Training Field
On this wide field, boundry sticks and markers seem to rise up in a variety of patterns. Interspersed between all of these, targets, dummies, and other devices for training stand in various levels of repair. Taking up one side of the field, an archery range can be found. Along the opposite side, a long low hillock looking building that seems to be both a part of the hill itself and the trees as it is built beneath grass and branch, the only entrance jutting out between two thick roots of a tall mallorn.
Contents:
Haldir
Obvious exits:
North leads to Archery Range.
West leads to Lawn.
Double Doors leads to Training Building.

Dawn breaks upon the land of Lothlorien, slowly: one by one, Elbereth's gems begin to fade, unable to compete with the glory of Arien. Ghostly fingers of purple and gold reach over the eastern horizon, heralding her approach. The realm of darkness fades, and the day comes.

The training field of Lothlorien is nearly empty this morning. A group of Elves with longbows practice upon a line, the distinct muse of bowstring a betrayal of their presence.

One of the double doors to the training building is pushed open, allowing a figure to pass through. Haldir is that figure; his pace is leisurely slow. He steps towards the line of Elves, dewy grass trod underfoot swiftly leaping upward and leaving no trace of passage.

Though the rising of Anor begins the say for most, others awaken before the light brightens the world. Thus is Nauthcel ready for another day in Lothlorien, clothed in his weathered attire that seems to only become cleaner as he disturbs the dew of both the Lawn and Training Field. He does not approach the archers but instead finds an open area away from them, drawing his longsword quietly from its sheath. With his skilled hands gripping the weapon, he begins to move through a routine causing the blade to sing in the cool air.

Silent stride pauses, and Haldir turns and alters path, just as dew-laden fringes of shadow-grey cloak wrap about ankles and are then torn away. An idle hand falls to rest upon pommel of blade as grey gaze lifts to the sword-bearing Ranger.

"Hail and well met. Nauthcel, if I recall?"

Warm silvan voice breaks the monotonous whisper of bowstrings and melodic laughter of morning birds, as crisp as the morning chill.

As the voice of the Silvan rings clear, Nauthcel halts in his practice as he turns towards the one who addresses him. "Yes, well met. Yet, though you know my name, I know not yours." The Ranger gives a soft grin to the ellon as small sweat beads begin to build up on the Constant's forehead from the workout.

Haldir inclines his head, a bemused smile tugging upwards upon the corners of lips and glancing into gaze as a glint of amusement. The former breaks as Silvan speaks, but spills faintly into words: an echo of mirth skirts the corners of tone.

"A situation I experience all-too-often, so you have my sympathy. My name is Haldir; I am but a guard of this land."

One hand gestures to the expanse of Lothlorien, while the fingers upon the other idly drum upon pommel of hilt.

The Constant once again admires the beauty of the mysterious land before his grey gaze returns to the edhel. "And well do you appear to watch these borders for I see no evil," compliments the Ranger before notice is given to the drumming fingers. "It would seem, though, that you are anxious to feel steel in hand," Nauthcel remarks as he gestures to the pommul.

The amusement breaks into a laugh, through it is hushed in nature. Into the mirth is intermingled words, which gradually take full sway:

"Indeed, the Galadhrim guard are excellent. But, seldom do we make use of the blade -- the bow is our second defense. I often see if I can test my skills against others not of Lorien: would you?"

Haldir does not draw the blade, however, instead simply continues to regard the Ranger.

"I would be honored to once again test my skill against that of the Eldar," replies the Constant as he slowly raises his blade before him, appearing to know where what the Marchwarden has in mind. "At the Bardic Congress I was not able to see your skills though I perceive that they are very good."

"I watched you compete with others," remarks Haldir, drawing the blade from its sheath soundlessly, "so perhaps I have the advantage. I would say not, however, as it might lead me to underestimate -- or overestimate you."

He transfers the weapon into the other hand, and then back again, before stepping forward again, bringing the blade up as he slides into a defensive stance.

"The Swordsman of the Four Realms may begin first."

A small grin curves the lips of the Ranger for only a moment before his visage fades to one of focus. Grey eyes study the opponent from head to toe, before becoming set on the other's contenance. In a quick double-step, Nauthcel attacks swinging his blade around to make contact with the shoulder of Haldir using the flat side of the weapon.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Haldir dodges your attack.

Though the double-step of the Ranger is quick, Haldir steps to the side and back, avoiding the attack. Neither grin nor smile rests upon the face of the Silvan, which is set in determination. The moment the blade whistles past, he steps forward, bringing his own weapon to bear: pale steel arcs towards the Constant's side.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

The blade of the Marchwarden does not touch the side of the Ranger as Nauthcel jumps back out of the reach of the weapon. As he feet become planted in the soft grass, the Constant lunges forward, swinging Lothwin towards the hip of the Eldar, the blade whistling loud as the flat surface pushes the air.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Your attack against Haldir mildly wounds him!

The side-step of the Marchwarden comes a moment too late: the resounding, muted -thwap- of blade striking hip precedes a short laugh from the marchwarden, as if, perhaps, amusement is found in the failure.

"Well done."

Haldir counter-attacks, stepping with the swing of the Ranger and directing the flat of blade towards the upper-leg of Nauthcel.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and you parry his attack with your Longsword!

The din of steel crashing into steel rings in the training field as Haldir's blade is parries by Nauthcel's. The Ranger gives his own faint grin to Haldir as he remarks, "Thank you." The Dunadan wastes little time in striking again, this time arcing his blade towards his opponent's left leg.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Your attack against Haldir mildly wounds him!

No laugh, no comment -- naught escapes the marchwarden as Lothwin plots a successful course, unless it be a simple grimace. Haldir back-steps, leather-clad feet passing swiftly over and darkening the sparkling grass; and then forward and to the right, longsword arcing through the air as it flicks towards the side of Nauthcel.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and you parry his attack with your Longsword!

Lothwin once again halts Haldir's blade leading to the steel singing clashingly. The Ranger slides his blade off his opponents in a long arc that targets the shoulder of the Marchwarden. Nauthcel keeps his feet well-planted while his eyes remain vigilant to the doings of his adversary.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Haldir dodges your attack.

Arien continues to rise, casting warming sunbeams down onto the training field, bringing the sparring match from cool shade to light.

Haldir ducks under the blade, a stray strand of flaxen hair dislodged by the wind of passage. He rises, slightly, directing flat of blade towards the Ranger's left side, just between ribcage and waist.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Haldir's blade lands its mark causing the Ranger to wince as the metal smacks the hidden jerkin. "Very nice," Nauthcel comments before swinging the flat of his blade towards the hip of his opponent. His visage continues to reflect concentration and determination.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Haldir parries your attack with his Longsword!

Haldir simply inclines his head to the comment of the other, allowing lips to remain pressed together. A quick side-step backwards brings the blade of the marchwarden up to intercept that of the Ranger -- the short, staccato ring of metal upon metal sounds harshly against the melody of morning-bird.

Haldir pushes forward in an attack, rebounding sword from the other and allowing it to swing in a circle, momentum carrying the flat of the weapon towards the right leg of the Constant.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

The momentum of the attack lands sound on the leg of the Ranger, but there is only the slightest sign of pain as the Constant mimics the technique of the Marchwarden in using the force of the weapon on his leg to spin him around. As he comes full circle, the flat of Lothwin becomes aimed towards Haldir's side.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Haldir parries your attack with his Longsword!

The line of thought written across the lips of the Silvan parts, putting thought to speech: "What was the procedure for the tournament in Imladris?" The flow of Sindarin speech contrasts sharply with the ring of metal as Haldir again parries the attack of the Constant.

Marchwarden back-pedals, but directs the weapon in his hand towards the Ranger. The pale, flat of the blade glimmers as it arcs in a vertical attack towards the shoulder of Nauthcel.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he misses!

"Three taps to win," replies the Ranger as he begins to breath heavily from the fierce competition. "Thus, the next touch would win," remarks Nauthcel as he takes on the offensive maneuvers after dodging the blade, charging at Haldir while arcing the flat of his longsword towards the other's shoulder.

You attack Haldir with your Longsword...

Your attack against Haldir mildly wounds him!

"Then I should be glad this is not Imladris," says Haldir, jest ringing in the tone of voice as the flat of Lothwin strikes true. He pauses for a moments, as if the interval of stillness would bring relief -- but it does naught, unless it be to bring surprise to those who watch on. (The spar is much more interesting than the archery.)

"One more attempt," says he, springing into movement after the lull, directing the flat of weapon towards the left hip of the Constant.

Haldir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

The pause catches the Ranger off guard and thus, as the attack lands true, Nauthcel lets out a small laugh. "Now we are equal and thus it shall be....for the present," the Ranger says as he lowers his weapon. "I am sure the Lord and Lady are very greatful to have one of such skill fighting for them."

The laugh is echoed by the Silvan, even as he lifts blade upwards in a salute, of sorts. "For the present: for however long you remain here."

Haldir lowers the blade, sliding it into the sheath. "I would ask you for information on the outlying lands, but now is not the proper time. How long will you remain in Lothlorien?"

"For a week or so more though I have not fully decided yet," answers Nauthcel as he ponders the question. "I had spoken to one of the Eagles yestermorn and he informed me that the lands are clear for my journey. I shall wish to travel before those tidings change."

With an inclination of head in a nod of acknowledgement, Haldir replies with another query, curiosity lightly evident in the words: "If you may say so, where is your journey to?"

With his gaze turned to the south, Nauthcel answers, "I journey to Minas Tirith in Gondor. Though I may appear as a rugged hunter, I am a Bard with an interest in lore. I hope to find, within the libraries of Gondor, information that has been left out of the shelves of Imladris and here."

While Nauthcel speaks, an Elf runs up to Haldir, waits for the Ranger to finish speaking, and then whispers something in the ear of the marchwarden. Interest flashes in grey gaze at reply, but the Silvan nods to the other Elf.

"Speak with me again 'ere you leave. I may be able to direct you to such information: worthy of a song, perhaps, as a battle was fought over it. For now, I must bid you farewell."

"I look froward to our next meeting. May the stars shine upon your path," says the Ranger in the elven fashion as he turns from the Marchwarden and once again lifts his longsword to practice. His brow becomes furrowed as he focuses on his task.

"Farewell," intones Haldir again, before turning and following after the now departing other Elf. Swift stride of the marchwarden quickly overtakes the slower one of the other, and the two fall to conversation before the Silvan again passes through the double doors. "