"Well, Lord Elrond - do you imagine this competition to be a long one? Or should we expect a winner relatively soon?"

Elrond smiled, grey eyes twinkling with mirth at the question. To the unknowing, it seemed innocent enough, but to the elf lord that had been doing this for centuries, he quickly understood the real meaning. "You know as well as I, Thranduil. The length of the competition depends on the skill of the competitors."

"Ah, yes. Very good." The elven king glanced around, wine cup in hand, surveying his company. "There are a good many skilled elves out there, from every land, but I fancy this shan't be an easy competition."

Glorfindel looked back - he had retreated to the balcony after the commencement services, for a better view and, naturally, to mingle with the upper crust. "When is it easy, my lord?" he questioned, somewhat rhetorically. "But what makes this competition more difficult than the previous?"

Thranduil chuckled, face already tinged red with the effects of Midsummer brew. It was a holiday for drinking, and he was taking advantage of it. "Simple!" he answered with a hearty roar. "The strongest competitor out there has a hellcat to avoid, who, herself, has to keep away from the others because they'll think she's easy prey, and the rest of them with a chance will be avoiding everyone - knowing they're going to be targeted, seeing as the number one is already presumed taken care of."

If there were an explanation any less simple, Thranduil surely would have hit on it, but nonetheless, the elven king looked thoroughly pleased with his detailed explanation. Of everyone present, he alone seemed to understand precisely what it was he said.

"By hellcat, I presume you mean my granddaughter, Thranduil?" Celeborn questioned, voice light and airy - despite his frigid intonations.

"Well, she is a bit vicious, isn't she?"

"I am certain King Thranduil meant it with the best intentions, Lord Celeborn," Elrond mediated. "Your granddaughter is a renowned fighter, after all."

"Indeed," was the somewhat sullen answer. Every elf was entitled to live their life as they pleased, without restriction based on gender of birth, or anything of the sort, but that did not render either trait to be unimportant. LothLórien, more so than the other two elfdoms, retained a more aged view on positions in society, and who belonged where. She-elves were not supposed to fight, not because they couldn't, but because they didn't have to. It was the foremost duty of a male to protect his home and his people, to serve the female. Having a female fight and protect males was considered degrading, to both sides.

While Imladris and Mirkwood had evolved beyond that frame of mind, LothLórien held firmly to its beliefs, refusing to lose tradition to a modern world. Change heralded the end of an age, and they were determined to survive the millennia as long as the earth allowed.

"But what of Haldir?" A high voice arose from the back of the balcony, where Erestor, as always, had been sitting behind the elven lords. "He will surely have as negative an effect on Lady Uruviel as she will have on him, as King Thranduil explained."

The silence that followed was not in response to Erestor's comment, so much as it was in utter shock that he had understood the elven king. The two had a mutual dislike for each other. "Hear, hear!" Thranduil answered, toasting the advisor and downing the rest of his goblet. Erestor's only response was the slightest grimace - he hated wine.

"I fail to see why my granddaughter should have any effect on the Marchwarden," Celeborn replied.

"Yes," Galadriel added, her soft voice sending chills down the spines of many. "You make it seem as though Haldir should be targeting her, specifically, and the like. Aside from ability - I fail to see why they should have any interest in each other."

"Should it not be Dinendel, who is the most concerned?" the Lord of LothLórien remarked. "It was he who made the comment."

Thranduil scoffed dramatically. "Yes, but- oh... thank you." Before he had the opportunity to speak, a serving maid had begun to refill his goblet, which he promptly drowned himself in, out of habit. Sighing wistfully, Elrond shook his head. There were many things Galadriel and Celeborn, for all their wisdom, did not know about their granddaughter - and he was not about to let the inebriated King of Mirkwood ruin the day. Winking to the maid that had rushed to refill the empty goblet, he nodded - a signal to keep up the good work.

"Who will be after whom is unimportant," the Lord of Imladris answered. "What matters, is who will find the hidden ensign first."

"That is, if they find it at all," Glorfindel added dryly.

"Oh, I imagine someone will find it," Elrond replied, eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Am I to presume you're going to tell us where you've hidden it, my Lord?" Glorfindel asked - wary of an obvious answer.

"Actually, it took me quite some time to come up with an ideal location this year, I had to walk all of Imladris before I found a place." Elrond looked around for a moment, before leaning in coyly. "To find it, one must find something clearly blue."

"Well, obviously… the banner is blue," Glorfindel commented.

Galadriel met Elrond's eyes briefly, the elf lord withstanding her gaze remarkably well for someone attempting to hide something. "No… you've hidden it near something that's naturally blue."

"You've hidden the banner of Gil-hic ... Galad in a river?" Thranduil questioned, through a series of hiccoughs.

Glorfindel broke in once more. "You wouldn't… not underwater. Clearly blue… the water's not blue, the water is clear – but it will appear blue if something nearby is."

"Clearly," Galadriel finished, a small smile on her lips, "appearances aren't meant to be deceiving."

"Perhaps," Elrond replied with a smirk.