apologise, it is not my place to comment here.\"

Mobeorn had gone to the Beorning camp to figure out who fired the arrow, and now he comes storming back--crossing the distance from the meadow to the tree where the arrow hit in long strides. \"FOOL!\" he roars at the teenager, one hand reaching to grab the kid\'s ear if he can. \"Absolute fool! Do you /want/ to get yourself killed? I\'ll set you up on the High Pass alone with only your damn fool brain to keep you alive next time!! Do you -want- to kill people here? Injure our allies? Insult them--insult our hosts?! Do you? Do you?\" The hair on Mobeorn\'s arms stand on end and he demands an answer--but for those who recognize such, there isn\'t that haziness of the light around him as if he is about to transform into a bear. He is in control--dealing with an errant cub.

From afar, Arwen grins, \"Not at all! Its been a while since i got to princess-stomp.\" )

You paged Arwen with \'Woohoo!!! And you go, girl! And thanks )\'.

Arwen pages: And its made for a fun scene :)

You paged Arwen with \'I hope so!!\'.

Walking past them, Rhifaroth turns his head at all this shouting. He has probably been among the quietest of guests to ever stay in this Valley. It\'s certainly not the peaceful, soothing place it usually is, today.

Not interested in interrupting, nor standing around to watch, the scarred Dunadan looks those who are gathered here over, then continues on his way. Heading north and vering a little east to skirt the tents just north of here.

The man says nothing, has no escort, is alone. Assuming no one pays him any attention, Rhifaroth is gone in a few minutes...

At the intervention of Mobeorn Arwen takes a backwards step, albiet still clasping the bow tightly in her hands.

Noticing the bristling of her kindred she smiles softly and shakes her head, \"Worry not mellon, this is simply rash words born of misunderstanding you have not spoken at all out of place - indeed, my thanks for coming to my side.\"

\"Know nothin\', ye say, Lady?!\" Breasal barks back, anger relit in his heart. \"Love of me folk, ye say?!\" he continues. He begins to sputter, at a loss for words, his emotions and not fully post-pubescent hormones raging in concert. His face goes pale white at the mention of dishonour and he reaches his hands out and begins clenching and unclenching them, as though physically warring with himself, which is likely the case.

\"I offered ye an apology! Ye took me bow then called me a \'child\'! I am a warrior! I killed many an orc merely crossin\' o\'re t\' \'ere! An\' where were yer folk, then!\" He begins to say. He stutters the words out, and is obviously pulling at strings in an area he doesn\'t know much about.

Lady Arwen\'s comments certainly stirred his inner child, but it isn\'t until Mobeorn, himself, appears, that Breasal begins to wonder if this wasn\'t such a good idea, which his face explains in the sudden terrified expression. \"I..! I..!! Uh!\" The boy begins puffing his chest out, but not in his normal arrogant manner. Moreso in an attempt to catch his breath a normal reaction when one is suddenly feeling the grains of life slipping through his hands. \"I wudn\'t tryin\' ta nuthin\'!\" he finally says, his accent getting stronger and stronger, as he very quickly loses his grasp on false confidence. \"She asked me ta cease, an\' so I done! I laid me own bow against th\' tree an\' she took it!!\" he cries, almost attempting to place the blame for the circumstance on the daughter of Elrond, herself. He huffs and huffs, and huffs, his breathing getting faster and faster as his brain rapidly attempts to grip onto some sense of control uselessly searching for an answer to give that would relieve the sudden pressue of Mobeorn\'s inquisition. His hands are wildly swinging around his waist, a physical representation of his brain\'s wild ventures. He finally grabs onto something, \"If me Cap\'n were \'ere, she\'d defend me!\" he retorts, snottily.

Tinnuestel nods to Arwen, and soft smile returning to his face. \"Thank you, m\'lady,\" He says to her, then turns back to the young man. \"I would advise you to think of your words before you speak.\" He speaks quietly and calmly.

From Front Porch, Rochwen has connected.

The beijabar takes a deep breath, but it\'s not much of a struggle for him to keep his temper under control. \"Your pardon,\" he addresses Arwen. \"But what tasks are children set to do in the Valley as punishment?\" He puts his hand on the teen\'s shoulder, but it\'s to grab hold of the lad, not comfort or support him. \"FOr this one is clearly a child who doesn\'t deserve the priviledge and responsibility of a weapon.\"

Then again, he turns angrily on the teenager. \"If you wanted to practice your shooting, there\'s an area for target practice here. If you wanted to boast of your very short-lived prowess against the orcs--with the help of a dozen experienced men who have seen their friends fall in grizzly deaths on the pass--then you could run your mouth off day and night. But you are not--NOT--ever again to wield a bow and arrow or any other weapon again until I say so. Or by the Bear, you\'ll be _wishing_ I\'d left you on the High Pass to rot. Do you understand me?\"

\"And...\" Mobeorn continues, \"you ought to be thanking the Great Bear that your Captain isn\'t here because I think instead of a talking to--and a stint scrubbing the latrines in this valley--you\'d be getting a lashing on the buttocks as punsihment for the child you are.\"

\"This is my fathers house,\" smiles Arwen softly, her good-humour returning now that the inadvent danger to those in her care has passed, \"There are no true punishements here, for it is not our way or doing.\"

Thoughtfully the Hiril cants her head and regards the young man, her index finger tapping against the wood of the bow.

\"But we do offer gifts and our little-warriors is this if he choses to accept it. In the Library upstairs are many books that have been collected over the years, possibly written by his own ancestors - perhaps he should read one or two of those and our past... A past that has engraved a deep friendship between the elves of the Valley and the children of the Valley.\"

\"Knowledge is my gift to you young one, and when you know better perhaps we can talk again.\"

The pressure of the hand on his shoulder very slowly causes the boy to lean towards the Beijabar. A little nostril discharge gets breathed out as he heavily inhales and exhales through his nose, his mouth busy grinding his jaws together. He says nothing, but stares ahead as he is berated by a Beijabar and the daughter of Elrond. Certainly not a position that anyone wants to be in, let alone him. His pride is injured, and he has no idea what else to say.

\"I k... d..\" he whispers, so softly it can almost not be heard at all, and really only consonants resound. The words are growled out of his mouth, fury blazing in his young eyes. He drops the shoulder upon which the large hand of Mobeorn is rest, hoping that will release the hold, and he pulls back.

With a laugh, Mobeorn releases his hand on the lad\'s shoulder--and grabs his upper arm instead. \"You _will_ apologize to the Lady Arwen. Here. Now. Properly. Sincerely.\" The beijabar\'s grip is not kind. \"And then you\'ll go to their library and have books read to you until we are ready to leave. If I so much as hear a peep of protest out of you or see you doing anything other than reading, I\'ll make sure the Captain hears of this.\"

Tinnuestel stays silent, listening to the others.

Arwen nods quite happy at this arrangement.

\"When you have gained some sense and become a true warrior, you may have this back,\" she intones gravely with a controlled flourish of the bow, \"But until then it seems you have some learning to do.\"

\"Thank you Mobeorn,\" she adds with a warm smile before she turns and makes her way across the yard and into the house, the flowers brought with her lying forgotten on the ground beneath the tree.

Breasal emits a quiet, \"Aye\" and then huffs in a spin. He marches off and then takes off in a run, his figure dissapearing into the encampment without a further word.

Tinnuestel watches the humans leave right after Arwen does. He walks over to the discarded flowers and begins gathering them together, carefully admiring each one.