Bel 3 - Tuesday, November 20, 2001, 11:35 AM
--------------------------------------------
Along the West Bank of Narog River
You see the River Ringwil to the north flowing from the west and tumbling down
violently into the deep gorge joining with the mighty Narog River. The Narog
River to the east rushes on southwards. You are careful not to stray from the
path you are on lest you tumble headlong into the gorge like the River Ringwil.
There does not seem to be any way to get to the other side of the rushing river.
To the west, you see the wooded dense highlands of Taur-en-Faroth. The forest
region looks rather imposing from where you are...


The pleasant midday autumn sun shines down through the trees as Morthalion comes
towards Nargothrond from the Taur-en-Faroth, a string of geese over his shoulder
and his quiver bristling with arrows. The whole effect would be more impressive,
perhaps, if those arrows were not every describable hue of the rainbow - half of
the fletches are a sensible red, black and silver, but the rest range from
spotted purple to the eye-watering tricolour of purple, red and pink.

Beaming to outshine the sun and clutching her bow proudly, the child Lothluin
trots alongside the archer, peering every so often to peer at the geese he holds
and reminding him that, "That one's -mine.- I shot it! Me! Such a -nice- arrow
too, with blue stripes over the silver, and purple spots. It must be lucky.
We'll have to make more like that, don't you think?"

Morthalion has already distinguished The Goose from its lesser fellows by
dabbing a spot of blue pigment on its head, although the queen could probably
identify it by its colour, shape and middle name from fifty paces by now. "We
shall, and we shall have to get you a quiver to carry them," the Feanorian
replies, casting a wary glance back towards the colourful array at his shoulder
as if picturing the expression of anyone who might see it. "As soon as
possible," he adds. "But you are shooting well, my queen, with lucky shafts or
without. I think you will make a fine archer yet." This is perhaps the twentieth
or thirtieth time he has said it, since it serves as punctuation every time
Lothluin reminds him whose The Goose is.

And whom to their wondering eyes should appear, but Elsabet (I quiver with
fear)!

The healer is just a little ways up the river from the hunting pair, crouching
near the base of the tree. A satchel is slung over her shoulder, and she seems
engrossed in pulling out from the ground a few leafy plants that cluster at the
base of the tree. Her dark hair is bound back into a simple braid, and her blue
dress is slightly dirty at the hem from her labors. She seems thoroughly
engrossed in the task, and does not notice the others approaching, despite
Lothluin's eager babblings.

Giving Morthalion a break (after beaming proudly at him once more, and agreeing
- "I know."), Lothluin dashes towards the healer, crying, "Coiannor! Look, look,
I shot a goose! With my very own bow, and my very own arrow, and it's my very
own goose! Do you want to see? What are you doing? Are they herbs? Can you eat
them? Can you...gar..garland my goose with them, when it's been cooked? Do you
think maybe Nimriel will show me how to cook it? I shot it. All by myself!"

As Lothluin streaks away to Elsabet, excitedly shrilling about her very own
efforts with her very own equipment, Morthalion glances towards the treetops and
briefly grits his teeth. Is Nargothrond really so small that it is -entirely-
impossible to stay out of certain persons' way? Predicably enough the archer
does not call out a greeting, and stands where Lothluin left him, trying to hide
the exasperated look on his face.

Elsabet glances up at Lothluin with a startled look, staring blankly for a few
seconds before recognition sets in. Then she laughs brightly, automatically
wrapping an arm around the child, since she's already down at Lothluin's level.
"I think Nimriel would love to help you cook the goose, and they're herbs for
healing, but I could also find some that will taste good for you. But where..."
The healer trails off and glances around, her eyes at last landing on
Morthalion. "Ah," she says dryly. "There's your goose."

Lothluin nods eagerly, completely missing the insult. "Morthaaaaalion! Come over
here and show the coiannor my goose!" she beckons. Noisily, of course, twirling
away from Elsabet and bouncing about on the balls of her feet as she awaits the
arrival of her trophy.

In the army, one learns to do unpleasant things without flinching, so Morthalion
dips his head expressionlessly at the queen's imperious command and approaches
both royalty and the coiannor, even giving a cool nod to Elsabet as he comes to
a stop. "Lothluin's goose is marked in blue," he begins, then glances at
Lothluin's proud face and realises that this occasion calls for a full and
thorough scrutiny of the prize. Loosening the loop around The Goose's long neck,
he takes it from the string and holds it in his hands for the coiannor's
appraisal.

Sighing softly, Elsabet rises and dusts off her skirts absently, generally
striving to make herself slightly more presentable than she usually is while
working. "Mae govannen, archer," she says with a cool nod to the Feanorian as he
approaches. She casts a wry glance to Lothluin before stepping forward to
examine the goose, tilting her head this way and that as she makes an inspection
so thorough even the most fastidious of queens would be satisfied. "It is
marvelous," she decides firmly, turning to address Lothluin. "A good catch,
Lothluin, I'm very proud of your skill."

Lothluin grins at Elsabet, the picture of delight and pride. "When it's cooked
and ready, will you both -please- come and eat it with me? And you can bring
your adas, too. I like them. And they won't eat me, instead of the goose."
Emerald gaze riveted once more to her goose, she sighs happily. "It really -is-
a marvelous goose, isn't it?"

"It is truly a prince among geese," replies Morthalion dryly, setting The Goose
back on the string with its subjects. "Unfortunately, Lothluin, even when it
comes to goose princes, I care little for eating them. The feathers furnish my
fletch for me, and the rest go to the kitchens - though in this case the
feathers will fletch -your- shafts, of course. But as to the meal, I must
decline." He looks down to adjust the buckle of his baldric at the last, firmly
determined not to fall prey to the queen's deadly Puppy Look. "My father would
be glad to attend, though, I expect."

Appearing not long after Elsabet's arrival, Curundil comes into view, his own
bow in hand and quiver on his back. "I believe I heard someone calling about a
goose they'd shot?" he asks with a smile, seeking out Lothluin with his gaze,
though he gives Morthalion a brief nod.

"Yes!" Lothluin squeals, sparing Morthalion the Puppy Look of DOOM for a moment
to rush at Curundil and attempt to drag him to Morthalion so he might examine
and laud her goose. "Isn't it -wonderful?- I shot it all by myself! Are you
going to come with Elsabet, and her ada, and Morthalion, and his ada, and eat it
with me? And can your nana help me and my nana cook it? And your ada can come
and eat it too..."

Morthalion looks up coldly from his baldric-buckle at Curundil's voice, his grey
eyes turning dark, and his mouth curves in an entirely insincere smile. "Mae
govannen, Aran's Squire," he greets. "I suppose you shall come, provided you do
not wander off again on some fool impulse." The archer pauses then for a moment,
noticing that Lothluin has unblinkingly included him in the guest list even
after his refusal. "Lothluin ..."

Laughing as Lothluin drags him along, Curundil says agreeably, "I'm sure she'd
be happy to help you and your nana cook it. I'll let her know who's coming as
well. It looks like a very fine goose, Lothluin. You're getting good with that
bow." Tucking his bow on his shoulder, he bends to give the goose a 'proper
inspection'.

Having been startled speechless by Lothluin's determined invitation, Elsabet at
last comes to herself again and smiles at her cousin. "Mae govannen, Curundil,"
she says, shooting Morthalion a brief, dark look. "Lothluin, Morthalion doesn't
want to come," she cuts in smoothly after the archer trails off. "He hates
having to eat good food in good company, it's like torture to him."

Beaming at Curundil, Lothluin merely brushes Elsa's cutting statement aside with
a wave of her hand and a giggle. "Don't be -ridiculous.- He's coming. Unless
he's shy." Tilting her head backwards to look questioningly at Morthalion (as,
with all her bouncing, she's ended up with her back to the Goose, amazingly
enough), curls creating a black waterfall, she quips anxiously, "-Are- you shy,
Archer-Teacher-Mellon?" Look, his title has changed -again.-

"You would certainly be welcome," adds Curundil earnestly to Morthalion, "And it
is, after all, Lothluin's right to invite anyone she likes to share in her
triumph. I remember how pleased I was the first time I brought dinner home
myself. It meant a lot to share it with those I cared about."

"I am not shy, Lothluin," replies Morthalion flatly, his tone turning sharp at
Curundil's latter remark (nettled?). "And I am not coming. You will have a very
hard time of it making the one goose feed over a half-dozen guests as the matter
stands, much less another. In fact I rather think you would need to shoot
another two geese if you expected your entire dinner party to dine upon them."
The mention of shooting calls something to mind suddenly, and the archer moves
the baldric across his shoulder to lower his quiver at his back, hoping to make
the pretty rainbow fletches at least a -little- less noticeable.

The archer's movement does nothing more but draw Elsabet's attention to the
quiver, and she walks around his back to observe them more closely, even being
so demonically brazen as to reach forward and try to pull one of the prettier
specimens out. "Of course Morthalion isn't shy, he just doesn't like any of us,"
the healer remarks to Lothluin as she does so. "But these are such pretty
arrows! I see you've been helping Morthalion paint them -- or did you do these
all by yourself, archer?"

"They are Lothluin's," replies Morthalion sharply, stepping back a curt pace to
snatch the vivid fletches out of reach of the coiannor's reaching fingers (and
also, incidentally, evading the subject of exactly who made the lovely
fletches).

"Not if the goose was not the only dish. It'll suffice," says Curundil with a
calculating air as he eyes the goose in question. Glancing up at Elsabet's
motion, he agrees, saying, "Those are very pretty, actually."

"Are they?" Elsabet says, countering the archer's movement with a step towards
him and trying to reach once more towards the quiver. "Well, then, I'll ask her.
Lothluin, can I see one?"

"Of course he likes us," Lothluin disagrees flippantly, following Elsabet at a
blithe little skip. "Yep, those're mine. Morthalion helped me make some of them,
though. Yes, you can. You can't have one, though, because we have to go back
now, and shoot more geese for the dinner." Said very matter-of-factly, she
attempts to grab the archer's hand and drag him back from whence they came.
Elsabet sighs and backs off as Lothluin decrees that she cannot have an arrow
now, placing her hands behind her back demurely. "May Curundil and I come along
and watch, Lothluin?" she asks politely, referring to the real authority and not
so much as bothering to glance at her escort.

"More geese?" Morthalion looks down, nonplussed, as the queen seizes his hand
and determinedly tries to march north with it, then sighs as he realises that
she took his remark about not enough food exactly as he said it. "No, not now,
Lothluin. You may have some of these geese - without the feathers - if you want
more. How is it that you -" - feel so determined to have me at your house? he
thinks, but says - "will fit so many people in the one house at the one table,
child?"

"Alas, I can't stay, I have to bring some of my own birds back to the caves and
clean them before evening," replies Curundil regretfully, "The Aran will be
expecting me by then. But I wish you a good hunt, and I'll let my mother know
about the dinner." With that, and a brief smile, he waves and heads back into
the woods.

Lothluin nods to Elsabet, waving and calling a cheerful 'Namarie!' after her
Very-Royal-Personal-Knight, and then looks up at Morthalion questioningly. "Why
not now? And I want them to be -my- geese. It's -my- picnic after all. Now let's
go." Onward!

No arguing with that, of course. Morthalion sighs, carefully extricates his hand
and says, "All right. We shall go back to the ford, although I do not think I
can fit any more birds on the string. You will have to carry them, if you bring
them down." He glances dourly back at Elsabet for a moment, then turns away
again and sets off for their previous shooting-ground. "Come along, then."

"Namarie, Curundil," Elsabet calls after her cousin, before shaking her head at
Lothluin. "I've never seen Lothluin's home, I don't know whether it's large
enough or not," she remarks absently to Morthalion as she follows the pair
along. "But Nimriel entertains often, and there would be quite enough room for a
celebration as large as Lothluin has thus far demanded..."

"Oh, yes," the young, self-proclaimed queen fairly sings. "Or we could have a
picnic. But I think I'd like Taurangol's house better." she muses, skipping in
the general direction of the ford. "Coiannor, you can help me carry the geese,
if you like..."

Morthalion glances back irritably over his shoulder again as they pass through
the forest, following the river to the ford where the geese mill about the
water. Elsabet has just helpfully dissolved another excuse. "Yes, and Lothluin's
arrows," he says sourly, plucking out six of the more colourful shafts and
holding them out for Elsabet to take. "Pass her one when she needs to load her
bow. And expect a high attrition rate," the archer adds. Of the forty or so
colourful arrows that began this journey, only twenty have survived, after all.

"Alright," Elsabet agrees with a sigh to both requests, taking the six arrows
that Morthalion holds out. "If I had my bow with me," she then adds
thoughtfully. "I might join in. It's been a while since I tried my hand at it,
though, perhaps I should have Rilluin start teaching me again..."

"You? You an archer?" Morthalion turns and looks directly at the coiannor,
particularly at her arms. Then he smiles coldly. "Rilluin shall have his work
ahead of him, none to doubt."

"I bet the coiannor is a wonderful archer, too. What's attrition mean,
Morthalion?" Lothluin asks, cheerful, chipper, and utterly devious. "How is
Rilluin, Elsabet? Is Rilluin better at archery than Morthalion?" Blasphemous!
"He shall not!" Elsabet replies, bristling almost visibly. "I am an apt enough
student, and if you need another test of the strength of my arms, Morthalion, I
shall be pleased to slap you again." The healer's eyes spark dangerously, but
she takes a moment to calm herself back down before turning to Lothluin.
"Rilluin's a /much/ better archer than Morthalion," she says firmly. "Morthalion
should consider taking lessons from him as well, perhaps."

"Attrition is loss, Lothluin, more or -" Morthalion breaks off in
mid-vocabularising at Elsabet's remark and gives a sharp, scornful laugh. "Is he
indeed? Should I indeed? Well, perhaps he has had more time to shoot at
hay-stuffed targets than I, but I should not make such sweeping comments in your
place. Your Rilluin looks as soft as he speaks."

"He is an excellent archer, as well as swordsman," Elsabet replies firmly to
Morthalion, eyes sparking. "Which is far more than I can say for /you/. He has
fought often, and valiantly! And he is not soft." The healer pauses, and frowns
slightly, before continuing with renewed vehemence. "His kindness and patience
do not make him weak. I'm sure you think that being mean and rude makes you
strong, but you are manifestly incorrect."

Lothluin halts mid-skip, turning to look at the adults severely. "I think," she
begins, once more taking on the tone her mother is fond of whenever Lothluin and
Ellorien take to quibbling, "That if there isn't
a...a...whatchamacallit...attitude adjustment presently, then we're just going
to have to...go back. Yes. And no dessert!" The last, most heinous threat is
punctuated by a stamp of her small foot.

"Fought often, and valiantly!" Morthalion mocks. "He keeps the number of
ferocious deer in the taur well down, I have no doubt of it -" At this point,
however, Lothluin's dreadful threat throws itself squarely amidst the
conversation, and although it is perhaps more the sight of the fearsome,
stamping foot than the thought of no sweetcakes that checks Morthalion, he is
checked all the same, and subsides with a crooked smirk at Elsabet. "Have you
taken mark of a goose yet, Lothluin?" he asks in an even voice. "You cannot
shoot one without choosing it first."

Elsabet looks as though she'd like to reply contemptuously, but knows better
than to provoke Lothluin's wrath again. She simply stalks away from Morthalion
and off to the side, tossing her braid over her shoulder and folding her arms
together across her chest, with an almost sullen air. She does not speak, but
awaits Lothluin's choice of prey impatiently.

Lothluin lifts her chin, narrowing her eyes at Morthalion. "I don't think I
will. I want you to shoot one first. And then I want you to lend your bow to the
coiannor, and let her have a turn. And if you -don't-..." She allows the word to
hover menacingly in the air for a moment before continuing her ultimatum, "Then
you won't have any dessert for a week. And you'll have to attend the Blue Roses
ball. As a couple."

"/And/ I'll explain everything to Rilluin, and your adas, so no if's, and's, or
but's about it!" the child tacks on, rather forcefully, before selecting an
arrow and fitting it to her bow, waiting for the adults to make their move.

"She does not touch this bow." Morthalion's voice turns completely glacial in an
instant as his gloved hand tightens on the white bow. "That is final, Lothluin.
Lend her your horse-bow if she would shoot, but she does not touch this bow. And
I have shot enough today."

The archer sits down with finality and looks out towards the ford, keeping his
attention pinned there on the milling, unsuspecting geese.