Open Meadow - Crossroads
Dimly around you you can make out forest to the north, the bulk of the House to the south, and cliffs rising up to the west. In the center of the meadow is a large tree. The colours of the meadow are all washed into the deep indigos and blacks of night. Contents:
Sea_Elf
Haldir
Halbarad
Gilaearon
Red_Fox
Ancient_Mariner
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.

Troll
The thing's flesh is a brownish-grey -- the color of earth and stone. Its hide is studded with rocks and stone and pebbles.

It is abnormally tall -- taller than the height of two men -- and broad of shoulder and body. Its legs are massive things, and covered in a wide pair of dirty, grubby trousers, held up by a rope of a belt.

Its shoulders balloon out from its body, its arms are thick as tree branches, and its hands are over-large.

On its back, it bears a stripped tree-branch -- a club.

And its face...great horror of horrors, it is a mask, big and round and fiercely ugly.

Light in the darkness - this is going to be found at the ancient oak tree in the meadows of Imladris. A multitude of small lights have been placed into the tree's twigs and branches and torches flank a number of tents where the scent of food mingles with the aroma of flowers. Yes, flowers in wintertime, this is another contradiction that can be experienced at tonight's event in the Valley of Elrond. Many Eldar and even some of Eru's second children have gathered here, but can you tell who is who? And are there truly beasts that can walk on two legs? Many a curious sight is to be found underneath the oak tree, for this is a masked ball.

An unusually large goldfinch perches in the branches above, bright eyes peering at the festivities. Yet, to a close observer, the bird wears boots.

Indeed, one would wonder if beasts could walk on two legs from the stories of old. It would be someone rather fanciful, though, to imagine that the figure--either man or elf--that emerges into the party is actually a beast walking upright. He is all in finely woven clothing, a hood worn over his hair and sewn with pointy, canid ears matching a russet and white patterned mask on his face with the likeness of a muzzle covering his nose. Lips are left visible, however, and he is all in russet, white, and black patterned much like a fox. For that is what he must be this evening, yes? A not-so-little red fox!

A cloaked figure makes his way amoug those gathered. He smiles and comments here and there on some of the fine costumes and accepts a few compliments as well. Within moments, the Ancient Mariner has found a spot to watch the proceedings off to the side while he waits for the music to get started.

The swiftly brightening sky shows that the sun has risen behind the clouds. Snow and cold seem not to ipress the elf that walks with bare feet within the crowd, but the color matches that of winter. White is his garb, and silvery his hair, but on a closer look this one can be indentified as one of those who walked the shores of Arda. A seashell sits upon his brows and there are decorations of waves on his tunic.

Foxes and goldfinches and mariners -- oh my!

Such kindly creatures, cheerful, happy creatures gathered in this pastoral setting beneath the tall Oak to share with one another joyous company.

In the lights of meadow and beneath the light of the stars, another creature joins the scene -- but it is not so pleasant to look upon. Tall as two men, its fearsome body lumbers into the lighted circle.

For all its imposing height and grim, evil visage, the troll cannot help but be somewhat uncoordinated. Its arms do not move perfectly with its legs, its upper body twists in rather unnatural ways with the steps and shimmies just slightly with every one of its long strides. The artifical face turns around the meadow as the caricature makes its menacing way in, its expression somewhat wooden.

The troll's right arm lifts into the air, as though to make some dramatic trolly pronouncement. But as eyes fall on the woodland critters and the Ancient Mariner and the like, the arm hangs in the air for a bit and falls, the troll's upper operator, much like that which he is costuming as, a little too dim to think of appropriate words for the situation.

From somewhere around the troll's belly button, something grunts.

"Ai, what a dreadful creature," says the Sea Elf as he comes upon the clumsy giant. "But that comes with dwelling in the mountains. Stone and rocks, rocks and stone... Nay, I prefer the spray of the ocean, the soft sand underneath my feet," he muses.

From the Huge Oak,
The little avian gives a nervous little twitter and hops about on his branch, breaking into a silvery laugh.

And what would stalk to the base of the tree, watching the avian? But the little red-garbed predator of course. The Fox lurks around the base of the tree, looking up towards the songbird and grinning beneath his mask. He says nothing yet, just standing with the long vest flowing around him.

Said dreadful creature lumbers closer to the tree, and closer, and closer -- and pauses with a few feet to spare from the trunk (though its top half may have to duck a branch or two) at the speech of the Sea Elf.

And paused, it does a slow and lumbering sort of dance with its feet.

A single note suddenly lingers in the air, intesifying to match the merry chatter of the crowd. And look, from a tent comes a long line of musicians, still playing the one tone. Quickly they mingle with the guests of the ball and then they break into a merry song. Another tent opens its flap and from here, jugglers leap forward. Apples, knives, glasses and a snowball are skilfully hurled through the air before the guests! Eventually the kitchen tent is opened and four cooks carry a great wooden plate to a table underneath the tree. The ball has begun!

Perhaps owing to rather mediocre peripheral vision from the mask, the troll's top half gets whacked in the head lightly by a branch before it tucks down, hunched over in the spine area slightly, a bit of a peculiar image with its relatively straight lower back. But as the troll stops, it turns towards the speaking Elf, gaze lifting slightly, great shoulders rising slightly.

"You call me dreadful," the troll gets off in something resembling a boom, voice rolling slowly, vowels exaggerated, words overpronounced, its speaker clearly doing his damndest to sound 'trolly' and actually coming moderately close, "but I call you small and pink and potentially breakfast. So I think I win." As best as they can through the holes in the mask, the buried slate-grey eyes of its occupant try to glare at the Elf.

"Oh no, a troll!" yips the Fox before breaking into a fit of laughter. He, too, is still near the tree and ducks around the other side dramatically, like a small predator hiding from...a much, much larger one. "Please do not eat me, Mister Troll, for I am small and mostly taste of fur!"

"Breakfast?" The elf asks with a timid voice? "But look, there is plenty to eat over there!" He gestures at the table that is being laden with all sorts of fine foods now. "Surely you would not need me as a breakfast."

From the yard enters sky, shade, and elleth, measured carefully and blended together in one body. Saying naught, but watching, she stops and stands on the sidelines, arms crossed. From the Huge Oak,
The bird looks hungrily to the table, more ravenous than goldfinch. "Step aside, dear Fox, for there are breakfasts that taste better than I do," calls the goldfinch in a lilting voice. "I taste of thistle and teazel, and over there is..."

Breakfast? The troll turns -- a wide, circuitious turn -- toward the table and then turns -- in the same manner -- back toward the elf and fox.

"Rawr," comes a voice from its belly, and then again, "Rumble."

A moment's silence, and a whispered aside and a bit of shifting within the troll's midsection: "That means I'm hungry."

And the top follows suit, with proper troll logic: "Because I am /hungry/!" it roars.

Eledurima comes from the east across the meadow. Eledurima has arrived.

"The hungry must be fed," finds the Sea Elf and once more he directs troll and fox to the buffet. "And I am included in their numbers," he declares. Swiftly he strides over to the table to put some smoked trout, bread and a carrot on a plate.

"So it would seem there is something more to make my muzzle water, I can smell it from here!" answers the Fox up towards the Goldfinch with a familiar, good-natured chuckle. He allows himself to be directed, making his way away from the tree towards the buffet. No tail has he, but the long vest flows quite elegantly, its golden embroidery glinting in the lights.

Niinaeth jumps down out of the branches of the huge oak. Niinaeth has arrived.
From the Huge Oak,
"Indeed," replies the songbird, and lightly he leaps -- flutters -- down, striding swiftly and unbirdlike in his hurry to breakfast.

"Mmmmm," says the troll's midsection, and it turns around in a circle -- unti, after what sounds like a kick and a grunt, it stops facing the table spread with food.

And there it walks, its large-legged strides long and its balance somewhat precarious as it approaches the buffet.

The Sea Elf moves towards the edge of the merry crowd. He tries to dodge one of the jugglers and even succeeds with that, but only to find his piece of bread dance with a few other items high above his head. "Aiya, one must be patient tonight ere one can eat," he exclaims with mirth.

Tolaglar comes from the northwest along the valley path. Tolaglar has arrived.

"Yes," the sky replies to the sea, laughter in her voice, "Patient and cautious. Those jugglers seem to grab everything they see, even those things made for consumption." Speaking of consumption...she looks to the table, gaze calculating through holes in the mask.

The troll -- in proper troll fashion -- seems to disregard jugglers entirely. With a growl from its midsection, it staggers between them.

Flapping here and there, the Goldfinch manages to reach the food (minus a few yellow feathers, which now join in the juggle-dance) and fills up a plate.

Cocking his head upwards at the troll, "Ah, good sir, please don't flatten me. It takes forever to straighten these feathers, you know..."

The_Ice_Queen has arrived.

With an inelegance borne of costuming, the arms of the troll sweep just over the buffet table, head turning to very carefully take each offering in the centre of its field of vision. Eventually, for lack of anything else reasonable to grab with large faux-troll fingers, the troll picks up a pastry rather daintily between forefinger and thumb, lifting it up to his mask.

At the point the pastry is about halfway up to his mask, the troll seems to notice that the apertures in his mask are rather too small to admit food. The arm pauses for a moment, half-suspended in the air, before throwing the pastry to the grass. "Trolls not like primitive Elf-food!" He glances over towards the bird, deep, angry voice stuttering a bit, "Now I... too angry to flatten!"

Somehow the bread has found its way back to the Sea Elf's plate and with an amazed look he bows to the airy being before him. "Well met, fair lady," he says. "It seems Manwe has sent his helpers tonight, Maiar of wind and air." Curulomion comes along the Meadow Path from the south. Curulomion has arrived.

Tolaglar folds his arms as he watches the spectacle of the costumes from his spot beneath the tree, one hand curling around a mug of ale, the other holding on to a leg of some poor unfortunate roasted animal. As the various creatures move about before him, he takes a slow sip from his mug and savors the taste.

Consolingly the Fox reaches up to pat the troll's upper back--perhaps encountering the leg instead. He gives a sort of yipping little silly chuckle and grins up at the "troll", reaching to take a pastry himself. This he munches on happily, swallowing before he speaks upwards. "Perhaps we should put it directly into your stomach, then, so that it may be passed up to the mouth to be enjoyed?"

Despite the upper half's anger at the mouth piece being too small for the pastry, the bottom half dances again a slow, shuffling jig at the Fox's suggestion--

--and then, from between the troll's trousers and its chest, a hand emerges.

Into the questing hand is placed a few manner of things for consumption of those within the costume. A bit of roast meat, a pastry such as the upper half had already dropped, and some fruit. At least, as much as the hand is reached out to take. The Fox grins politely beneath his pointy-muzzled mask as he attends to this.

Sweeping into the meadow with pomp enough to suit a host of monarchs, The Ice Queen glides slowly toward the gathering of other masqued guests. Proud as a peacock she crosses the snow-covered valley lawn, the faint crunch of snow beneath her feet treated like the adulation of courtiers. At the edge of the gathering, she pauses at last, haughtily surveying the crowd as though looking for someone, her arrival as cold and blistery as any winter storm.

The cloud cover overhead darkens and begins to drop a steady snow.

The Goldfinch nibbles an apple daintily, watching the troll with wide eyes. "Oh! Is that the hand of some poor pleading breakfast?"

Another comes to the clearing, a tall Elf clad entirely in black, right down to the ground-length black cloak he wears. He is looking a little dazed, as if he is not quite sure what is going on. His silver eyes are grim and distant but he watches the crowd warily, almost curiously...and he pauses to regard the group and see what is going on. One bare foot raises for a moment to paw the air and then comes back down again. Snow starts to fall, settling in the edhel's hair and he shakes his waist-length mane, trying to get off the clinging snowflakes. No such luck.

A little pause, as the troll's head politely lets its midsection feed. "Troll's face not hungry!" he adds, rather needlessly, before turning over towards the goldfinch with fire in what passes for his eyes. "Was Breeman who made snarky comments from tree!" he cries, raising his fist and shaking it over-dramatically. "Now he beg for scraps from inside of my torso!"

Many things are placed into the questing hand, but the questing hand -- though large, indeed -- is not of the troll's gigantic proportions, and food begins to fall from it, but lo! Another reaches out also and rescues the precarious pile of goodies before both are drawn inside once more.

There is a good bit of shuffling from within the troll's belly, then -- digestion, no doubt.

The maiar curtseys to walking water, laughter soft and pleasant to the ear. "Thank you, and mae govannen indeed. It is not often that sky and water meet on earth, and no rain is present. I cherish the moment, mellon nin." As she speaks, the sky glides to the refreshments and selects a tall, thin glass of white wine.

A pat is given now to the troll's belly from one of the Fox's little black-clad paws, he giving another chuckle before reaching to sweep up a stein of brew rather than some wine. This he holds over his head, along with a pastry still snapped up, and does a sort of twirling little dance. "It seems the troll's belly is here more for pastries than fox-meat! Alas, poor Breeman!"

"Alas, the sea freezes," laments the Teler-elf as the Ice Queen makes her appearance. "Mellon, can you not ask Manwe to send winds that drive the ice away from the shores?" The Sea Elf looks wrily between the Sky and the Ice Queen's pompous figure.

"Indeed," twitters the yellow bird, "I shall withhold my 'snarky comments' the next time I meet a troll."

As the Ice Queen appears, Goldfinch ruffles his feathers and shivers.

Despite his earlier protestations, after a bit of an inner-body rustle the bottom of the troll's 'head' begins to wag a bit - a tell-tale sign of chewing, despite his earlier protestations. When he looks at the fox, the face needs a few moments to chew and swallow before it can answer, "I eat foxes on way to evil elf valley. He just want desert." More chewing ensues, the troll making a rather large show of looking around, stretching his arms, and generally being unavailable for conversation as he finishes off whatever it was.

"Troll's face now very full," the face adds when this is done, far too promptingly seeing as he was the one who grabbed the first pastry in the first place, "and troll would be much obliged if his face had no more food stuffed into it. Troll packed full of manflesh from hunt, you see." A bit of a decisive nod from the troll.

"But troll's belly," comes a voice from below after a gentle cough, "Still hungry."

And again, the hand reaches out.

Eledurima has disconnected.

Turning her chilly countenance upon the Sea-Elf, the Ice Queen laughs haughtily, saying, "The wind? When a fierce wind blows in winter, it does but enhance Our chill and freeze upon the land. A strong wind to carry Our frost into your bones, and stir Our snows in the air and on the ground. Let the wind blow!"

"So I hear, the belly grumbles and begs to be fed!" chuckles the Fox, tipping his pointy-eared head. A bit of roast meat is picked up from the table once his pastry is polished off, along with some fruit while he tucks the stein against his white chest beneath one arm. These are pressed into the questing hand, carefully, so they are not dropped.

"Ah," Airius of the sky replies, swirling the wine, "But a warm wind will melt the ice, and stay the chill, for a time. So I say let the wind blow as well, but let it blow with heat above and beneath Arda's skin, for that shall break winter's chill as surely as I stand here." Tolaglar has disconnected.

"Warm winds and cool water, so shall it be," declares the Sea Elf. "That is what suits Osse's realm. Now, winter makes me ever more hungry," he says and settles down on a bench to eat.

Curulomion cocks his head, becoming aware of what is going on. And it intrigues him. He is hungry, more than ready for dinner but unsure if he can have any. He is, after all, not exactly in costume. Then it hits him...what he will say if anyone asks what he is trying to be. It would not be....savoury...but the comparison had been made many times before and he did not mind. If pressed he could give the real reason why he is not in elaborate costume...nobody had told them there was a costume party tonight. He was not the sort to be party to that information. He now strides forwards with cool detachment as snow swirls about his body as he moves through it. He pauses near the fox and the troll, nostrils flaring inquisitively as he daintly licks his lips. Finally he decides to be civil and speak. "Mae govannen," he greets formally, cool and reserved.

The troll's upper body lets out, for hardly a second before coming to its senses, a little, frustrated, human-sized sigh, before the sigh is quickly turned into a cough, arm lifted up to his face to maintain the rather shabby illusion. As the regularly-clad elf steps in, the troll does see him. And he blinks.

"Fearsome elf warrior," he muses aloud in Deep Troll Timbre, but he seems to have nowhere to go from there. "Perhaps I should walk away from him so he does not slay me."

Mithamrun comes from the east across the meadow. Mithamrun has arrived.

The questing hand dips in what might just be a bow before it disappears once more inside the troll's belly, from whence come the sounds of chewing and general digesting.

"Hm?" It says after a moment, then: "Ah."

And it begins to walk backward.

The_Ice_Queen inclines her head slightly to the Sky-lady, though she says, "It may be that the warm South wind will melt Our realm of Ice and Snow... But not this day. Today, We bring a chill with Us fit for the depths of Winter. For today, at least, Our kingdom is paramount." With an amused smile and a wink from behind her mask, she turns and walks toward the laden table, surveying the choices of wine.

"Feed well, dear Troll," says Goldfinch laughingly, "and do not eat me if the Breeman asks for more." That said, he wanders away with apple in hand, light steps carrying him towards lady of Ice and lady of Sky.

Giving a laugh of amusement, which he attempts to turn into a yipping sound, the Fox's grey eyes sparkle with mirth behind his feathered, deer hide mask. Turning to Curumolion now he tilts his head, very fox-like, inspecting this normally dressed elf with a grin. "Oh great elven one, it is good of you to join the festivities of spirits and mere forest creatures alike! Please help yourself to anything you please."

Curulomion looks around, his keen eyes taken in everything offered. "I think that I will, if it is all right. I am most hungry." Though for the moment he selects only a tall glass of sparkling caranyulda. "You are most kind. It is well that I made this journey after all, I think." He sips his wine slowly. "Though it is hard to know where to begin. Do you have aught to reccomend?"

Belatedly joining in the festivities, a Rainbow Trout arrives at the masquerade. With a pause, green eyes survey the scene, taking in the various costumes on hand. Making his way toward the refreshments, the fish wastes no time procuring a glass of wine for himself, lifting the glass carefully to the small mouth slit in his silver mask, and turns once more to the costumed creatures gathered near him.

Having done its level best to get its legs and gut away from a life of gluttony, the troll casts its glance around the festivities, arms held out rather awkwardly to the side, communicating an actually rather troll-like look of awkwardness and stiffness. As it sees the rainbow trout come in, the troll's head does something of a small double-take.

"Walking fish!" the head cries, for lack of anything better to say, arms flapping through the air in a mediocre fascimile of a fish swimming through the water. "The very river churns forth amphibious beasts in this valley. Fowl Elf-things sewing chaos!" "Now there you have me," so named Lady of Sky replies, pleasantly, and takes a sip of her wine carefully, manuvering her masking until she can drink, and eat, without hindrance. She also makes for the laden tables, and looks over the offered banquet, but not before spotting the Goldfinch, and speaking, "Mae govannen," to him in passing.

The Ancient Mariner has been in long speech with an old friend and as their conversation concludes, they join hands in a brief clasp and say farewell until another day. The mariner smiles and slips off towards the table where the spirits are located and he comes up beside the fair Ice Queen.

"I don't think," come dry words from the troll's belly as it finishes its backward wheel and begins walking forward again -- walking toward the fish, "That was quite Troll, Face. It's more, 'Water spit out fishes! Good for lunch!'."

"Quite an educated troll!" laughs the Fox from down below, watching the makeshift Troll wobble and shout about. Then his attention returns to Curulomion, head tipping this way in that as a curious little forest creature, paws coming up and bearing the stein with the brew still in it. "The pastries are rather good, and the meat smells so as well! Though I have not tried it yet."

Selecting a glass of Eldaril wine, The Ice Queen frowns a little, arrogantly. Obviously she is displeased at having to fetch her own drink.

Turning to the crowd, she notes with some amusement the antics of the Troll, though she says not, not wishing to interrupt the running debate between the creature and its stomach.

Laughter erupts from behind the silver mask of the Rainbow Trout as the fish walks toward the troll. "A fish that walks and sips wine and enjoys chatting with trolls, apparently," he responds. His eyes catch sight of the Ancient Mariner walking toward the refreshment table, and he laughs again. "And there, a mariner... that's the sort that a fish needs to watch out for."

Curulomion is not sure what to make of the Troll's antics so he simply stares but brings himself back to the here and now at the fox's words. "I enjoy pastries," he admits. "An old weakness of which I shall never be cured. There are some cherry ones here I trust?" he asks as he snags a pastry and takes a dainty nibbling bite of it. "The day is most fair," he comments easily, if a bit coolly.

The Ancient Mariner glances at the Ice Queen, meeting her gaze from where he stands. Commenting quietly, he notes, "Lady Lindir I thought might be here as the Ice Queen, not you. I have heard many call her by that name." He smiles lightly and then adds, "Have you seen Glasiel to inquire as to how she is performing in the task you set for her?"

<OOC> Talbinor refrains from saying 'sorry, face only has Introductory Morbeth'. Is very proud of that. :P <OOC> Troll laughs.
<OOC> Red_Fox says, "Do it!"

"Hello," chirps the bird brightly, spreading his wings wide. "I was going to request a draft to aid me in my flight, but..." Goldfinch selects a mug of ale, clasping it close in feathered hand, "a 'draft' of this shall do."

"Indeed it is," says the Fox, lifting his pointy-masked head high. The hood covering his hair and posing as fox ears slips back some, revealing deep red-brown hair before he tugs it up and tightens the ties at his throat. "There are plenty of pastries, I would suggest trying them all." He himself however reaches one black-gloved paw for a bit of roast meat, bringing it up to his mouth still evident beneath the mask and stripping some away.

Noting the approach of the Mariner, the Ice Queen inclines her head to him in dignified fashion, and says, "We do not cede Our title easily... And despite the chill that one carries with her, We think We have been cursed with such titles at least as much. Too many here have 'volunteered' to weed and fertilize the gardens under Our scrutiny for Us to be easily beloved."

A slight pause, and the cold sovereign adds in an undertone, "And no... I have not spoken to Glasiel. She is fortunate it is winter and much of the gardens are covered in snow, so I cannot see how they have been neglected. I admit to still being tempted to take up my old tasks... But they are not mine, anymore, are they? I must have confidence in those who remain at them."

"Troll's face not make habit of listening to words from trollmouths, more clubs from trollhands," the troll's face explains to its torso somewhat sheepishly and apologetically, glancing down at its gut before snapping its head around to look at the fox, having to turn rather awkwardly as its legs carry it towards the fish. "I mountain troll! We much smarter than stupid Yfelwyd trolls!" he 'explains'.

As the troll strolls towards the fish, those slate-grey eyes hidden behind a mask dart to and fro, the occupant searching his memory rather frantically for a trolly thing to say in response to that. "I not complain about you walking and talking if you not complain about me out in daylight!" he says, referring to the morning sky

Curulomion nods his head to the fox's words and considers. "Never in my life have I made a meal of just pastries so perhaps a little meat..." One delicate hand reaches out for some of the roast meat and taking a bite of it himself. "The food here is very very good," he compliments, apparently a rare thing with him. "Then more pastries, for I do love them."

The Ancient Mariner shrugs and shakes his head. "I would not begrudge anyone out of the West returning to take up their old tasks that are now mine." But he smiles again and goes on, "As for your titles, Your Mighness, you are right to be jealous of those who claim them without any right to them."

Rainbow_Trout shrugs his fishy shoulders at the troll. "I suppose there have been stranger things witnessed, than a troll in the light or a fish on land. Not that I can think of many right now," he adds, taking another sip of his wine as he turns his attention toward a platter of cheese on the refreshment table. "I believe I have had more pastries since I arrived here, than I have had in all my years put together. But then, in the river, pastries are scarce."

Daylight?

Whence came this...daylight?

Beneath the troll's chest, there is a moment of furious whispering, and then the mountain creature stops dead in its tracks.

Quite dead.

In its tracks.

And slowly, it begins to topple backward...

The_Ice_Queen shakes her head wistfully, and says quietly, "No... That is behind me, and I must look forward and not back. Besides, though my home is not quite so grand, or Homely, as that of Master Elrond... I still have my own gardens to tend. I neglected them once, long ago; it would reflect poorly upon me to do so again."

The Lady of Sky chuckles at this little bird, responding merrily to his witty chirps. "I did not know that winged creatures drank ale, mellon nin. What a stunning revelation! Do you also drink wine, and eat fine dainties, such as this?" She selects a golden tart, holding it up for inspection.

"There is more, enough for all to have full me..." begins to Red Fox, then he notices that the troll is toppling precariously backwards. Quick, like the forest creature he is dressed as, he darts forwards and reaches out to grasp at the troll's midsection and brace his feet to provide some balance to the costumed men. The momentum, however, pulls his hood back revealing rich, fiery touched brown hair and little pointed elf ears.

Imp_In_The_Tub comes along the Meadow Path from the south. Imp_In_The_Tub has arrived.
The Ancient Mariner waves a hand at these excuses. "But you did such a fine job here..." He shakes his head. "Very well then, Lindon is very nice this time of year. The sea keeps it quite pleasant and the Ered Luin shield the seaward regions for the north wind."

As its legs stop the troll's face frowns, such a deep and all-consuming frown that it can be seen even through the mask it wears. As it begins to teeter over backwards, its arms begin to spin through the air in a rather undignified manner before its wearer clues in, arms coming out to a stop in a position which is oh-so-coincidentally perfect to brace a hypothetical person wearing half a troll suit from the falling off an exceptionally tall Ranger he is about to do.

And, inevitably, the troll's upper body begins to slip off its legs, and as elf-hands push into the small of his back to keep them up the legs will likely just slip out from under him, which would send the top half of the troll falling to the turf, trying to roll out so he doesn't kill the lower section, partially entangled in costume and generally begging for a twisted ankle.

As the trout turns away from the table, nibbling a bit of cheese through the small mouth opening in his mask, pauses in mid-bite as he notices the troll toppling over, and a rather large fox pouncing onto the falling creature's midsection. "I actually believe this may be one of those 'stranger things' I have been referring to," he observes cheerfully, rushing over to the group on the ground. "You seem to have lost something," he notes, gesturing at the fallen hood.

The goldfinch nearly chokes on the ale, but manages to swallow before he dips his masked and painted head.

"Gladly," he chuckles in baritone-chitter, "for of a daily diet of thorns and thistles I quickly tire."

Curulomion does not seem to mind too much as he is abandoned by the fox for he has carved out a niche for himself at the refreshment table, content to eat his pastries and sip his wine and watch the goings on, to see if there is anything he wants to take part in. He does pay attention to the troll, to see if any aid is needed that he can give.

And it happens just so -- the lower half squats as the upper half begins to fall, lowering the distance between it and the ground--

--but seems to ose its balance as well.

"Woah!" comes a voice from the midsection before it, too, goes toppling over.

As the lower portion of the troll also begins to topple, the Trout places his half-empty wine glass upon the refreshment table and returns to the troll, beginning to rummage through the costume to find the men within. "If you stop writhing about, we may get you put back together a little more quickly," he suggests.

"Indeed," says the Ice Queen. "I should not have to convince a Mariner, however old, of the merits of the coast. Someday you must come to visit me; you might like my village... Against the odds, it is much unchanged from my childhood. If, that is, you think you can resist the call of the Sea. Those not born near its shores tend to find it... alluring."

Drawing herself up again, the Ice Queen adds in a haughty, arrogant tone, "And yet We had come to this gathering with the understanding that we might see the Horse Lord; as a kindness, We had thought to accept his fealty and obeisance. We are much displeased at his absence, and We mean to search for him to express Our displeasure. Pray, excuse us; We offer our compliments and thanks to the hosts of the evening."

Only the Fox manages to maintain his balance, it would seem, as down go the two in the troll costume. He winces in sympathy behind the fur and feather mask, coming to crouch down and look at the two within the costume. "Are you well, mellyn?" he asks, a hint of concern in his voice. For the moment it would appear that the hood with his ears seems his least concern, no doubt. As the Trout begins to pull the costume to help the men, so does he.

The Ancient Mariner bows jauntily, adding, "He comes and goes as he pleases. As for your village, I would be delighted."

Amidst the distraction of falling parts, another tall form slips from behind one of the trees in the gorgeously lively gathering. Fine stocking netting conceals his face, upper torso as well as the slender legs but around the midriff, a partially flexible tube of sorts made to resemble a barrel, embraces the waist and pelvis. It is held in place by finely woven rope slung over the shoulders as a pair of gloved hands. The dark form pauses at the perimeter, taking in the sight of the revelry before it heads towards where sustenance is laid out, a nod here and a bow there acknowledging visitors and inhabitants alike.

With a half concealed scowl, the Ice Queen mutters, "Doesn't he though," in response to the Mariner, before inclining her head in a final farwell, and gliding gracefully away from the gathering.

Well, so much for the tattered remains of Talbinor's dignity. He'll just go to Fornost and start screaming about Mordor's mind-control rays now.

With the mask having come off, Talbinor is visible wincing just slightly through the hole in the costume, but aside from the obvious pain and discomfort he seems on balance unhurt, having had time to get himself in a good falling position. "If only it were always this easy to segment a troll..." he mumbles softly, quite out-of-character, working with fish and fox as they try to aid the two Rangers.

"Yes, I've taken worse troll-related blows than this, I fear," the decapitated head adds with a polite smile to the fox, managing to turn himself onto his back and largely disentangling himself from, though he remains in, the costume. "I think the Captain may have come down rather harder, though, with me on top of him."

"Hmmm," the sky Lady replies skeptically, eyes smiling, "I'd imagine so, my winged friend. Even the tastebuds of birds must crave sweeter things." That said, she takes a big bite out of the tart, and it is rewarding. A deep sigh comes out of the depths of her lungs.

"Ow."

It comes neither from the troll's face nor it's belly, but from beneath some of the cloth used for the troll's midsection as Halbarad crawls out from under it, the troll-trousers still belted just below his armpits.

And wincing, he rubs at his neck.

Satisfied that the two men in the troll costume are quite well, the Trout reverts to laughter once more. "An apt portrayal of such a clumsy creature, though," he chides, as he returns to his wine glass and cheese. He catches sight of a small group he suspects to be his travel companions, standing some distance away, and with a nod to the fox and the various sections of troll, the Trout moves off to speak with some others.

Now the hood with the fox ears is retrieved, and the clearly red-haired elf pulls it down back over his head, costume once again complete. To the two rangers, now exposed as the troll, he chuckles softly. "It would seem neither is poorly injured, though I will help you to the hall of the healers should you feel the need."

Curulomion watches the troll disintegrate and his eyes grow wide. Firyar. Much rumour had he heard of Mortal Men but never before has he spoken to one. He sips at his wine and nibbles at a pastry, debating about going up and talking to the dicomfitted pair, for despite his aloof demeanor he is actually somewhat curious.

Goldfinch's feathers flutter as the Sky sighs. "Indeed," nods the bird, surveying the offered pastries upon the table. "I suppose I should have been wintering elsewhere, but when I heard there was breakfast, I came..."

Curulomion watches the troll disintegrate and his eyes grow wide. Firyar. Much rumour had he heard of Mortal Men but never before has he spoken to one. He sips at his wine and nibbles at a pastry, debating about going up and talking to the dicomfitted pair, for despite his aloof demeanor he is actually somewhat curious.

Goldfinch's feathers flutter as the Sky sighs. "Indeed," nods the bird, surveying the offered pastries upon the table. "I suppose I should have been wintering elsewhere, but when I heard there was breakfast, I came..."

"Puff up my feathers and fly off to the Hall of Fire, I imagine," replies Goldfinch, oddly blue eyes sparkling behind the mask, "unless a sudden gust of air should freeze me mid-flight."

He sips his ale, glancing amusedly at the ex-head and belly of the troll.

The Fox watches the Captain of the rangers, noting the shift of movement from evenly beared onto left leg. So forward he steps, offering out a hand perhaps to support the Man should he wish it. Yet his words are amiable, only a faint trace of concern discernable within them. "It would seem that the Breeman has now escaped the troll! Though perhaps not without injury?"

Curulomion is watching keenly. No concern shows in his eyes but then his always are a bit distant so it is hard to tell his emotions. He might very well be concerned. But he does not leave his place...he does not wish to get in the way. Interesting creatures, he decides with a sip of his wine. He would have to see about getting some more words with these two at a later date. Perhaps Elnara could arrange something. The Valley had been her home and no doubt she knew it and how to work things out with it.

"That," the Lady of Sky emphatically replies, "Would be a most interesting sight, mellon nin." Her eyes also note Halbarad's aches, and she hesitates, staring at him with something akin to...experience? Hmmm, couldn't be. How odd. The moment passes, and she finishes the tart, casually gliding just a bit closer to the ranger, close enough to look him over carefully? Who knows.

Carrying his makeshift expanding girth gracefully, the black stocking form steps forth, a goblet gracefully held in one hand while dark eyes watches the sight of the trollish form torn for a change in two, albeit in human shapes. A moment later, a light voice hails the two rangers, his free hand sweeping two other goblets off the table before the 'imp' made his way forward, "Fortification after such exertion?" He asks with an amused lilt in his voice though the elf's expression is too well veiled to be seen. As he does so, he passes the Goldfinch, the Lady as well as the fox who appeared to be converging onto the scene as well.

As he sees Halbarad struggle, Talbinor quickly closes the short distance between them, even as a procession of elves begins to gather around him. "Are you much hurt, Captain?" he asks politely, and though there is concern in his voice his tone is by and by large quite business-like, his eyes quickly moving to the leg Halbarad is avoiding rather than looking him in the face.

"If you have hurt your leg, you picked the right place to do it, at least," the Ranger says rather wryly, and the many offers of help cause Talbinor to take a discrete step backwards, out of the way but still at hand should his services be needed, costume and mask still messily tucked under his right arm.

"Manwe forbid, a frozen bird," says Goldfinch, stealthily setting the ale aside as he turns. "The Breeman, I hope, is not hurt?"

"Escaped, indeed," replies Halbarad with a brief laugh. "And my thanks, honorable fox, for your kindness -- the pastries and meat."

To the imp, he cants his head, ruefully smiling yet, and accepts a goblet, raising it in salute.

Still favoring his right leg, he waves off Talbinor's offer of aid -- and the Fox's concern. "No, no wounds -- unless I can find a new pair of shoulders. You, brother, are heavier than you look."

Satisfied now at the tall ranger's words, the Fox inclines his hooded head with a grin. Then, turning away he leaves the two to discuss their mishaps with one another. Instead he approaches the table once more, now picking up some fruit bread and beginning to pick it apart, savoring the bits.

Curulomion must have had enough breakfast for he breaks off suddenly, one hand idly patting a full belly. He manuvers slowly, silently, down towards the two men, raking them with an intense gaze. But he does not speak, not yet anyway. He nods as he passes the Fox and continues towards the pair of humans, stopping quite close...and outright staring at them.

"I would recommend a good massage then, a warm one, and perhaps someone should look at that leg, before it begins to truly hurt," the Lady murmurs calmly, looking hard at said limb, but commenting no more on it. She has said her piece, and as he seems to be just fine with many helpers, the elleth glides away. Sky is calm, but she unable to stop a soft chuckle from escaping her slender throat, even as her eyes keep on the ranger, albeit from an awkward angle.

Talbinor nods quite soberly at his captain's description of his mass, glancing down at his svelte but tall and well-built Ranger's body. "I am afraid I am very efficiently packed," he says without anything even vaguely apologetic in his tone, although he does incline his head politely towards the Captain. "Perhaps she is right," he adds as the Lady speaks, nodding his head. "At the very least, go take your weight off of it for a while."

His left hand reaches up to pluck at the corners of his cloak and pull it a little more tightly around his body, his peripheral vision catching the elf blatantly staring in the Rangers' directions. Save for a brief glance towards Curulomion he pays no attention to him, rather reacting with the attitude of a man used to being stared at.

Under the beak of his mask, Goldfinch smiles, and without warning he flutters away, scaling the oak with grace -- perhaps that of one who has lived long in trees?

"I think I shall."

With another bow to the assembled, Halbarad carries himself off toward the house -- and what a sight! With troll-trousers pulled up to his armpits and a slight limp as he moves, the Captain maintains what dignity he can.

Curulomion does not miss being glanced at, knowing his burning eyes have once more caught attention. He decides now to be polite. "Mae govannen," he intones in his grave way, speaking in liquid Sindarin. "Forgive the staring but I have not yet met one of the Firyar before."

The Lady of Sky finds a seat and perches upon it, nibbling dainty at her treats, and watching the proceedings with greyish-green eyes.

As the Captain leaves, Talbinor watches him go for a few seconds to ensure that he does not suffer another injury on his way out, before pressing his lips together for an instant and turning on his heel towards Curulomion just as the elf finishes his sentence. Rather politely, given that he's just been ogled at like a piece of mortal meat, Talbinor smiles and bows slightly in a respectful manner.

"It is understandable," the Ranger answers with a rather easy-going, almost paternal smile that's slightly out of place considering his mortality and his visibly young age. "I have received many inquisitive looks from many inquisitive people, and I have learned not to take offense."

Curulomion dips his head. "That is well. I have heard that the Firyar can be quite volatile...no personal offense meant. One hears many rumours." He bows regally, dignity in every motion. "I am Curulomion of Lothlorien," he says by way of introduction, coming back upright to offer his right hand, very long fingered and almost delicate in appearance, yet not at all weak...the hands of a skilled artisan. "It is an honour to make your aquantice."

"And none taken, as such rumours are often true. Fortunately, you will seldom find a more steadfast mortal than a Ranger of the North." The proferred hand is accepted in the polite, respectful manner. "I am Talbinor, or Restless outside this valley and in mixed company. I can merely claim all Eriador as my home."

The hand is, of course, released, and Talbinor clasps his own hands together in front of him, grey eyes dancing about momentarily at the rapidly diminished festivities before going back to his partner in conversation, his polite and dignified smile not fading for an instant. "I understand some of my people travelled towards Lorien last summer. It is a shame you missed them."

Curulomion considers. "Last summer I was living outside of Ceras Galadion so they would not have seen me unless they blundered upon me in the woods. I am somewhat of a loner." He lets his keen eyes sweep over the crowd. "But I am learning to like gatherings such as these. I came here because my fiancee," the silver band of promise, set with an amber stone, gleams softly in the morning light. "Used to live here and she wished to return to pick up some of her belongings and to see old friends. So I came alone for the journey."

"They should call you Face now," chimes the Fox from alongside the table, probably on his third stein of ale. He watches the discussion while doing little to participate in it, grinning merely at Talbinor and looking between him and Curulomion.

Talbinor nods at Curulomion, his smile having faded into a more interested visage of neutrality as the Galadhrim speaks. "I do not think my fellows would have had an interest in blundering where they had no errand, no," he says with a small shake of his head. "But at least Imladris is a pleasant enough place to spend a journey - although I suspect it does not compare to the famous Golden Wood, which I have never had the honour of seeing."

The Fox gets a rather alarmed glance from the Ranger, followed by a brief twisting of the head to see if any of his kinsmen are loitering around. "That is not an epithet I would enjoy being saddled with," he says with great dignity, although that brief, frantic look gave away rather deeper feelings on the subject.

Curulomion considers for a long time before he speaks. "The Wood is different from the Valley and yet both are beautiful. I had not seen mountains until I came here. Breathtaking." He tucks a lock of midnight hair beside his ear and then looks over his shoulder. "I should be looking up Elnara...my fiancee...and see how she is faring. That is if I can find her. I spend more time here getting lost than I do anything else. Why I hardly go anywhere."

"Oh, of course," Talbinor immediately answers with a quick nod and a little shuffle-step to the side to get out of whatever he perceives as being in the elf's way. "I'm sorry if I caused your delay in any manner. It is a puzzling place, though. I have seen its natives founder for direction in the Valley more than once." He smiles, just a bit.

"But it is so fitting," jests the Fox as he comes to step nearer to them, black paws held up and free of food or stein for now. He pauses alongside the ranger, a wide grin appearing on his face beneath the mask. "Indeed, you shall be Talbinor the Face... That is your name, correct? I believe I met you at a council once..."

Curulomion shakes his head. "You do not delay me," he says calmly, his words soothing, as he starts to make his way back towards the house. "If you ever come to the Wood seek me. I can show you many of its most beautiful places"

"That is correct," Talbinor answers the Fox, and a fleeting grimace crosses his features even as he turns and politely nods. "But among my people, such names are usually bestowed for great acts or great characteristics, and I am uncertain falling off our Captain during a costume ball qualifies." He says this without the slightest -trace- of snarkiness, somehow managing to keep a vaguely triumphant grin from worming its way onto his lips.

"And I certainly shall take you up on that," Talbinor adds to Curulomion with a polite nod. "I hope you enjoy your stay in Imladris, and do not find the myriad ways here too confusing."

Curulomion raises his hand to the Ranger and the Fox in farewell as he meanders back down towards the house, leaving bare footprints in the snow.

"Then a better name I shall have to find for you," answers the Fox, tilting his head to one side, deep grey eyes watching the ranger from behind his fur and feather mask. An idle gesture is made with one black-gloved paw, not bringing attention to anything in particular. "I believe though, that your kinsman Arthen is in need of a name soon. I would give him one, though perhaps it is not my place."

"Nor mine," answers Talbinor with ease, shaking his head lightly and closing his eyes momentarily as he does so, "as I do not know him well enough to bestow one upon him. It is, at least in my mind, not a matter for glib improvisation." His words are not too weighty, and though he's speaking his mind he can't be taking it too seriously.

"Though if you do find a suitable byname for a Ranger, be sure to let them know in the presense of his fellows. If it sticks, then..." he shrugs his shoulders idly, lifting his hands to the air, "you've done your job well."

"hmmm..." muses the Fox softly, his lips quirking upwards in an amiable grin. A friendly one, this elf, whoever he may be though some would know him by his hair color revealed earlier. Perhaps the ranger, if he had noted, would know him as the Silvan Barafinnel. "I wished to call him Flame, for he seems to have a fire within him. Terrorizing orcs and trolls even as a captive. Or perhaps Wildfire."

Elves all look the same anyway. Particularly behind fox costumes. "Rather tacky, don't you think?" he asks, lifting a bushy eyebrow slightly and tilting his face a bit to the left, inquisitively. "Plenty of things exhibit hostile behaviour in seemingly hopeless situation. Badgers, for instance. Or orcs." Again, his shoulders shrug, very lightly. "If I might profer one more piece of advice, such by-names are seldom best when thought about. The best ones leap out at the appropriate time and at once seize all present with their aptitude."

"I suppose you are right," agrees the Fox, peeling one of the leather gloves from his slender finger to allow him to scratch under his nose with the bared hand. Nonetheless, he grins towards Talbinor, amiably. "Otherwise you might have been simply called Filthy and had it left at that."

"I might," Talbinor retorts good-naturedly at once, his words as quick as his blade, "but then there'd be no distinguishing me from my fellows. You spend all of the first decades of your life crawling through bog, stomping through snow, tackling muskeg and mud and rain in the wilds of Eriador - particularly northern Eriador - and you'd be rather a mess yourself." He does pluck one little twig caught up in the sleeve of his shirt, mind, flicking it to the grass.

The costumed elf only laughs at this, doing sort of a hop on one foot and looking entirely unperturbed by the Man's words. Indeed, he instead twirls once and then gives sort of an overly dramatic bow. "Indeed! I have many times come back to the valley, rather stinking of little cleanliness and much time spent traipsing through wood and mud and bog. So I know how it is. Merely, I tease, good Talbinor."

"Of course," Talbinor answers with yet another good-natured smile and a nod, before glancing back over his shoulder thoughtfully. "I should take my leave and ensure that my Captain was not too gravely hurt by the cruel Sun," he smiles just slightly, but soon draws himself up into an expression of utmost seriousness. "Good day, oh fox," he declares, and turns to make his escape into the house proper.

"And a good day to you, Talbinor!" chuckles the Fox, before he turns back to the revelry afoot.