Marendin and Gillhach on Cerim Amroth

Cerin Amroth
You are standing by a great mound on which grows two rings of trees. The trees of the outer ring are leafless with a bark of snowy white; beautiful in their shapely nakedness. Those of the inner ring are golden Mallorns. In the center of the mound stands the tallest Mallorn of all, and high up in its boughs rests a wide flet. There of old was the dwelling of Amroth, Prince of Lorien and lover of Nimrodel. He departed over the sea long ago, yet you can feel his spirit around you here, lingering still...

A new day dawns here, on the heart of Laurelindorenan as it was of old: The heart of elvendom in middle earth; the high place, where Amroth dwelt, and watched over the world beyond. Blossoms of pale Niphredil and fiery Elanor spring, in abundance, from the verdant grass of the hillock, Cerin Amroth; about which, the light of the newly-risen sun is haloed, casting it's light o'er the endless, serried ranks of the ancient mallyrn.Upon the dew-decked grass, there sits a maid, all cloaked and cowled. And in a calm repose, unmoving in her reverie.

Along the southwest fringe of the forest, just where it breaks, marking the first ring of trees, a slim figure garbed in white moves among the trees, searching for something. He moves near-silently, at least to mortal ears, but makes adequate racket for elven senses to be alerted, as he is making no attempt at stealth. Indeed, he is clearly unaware of making the racket, nor is he aware that someone is meditating nearby.
Presently, he stoops and can be heard chuckling among the undergrowth. His voice, soft and musical, wafts across to you, "ahh...deerberry! Long have I sought you, you furtive herb you.."

Stirring from her muse, as one might from sleep; limbs long rested, the maid doth stretch. Raking a hand through the coppery wealth of her hair 'ere, yawning, her lidded, emerald eyes are opened. Blinking once, twice, she stands and turns to herald the dawn, as if the intrusion that woke her were naught, or else forgotten.

Marendin smiles as he stashes the precious herb and moves further northward, along the marge of the clearing, poking here and there, stooping again and again coming up with more of the herb. His eyes scan here and there in the woody areas, and as he moves further, a cluster of yellow blossoms catches his eye and he steps out into the clearing. The sudden flash of copper glinting in the sun distracts him and he looks over, surprised.
From where he stands, the rising sun is directly behind him, so the elleth faces him. He blinks and comes to a halt, watching her begin what seems to be some kind of morning ritual. He says nothing, however.

Drinking deep of the morning air; then stooping o'er the pile 'side which she was laid, the maid draws out a waterskin. At once uncorked, she partakes of a lengthy drink before re-stopping the container, and throwing it, sloshing in wet protest to the ground. Still, seemingly, the woman's yet to espy that other near; or else cares not, entirely unconcerned; unafraid at least, since her only arms are tangled deep beneath the heap of her gear.
Of a sudden, she sits once more, and with legs crossed; facing towards the sun. With eyes closed tight, and her bosom heaving with a hearty sigh; underbreath, near inaudible, even to elven ears, she mutters some ritualistic utterance unto the earth.

Marendin watches all this activity silently, uncomprehendingly. He reaches out with his fea, feeling in some corner of his mind that there is discontent here and when the girl re-seats herself, gathers his courage, marked by an unconscious rolling up of his sleeves and walks over toward her. Gauging his moment carefully, he cautiously greets her. "Mae govannen, elleth. How fare you this day...is not Anar in grand glory?"

With it's lids cracked open to a narrow line, one eye: the orb flashing emerald in the light, lends towards a scrutiny of the approaching healer. Given a moments pause, the elleth ceases in her mumbling, opening the other eye to join in it's fellows silent regard of the figure whose shadow has blocked out the dawn. She blinks, but once, her starry eyes, attempting to find fault in the other's words mayhap, "Forsooth," She says at the last, in a dangerously merry tone, "A splendid dawn," For ought else, she motions to the grass, "Sit, pray." As you do, she mumbles a sentance or two (the words of which you cannot catch); uncrosses her legs, and shifts round in her place, with back to the sun-haloed hill top. She takes a moment, "Marendin, no?" She draws the name from shallow memory, "I recall the name..."

Marendin nods and takes a seat a few feet from the elleth, weighing her response carefully. When she bespeaks his name, he blinks, gulps and nods. "Aye, I am Marendin, lady." As she adjusts her position, he looks off, straining his memory for any snatch of information that will clue him in to who she might be. Finally, the hunter's pack and the copper hair merge to a name and he ventures, "And you are..ahh..Gillhach? I have but heard your name, lady. Being lately come into Caras Galadon, one hears names, but not necessarily sees the face. Do I intrude on your seclusion here?" He makes to get back to his feet, should she say he does.

Gillhach waves a hand, quite dismissively. "Sit, sit. Do not fret," Her lips curl to something of a sympathetic smile, "We've met before, if only in passing; I recall. Some days ago, though I forget the number." Idly, she wets her lips, "Gillhach, yes. 'tis a name I have..."

Marendin freezes as she dismisses his concern and settles himself on the low, fragrant grass, unstrapping his pouches and arranging them as she continues. "A name? you have many, my lady? I will call you what you will, if that be not your favorite. Perhaps your father-name suits you better?"

With a smile, thin, so as to be almost imperceptible on her rosy lips; the maid answers: "I use not my father-name. Only the one my mother gave... or else epesse that I take. I understand my sister is the same..." And those lips are pursed, "Call me Gillhach, only. If you would."

Marendin nods, "Tis not uncommon, that opinion, lady. I must say I much prefer my father-name for myself, but only because my mother-name is so..unwieldy. It translates nicely, but does not fall well from the tongue." He works with his pouches as he chats, preparing a flat space and pouring out the fresh herbs into it, idly shredding and grinding them. Flicking his fingers to shake the herb-dust, he points at her pack. "Your hunt has been successful?"

A shrug, "Successful enough," Gillhach's tone is wry, doubtless conversation is not the norm for her. "I've not gone hungry," She explains, "And there's enough to last me."