Kathalis and Gillhach at the Naith

Naith of Lorien
You stand riverside, in Dwimordene, amidst the grey bowls of the mallyrn and the conceiling underbrush on the eastern banks of the river Celebrant. It is here in these golden woods where the rolling foothills of the Misties come to an end and in the Elven realm of Lothlorien, often called Dwimordene or Dreamland by men, begins. It's Winter, and the mallyrn's golden leaves fill thier boughs as they sleep the winter away. Presently, the eastern sky is ablaze with deep orange and golden yellow waves as a new day begins over the Wood.

As day dawns on fair lothlorien on the egladil of dwimordene. So the eastern sky is lit, blazing gold by the sun, which rises ever higher o'er the endless, serried ranks of the mallyrn. Down from the north there comes a figure, stealthily, silently. And hid beneath the eaves of the trees that line the spearhead of the naith, down to the union of the two rivers.

A silent figure stands on a lonely watch at the banks of the river, his from siloetted by the rising sun, his stance is relaxed though as if toughtfully watching the sun raise...

Only with eyes both bright and piercing might want to hope to espy this figure, creeping through 'twixt the trees. With all the skill of a thief, it steals through the twilight; with naery a sound to betray it's passing, nor a mark left 'pon the ground.
From time to time it stops, then kneeling; momentarily, it looks to the ground, then about. Regarding the marks upon the trees, there upon the forest floor; then onwards, the figure is bound for the river.

The silent figure makes no move as it he has heard your approach as he continues his vigil across the river, his stance still relaxed..

Onwards still, and down to the bank of the river goes the figure. Revealed now, out beyond the fringe of the wood. It moves still stealthily; clad in grey. Girt for travel, with a bow about it's shoulder. Mud clinging to it's heavy boots, the figure heads down the bank to the swirling, tumultuous waters. Then, kneeling once more, it seems to regard the signs written there: fresh tracks preserved in the wet ground.