Fields and Forests

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

FIELDS & FORESTS OF ROHAN

~ where now is Azultur the Rider? Where is @Widfara
with her long hair flowing? ~

THIS THREAD MAY NOT BE FOR THE FAINT OF HEART, FOR AMIDST
THE TALES WOVEN LIE THEMES OF PERIL, GREED & MURDER

Sauron is vanquished and summer finds the land of the Eorlingas once more: The Riddermark with its rolling fields and pastures; rivers and meads; glowering mountains and forests (filled with boar and badgers) is yours to explore.

Lands long untended on the borders of the Kingdom are ripe for resettlement; the roads to realms beyond Anduin, the Limlight, Mering, Adorn and Isen beckon.

Where will your trusty steed take you? Who might you meet on your travels?

Maps to help plan you expeditions - HERE

Threadiquette:

This Thread is open to all Kingdoms and Races.

All Plaza Rules Apply

Don’t post in RED, I’ll be using this for updates as the thread moves along.

Indicate your location at the top of your post.

If you’re travelling with others, a band of NPCs, mayhap, mention them too.

Allow two people to post, or 24 hours, before making your next submission.

Posts of 400+ characters are encouraged.

Be creative – entertain us!

[Amhran]

Scene: Sunrise, Middle of Nowhere, Westemnet. A faint glitter at the very edge of the horizon shows where the River Onedlo flows past a tiny village of little importance except to those who live in it. Farms dot the landscape for many miles around. But not just here. Here are the wide open spaces, rolling hills, uncultivated, wild grasses rippling in the light breeze that comes with the dawn, the blade tips glowing in the first light. There is a faint sound of galloping hooves receding into the distance. A large horse, probably draft. And framed against the pink-and-gold sky, at the top of the ridge, is the silhouette of a woman, small, stocky, and with one leg down a badger hole.

Faintly on the breeze comes the cry, "Landan, you coward, get back here!"

To learn the origin of this interesting situation, we must rewind a bit.

It has long been the habit of Amhran Sulhhandla to get up early - stupidly early - to take a gallop over the hills to get a breath of fresh, free air and watch the sun rise every morning before the small fry get up and she's elbow deep in the daily work of the household. Today was no exception. Easing herself quietly out of bed so as not to disturb her husband, Amhran put on her old cavalry habit (a bit tight around the hips now, even with some tailoring over the years) and slipped a halter on one of the two horses they kept for general farm work.

At first the ride went as usual. Amhran loved the cool, clear morning air and the stiff breeze brushing through her hair. Riding a plow horse didn't have the same feel as her old cavalry mount, Aduaidh; the gallop was slower and heavier. But Aduaidh, that beautiful buckskin bay with pricked ears and arched neck, had gone to his rest, full of years and covered with praise, several years ago; and the grey Landan, though not as swift or agile, was becoming equally beloved in his own way. Besides, she didn't need to dodge and twist through battle. All she wanted was a bit of early morning peace and -

Just then Landan did indeed show some unusual agility and shied. Amhran, who had her head turned to look at a hawk rising on a thermal above her, wasn't prepared and lurched forward, smacking her nose into Landan's withers. Horse and rider both snorted and shook their heads irritably. "What's with you, sir?" Amhran muttered, peering around the big horse's neck to see what was making him back and fill quite so dramatically. It wasn't hard to see. Black and white stripes. Glittering eyes. Flat, stocky, carpet-like body. "Oh."

She dismounted. Her husband always insisted that if she was going out on her own she should take her sword with her, and she had it. Unbuckling the sword she poked it, still sheathed, at the badger in her path. She hadn't really expected it to move, though she had hoped it would move away. Instead, to her surprise, it lunged forward, causing her to leap backward with an exclamation. In her leap she stumbled and lost a shoe. Grasping the shoe in its teeth, the badger turned tail and galumphed with surprising speed over the grassy hill. Amhran swore and pelted after the badger, but before she had gone twenty paces, all Middle Earth seemed to capsize and implode as one leg shot down a hole with such suddenness that Landan, already on edge about the weird furry thing, lost his nerve completely and bolted.

"Landan, you coward, get back here!"

The badger hunkered down precisely out of the reach of arm plus sword and chewed at the shoe. Amhran tried, and failed, to lever herself up and out of the hole. So there she is, for now, facing off with a badger, and at an utter disadvantage.

"Crap."

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

Two Points of the compass:-

East: Above the Mouths of the Entwash ~ NPC: The Lone Rider

The tall Rider disembarked south of Rauros, and declined the invitation of a barge north of San Gerbir. There seemed little point on riding the River any longer, when days would be wasted on paths that skirted the falls and rapids.

And besides he found signs (spoer left long months hence for those with an eye to read them) which indicated one of the men he pursued had headed west from this very point. And of the other, neither tongue nor track could tell.

A choice lay before him, then. Continue north through the broken country of the Emyn Muil with no certainty a quarry lay before him, or west across the plains along a trail that was long cold.

West! he decided, after much deliberation (and a memory of a night visitor to his cottage near Aldburg). Aye, the westway it would be. News he might find before he reached Meduseld, on its high hill, for there were many ‘steads and burghs dotted across the East Emnet and Eastfold.

West: Fords of Isen ~ NPC: Fallon Underwood

The little hobbit clambered onto the baggage of the rearmost horse. It was the third time he’d been forced to alter his travel plans since leaving Bree. Thinking on the run, and cadging a ride without being discovered was an irksome business. He was tired, sore and, most of all, hungry after long days upon the road.

Perched atop the creaking cargo of his new ride he peered at the mound on the islet ahead of the caravan. It was ringed with shivered spears, and capped with the remains of shattered shields and helms.

“Rohan!” he said aloud, as the horses splashed across the Ford. “Home of the Horse-lords - a home I knew too, long ago…”

Geography was not the little fellow’s strength and hunger weakened his ability to guess how long it would be before he reached his intended destination. With any luck the caravan would bypass Helm’s Deep, a place he knew lay nearby, and carry straight on along the highway to Edoras.

That would be good! Another night of skulking and finding a new way to travel undiscovered seemed beyond him.

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

Four Points of the Compass:-

West: Edoras ~ NPC: Fallon Underwood

Nineteen days on the road out of Bree, and how many more before that? The hobbit couldn't tell, in fact he wasn't even sure if his journey from Bree had taken as long as he thought.

19! Yes, that felt right. 19, a number of power, his old comrade was wont to quote.

From his perch upon the creaking cargo, Fallon saw a lone hill upon the plain. The wooden palisade about the hillock, the green fields and rushing stream at its base, told him his journey was almost done. And, if there was any doubt that he neared Edoras, it was dispelled as the rising sun caused the roof of Meduseld to flame like burnished gold.

South: The King's Road, Eastfold ~ NPC: The Lone Rider

The Rider cursed his aged body. How many miles he could have covered in a day, in his youth, he could not remember. But it was certainly more than nineteen. The ache in his back flared with each hoof-fall; the rhumatiz, powerful strong this morning, made of his hands claws about the reins.

He had found shelter in a barn, out of the driving rain, the night before. The news from the crofter over breakfast had reset his destination. North he swung now, the fortress town of Aldburg behind him. Through gritted teeth he offered a challenge to his steed, and clung on gamely as they thundered towards the hill-country of the Wold.

East: The Wold, Vale of the Anduin ~ NPC: Nadene Dughlaich

Moonlight flooded her bedchamber. Beyond the shuttered window Nadene heard the songbirds' first stirrings. Dawn! Dear Bema, she should be long away…

She was dressed for riding; of course she was, for riding had been her immediate concern before sleep had somehow crept over her. And that had been just after breakfast. How long had she slept? Nineteen hours at least!

Her boot heels had left faint smudges on the mattress. Her bodice sat too tight about her midriff. She took the pillow from between her knees and tossed it in frustration across the room.

At the foot of the bed, upon her man's wooden chest, her luggage stood, two leather bags stuffed snug with the things she could not bear to leave behind. She snatched them up as she bustled through to the kitchen.

North: The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps.

Aodh Hammerhelm sat quietly upon the graven step. Behind him, leading up to windswept summit of the butte, more lay. Eighteen more he deemed. Aye, nineteen in total. He knew this as truth without having walked them.

Across the ledge, sheltered under a limestone cliff, his companions slept. Goldwhæt lay like a child, on his side with his knees drawn to his chest. Eléowyn - his wife, his life - supine and blanket-swaddled, purred soft snores.

He could see each feature of her face in the faint moonlight. Her eyelids flickered; a smile touched the corners of her mouth. She dreamed the dreams of the innocent and righteous; no guilt or burden of quest stalked her sleep.

Let it always be so, he thought, standing as the eastern sky began to lighten.

The countryside below their campsite seemed empty and quiet, but beyond the sense of sight, sound and scent he felt in his heart the warning of coming danger.

He hunkered, cloak fluttering in the morning breeze, and laid out the makings of a smoke. And there he knelt, wreathed in thought and smoke-rings, as the day brightened and the road running west was revealed.

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

The familiar scent of pipeweed was what wakened her, more so than the growing light from the east. She lay for a moment, quietly enjoying the soft light and pungent aroma as smoke rings drifted over her head. What she was not enjoying was the feel of pebbles in her back, and so she reluctantly stretched, rolled to her side and sat up.

It took her a moment to spot her husband, still only a dark silhouette hunkered in the pink dawn. Slowly she lifted herself to her feet, bones and muscles stiff and aching, but heart full of love ... and foreboding. She glanced quickly toward the still-sleeping Goldwhæt, then strode toward Aodh and settled herself next to him.'

"Good morning," Eléowyn said softly, leaning her head onto his shoulder and hooking her arm through his. Her gaze followed his over the westward road. "Dare I hope we might travel that road soon?"

[Calimir]

The Road from Aldburg to Edoras:

Callimdir had never felt this free. Sure in Gondor there were fields around Minas Tirith to ride in, but they weren't as wide or empty as the lands he rode through now. He was an errand rider of Gondor. He had been now for three months. At first while training he had to ride along besides an experienced chap. There journeys were short and he hadn't seen much outside of the Pelennor. Then one day : a happy day, he'd been told he'd earned his spurs and could now ride alone on the King's business. So here he was on a bright summer's day racing along the main road through the Riddermark. He didn't care how long it took him to get there. Or how long it took to ride home. He was free, for the first time in his life.

[Amhran]

The sun grew warm. A butterfly floated past on gossamer wings. Somewhere nearby, a songbird peeped a warning to its companions that the hawk was still overhead.

And Amhran was getting sore.

The badger had long since finished with the shoe and ambled off to find a more substantial breakfast.

Still she sat on, half in, half out of the badger hole. Her spine felt like it was fusing into the shape of one of those twisty animals on the margin of an illuminated manuscript.

A beetle tickled her toes.

Just when she was starting to wonder if she would start to grow roots, she heard a step and a jingle of harness behind her. Twisting her neck painfully over her shoulder, she peered up through the strong sunlight to see Athelstan, her husband, bringing Landan behind him. There was a brief silence as Athelstan fought to keep his expression straight. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "When you weren't at breakfast, I figured I'd better come find you." He instructed Landan to stand, then gripped his wife under her arms and hoisted her bodily out of the hole.

Amhran stood gratefully on both feet, gradually working the kinks out of back, hips, and knees. After looking mournfully at her one soiled trouser leg and shoeless foot, she cocked her head sideways and looked at her husband out of the corner of her eye. "Not a word to the children."

He assumed an expression of mock horror. "What do you take me for?"

"I mean it. I'd never hear the end of it. 'Are you going for a ride, Mummy? Watch out for holes! Don't go until Daddy has scouted the whole West Emnet for badgers. Here, take grandpa's hunting horn, you might need it to call for help!'"

Athelstan couldn't contain himself any longer and let out a loud bark of laughter. Amhran grinned in spite of herself. "Sorry I wasn't there for breakfast. Did everyone get fed without me?"

"Oh yes, Magda and Ethelfled got everything ready between them. You'd already soaked the porridge oats so all they had to do was put it over the fire for a bit and we had plenty." They were walking back towards their farmstead by now, and Athelstan turned to look at his wife. "That puts me in mind of something I've been thinking about, though. The older girls are eager to try running the house by themselves for a little while, and this morning turned into a bit of a test run. You could use a break, why don't you take a few days and go somewhere by yourself? You've been wanting to visit your cousin, I know; might be a good excuse to get out for a bit."

"Really? But what about..."

"I have no heavy horse work to do for a few weeks, so you can take Landan, and I will keep the boys busy around the farm."

"But..."

"And old Martha in the village has said several times that if you ever need her to, she would love to come look after the smaller children. She could also be a help directing the older girls in some of the housekeeping."

"Hmph. Sounds like I shall soon be disposable."

Her husband laughed again. "Hardly that, my dear. I think it will be good for you to get away for a bit though."

And so it was that Amhran found herself trotting north along the banks of the Onedlo, toward another village a day and a half's ride from her own. Her cousin still lived there and as it transpired, had recently given birth. Amhran spent four days with her cousin, resting, catching up on news and reliving old memories, and rocking the new little cousin while the tired mother took a nap.

After she left her cousin, being in no hurry she decided to take a few days and explore the wild areas of the West Emnet, where, thanks to the depredations of orcs toward the end of the Third Age, the land had ceased to be cultivated and run wild. The orcs were gone, and Amhran cantered over rolling, grassy plains, Landan wading knee-deep in mixtures of timothy and oats, once part of cropland but now growing as they would over the hills. Often she would come across burned homesteads with nearby an old orchard, rank with weeds and grasses but still bearing their apples and pears year by year with none but rabbits and feral cattle to appreciate the fruits. She packed her knapsack with some early apples, and took a few slips of the trees and wrapped them in a damp handkerchief to root and plant at home. Woody copses dotted the plain and provided shade during the warmest part of the day, and it was one day, five days or so after leaving her cousin, that she was walking her horse languidly through one of the copses, and singing to herself.

"I have a song to sing, O... What is your song, O? It is sung to the moon by a love-lorn loon, Who fled from the mocking throng-O!"*

Goodness it was getting hot. High summer must be approaching.

"It's a song of a merry-man, moping mum, whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum,"

And what a lot of flies there were today!

"Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, as he sighed for the love of a lady!"

A LOT of flies. And what was that smell? It seemed familiar, unpleasantly so...

"Heighdy! Heighdy! Misery-me, lack-a-day- OH SWEET BEMA."

It wasn't as though Amhran had never seen a dead body before. For that matter, she'd created plenty of them herself. But that had been in clean battle. From what she could tell, whoever this was had died slowly and in pain, if anything was to be guessed from the expression on the face. It had clearly been there for several days and the insects and small nibbling things had had their way with the corpse.

Amhran staggered out of the range of the smell and sat down, breathing slowly, trying to clear her head. Thoughts span one by one through her head, each sounding more outlandish than the next, but repeatedly and over all lay the question:

What in Middle Earth was one of the Haradrim doing deep in the wilds of Rohan? And how had he died?

*(OOC: posthumous comp'ts to Mssrs Gilbert and Sullivan)

(Also OOC: If anyone would like to join me in telling this story, I'd love to have you. Other people with plot twist ideas are always welcome!)

[Wamba_the_Fool]

((OOC: I gotcher plot twist right here! ))

West Emnet

"Well -
Yer not as young as you once were, and you'll ne'er be young again,"

You can be forgiven, dear reader, for being unaware that the singing man was, in fact, a tracking man. Oh aye, his eyes were more before him than on the horizon, and sure, he occasionally bent down to inspect foliage, but that just made him a careful, curious singer, did it not?

"Yer hair is gray and yer hands are slack, and yer knees creak when they bend,"

I grant you, a sharp-eyed observer might notice a swaying gait, and the fact that he led his horse on foot, but surely he was just a cocky swaggerer who was giving his faithful steed a rest; not some sailor who had not ridden more than a day or two at any one time in decades.

"Yer eyes are dim and yer teeth are dull, and yer hearing went last year,"

Of course, there was the well-maintained spear of ashen haft and shiny-sharp steel, and the familiarly-relaxed manner his hands handled it - but he was merely using it as a walking-staff, and the thews that could tense and spring for action were just cautious of stumbling, clearly.

"But you've got something that goes yer way, and I'll set it out right here:"

Yes, this was a doughty son of Helm, of that there can be no doubt; his flaxen hair and frank visage emphasized a face that was more earnest than fair. (His eyes had more laugh-lines than care-lines, but age and life were catching them up.) Perhaps he was hunting? That would account for his presence in this now sadly-deserted land, and his alertness, and his pathfinding.

But, he had no bow. And would a hunter sing?

"Yer not as dead as the fella yer trackin',
Though he was alive three days ago,
And if when you find him he still is kickin',
Then use yer spear and make him so, (so, so....)
Aye! Make him deader than dead!"

Oh! Oh my.

The man's horse snorted and shook his head.
"Well, Blæcstan? Smell something?"
The man made a noise and followed suit.
"Aye, there it is. Whoof, doesn't get any better, does it lad?"
Blæcstan whickered conversationally, and the man grunted noncommittally in reply.
"Well, may as well make sure, we've come all this way. Have to make a new song up later, I guess."
He led his mount quicker now, more intense-like, and his singing was under his breath; almost an afterthought. ("Well mother dear, I love ye still, but surely ye be knowin' / the kind of man yer own son is, an' the blood in him that's flowin'...") It stopped when he sighted the corpse. Silently, he dropped Blæcstan's reins (who moved upwind and began cropping grass) and approached the rapidly-decomposing corpse of the Southron he'd been charged with tracking weeks ago. It was him, surely; the gear told the tale where the features did not, and the manner of death fit the tale he'd been told. The man grunted once more (very committally this time) and had just pursed his lips to whistle for his horse when something else caught his eye. More tracks. Smaller and lighter than those he'd been seeing in the recent past, but very familiar to some he'd seen in the distant past...
A scampish grin quirked his lips.
"If I'm wrong, no-one will know. And if I'm right..."
The man took a deep breath - and almost gagged from the corpse-stink. But then his shoulders were squared and his voice was raised - through the air and the years and the scent of the grave:

"To me, to me, Riders of Westmark!
Swords and swift spearmen, singing in slaughter!
Boldness is needed, never to falter - 
In ale-house, in bone-house, hewing with laughter!
Westmark - HOOOO!!!"

The man chuckled to himself as he followed a new set of tracks now:
"Amhran, by Bema's beard, or I'm an oliphaunt!"
Blæcstan peered after his master with an offended look. If horses can shrug, he did.

[Calimir]

Arriving in Edoras:
Cal's spurred his horse over the fields by the river Snowbourne. He'd never seen grass so green, the dew made it sparkle like the jewelled eagle the King of Gondor wore. He came to a ford and Richie his horse slowed a bit. They splashed through the cold water and up a hill on the otherside. There on a hill was Edoras and a gate not a mile away. Cal reined Richie a little, slowing the horse so he could get a good look at fields below the town.

He was here, in the land of the horse-lords. he hoped he would stay a while before going home.

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

The hill country of the Wold ~ NPC: The Lone Rider

He had ridden hard throughout the day, and on into the night. The moon lit his way and he stopped only to rest his horse and stretch his tired limbs.

At dawn of the second day of his departure from the Folde the Lone Rider reached an escarpment high above Anduin. In the brightening morn he espied, far below, a cottage neatly set amidst tended fields and smart out buildings. A tendril of white smoke climbed from the cottage’s chimney. A narrow pathway snaked its way down slope before him.

An hour’s ride it would take to the cottage, no more. And breakfast would be waiting.

But he was tired, more exhausted than he had ever known. He slipped from the saddle and picketed his horse. With the beast fed and watered he cast himself upon the stony ground, and through he resisted it, the urge to sleep grew stronger.

“Away, Dim!” he croaked, hands fluttering as if to ward off an unseen enemy.

In the pine trees behind him he heard the harsh call of a crow, then darkness fell over him and Ælfred slept long and deep.


Nadene's Cottage, The Wold, Vale of the Anduin ~ NPC: Nadene Dughlaich

The kitchen, her place of succour and sanctuary down the years, was cold and draughty. Nadene frowned. You’ve left the door ajar! What were you thinking?

She swung the door closed and slid the bolt. She’d been careless as well as sleepy, what would Aodh say if he marked her carelessness? Unease skittered in her belly. The lock was a flimsy thing! She grabbed the nearest chair and set it against the door wedging it tight under the handle. A quick breakfast and on your way, missy - no more delay!

She crossed to the sink and in the gloom almost upended the water pitcher. "Steady girl" she muttered turning towards the hearth. The fire had burned to low embers and the space behind the kitchen table and fireplace was a place of fleeting shadows and deeper shade. Darkest of all something or someone seemed to be sitting in her husband’s chair.

Stop it, missy... Stop this right now! She turned, grasped the shutter and hauled it open. The sudden light blinded her momentarily. She drew three quick breaths, set her hands around the base of her belly and steeled herself to turn.

“Hullo, Nadene. Long time, my dear.” The voice was rich and warm, but it sent a spear of ice through Nadene’s heart.

She turned and saw him - saw him and knew him at once. “You!”

”Oh, yes!” Rædwulf Fleðð beamed his hatefully happy grin. “Come at last to find you, Nadene my sweet… Come at last to claim my bride.”

His gaze held her for a time – a second which felt like an eternity – than she spun away and clutched at the chair. Behind her Fællon’s chair creaked. Lazy footfalls, a clocking of worn boot heels, made their way across the room. The chair eased free, she turned and threw it at the Dark Man. He batted it away easily, stood with his hands on his slim hips and roared laughter that shook the rafters.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl, oh yes,” he tittered loping toward her, “a very, very naughty girl!”

Bema, save me! her mind yammered as she tugged at the door. The flimsy lock did not yield.

She yanked at the handle for all she was worth, still the lock held. And then he was upon her and, as his mirth gave way to wrath, she saw him as he really was and swooned.

North: The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps.

As he smoked and watched the road, Aodh Hammerhelm flexed the fingers of each of his hands. Like a child he counted them left through right, pointing each skyward. Ten!

He held his palms outward and uttered a list of names, an incantation, as he lowered each finger in turn:
“Alain and ‘Bert and Susan.. Arthur and Corð and Ringbold... Eléowyn, Goldwhæt and Ælfred!”

He did not count his right pinkie. Three tet made nine. The last finger stood for his Enemy and he would not name him.

Ten and nine made nineteen – 19 a number of power. Would it be enough? Had he miscalculated?

He heard Eléo cross the ledge, and his heart broke a little at her coming. He’d hoped she’d sleep on as the day lengthened; prayed even, that she’d sleep through the arrival of the Dark Man and what ever calamity would follow after.

He dropped his hands and reached out to find hers. He was still for a long moment, no longer in thought but revelling in this moment of peace before the storm found them.

“I know not,” he said turning to face her. “If luck falls on our side, mayhap we shall. If not and ka plays us for fools, we may tread the way to the clearing at the end of the path.

I’m sorry I’ve brought you to this place, dearest Eléo. Believe me when I say: there was no other way…”

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin

Eléowyn could feel the tension in Aodh's hands, could feel the instant when the peace of the moment was broken. Her heart ached for the weight he was carrying, and she desired nothing more than to stroke his brow and assure him all would be well. But it would be a lie: she knew it, and he would know it as well.

But one thing she could assure him. "You have no cause to say sorry. Destiny, or as you call it, ka, has brought us here, but our future does not depend on fate. That we will forge together, and if death be the result, then at least we will not have died cowering somewhere waiting for destiny to overtake us."

She managed a small smile, which broke into a big grin as her stomach rumbled. The light was growing ever more golden, as the sun rose higher above the horizon. "Shall we awaken Goldwhæt, or shall we let him rest while we prepare to break our fast?" she asked. But her grin turned quickly to a frown. "Or do I even dare hope we have time for that?"

@Aodh Hammerhelm

[Amhran]

The nausea had passed. Amhran blew out a long breath and stood up, fumbling at the straps of her saddlebag to extract her water skin, and taking a few deep swallows. The king would, of course, have to be informed that at least one Southron - albeit a dead one - had been sighted in his lands, and that there was also a murderer loose. And that meant that she needed to go back and search the body for some kind of identification. Shuddering at the thought, she took another swig from her water skin, more to put off the evil moment as long as possible than from any remaining thirst.

A shout from behind her nearly made her spit her mouthful of water all over the horse. An old battle cry from her cavalry days, in a voice that had once been nearly as familiar to her as her own. Her blood brother? Nawh, it couldn't be; she hadn't seen him in years. And yet -

She turned around, and saw the man approaching her through the trees.

"Blaedtunge!"

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

The hill country of the Wold ~ NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed:

Ælfred woke suddenly. He blinked in the bright sunlight and shielded his single-eye from the reflection off the chalky ground beneath him. He stood and stretched.

How long had he been dead to the world? It seemed like forever.

The position of the sun and the lines of shadows behind the cottage and buildings far below, told him he had slept no longer than an hour. And yet he felt refreshed, as if some spell had been lifted from him. His back and rhumatiz no longer gnawed at him!

His horse nickered a hullo, and stamped a hoof eagerly. There was no camp to break and stow. The one-eyed wigend swung into the saddle easily, and guided his steed onto the path that led to the valley below.


The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:

Aodh turned his gaze back upon the distant highway. Together, whatever! The troth they had pledged weighed on his heart - he could not bear to look into Eléo’s face as she spoke.

Death? Aye, there would be death before sunset and if he was not careful it would be that of Goldwhæt and @Eléowyn .

“Nay, do not wake him,” Aodh replied, sensing a change in his wife’s mood. He turned, and his own lifted as saw the broad smile on her face.

“I’d have him sleep on as long as possible - his mood was fey last night.

Breakfast? Aye, that sounds mighty fine. We have time still, a little yet at least, for land and air offers no rumour of the coming of our enemy.

Can you prepare a meal without lighting a fire though, to keep Goldwhæt from stirring rather than hiding ourselves from Wælter? There is no longer any point in playing Castles with the Dark Man: he knows this place, he knows where we are - for this is his place, a place set especially for us.

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

"Aye, I think I can come up with something," Eléo replied to @Aodh Hammerhelm. "I stowed away a few berries that I found along the trail here. And we have a crust or two of bread left. It will be hard, but still edible. There's water still in our skins. It will be a meager meal, but will just suffice. But, oh, what I would not give for a cup of elderberry tea!"

And what she would not have given for the luxury of sitting longer by her husband's side, arm in arm, enjoying the dawn as it changed from pink to pale blue. She was suddenly overcome with the emotion of recognizing what she had, and knowing it could all be gone before the day was out.

Jumping up from her perch, she turned and headed in haste to her sack of provisions. You ninny, she chastised herself silently as she hurried away. He needs to see your strength, not your fear. In her haste, she stumbled slightly over a large pebble in the path, and cursed it soundly.

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Blædtunge, in the East West Emnet, with @Amhran

He'd been right! That bootprint had chimed an old chord in his memory, but the tone rang true. Old pæthfindian drills of tracking other members of his eored during cross-Mark maneuvers didn't leave the soul, he reckoned. Good to know.

But there she was - Amhran, blodsweostor of old - a little thicker around the middle but unmistakably the shieldmaiden he'd ridden with lo, those many moons ago.

A brief tremor of uncertainty shook his smile - would she even want to see him again? He, who was supposedly as close as a brother, but had disappeared that fateful night? It wasn't like he could deny anything either, not that he would.

But no, let the stroke fall as it may, for weal or woe. There she was, and there he was, and a whole train of Balchoth wouldn't be able to keep him from at least clasping her forearm and hailing her. Maybe not quite like the old days, but similar. Old-ish days.

"Westu Amhran hal," he said with a grin, holding out his hand.

[Amhran]

Amhran, in the West Emnet with @Wamba_the_Fool

Amhran wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry, hug him or hit him, or some admixture of all four. Two shocks in quick succession were prompting a temptation to hysterics, but she was old enough by now to understand that excesses of emotion are not the relief one thinks they are when one is young - so she did not do any of those things. Besides, surprise was rapidly being replaced by joy: she had missed her friend when they had been obliged to part and she clasped his arm eagerly. "Ferthu Blaedtunge hal!"

There was a pause, happiness still crinkling the corners of their eyes, but neither was sure what to say. Amhran eventually broke the silence, her smile fading slightly. "Blaed - brother - it's been twenty years. Where have you BEEN?"

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

Nadene’s Cottage, Vale of the Anduin ~ NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed:

He approached the homestead with the wind at his back. The brooding watchfulness that had hung over the high country of the Wold was replaced by a sense of quiet as Ælfred rode by the carefully tended fields. Away east, far over the high bluffs that lined Anduin’s eastern shore, the old wigend espied the distant sputter of lightning in a bruised sky.

He reined in as his horse stepped into the homestead's yard and cast his single eye over the buildings that surrounded it. Quiet reigned here too, but not the calmness he’d felt as he crossed the fields. Nay, this was a stillness that made him uneasy, that spoke of an empty cottage – that told he’d come too late.

Slipping from the saddle, Ælfred led his steed to a hitching post. He secured her, rubbed her neck gently, then turned, hand on hilt, and walked towards the abode’s shaded veranda.


The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:

Aodh kept his eyes on the road as Eléo set off to make their breakfast. He heard the skitter of a pebble and her soft curse, but made no move to aid her.

When the sound of pot and pan reached him he stood and crossed quickly to Goldwhæt. He bent, took up the sword cast carelessly by his friend’s sleeping form, then moved to Eléo’s place of rest. Her blankets were neatly folded and beside them, sheathed in a wooden scabbard, lay the crude harrier blade she’d carried from Edoras. He hunkered, took one of her blankets and rolled and tied the swords within it.

His comrades might carry other weapons – a skein in the small of the back or a dirk in a boot – but they were not the kind they’d raise in anger against the Dark Man. He stood and found the crevice near the head of the path they’d climbed from the plain. The bundle fitted snug and out of sight in the shaded niche.

Dusting his hands Aodh turned, drew a long breath and walked over to his wife. He sat opposite her, legs crossed, and watched as she finished off the preparation of their meal.

His position offered him sight of the path by which their enemy would come. In the distant east the blue morning gave way to a tumultuous sky. Lightning flickered amongst roiling cloud and thunder sounded just on the edge of hearing.

It was as if great battle was joined, a clash that would decide the fortune of the world.

If that was so, it was not his battle.

Here, on the summit of tall Tafelberg, would the fate of Aodh Hammerhelm and his tet be decided.


@Eléowyn

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

Eléowyn felt almost content, preparing breakfast with her husband nearby, the pale sky deepening to a promising blue. She could sense Aodh's movements behind her, and she smiled slightly as he settled himself at last within her sight. She began to hum a tune, though she could not recall where she had heard it.

The peace was soon shattered. A distant rumble, and a flash of light signaled an approaching storm. It made her nervous. She did not fear thunderstorms; nor did she put much faith in omens. Still, she was uneasy.

Her preparations complete, Eléo handed over Aodh's portion of the makeshift breakfast, then turned to see if Goldwhæt was stirring yet. Something seemed amiss as her eyes passed over the spot where she had lain. Her brow crinkled as she tried to figure it out. But she was hungry, so upon seeing Goldwhæt's eyes still closed, she turned back to sit by Aodh to eat her own meal.

@Aodh Hammerhelm

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

Nadene’s Cottage, Vale of the Anduin ~ NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed:

The old wigend stood at the door of the cottage listening intently. “Hullo!” he called. No answer greeted him. The door stood ajar and on the floorboards he saw the broken shards of an iron bolt. He stepped over the threshold, nearly tripping over a broken chair that lay in his path. A bright splash of blood marked the near wall; it glistened in the light that fell over his shoulder.

He edged towards a second door, a door leading to a room off the kitchen. It was a bedchamber, quiet and empty. He knelt, drawn to a hank of dark hair shot through with silver; it had not been cut, but yanked out at the roots. Two leather bags and their contents were strewn beneath a chest at the foot of the bed. The Ælfred's eye flashed over the chest – a sea-chest, may it please you – and sighed. Goldwhæt’s pride and joy, carved with his own hand.

He stood and hurried from the cottage. In the yard he spotted what caution had hidden as he first approached the 'stead, a line of spoer, boot prints made by a man carrying something heavy and awkward. They led to the hitching post – the very post he’d tied his mount to! – then vanished in a muddle of hoof prints.

“Too late!” he shouted across the yard. “Far too late…”

And now for him came the hardest thing of all: instinct and years of training urged him to follow the trail of the brigand and his captive; duty and an oath stayed him. He crouched in the dust, cast his eye upward and wept.


The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps: @Eléowyn

Aodh took the plate from his wife’s hand and set it by his side. Reaching out for the mug he cupped Eléo’s hands in his for a lingering moment and gazed intently into her face. The frown lines above her brow, that expression of intelligence and care that had first made him fall for her, were there and those vivid eyes of blue. Her nose was proud and straight, the blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders showed no signs of grey. He loved her now as he loved her then, and he would do anything to keep her safe.

”Looks good,” he smiled ruefully. “Almost as good as honeyed apples in butter cooked on a winter fire. Eat, léof, we have time yet to spare, but not much.

I would speak with you, as your friend and lover first…

And then, though I will it not, as your captain.”

Aodh slipped a hand from Eléo’s and rested it upon the small pouch that hung at his waist. He ate his meagre breakfast without relish, as sustenance only for the trial ahead, then setting his plate aside once more, he prepared a smoke and waited for his wife to finish her meal.

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

Aodh’s hands on hers drove out the unease that had earlier settled on her. Or, at least, gave her courage to face whatever the day would bring.

The tender moment was short-lived. It seemed to her now that all their tender moments were short-lived. Always they were separated by war, by circumstance, by … some evil force. Yet their love had endured, as it ever would.

Eléo lifted the crusty bread to her lips, popped the berries one by one into her mouth, but she tasted little of what she ate. She was trying desperately to concentrate on this quiet moment, to push aside the worries of how the day would unfold. At last, with nothing left on her plate but one over-ripe berry, she brushed the crumbs from her lap and took a long draught from the waterskin.

Goldwhæt was still snuffling softly in his sleep, for which Eléo was grateful. There were, perhaps, things that should be said between husband and wife, without prying ears. Those were words to be cherished. What she dreaded, however, was what Aodh would say as their leader. She had promised she would obey his command without question, though she feared the moment might come when that would be the hardest thing of all.

@Aodh Hammerhelm

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Blædtunge, in the West Emnet, with @Amhran ((What is this, Clue?))

The not-as-young-as-he-once-was Rider barked a rueful chortle and ran a hand through his hair as he took a step back. He was just buying time, and he knew it, but it's not like another couple of seconds would actually help him.

"Well, sweostor min, I'll tell you," Blætunge began, perhaps more to confirm to himself than as an introduction. He took a breath and then wrinkled his nose.

"After I take care of our friend. Or, what's left of him. Care to come with?"

------------

The copse where the Southron's corpse decomposed still stank, but Blædtunge was still determined to learn a bit more about this... man... he had tracked. Most of his gear fit the tale he'd been telling in his head: essentials of Southron origin, covered over by Gondorian clothes and cut of hair even; weapons, too. The only weapon of Harad-make was the traditional ceremonial knife; everything else could have been picked up in any number of smithies all over the Kingdom. So what was he to make of this old talisman, then? Everything else ritual in nature was Southron, but this was old. Amber, he thought, or a really strange coloration of bloodstone? Bema's beard, he was a sailor, that is, a Rider, well, whatever he was, it wasn't a stone-sage! He knew enough of the Gondorian's script to tell that the few letters on the thing were related, but old. Ancient even, maybe, when his people still lived up northaways. It was cold, anyway. He pocketed it and began to cover the man in stones.

[Amhran]

((Colonel Mustard! In the library!! With the candlestick!!!)) @Wamba_the_Fool

Amhran started. "Heavens, I nearly forgot! I will come with you." She followed Blaed back into the copse, where the stench once again nearly overpowered her. Gulping back her gag reflex, she sought about for stones to cover the remains while her companion rifled through its effects. Blaed slipped something into his pocket. She would ask him about that later; for now the most important thing in her mind was to get that travesty out of sight as quickly as possible. As she helped pile stones over the corpse she found words running unbidden through her mind. "In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there-O..." Now that she got a better look at it, she too noticed the bizarre combination of Southron face and Gondorian garb; who WAS this man? And was it important, that he had tried to disguise himself? A spy? A refugee? Job done, she straightened her back and dusted her hands, singing the last verse under her breath.

"Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he has gane:
O'er his white banes, where they lie bare-O,
The wind sall blaw for evermair-O,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

Out loud she said, "We should tell the king. He ought to know that one of these people..." She caught sight of her friend's face, and it came over her that this find had not surprised him in the slightest. "Blaed! Do you know why this man is here?"

[Allacan ob Burzum]

Allacan, in disguise, in an abandoned building, at night. INVITE ONLY

The day had been interesting, that was for sure! She’d only been back in Meduseld for a few hours and already it felt like the whole world had shifted beneath her feet. Firstly it had been getting waylaid in the Riddermarket by complaints of theft and bullying, and then she had been summoned into the Mx Meduseld tent by the Second Marshal. ‘Discrete’ the Marshal had asked for; it was Allacan’s least favourite word right now. With the intent of being ‘discrete’ she had entered the tent dressed as the Mordorian assassin Dulug-on-Burzum only to discover that the eagle-eyed Taeth and the canny Gwai were the judges! So perceptive were they that she’d been forced to throw discretion aside and attempt to ingratiate herself with any would-be mischief makers by playing the role of an enemy of Rohan. She still couldn’t believe how narrowly she had managed to get her message through the Taethowen and Gwai before they arrested her or worse, and the manner in which Silendris had looked at her still made her shiver inside; something about that person troubled her. And despite all her efforts and perseverance, in many ways it was all for naught; her presence there had not stopped the mischief makers from causing mayhem, although it may have provided some element of damage control.

She’s had little time to process all those events when she was recalled to her promise to run the festival tournament, and with minimal preparation time left she had been forced to compartmentalise much of her thoughts, attempt a swift costume change that had all the same not hidden her face tattoo and recently dyed black-hair away, and then co-ordinate the refereeing and awards for the melee combat event. What little regard she had earned among the minions in the Mx Meduseld tent might have been lost during the Campian tournament, but she couldn’t honestly be sure. She suspected that the few minions who had connected the mysterious individual at the Mx Meduseld tent and the officiator at the Campian grounds still couldn’t be certain of her loyalties, and that would have to be enough.

But more disconcerting than all the convoluted efforts of the day, indeed much more than anything else that had happened in the last few hours, was that when Allacan had been back in the guise of Dulug-on-Burzum... she’d enjoyed it. More than enjoyed... she had revelled in the whole-hearted expression of emotions and desires she normally suppressed. She had long ago vowed to bury that persona deep within her and had intended only to bring it out when absolutely necessary - in the service of her king and country - but now she had done it twice in such quick successful, she was almost intoxicated with the idea of doing so again. Truth told, she didn’t want to put it back.

If she were pulled before the Marshals for questioning, she could still justify that it was ‘all for the greater good of Rohan’ and ‘Sometimes you have to break the rules a little to get the job done’ she reflected to herself again as she reached the abandoned building. It was an exceedingly familiar place to her, she had been squatting here since her return to Rohan, stowing her more questionable belongings beneath the floorboards and confident that even if someone were to discover her there, she could use her old cavalry reputation to apologise away any concern of intrusion or seek forgiveness from the Marshals. So far her actions had been (narrowly) within the realms of forgiveness from the Marshals. So far.

Today though, she needed the building for something else. The contingent from Mordor was up to something, and it was more than just stealing candy from children, threatening shop-keepers or causing discord at festival pageants. And she was going to find out; either by being part of the action or by putting a stop to it, and she was conflicted about which of those came out on top as her two personas’ loyalties wavered and warred.

She paused outside the door, glancing up and down the dark-street and then in a moment when it appeared empty, scrawled a symbol on the door. Something subtle but clear enough to the knowing eye; something that would only be known among the elite of Mordor. A message for the most expert trouble-makers; ’Gather Here.’

It was only after she had placed this message and slipped inside that she realised someone had been here. There were fresh prints on the floor, and following them she discovered deposited between stowed benches, tables and chairs at the far end of the large space, a fine work-saw, marked with a familiar crest of a Rohir family. She hefted it ponderously, and carried it across the room to deposit it beside her on the old lengthy counter that had once served as a bar. Fetching a dusty bottle and rag from behind the bar, she unpacked from her backpack an array of implements, laying her torture tools slowly out beside her, and turning a stool over in the otherwise open space of the room, seated herself at the counter and began casually polishing the intricate instruments clean, her eyes regularly checking all the entrances. And waited. She knew she would not be waiting long.

OOC; (Once again thanks to @Aodh Hammerhelm for letting us invade his thread. And as promised, the long list of mentions so everyone knows to gather; @Frostbite @Thalionwen @Sil @Dimcairien Luiniel @Tarawen @Dwarrow Elf and @Moriel, also possibly also @Taethowen and @Gwai)

[Baphởmet]

Frost, wandering the streets of Edoras at night

The night was calm. All the boisterous voices of festival goers and revelers had quieted down as sleep overtook them one by one. The sky above was clear, not a single cloud in the sky. The moon was heavy and round, just on the apex of full. The stars twinkled from their lofty perches in the illimitable skiey vastness. The roads still smelled of horse and hay and field but slowly, his nose has gotten used to the smell. It was a homely scent. The air was cool, lifted by the slightest of breezes.

Frost meandered his way through the streets, slipping from shadow to shadow as he moved. He found comfort in moving about at night, there was something soothing about. He was alone, if he closed his eyes he could easily believe that he was the only person in the world. There were nights like this back on his ship. When the wind was calm and most of the crew had gone to sleep. He could stand out on the bow of the ship and imagine he was completely, utterly alone. Being alone had always calmed the Númenorean. His thoughts were easier to order, his plans easier to unravel and examine in his mind. He was going to need a plan after the last few days.

Nothing over the past few days had been what he expected. He had originally come to Rohan to help facilitate Thalionwen’s move from Rohan to Mordor, or just be a thorn in her side if she took too long. That, however, was not what happened. True, he was still helping plan Thali’s grand departure but there were now a million different stones up in the air. An unexpected contingent of Mordor’s finest had arrived independently of him and chaos had erupted at the Mx Medusel competition. Zarâm was an old friend, a fellow pub crawler and street brawler, her appearance had been a surprise, but it had been a welcomed one, he was glad she was here, Thali had apparently invited half of Mordor to celebrate her goodbye. Zôrzimril had been a complete surprise. He’d never met the woman before the first day of the competition but they fell in quickly, thick as thieves. She had just the right kind of mind to help cause some havoc. It had been fun, going about the competition and bribing and tricking people into supporting Silendris (who had also somehow made their way to Rohan for the competition as well).

If it had just been them, Frost wouldn’t have been thrown off. Taethowen did that all on her own. An old friend of Thali’s, she had simply appeared and Frost was nearly knocked off kilter. He had met her before, though it wasn’t until later than night, after a few glasses of wine, that they were able to put all the pieces together. That had kicked off a series of emotional roller coasters Frost was not accustomed to. Without meaning to, Frost adjusted his entire purpose for being in Rohan to being around her (while still causing as much chaos and disorder as possible). He had even entered a melee, something he would have never done if he had a clear head about it. But there he was. He regretted that decision bitterly now. He was still rather concussed. His nose throbbed then, reminding him of the practice sword that smashed it. His ribs ached too, another result of an unsuspecting sword blow.

Perhaps it was the distraction the Rohir had provided that made him drop his guard. The final day of the Mx Meduseld competition, Frost could have sworn he saw something, or someone. He never had a very good glimpse, but the ghosts of the past were certainly all round him. The way they moved, the clothing, the sinister air about them? Now, it couldn’t be her. She couldn’t be here. That would be too much of a coincidence.

After the results were announced something happened. There was a commotion in the crowd. The minions had been forced to scatter when the cavalry showed up. They were outnumbered. “Bring the dead man’s shoes to the creek now*,” he had managed to tell them, a signal to meet up later but not to flee the city just yet.

Zarâm had only narrowly escaped getting trampled by a horse, had seen her duck out of the tent, but then a pole gave way and Frost couldn’t see if she made it out.

Zôrzimril, too, was lost to him in the mayhem. He thought he had seen her make for Silendris, but he was forced to rush out before he could see if she made it. Frost was not one given over to fearing much for his fellows, but not knowing if they were okay bothered him a great deal.

Taeth pushed him out of tent, hidden him in an empty cider barrel and told him to meet at her house later. He was on his way there now, but there was nagging feeling in the back of his mind, something that told him going to see her right now could do her harm and he wouldn’t risk that.

Then he saw the marking on the door. He recognized it. It was an old assassin signal. He was never a member of the Assassin’s Guild but he had “gotten to know” enough of them that he began recognizing their symbols. This one meant “Gather Here.”

Suspicious. Was Zôrzimril a member of the guild? Zarâm? No. A cold shock of realization entered his mind. Whoever it had been inside the tent was in there.

Could it be her? Could it be Gecko after all?

He fiddled with the door, it was locked. Out came the lock pick with a pained wince. He got on one knee and started working the pick into the lock until… there. The lock disengaged and the door swung silently open. Shadows spilled out like sewage water, mixing with the moon touched shadows of the outside. Inside was dark. A sort of silence hung over the whole building. It was the kind of quiet that exists beneath actually noiselessness. It was the wholesale lack of sound that marked this place. Frost’s stomach went cold; he stepped inside.

Someone was in here. He could see anyone, but he could feel their presence. He could feel them as though they were standing right next to him. His lizard hindbrain told him to run, but he couldn’t. Not until he knew.

“Gecko? Is that you?”

OOC: Line taken from "Gravedigger's Chant" by Zeal and Ardor

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

Thalionwen, In Edoras Being More Competent Than She's Generally Given Credit For

Thali had always liked being out at night, though Rohan after dark seemed preternaturally quiet now. In Mordor, more happened by moonlight than it ever did beneath the sun. As she slipped through the streets of Edoras, keeping a close eye on Frost as he wandered, she wondered was happening at the Black Market, or the Slaughter House, or the pub kitchen that she oversaw now. It would be nice to get home. Thalionwen wasn't sure if the other minions who'd come to Edoras for the festival felt that way--homesickness didn't seem like a very Mordorian quality--but she missed it.

Admittedly, there had been enough chaos over the course of the festival to make even Edoras feel like home. It was why Thali was tailing Frost in the first place--he'd taken quite a beating in the melee at Campian, and seemed a little disoriented. Though Thalionwen could be flighty at best and self-absorbed at worst, that had caught her attention. Whatever her character, a haelend's instincts had been drilled into her, and training that rigorous stayed a part of you forever.

So she drifted along behind Frost, waiting for him to stop so she could catch up without startling him. That was one lesson Thali had learned well--not to come upon anyone from her adopted homeland unawares. She hung back as Frost spent an inordinate amount of time fiddling with a lock that did not appear to be truly locked, then entered a seemingly abandoned building.

Not a good sign, given he'd received a blow to the head. Once he was in, Thalionwen stepped up to the door herself, and found strange markings scratched upon it. She knew just enough to be practically illiterate in many speeches and scripts, but this one was unfamiliar. Frowning, she dug through her capacious satchel, pulling out a lantern and lighting it with a small tinderbox before stepping into the building's cool, dark interior.

"Frost," she called out softly upon entering. "It's only me, Thalionwen. What...what are you doing in here?"

The light of her lantern fell upon an unfamiliar woman (Allacan) with a tattoo etched across her face, seated on a stool at the center of the room. She was just in time to hear Frost utter a single word, "Gecko?" as he stared into the shadows, obviously confused.

"Um, are you Gecko?" Thali asked the stranger in some confusion.

The response to which was a vicious snarl and the whine of a knife flying past Thalionwen's head and embedding itself in the wall.

"I am not Gecko," came the response.

Blinking, Thali shrugged. She'd had worst first meetings in Mordor, where she was still learning the ropes.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said evenly, and turned to Frost.

"You. Sit. Now." Thali ordered, pushing him down onto another stool. "You shouldn't be wandering around unsupervised when you were hit over the head. Chew on this."

She pulled a strip of willow bark from her satchel and popped it into Frost's mouth before he could protest.

"You broke some ribs, didn't you?" Thali said critically, eyeing the way Frost's chest rose and fell. "I can tell by your breathing. What a bother--there's only so much I can do for that, it'll really just take time to heal on its own. But I can help with the pain. Get your shirt off, please and thank you. And don't make any foolish remarks. I won't take any of that from you when I'm doing a healer's work. Besides which, I'm a very happily married woman, though no one seems willing to believe it. To sum up: just do what you're told."

While she waited to be obeyed, Thalionwen glanced once more at the stranger (Allacan) at the center of the room.

"I'm Thalionwen of--" Bema, normally she'd have said of the Eastfold but that wasn't really true anymore. "Just Thalionwen. This is Frost. I'm not sure what he's doing in here, or what you're doing in here, but you'll have to give us a minute or two. Unless you've got any injuries that want tending, in which case, feel free to start a queue."

[Galadrihell]

Silendris also wandering about in Edoras at night

Silendris was still giddy with victory. Thank Melkor they had managed to dissolve the glue from their hands, but alas, that had required the sacrifice of more spirits from their hipflask than Silendris really liked to think about. What they really wanted to do was to go for a celebratory drink with @Frostbite and then play a little scene with their figurines and their new toy pony, but this couldn’t wait.

The mysterious and impassioned stranger who had caused such a dramatic scene at Mx Meduseld - and jeopardised Silendris’ victory with their moving (and sassy) speech - was known to them. Or at least to one of them. Silendris’ new mouth tipped into a smile at the thought of it. Who would’ve ever thought that their old creation would dare to turn up so boldly and so publicly?

Matters were Afoot.

It was Frost that Silendris had been following. He was one of the few people here who didn’t stink of horse. But Silendris wasn’t the only one on his trail. Bemused, they watched @Thalionwen flit from the shadows and into a house after him.

It had been a long while since Silendris had been in Rohan. Naokis’ memories were a peculiar jumble that Silendra had not had time to sort through, but these streets were ones they had travelled before in at least one form. Yet etched into the doorframe was a sign they had not seen before, but were not entirely surprised by. Silendris’ fingers drifted up to touch it; they turned, faking a stumble, casually surveying the street.

It appeared to be empty, but Silendris was not so sure. They could smell apprehension in the air.

The door creaked open easily - Thali had not relocked it, and Silendris stepped into the dark, lit only faintly by a tinderbox Thali had clearly just lit. Frost, looking slightly worse for wear, was seated on a stool - near to the mysterious not-so-stranger.

Silendris winked and blew a kiss to Frost, who was clearly being badgered - and possibly bandaged - by Mrs “Bossy Riding-boots” Del Orco - and made straight for the other figure (@Allafyrefleorhtlig) sitting motionless in the midst of the room.

Slowly, because you don’t spook a wild animal.

“Hello, dear heart,” Silendris drawled softly, forcing their voice as close into Silendra’s register as they could manage. They pushed their hood back, slowly; their eyes took on the gleam of green that revealed Lendra was in the driving seat. “What a pretty speech you made back there. Do you remember us?”

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

Nadene’s Cottage, Vale of the Anduin ~ NPC: Ælfred the One-Eyed:

Ælfred hunkered by the campfire he’d made in the pasture between the river and Nadene’s cottage. He had not the heart to seek shelter in the Dughlaich’s abode, the stench of their Enemy’s presence had defiled it.

How long before doom smote the summit of tall Tafelberg, he could not tell. Birds called and chirped amongst the vegetable patch and the tall grass and reed banks along the River. The sky overhead was blue and blameless, but from the distant East the rumour of war sounded faintly.

The old wigend made a smoke and propped his back against the green mound next to which he'd raised his bivouac. It would be soon now, for good or ill. He sensed this as a truth-sai, but the waiting was still the hardest part.

--

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:

Aodh watched as Eléo finished her breakfast, took in every detail of her face as she corked her water-skin and met his eyes. Below the flawless line of her nose, a bead of water sat upon her upper lip. He ached to lean forward and kiss it away.

How beautiful she was, he thought. How brave and strong. She was the same woman he’d met in a winter long ago, the same woman who’d stepped carefree into the maelstrom of an apocalyptic snowfight in the streets of Edoras. But she was younger now, as was he, and until Fleðð was stopped so she would remain. Or more probably young and dead!

Aye, there was no return to times before unless he fixed The Dark Man’s clock for good.

Eléo blinked in a sudden flash of light. Aodh noticed the silver coin he’d drawn unconsciously from the pouch at his waist. He flipped it over the top of his hand, over knuckle and between each finger. Forth and back the coin spun… Once… twice… thrice.

Eléo sighed and Aodh felt a stab of regret in his heart as her eyes swum out of focus. Harden your heart, do what must be done to save her!

“Listen well, Eléowyn of Westfold. Listen well, Eléo the Fair, bosom-mate of the Hammerhelm. Hear your, din and mark his words…”

Aodh knelt before his wife and whispered through the golden hair that covered her left ear. “Sleep, léof, not now, but when I command it... and wake then not, till danger has passed, and I call thee!”

He rocked back on his heels, cupped her chin and kissed her. He smiled as her eyes focused on his once more.

“Let me help you clear breakfast,” Aodh said, squeezing Eléo's hand. “Then let us take up watch on the plain… The time to take our stand comes soon!”

--

OOC: << @Eléowyn - pardon the god-moding, trust your din ;) >>

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril, Following the Leader in the Riddermark Conga Line

Another silent shadow slipped among the buildings of Edoras beneath the moon. Zôrzimril had been sneaking about, a link in the chain of minions snaking its way through the city, since the pageant tent came down. It had been a strange day. A commotion as Silendris was crowned victor, then the emptying of the tent for the melee had left her suddenly nearly all alone. She had used the time to prepare the tent to burn. She had not anticipated barely escaping with a burn of her very own.

Her right forearm still felt hot. The skin that had been caught in a fire of her making had become blistered and shiny after she'd patted out the flames; her left palm and fingers throbbed as well. She'd rushed out of the collapsing tent and into the cool, clear night, finding a modicum of relief in the breeze. Zôr winced any time her right sleeve - which she'd rolled up to keep off the burn - started to sag. Each time, she gritted her teeth, pushed up the sleeve once more, and pressed on.

Zôr was trailing not far behind Silendris. Silendris was hard to miss, what with the sparkly bum-flap glinting in the moonlight with every step they took. The newly-crowned M. Meduseld led her to an abandoned building marked particularly for their kind: "Gather here." She knew the sign and approached warily. With her unburned right hand, Zôr pushed open the door.

The door creaked on rusty hinges. A lantern illuminated the part of the room closest to the door; she saw two figures huddled near the entrance, whispering. With a loud thud, the door slammed shut. Odd. Zôr definitely had not closed it. Had someone else followed just behind her? She whipped around to check, but there was no one there.

She shook off the strange moment, attributing it to the wind that was ooooing softly through cracks in the old building. She could feel eyes on her from the shadows outside the lantern's warm glow. Silendris now stood near another figure (Allacan) farther into the room, but the fine hairs on the back of Zôrzimril's neck pricked with the sense that someone or something else was watching. There was no turning back now, though. If she was caught in a trap, so be it. She'd gotten out of worse.

Resigned as she was to the possibility of injury and death, Zôr turned to face the whispering figures positioned inside the circle of light. She recognized Frost, of course, and knew the woman (Thalionwen) by sight from the pageant. Frost appeared dazed, perched precariously on a stool and being tended to by the Rohir.

Zôr swept over and knelt to get a closer look at Frost. She hadn't seen him up-close since before the afternoon's melee, and the event clearly had not been kind to him. Despite her new friend's circumstances, she grinned, struck by an idea to test his awareness. It probably wasn't a medically sound approach, but she never claimed to be a healer.

Ignoring the other woman's concerned fussing over Frost, Zôr leaned in and touched his shoulder with her right hand, then let her fingertips trace the length of his jawline, finally gently pushing his chin upwards so their eyes met. "Hello, you poor thing. What did they do to you? Can you hear me?" She watched for signs that he was aware enough to register this overly-familiar touch. Perhaps he’d push her hand away. Perhaps not.

She let her hand fall and rest idly on Frost’s knee, then, still kneeling beside her friend, turned to the figures in the shadows.

"Well,” she whispered to the room, “What's all this? And who’s that?" she jerked her head toward the shadowy stranger near Silendris (Allacan).

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Zarâm - Following the rest of the Minions/Mischief Makers

After the adventure in the Mx Meduseld tent (and naturally Silendris won the competition) and the subsequent brawl of the melee, and a near run-in with a Calvary horse after the Mx Meduseld burned down, Zarâm was a bit stiff. She certainly had enjoyed the smell of sulfur again. Rohan was an interesting place, but far too few things were burning for her liking. She found herself trailing behind Zor, the human who had nearly gotten incinerated when the tent started to collapse. Zarâm had been taking great pleasure in the burning sights and smells that she had lingered far longer than the others involved in the mayhem, but apparently Zor had lingered a bit too long and had been caught underneath a flaming pole. Not wanting a fellow mischief maker to die in Rohan, Zarâm had shoved the pole off of Zor, but not before a good chunk of Zor's arm had been burned. It was a nasty wound, but not fatal. She had advised the human to seek advice from Thali, she only person she was aware of who would willingly and gladly treat a minion.

The adventure over, Zarâm found herself following the contingent of mischief makers down a familiar alley near the Riddermark Square. She watched as Silendris and Zor both disappeared into an abandoned building. Arriving at the door, Zarâm noticed a sign. It was a familiar symbol to those from Mordor - one of the many symbols of the Assassin's Guild and this one meant "Gather here." Taking a look around, Zarâm realised that this was the very building where she had hidden the stolen saw earlier.

"Who from the Mordor contingent was a member?" Zarâm wondered. "And my saw better still be in here. It's a delightful weapon and will be needed to assist in Thali's dramatic escape." She knew more mayhem was planned as that was the nature of Mordorians, but was still unaware of the specific prospects.

She shoved open the door and entered the dark, dank room. Looking around, Zarâm saw other familiar faces, aside from Silendris and Zor who had just entered ahead of her. Much to her relief, Frost was there, obviously concussed, but at least alive. She had genuinely been worried (a very strange emotion for an orc) when he had been almost immediately carried off the melee tournament. Thali was standing next to him, obviously assessing him in some medical fashion or another. Zor too was over by Frost, gently stroking his chin. "You really have it with the ladies," Zarâm muttered, as she walked towards him, looking all over the floor for her carefully hidden saw, but it was not in the place where she left it! Much to her relief, she spotted it a moment later, lying on top of the counter next to a strangely familiar woman (Allacan). She was certain the woman was the same one from the Mx Meduseld tent who had a minionesque quality about her.

"What's all this?" she asked at last, stepping over to the counter to pick up the saw and echoing Zor's question.

[The Elf Imperishable]

Aelorco

Aelorco seemingly paused and looked the Assassin's Guild message of "gather here." Once he saw the message, his gait straightened, his face became taut as lines appeared from his mouth as he nodded to himself. At once he briskly walked back in the background, this time with determination in his steps.

~~~

He later returned, a dark green cloak and hood covering much of his body. It appeared that he was out on a stroll in the rain, but there was none. On his waist was a belt, and if one looked closely there appeared to be long pointy things attached on the sides. He walked straight, chin-up in the air, every contour on his chin could be seen as a frown seemed ever present on his face. The gauze on his body appearing more cosmetic than anything else.

Aelorco went inside the room, and said,

"Ready fer some fun?" his Mordorian accent finally showing itself

With that he walked over and promptly offered his hand to Frost. For he was not Aelorco, but Orco del Oro

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

The coin in Aodh’s hand moved back and forth, back and forth, and as her eyes followed, her mind seemed suddenly clear of other thoughts. Back and forth, until suddenly Aodh moved to whisper in her ear. A look of confusion, of betrayal, of anger, settled upon her face, and though she accepted his kiss, she leapt immediately to her feet afterward.

“You cannot ask this of me!” Eléo cried, no longer concerned if their voices awoke the sleeping Goldwhæt. “You must not ask this! I swore to you that I would follow your commands as captain of our tet, all save one—that you must not send me away from the battle. And how is this different? Asleep, away, what is the difference?”

She began pacing as she spoke. “I can fight, you know that, and fight well! And, I ask you, how do you propose that I am to sleep while my husband fights to the death? For the love of Bema, do you think me that callous, that unfeeling?”

Her anger was spent, or at least near enough. She needed a moment to calm herself, for she would need all her wits when the time came.

“You can clear breakfast on your own,” she said, tartly. “I will begin the watch.”

@Aodh Hammerhelm

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:

Aodh let Eléowyn’s anger wash over him, and hunkered mute and impassive until her frustration was spent. He grinned ruefully as she turned away and began tidying up their plates and mugs. Somehow Goldwhæt had slept on through the storm of her fury, though he’d shifted from his left to right side.

“A mystery solved,” Aodh muttered, as he knelt by his friend and took up an empty skin. The smell of wine from its spout was hot and heady. Drunk, again! How did I not see this coming? But perhaps this is not the worst of outcomes?

He found a seat now beside his wife, placing an arm around her as he surveyed the ground below.

After a long silence he spoke:

“I do not doubt your courage, Eléo, or your strength of arms, but the one we will soon face is invulnerable to them both. There is no weapon wrought in Middle-earth that would undo him, nor heart born in all her wide lands that could withstand him.

And nay, I count thee not callous or unfeeling, the very opposite in fact. And therefore see the greatest danger of all: Fleðð, The Dark Man, feeds on emotions and bends them to fit his purpose; your love he shall turn upon you - and against me if he can.

Stand by me then, when he comes, as you must… But only if you can make of your heart a stone!”

---
@Eléowyn

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Blædtunge, in the West Emnet, with the @Amhran ((j'accuse!))

 Blædtunge started at Amhran's words and turned apologetically.

 "I cry your pardon, my friend, I was further-away in thought than I knew. But freondlar cannot be discovered when you're alone, and it's in counselors that a good rede is found. I mean," he finished lamely, "I heard that somewhere, once."

 "Look," he pressed on, "Let me lay out what I can, and you say what you think. You say fair, an' I'll say thank'ee kindly." He began to walk back towards the copse he'd first laid eyes on his friend of yore and whistled for Blacstan. "I've seen all I need to of that poor devil, at any rate."

 Blædtunge was silent for a space as he mused on what he knew, what he thought, what he suspected, and what he feared. Baring his mind like this to Amhran caused no hesitation at all; he'd borne it alone long enough, and she'd always been steadier than he was. He doubted that had changed, though all the world had.

 "It's not my fault!" He grinned, but then began soberly.

 "The Skipper I sailed under - he didn't have what you might call a steady line of work. We were always doing something different than last voyage. Several years ago we sailed to more southerly climes, an' the Skipper took a boat and a mate and two men - I was one of them, my trustworthiness rather than my strong back being the reason, I think - and took us into the mouth of a river. We went up it a fair ways (pretty hard going, what with the bugs an' heat) 'til the Skipper bade us make fast. He and the mate went into the jungle then, and didn't return for... well I honestly don't know, for my memory of that whole time can ne'er be trusted, I trow. Depending on how much ale I've taken I'll swear to you that I saw eyes - red as glittering blood, an' green as sickest ichor - peer out at my companion and I from the leaves, or I'll swear it was all my fevered imagination an' 'don't you know you should never trust a sailor?' But what I remember are the yellow flowers, with a pungent-thick-cloying-gestanc that I'll remember until I finally forget, an' that day will be blessed indeed."

 Blædtunge looked like he wanted to reach for a horn of something right then, but having nothing to hand, swallowed nothing but old memories and pressed on.

 "Eventually the Skipper came back, covered in dirt, and without his hat. The mate hadn't, an' we pulled hard for the river-mouth an' the closest thing to a home in that cursed place as we were bidden - aye, an' with a will, too. Before we got to the Alagossel - that was the ship's name - the Skipper made both of us swear to say nothing of the trip to any of our shipmates; nay, nor to any other soul until he was dead. "'T'were better ye could keep yer traps shut 'til ye died too, my lads, but at least wait that long," he said."

 The Pæthfindian-cum-Sailor-cum-Pæthfindian paused a whit, then shook his head.

 "I do not think anything could have changed what happened after, for the Skipper at least." He sighed. "When we pulled alongside the Alagossel I could tell the Skipper had something on him, heavy but not too bulky, it was; I saw it when he clambered up the line. Well, I kept my word - I'm still a man of the Mark, wherever else I may roam - but nigh on a season ago the old Skipper disappeared. Everyone else mourned an' moved on, but I couldn't let 'im go. Astoril said 't'was because I didn't actually think him dead, an' I said she was likely right, but what was I to do? An' she teased me in that way she has, an' said if I was such a great pathfinder of my people as I always claimed - which I didn't, Amhran, save maybe once or twice - then why didn't I go find 'im? To which I responded that I couldn't leave her an' the wee-bairns, but then she put me in mind of her aunt that was coming to stay for a whole month, or more, and that, as the old tree said to the wizard, was that."

 A melancholy smile quirked Blædtunge's mouth and he briefly met his friend's gaze. "I don't mind telling you, I was well-nigh shouting war cries, but I knew soft an' savvy was better for this work. A dagger can dig where a sword'll be seen, no?" He shrugged. "I found him eventually, when it was already too late. I mounded him meet, an' mourned there that worthy ; truly a trail-lead, through travels travailed ; waiting now witless, eyelimns now lidless ; that valiant victor, avengers avail him." He paused purposedly, poignant, then continued.

 "At the site of his demise I found, placed, not fallen, some of those yellow flowers from that night down south long ago - their smell I'll not soon confuse with any other - and my Pæthfindian-thoughts turned Southron-y. I was almost lost at the knell, for I thought they would return by some way to their homeland. Instead, I caught wind west and north and west, then back east through the Gap - I know I rush th' time of it - and, well," he gestured vaguely at the copse that contained the Southron's stones. "There's one of them. Or maybe the only one."

 Blædtunge puffed his cheeks and pulled a droll face at his friend.

 "You did ask."

[Eléowyn]

The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

Eléo leaned into Aodh’s embrace and tucked her head beneath his chin. She scanned the plain below, wondering if she would even recognize the danger when it approached. Perhaps she would feel it rather than see it.

In her head she could hear the refrain of a tune she had heard somewhere, long ago: “All you need is love.” If only that were true. Love could not conquer all. She regretted she had not savored the earlier kiss, for who could say if that was to be their last. Not our last, she decided, and when Aodh had said his piece, she lifted her face to his and kissed him.

“I am sorry I spoke in anger,” she said at last, “though I do not regret the words themselves. But now you have set before me an impossible choice! You say that no heart can withstand The Dark Man, yet you give me leave to stay by your side if mine can do so. How am I to know what is right? My heart will say to stand by you til death comes for one or both of us, yet now you tell me that may be our undoing!”

Feeling her voice rising in agitation at the dilemma, she stopped for a long breath, then pulled away and turned her body so she could face him full on. She took his hands in hers, and stared at them for a moment, admiring their strength, their tenderness, then lifted her eyes to look directly into his.

“I love, you, @Aodh Hammerhelm. No force on this earth can change that. I want you to know that, so that come what may, if these hours be our last, your last thought will be that you were well-loved.

“I will make you this promise, as I did before, that I will obey you as my captain. But you must make me this promise in return. You will not command me to skulk way to sleep, unless my doing so will save you from harm. Though I still know not how I am to obey such a command. Sleep cannot be commanded to come at will. If it could, I could have been saved many a sleepless night.”

[Allacan ob Burzum]

Allacan, in disguise, in an abandoned building, at night. INVITE ONLY

The first person to enter had been the dashing gentleman with the deep blue eyes like dark, sapphire gemstones (Frost). He wasn't exactly the person she had expected at this meeting; she was fairly certain she had meant to tell him to take bed rest for the remainder of the day to nurse his broken ribs and concussion, but then maybe she never got round to saying it out loud because the Campian Tournament had moved on so swiftly. She recalled vividly how she had almost been disarmed by his familiar smile and those piercing eyes at the arena side, but determinedly had foccuessed her attentions towards her professional responsibility as a hælend and away from his more enchanting qualities. They had thankfully shared only a few moments together in the medic's corner before she had been recalled to other duties.

He had also been present at the Mx Meduseld tent for the after party which, of course, had been intended to be a sedentary affair so she could forgive him not taking excusing himself from that event. She had spent most of that event trying to re-establish her mindset as Dulug ob Buzam who quite frankly wouldn't have given a damn if the man had fainted in the middle of the tent. In fact she had actively avoided him due to her uncertainty as to whether he had connected the Campwisa with the assassin. Because he'd been pretty dazed when he saw her in Campian, it was still possible that penny hadn't dropped yet. In any event, she had been far more focussed on getting herself into the middle of any nefarious activities that were going on, which had worked, in a manner of speaking.

She buried the relief that Taeth had successfully extricated the man from the burning tent and focused her thoughts on the silhouette of his figure standing by the door against the moonlit night behind him. He had struggled to unlock the door she had not realise had fallen back on its catch behind her, and after successful defeating the locking mechanism hesitated on the threshold, blinking around blearily as though unable to focus his eyes on where she sat in the dark gloom at the tavern bar. She was just opening her mouth to welcome him in, when he spoke a name.

The world shifted, up became down and right became left, and the middle went spinning around dizzily trying to get its bearings. This handsome man, favoured of her old commander and colleague Taeth, had spoken a name from Allacan's past and inadvertently associated himself to her most intense pain, anguish, torment and terror. She froze in place, thinking he might have spotted something she hadn't. Mouth still open a little in shock, not daring to move an inch, not daring to breath, as the swell of emotions that infested her mind at the sound of that name clamoured for attention. A moment later, another person appeared at the doorway

When the newcomer Thali casually asked if she were indeed Gecko, revelation struck. Allacan suddenly realised exactly what Frost's look of familiar recognition had been in Campian; he had mistaken her for her foster-daughter, destroyer of her identity, creator of her greatest torment and one of the manufacturers of her evil persona.

Something snapped in Allacan. In one motion she drew a throwing dagger and launched it across the room to embed itself in the wall just millimetres above Thali's head. "I am not Gecko!" she snarled in response. Luckily, the ex-hælend took the outburst in good stride and turned to tend to Frost in another exemplary demonstration of her unflappable professionalism.

Allacan was not provided an opportunity to compose herself, as the next figure that entered the derelict tavern made a beeline straight in her direction. It was unmistakably the winner of the pageant Sil); she would recognise those sparkly cheeks poking through the bum-flap anywhere, but just as she had experienced in the Mx Mesuseld Tent Allacan once again found herself oddly disconcerted by the presence of this stranger. Something about them made her uncomfortable, but she couldn't put her finger on what. Their voice was a soft drawl that had Allacan's heart pounding in her chest once again; although it was layered in an odd dual-tone, the person's familiarity and a particular in nuance in their speech made all of the ex-Marshal's hairs stand on end.

Her hand instinctively reached out to take hold of the saw on the bar as her subconscious thoughts screamed to defend herself, only to find that someone else had grasped it from the other end. In her distraction, others had arrived, and one was attempting to take the saw at the same time she was. She glanced over at Zarâm and managed to force a smile, welcome for the excuse to distract herself from the looming presence of Silendris for a moment and gather her thoughts, and addressed Zarâm in a teasing tone. "So you’re the one stealing from the Ellenweorc family? Could you not afford to buy one? Do they not pay fine warriors like you enough where you come from” she said, referring to Zarâm's impressive performance in Campian with raising eyebrow, her hand not yet ceding the saw to Zarâm's grip.

Even as the woman answered she found her eyes drawn back to the figure of Silendris. 'Who are you?' her eyes seemed to plead, while she mentally prayed that Gwai or Taeth - or ideally both - had heeded her message from earlier in the day and were already sequestered away somewhere in the dark tavern. Allacan had suddenly found herself feeling extremely exposed, vulnerable and alone, and she didn't like it.

[Taethowen]

Competing in the Campian melee had probably been a mistake, Taeth realized. Everything hurt. It had been far too long since she'd put herself through such a rigorous pace where she had to keep track of so many opponents at one time. Also, if she'd thought things through she should have realized that there would be mischief up tonight. It was the final night of the Summer Festival, after all. And she'd expended too much energy on the melee, quite foolishly so.

She'd nearly been tempted to simply not show up for the after-party for M. Meduseld and the Campian Tournament Champion, but that really would have been in poor taste since she was one of the judges and sponsors of M. Meduseld in the first place. So she'd gone, and it was a good thing she had or Frost probably would not have made it out of the burning tent alive. The fact that she'd been forced to split off from him in the streets, in his condition, greatly aggravated her.

And then there had been the HCMA's note slipped to her at the Campian before she left the tournament. She still couldn't figure out why the woman was so familiar, and the face tattoo was further complicating things. It had been a while since there was something teasing so furiously at the cusp of her memory, yet eluding recall.

Now, as she sprinted through the streets toward her house--thank Bema she'd had the foresight to move her belongings from the inn the day before--Taeth hoped that she could get where she needed to be in time. And at least, she was having that second rush of adrenaline which made her bruised and aching muscles fade away from notice.

Once inside, she hurriedly opened the trunk sitting in the middle of the floor and began strapping on the rest of her weapons--mostly knives--and armor. She'd only worn the leather cuirass to the Campian, and she was glad hadn't decided to change back into a dress, because now she could just don the rest of the matching set and her weapons quickly. She'd had it all custom made after the Imladris archery tournament a few years ago. She'd realized then, if she was to truly keep up with the practice of shooting ambidextrously, she needed a different type of quiver, and then it had only made sense to also commission an entire set of armor. Something light, and fitted to what she wanted and needed, because first and foremost, she would always be a pæthfindian. She'd learned her lesson back in Umbar, that same day she'd first met Frost, about being even the slightest bit unawares and under-armed.

Once everything was strapped in place--her quiver on her back, that she could easily reach with either hand, filled with five dozen black feather arrows, two daggers sheathed on her thighs, her two largest knives tucked into place at the top of her boots, and then another half-dozen knives scattered in various hidden places on her torso and arms--she retrieved a black cowl from the trunk, swiftly wrapping it around her neck and face to hide her features. While the mysterious, yet still strangely familiar, woman at M. Meduseld and the Campian had the insignia of the HCMA--ah, yes, that needed to be tucked away on her person too, as well as her pæthfindian badge, and she did so then--there was something about her that unsettled Taeth. She knew that the Mordor contigent was planning mischief, but she had no inkling how all these crazy links between herself, Mordor, and the Cavalry were going to come into play.

She slid on a pair of leather gloves, strung her bow, grabbed a length of rope, and left the house, quietly locking the door behind her. For just a moment, she hesitated on the stoop, remembering the other night when she and Frost had sat here, just before all this craziness really began, and her heart clenched. She'd come to crave his presence so quickly it stunned her. But now... she couldn't linger. He was out there somewhere--please be all right, she whispered--and she had duties calling her.


The old pub was dark and quiet when she arrived. It hadn't been difficult to find, she'd just had to stop thinking about navigating and let her feet go. Sometimes it was like that, with the memory loss. She couldn't find something if she was actively looking for it, but if she let her instincts or muscle memory take over, then there was no problem. Clearly, she'd visited the place frequently in the past. A little bit harder was remembering where the spare key for the back door was hidden, as she'd not used it often during her time as a Marshal, but she eventually found it tucked away on top of a window frame, and she finally slipped inside. She closed and locked the door behind her. It was never a good idea to leave an unsecured entrance for someone to sneak up behind you.

Taeth stepped aside to hide in a shadow--not that there was much, if any, light inside the pub--and observe the surroundings. It was silent, at least, so she was possibly the first one there. She doubted that the Mordor contingent had agreed on a specific meeting place ahead of time, so the HCMA--what in Arda was her connection to all this anyway, with that minion-like aura about her?--must have some way of drawing them here.

Taeth looked up, and was pleased to see that the ceiling was open to the roof, with large beams making up the rafters. There, perfect. She wanted to be able to watch the doors, and the bar. Amazingly, it only took her one time to sling the rope over a rafter, and then pull herself up. Somehow without dropping her bow. Her shoulders protested a little, but that was all. She pulled the rope back up behind her, coiling it loosely, nocked and arrow against the bowstring in case she needed it, and tried to become as invisible as possible.


It wasn't long before the HCMA (Allacan) arrived. Taeth watched, silently and not giving her own position away, as the woman uncovered some tools, and when the saw briefly caught the moonlight through the window, Taeth thought she recognized the Ellenweorc crest. And then... the woman began to unpack a collection of tools that made Taeth's blood chill. Torture implements.

But as the woman seated herself and began to polish the instruments, there was something about the angle of her face--the way that Taeth couldn't see the tattoo obscuring her features for just a moment--that brought a vague, distant memory to mind, at long last.

Fyrefly (Allacan). Dear Bema, it's Fyrefly. My old pæth. One of the first ones I trained as Aerest.

But her thoughts were quickly drawn away by Frost's arrival. He was... not in good shape, but she was relieved to see him whole, at the least, and she forced her emotions to not leak past the facade she needed to maintain in that moment. She was not his lover, not completely, right then. She was on duty as a pæthfindian, though she still was not sure what the duty would require of her.

Frost was quickly followed by Thalionwen, who carried a lantern.

"Gecko? Is that you?" Frost's voice rang through the inn, then, and Taeth's eyes widened. Gecko? That was... the person that Shadowfox had spoken of in their tale, the first night in M. Meduseld. What, for the love of the Mearas, was going on? What had happened to Fyrefly to get her tangled in this?

"Um, are you Gecko?" Thali asked, and Taeth silently thanked her for voicing the question. Taeth winced at the very enthusiastic 'no' that was supplied, and continued to alternate between watching the entrances, Fyrefly, and Frost.

But when Thali ordered Frost to get his shirt off, not even most disciplined composure could prevent the heat that crawled up her neck and into her face. Oh no... she thought, her thoughts flashing back to the moment the other night when she'd... accidentally raked her fingernails up his back. Thali will never let me live this down if she notices those scratches.

There was hardly time to be embarrassed, though, as Silendris stepped into the pub. What are they doing, follow the leader? Taeth wondered skeptically, still keeping one eye on Frost and Thali, and simultaneously the rest of the room.

Silendris, though, went straight for Fyrefly, pushing their hood back. Taeth couldn't see Silendris' face from her observation point, but she could hear the shift in their voice easily enough. "Hello, dear heart. What a pretty speech you made back there. Do you remember us?"

Horror began to wash through Taethowen. Something--a very, very terrible something--had clearly happened to Fyrefly at some point since her own resignation as Marshal. But what? While Shadowfox's story had been enlightening, it had not held nearly enough details, but Taeth was beginning to feel ill.

Fyrefly is the HCMA now. She's not only been a Marshal, but the First Marshal... what happened after I left? Did I make her vulnerable? She would never have been Marshal so quickly if I'd not resigned.

But panic and guilt would not help her do her job right then--though Taeth was still not sure what her job was other than to observe--and so forced her gaze away from Fyrefly, only to find that not one but three more people of dubious character (Zôrzimril, Zarâm, Orco del Oro) had entered the pub while she was distracted, and one of them was touching Frost.

Her hand tightened around her bow, and if she'd not been wearing gloves, her nails would have bitten into her palm.

But then she looked back at Fyrefly, and saw that panic that was etching its way through her eyes. Taeth had a clear view of the other woman, and most of the minions had their backs to her.

This, Taeth realized. This is why Fyrefly summoned me here. To keep her grounded.

And so very, very carefully, Taeth pulled one of the daggers from its sheath on her thigh, and twisted it until it caught the light, then quickly re-sheathed it and stepped back--very carefully on the rafter--a little deeper into the shadows.

[Moriel]

Gathering for mayhem

“If you two are going to follow along in this, you need to at least try to be quiet!” Swiltang hissed as they paused in the shadowy lee of a building. He had seen the mark scrawled on the door as they passed by a short time earlier, after the Campain. The lean, twisted orc swordmaster had recognized it instantly, and suspicion followed hot on the heels of recognition. What was that symbol doing here, of all places? And why was he not aware of who had placed it? There were certainly a larger number of persons from the Black Lands present here than one might expect, but there had been no warning of a such a gathering. Írimë stamped her foot. “Not all of us are stealth personified, O glorious Maugân!” Khaulzîm guffawed, and patted the hilt of the heavy dagger in his belt. “These horse people aren’t expecting us, surely, much less the likes of you. Let’s go see what this is all about.” Stifling the impulse to roll his eyes Swiltang moved out from behind the building. All three of them were cloaked now: Swiltang, the tallest, could still pass for a very tall man with his hood pulled far forward, and Írimë’s medium height was not at all out of place. Somewhere in the middle, Khaulzîm was just wishing he could take the cloak off.

They approached the door quickly but cautiously- at least Swiltang did, red eyes constantly flicking to observe their surroundings. Placing one mottled black hand on the door, he pushed it open, and the three of them slipped inside. Quite the crowd had already gathered: Thalionwen, Frost, Silendris, Zôrzimril, Zarâm, Orco, and a stranger (Allacan). A fascinating number of currents were already running about the room and, delighted at this gathering that might as well have been lifted straight from On the Rocks, Írimë pushed back her hood. “Well, well, well, the gang’s all here! What ever are you up to, my pretties? And who is our new friend?” For his part, Khaulzîm winked at Frost, and gestured at the bevy of ladies surrounding him. “What did you do to deserve this?”

The only one of his group who seemed to be taking things seriously, Swiltang had been scanning the inside of the tavern carefully. On one of its copper pots he caught the briefest flash of light, reflected from some source overhead, then vanished. Immediately after this, the tiniest of wooden creaks. He tilted his head back just enough to gaze into the dark beams above, causing his hood to slip back, and a low rumble emanated from his chest.

“Hmm.”

[Galadrihell]

Silendris, in the abandoned building, with Allacan and The Others

It was getting crowded in here. Silendris had not turned around, but the gathering warmth in the building was either from more bodies entering... or maybe the general temperature had just risen because FROST HAD HIS SHIRT OFF AGAIN. Whilst Zor seemed a little distracted by this, Silendris could only hope that the Orcs - Zaram and Orco - would be willing to watch their backs for them instead, instead of Frost's front. Charming though that front was... no, no, stay on track, Silendris.

It was probably Silendris' own fault that the old barn... or whatever it was... was filling up so quickly - the sequinned bumflap had many uses, not least of which was apparently illumining Silendris' path here as though they were some sort of large and agile firefly.

Ironic, given who was in front of them right now. "Fyrefly. That was your name once, wasn't it?"

Silendris barely breathed the words aloud, focused on the tension in the woman before them, her hand still reflexively clenching for the saw that Zaram had so casually picked up. Concealer could not hide the stark brand on Allacan's face, nor the timbre of her voice as she had vigorously denied being Gecko.

"No need to fear us, our Shadow," they said softly, reaching out a hand oh-so-slowly, shining faintly (BLOODY SEQUINS WON'T ALL COME OFF) in the dim, flickering light that was cast by Thali's tinderbox. Shadows leapt around them, as if in answer. "You've done very well, today, but you want to come home and rest with us now, don't you?"

A rustle as the rest of the Gang were entering. Silendris silently pleaded for them to stay back - no sense in crowding the prey now.

[Gwai]

Gwai, hiding, waiting

Gwai tried not to sneeze as the dust from the small storeroom behind the bar entered her nose. She had been there for quite a while, but she was not complaining. The message had been succinct. She had been slipped a message in the commotion after the Campian to come tonight, come armed, and come ready. There was no other explanation, but this was all Gwai needed from the HCMA.

She had prepared before the Mx Meduseld after party. As one of the judges, she felt her absence would be missed and remarked upon if she did not attend the party, but it would be easy enough to slip away once the party was in full swing, however. Famous last words. Picking her clothes carefully, she had donned black breeches, with black heeled boots, as well as a tight midnight black shirt which laced up the chest. She then carefully pulled a festive light blue dress over her head, and smoothed it down over her other clothes. Looking at herself critically in the mirror, she nodded. The heeled boots were visible, but the rest of the dress concealed her clothes for later in the night. She left her hair loose for the party, but would quickly tie it back before heading to the old building.

She always kept a carefully packed a canvas bag in case she had to make a hasty exit. She had viewed the contents, and added a few other items she thought she may require tonight. Light armor was probably called for. She had kept her leather armor from her old cavalry days in good condition as it had come in handy more than once during her travels, and packed the chest armor in the canvas satchel. A dagger soon joined it, as well as her favorite weapon, her bow. The quiver was soon tucked in next to it, with a short measure of rope, her lockpicking kit, some emergency rations and small container of water. She already had a long knife useful in more than one situation, tinder and flint, as well as a smaller bag always packed with emergency bandages as well. Ready for what, she would find out tonight. With that, she thought she was ready. Ready for what, however, was the question of the day. As she had some time before the party started, she decided to stash her bag at the abandoned building, and get a lay of the land. She had been there many times before (too much, in hindsight,) but it had been many years, and scouting ahead seemed prudent.

The outside was a bit different than she remembered it, and she was glad she had come in the daily to scout around. It seemed empty, although she remained alert. She tested the door, but it was locked. She walked along to the back, checked the back door, which was also locked. No matter, this would not be the first time Gwai had picked a lock, and it would likely not be the last.

It had taken a few minutes as it had been a year or two since she had needed to perform this skill, but fortunately she had the right tools for the job, and the door soon popped open. She walked inside, looking around. Somebody had been here, and recently, although it seemed empty now. Gwai walked behind the old bar, looking for a place she could hide in later tonight. The small storeroom right behind the bar seemed a good spot, close enough she could still see part of the room through the small, dirty window, but far enough away it was unlikely to be accidentally discovered. Decided, Gwai left, ready to head to the after party, carefully locking the door behind her.

The after party was a disaster. Flames, chaos, the tent coming down…Gwai winced as she thought of it. She felt partially responsible. After all, she had been one of the judges, and had been the one to request the tent in the first place.

Gwai thought back to Allacan’s note from earlier. It had specified clearly to be here tonight. For what particularly, she was still uncertain, but Gwai trusted Allacan’s judgement. In the chaos of the tent burning, Gwai pulled off her party dress which was ruined anyway from ashes, hurried to the old building, and to the hiding place she had found earlier.

It was hard to see out the small, dirty window which led to the storeroom. Gwai had her sword out, but her bow was close by in case needed. Allacan was the first to arrive, but Gwai kept her position, not knowing who may be watching and not wanting to give away her position. She was setting up some instruments on the bar, which looked tortuous, but it was hard to make out for certain from the hiding place.

Others began arriving. In somewhat rough shape was the man Gwai recognized from earlier in the tent, who was supposedly “inspecting” the tent poles (Frost). Hindsight is what it is, she thought ruefully to herself. Silendris, the winner of the competition, still in sequins, soon arrived, as well as a few others Gwai thought looked familiar, perhaps from the competition crowd, but she was not certain. And was that one of the other contestants? It was hard to tell from where she was. Her eyes widened, however, when Thalinowen soon walked in and began tending to the injured man.

Gwai hoped Taethowen was about somewhere. She hadn’t seen her in the chaos during the tent burning. She was certain Taeth had recognized the HCMA symbol Allacan had subtlety slipped them at the Mx Meduseld contest, however, and was likely hidden much like Gwai was. She gripped her sword, ready for when Allacan signaled she need her, hoping it would not be much longer. She wanted revenge for the tent burning.

[Shivased]

Beaducyrm, abandoned building

The snort of a horse and stomp of a hoof sounded quietly outside the old building, distant and faint, coming from the area of the broken hitching post near the front door. If one were to look, no horses were actually tied there, but another snort, this time a little louder and accompanied by the crunch of vegetation underhoof, suggested otherwise. The recent activity inside the old building had awakened something, or someone, as if it had been waiting for reason to return. As the activity inside the building progressed, the presence outside grew and developed, until the faint outline of a horse could be seen, visible as a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of the eye, but disappearing if one looked properly at it.

Snorting and lifting his head, this new presence sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, and took a few steps forward to peer in a dirty window. He could sense them, all of them inside, but one stood out above the others. One he remembered and who called to him; his reason for returning. He snorted again and moved towards the door, the crunching of foliage under his hooves quiet and distant still, as if it was happening but not at the same time and, despite the noise, no visible trail was left in his wake.

He nudged open the door and peered inside, his eyes taking in each individual in the room. He knew this place, had spent a good deal of his life here, but not inside. Just outside, at the hitching post. He knew it had been warm and inviting and full of revelers once, where now it was abandoned, and dark. And something was happening. Something that had to do with the presence that called to him.

They were threatening that presence, he could see. She looked nervous, concerned about the others. He looked at the others and had to keep from charging them. Orcs, Minions of Mordor, enemies! That's what they were! Enemies, threatening his one! He snorted then, an audible noise from the doorway, and stepped slightly into the room, his hooves going from crunching vegetation to a faint clop-clop on the floor. He didn't know what was happening, but he would not let them hurt her!

[Baphởmet]

Frost, concussed in abandoned building

The violins were screeching again. Frost felt woozy. His head was swimming. It had taken only a few seconds for the room that had once nearly been empty to suddenly spring to life. Thali had been the first to appear, aside for the apparition could have been Gecko. She forced him on a chair and shoved something into his mouth. It tasted foul but Frost knew better than to spit it out.

It was then that he realized his error. That was not Gecko. That was most definitely not Gecko. The violent reaction of the individual, who had apparently just been standing there whilst he bumbled about, told him that he had made a grave, grave error. His paled at this. Mistakes like this were not often mistaken one lived through.

“… Get your shirt off, please and thank you. And don't make any foolish remarks…” Frost only vaguely heard her. He winced as she touched him and squinted at her. No. That couldn’t have been right. Thali wanted him to take his shirt off? What kind of joke was that? Another dizzy spell hit him and Frost nearly toppled from the stool. Perhaps he was in much worse shape than he had thought. He thought it was just a headache, but the alcohol he consumed seemed to have exasperated something worse than a headache. He tried to breath, but all he wanted to do was howl in pain. He vaguely heard the sound of Thali’s voice introducing him. But the sound was getting garbled again, the sounds were turning to mush, his vision was wobbly, the world around him kept quaking and shuddering. His vision fuzzed completely to blackness. He was floating in a sea of inky darkness. For just a moment, there was peace.

Then he was back, his vision cleared and there was Silendris! He smiled drowsily and waved and blew a kiss, or at least he thought he did, had he? Frost knew he was in trouble and there was something very wrong. He felt completely disconnected from himself. His consciousness hovered over him for a second. What was… what was Silendris doing here? That didn’t make sense. They were supposed to be celebrating and.. oh the fire. That’s right. The fire! A sudden surge of adrenaline flooded Frost’s mind and the fog and the screeching violins ceased their clamor. He needed to make sure everyone escaped the fire! Zôr! She looked like she was in trouble the last he saw of her. What happened to Zarâm? He was sure his memory was wrong. He couldn’t trust his facilities.

As soon as his mind cleared, Zôr appeared! He smiled vaguely. It hurt to smile. It hurt to breathe. It hurt. Her fingers on his jawline were nice though. The pain came flooding back as soon as she lifted his chin to meet her eyes. He winced, and tensed his muscles as a wall of pain hit him. He nearly toppled from the chair again. He needed to lay down.

Zarâm was the next in a Seussical line of people making their way into the abandoned building. Apparently it used to be a pub? Maybe there was some alcohol here. Frost shook his head to clear his thoughts. Right! Zarâm. She was safe too. He would have sighed with relief but that would have been more pain than he could have dealt with right then.

And speaking of pain. The next to arrive was Orco. Frost sighed. It hurt, but he sighed. If Thali was here, then Orco would not have been far behind. He swallowed hard and looked at the orc. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel up to too much fun at the moment.” His voice was thin, he hardly dared to breath.

He stood up then, scooting off the stool with the most grace he could manage. He motioned Zôr back as he began to test the dexterity of his fingers. They seemed to work just find, obeying his commands with vigor.

He unlaced the leather cord that at his throat and let it fall to the floor. He took a deep breath and pulled the shirt up and over his back. The process was slow and could have looked more erotic than he was meaning it to. The shirt came off over his head and he shook his thick black mane of hair free. He stretched his arms out and managed a very Frost-like grin. The leviathan tattoo was now clearly visible. Purple, blue, and black ink traced the sea serpent from his right wrist up the arm curling around his chest then up and over his back to end on his left wrist. Other tattoos were visible too, runic symbols that to an untrained eye could look almost Dwarven but were actually the script of his great grandmother’s people, the Snowmen of the Forodwaith.

Sweat poured down his chest and abs. The many, many years of sailing and performed their work on his body. His chest was thick and broad, his shoulders rugged and mountainous. Veins could been seen pulsing in his arms, stretched out as they were, straining like twisted rope. His abs were chiseled and defined tapering to a V near his waist, a product of years of attention to “personal appearance.” The muscles in his back flaired out as he flexed them, an ambiguous but very conscientious smile dancing over his smooth lips, revealing just a hint of the pearly white teeth behind them. His long, void black hair ran down his back, not quite hiding the very recently acquired scratch marks, relatively deep gouges around his shoulders that looked to have been made within the last few days. They would fit well with the other scars and wounds on Frost’s upper body: A large portion of his right wrist and forearm was covered in a burn scar; a puncture wound in his left shoulder; the remnants of a shark bite on his lower left side; and the more recent bruising from his bout in the melee.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked smugly.

Just as he did, who should walk in but Írimë, flanked by two people he’d never seen before. One of them looked like a remarkable, if not perfectly formed, copy of himself, without the hair and trademark lecherous grin. Had she brought him a gift? A young pup for him to play with and train? He had to be half Frost’s age, if even that.

What did you do to deserve this?” the young man asked. Frost, for his part, licked his lips.

“Come a little closer and find out.”

Frost leered at Írimë and bowed, wincing as he did slightly. “Well, well! I didn’t expect to you see you here in Rohan, Lady Írimë, I must be truly important for you to come all this way to see.”

The last figure in the room was the one that made Frost the wariest, even in his present state of delirium. If he was not mistaken… yes. Yes, that was no man there. The hood fell off and reveled the glowing red eyes.

“You’re new. And big. I’ve seen some big orcs before. You’re definitely one of the bigger ones,” he winked, dropping his gaze to the orc’s waist then back up to his face. “Definitely.”

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

(Then) The high country of the Wold, a morning’s hard ride from the Undeeps: NPC: Ringbold Took

“What about here?” Ringo called to @Eléowyn. “There’s a little hollow below the hill which should shield us nicely. And there’s the sound of a stream in those trees. It looks like an agreeable camp site. Oh, look! Down below across a wide plain … is that the Anduin sparkling in the sunset?”

Without waiting for an answer the hobbit leapt from the saddle. He performed a neat little somersault, as he hit the ground. He tied Sandy’s reins to a gnarled tree, and grinned up at Eléowyn: “Now I know why you Riders are so grouchy when you get home from some campaign or other. My body feels like it’s been flung down the Entwash in a tub!

I’m prattling aren’t I? Food is what we need and a warm brew. You have a bit of time to yourself, I’ll be back to help you set things up when I’ve collected some firewood and water.”

---

(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:

“I love, thee too, Eléowyn”, Aodh smiled, entwining his fingers in hers. “This you know as a truth. I accept your apology as friend and lover; I take your pledge as din, and vow to have you at my side, unless this means our destruction.

Make your heart a stone when out Enemy comes, I said. But do not lose heart. The measure of our years together shall not be shortened, if we both hold true. When the time comes trust me, as you always have, and heed my commands, for they shall not be given needlessly.

I cannot clearly see the path meant for us, but wherever the road leads us - short and straight; long and languid - I shall walk it with thee.”

Aodh slipped his left hand from his wife’s and made a fresh smoke as his gaze traversed the surrounding countryside. Although they’d recently breakfasted the shadows were already lengthening into the east. He wondered if Eléowyn noticed this, the rush of time grown thin, or the herringboned pattern of the banks of cirrus that had blown in from the north-west. The wan sickle of the moon rose over the woods across Anduin. Night was coming. The Dark Man too, but not yet.

“Lie with me a time,” He said to Eléowyn, as twilight fell upon them. “Lie with me till daybreak and cast aside your care and doubt. Let the horses be our sentinels through the dark hours. The morning shall fetch the Dark Man finally to this accursed hill. But the new day might bring with it fresh counsel.”

[Moriel]

in the abandoned building

Frost began to do as he was told, removing his shirt so that Thali could get at his injuries and well, that was the end of anything coherent in the mind of Írimë. She was well used to observing any number of different physiques, some of them in tip-top condition, but her pretty wench was a prime specimen. Her eyes glued themselves to his collarbones as he loosened the neck of the shirt (what was it about collarbones? They took so little pressure to break and yet were so attractive), and meandered downward as he shook his hair free after stripping off the shirt, taking in every inch, line, shadow, intricacy of ink, and gloriously defined muscle. Írimë had thought Khaulzîm a prizewinner when it came to muscularity and definition, and maybe he still was, but Frost definitely bumped the Easterling down the podium a place. Come a little closer and find out, Frost replied to Khaulzîm’s enquiry.

SMACK. Írimë’s palm made a crisp impact on Khaulzîm’s bare chest (for he had rid himself of the cloak at the earliest opportunity, leaving his upper body clothed in only the open jerkin) as the Easterling began to stride enthusiastically forward to accept the offer, and the Pubmistress flung out her arm to stop him. “Important, yes,” Írimë replied to Frost, her eyes slightly glazed over. From a diminutive frog at her belt, next to the sharpened jam spoon, she whipped out a fan, snapped it open with practice skill, and began rapidly wafting both herself and Khaulzîm. A tiny trickle of blood appeared from her nose, and she hastily wiped it away.

The door creaked open behind them, and Swiltang looked around sharply. He, too, had been distracted briefly by the show that Frost was making, but only to ponder the mysteries of why so many people had decided to fling themselves at him. Though he could have sworn he saw the briefest hint of movement, there was no one there. Reaching out with a leg, he kicked the door closed sharply, hoping that the noise might help break whatever spell the Númenorean seemed to have cast- and he wouldn’t put it past him to have actually done a casting. “Can none of you concentrate in the slightest? There may be time,” Swiltang replied to Frost’s comment on the orc’s own physique, “To further examine your observations. Later. For now, would someone explain what in name of Ungoliant’s third eye is going on, and why we have been summoned here?”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

Thalionwen, Once A Haelend Always A Haelend

In the Cavalry, a haelend's position and space had been respected--nay, feared. In Mordor, the Slaughter House and all its laborers were regarded with a sort of veiled terror. But here in this ramshackle, abandoned pub, no one seemed to care that there were injured present, and it was starting to get Thalionwen's metaphorical goat. Her literal goats were safe at home in the Eastfold, thankfully, producing an abundance of milk for conversion into cheese. But the metaphorical goat? The metaphorical goat was struggling.

The last straw (you could take the girl out of the farm, but not the farm analogies out of the girl) was the arrival of Írimë, in company with the Black Market's minstrel and an orc Thali had never met before. All of them seemed to think they were walking into a party, rather than a triage wing, and at that, Thalionwen snapped.

But this fit of temper was not the sort she exhibited when some slight had got far enough beneath her skin to rankle. That was a quick flash of her own genuine anger. This was a haelend's rage--cold, self-righteous, and demanding attention.

"Look here," Thalionwen said, her voice ringing from the rafters of the old pub. "You're all going to sit down and shut your mouths immediately. Not-Gecko, on the stool (Allacan)--you seem to have been expecting everyone. So why don't you answer the big orc's (Swiltang's) question, as to what we're doing here? Írimë and the bard--sorry, we haven't been introduced, it's unconscionable really, I should have come over to say hello in the Market--it's rude to gawk at injured men. Shut your mouths unless you're planning to catch moths. Frost, you're going to have a lie down in the corner but not fall asleep and not flirt with anyone, which means I need someone sensible to watch you."

Casting about herself, Thalionwen nearly melted with relief when she found Orco had appeared at some point in all the chaos, looking more himself than he had in days.

"Oh thank Bema," she breathed, resting a hand on his arm. "Heorte min, I know you hate this idiot Numenorean, but could you get him into that corner and keep an eye on him? Make sure he doesn't fall asleep, or bat his eyelashes at anyone. And you" she put a bottle of fragrant herbal oil into Frost's hand--lavender and chamomile, to take the edge off pain--"rub that on your ribs. I'd have done it for you myself, but I've got other things to deal with now."

Pivoting on one heel, Thalionwen turned to Zôrzimril.

"Sit down at once," she said sharply, gesturing to the stool that Frost had occupied until a moment ago. "Now hold out your arm, and take what's coming to you like a woman."

Rifling through her satchel, Thali removed a canteen and poured clear water over Zor's burn, after which she dug out a small pot of honey and slathered it liberally over the injury before wrapping it.

"I'm Thali," she said as she worked. "Don't ask where I'm from--I don't really know at the moment. But I do know I'm a haelend. Once I finish wrapping this, the wound's going to have to be cleaned and re-bandaged once a day, at least. I'll give you a roll of cotton for that, and you can keep the jar of honey. For now, eat this--the honey, NOT THE FINGERS."

And Thalionwen put her honey-slick fingers into Zôrzimril's mouth.

"Shame to waste it," she explained. "My friend Lail keeps bees and gave this to me a few days back. She probably thought I'd just have it on toast, but warding off blood poisoning seems like a fair use, too. Alright, alright, I beg your pardon, that is quite enough."

Extricating her hand from Zor's mouth, Thali rinsed the last of the stickiness away with a bit of the water from her canteen and handed Zor the promised bandages and honey.

Lastly, she set her hands on her hips and squinted up at the ceiling.

"Taethowen Anhyrne, I know you're up there," she said impatiently. "I could hear you gasp when this one," Thali waved vaguely at Zor, "touched the pretty Numenorean. Come down at once. And if you're here, I expect Gwai's skulking about too. I want to know what a lot of Cavalry paeths are doing holed up in an out of use pub with my Mordorian friends.

"And I swear to you," at that, Thalionwen glared at every last person in the room, "the first one to try and turn this into a brawl will suffer. Don't think that just because I spend my time sewing people back together, I can't take them apart piece by piece. I could remove every last one of your limbs inch by slow inch and make sure you lived through the whole thing. So whatever's going on here, I expect all of you--all of you--to play nice."

In the moment of silence that followed her words, the door whined ominously on its hinges and Thali rolled her eyes. "Oh honestly, ghost horse, in or out? You've got to make up your mind."

With that, she retreated to the corner Frost and Orco had been banished to. Resting her head on Orco's shoulder, Thalionwen let out a deflated sigh.

"Can we go home, heorte min?" she asked under her breath. "I'm tired."

[Marceline]

Zôrzimril, Reacting to All the Exciting Happenings and Eating Honey

Zôr was still kneeling next to Frost when Zarâm walked in. She winked up at Zarâm when the orc commented on Frost's way with the ladies. A cloaked, hooded, and bandage-covered stranger was next, followed by a group of three she'd never met. Familiar greetings followed each entrance. Zôr had clearly missed out on some pub crawls or torture sessions. She made a note to find out where they all hung out on weekends if they made it out of Rohan alive.

She stood and backed away as Frost - who could clearly still do some things - stood up. Thus began his shirt's long journey. Zôr's eyes widened a bit as it fell to the ground, one eyebrow arched with interest. He was obviously quite tall, but still - this was surprising. In the lantern’s flickering light, the leviathan inscribed across his body seemed to come alive and move - or perhaps that was just the concussed man flexing his considerable brawn for their benefit. When the object of everyone's attention shook out his long hair, she scanned the gathered faces and noticed a number of reactions similar to hers.

"Oh, you know what we think, you massive flirt. Thanks for the demonstration," Zôr answered him, grinning. Concussed he might be, but she could tell he knew what he was doing.

Before she could tease him further, the healer who'd been tending to Frost turned on her, snapping rapid-fire orders so suddenly that Zôr complied and sat down before she thought to question them.

She sucked in her breath through her teeth as Thali covered her forearm in honey and cotton and had just opened her mouth to say "Hello, Thali from nowhere" when the woman shoved her honey-covered fingers into Zôr's mouth. She was more than tempted to bite off an appendage or two and had just bitten down a bit when the healer pulled her hand away. Despite all this and the woman's ramblings about bees and her friend, she liked Thali's directness and efficiency. "Thanks," she managed to say, then licked away the honey dripping from her lips. It was quite satisfying to eat something; lighting a tent on fire and then fleeing from the wreckage was hard work. She watched from the stool with interest as Thali proceeded to put everyone in their place.

Zôr couldn't help but laugh when the healer called out to a hidden someone named Taethowen. It always amused her when jealous lovers reacted to her teasing. And of course there were Rohirrim hidden in the rafters; she should've realized this. She looked forward to the fallout - that is, if any were to come now that Thali had had her say. At least her burn had been tended and she'd gotten to see a ghost horse before it all went down.

She shoved the honey and bandages Thali had given her into her bag, stood up, and went to stand next to Zarâm. She didn't know what was going to happen with this assorted group, but she wouldn't bet against the big orc if it came to a brawl.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Zarâm - an abandoned building

As she reached to take back the saw, the occupant next to the bar (Allacan) turned towards Zarâm and commented on whether or not she could afford materials of as fine a caliber as the Ellenweorc family. As Zarâm finally had the saw back in her own hands she eyed the woman and replied, "Your local blacksmith does not have the capabilities to produce torture instruments. Unfortunately, all of mine are back home in Mordor, so I need to make due with these extremely gentrified weapons." She looked down at the counter where she noticed an array of tools, gentled fingered one, and added, "Though you seem to have made it your duty to procure fine instruments." She smiled at the woman, showing off her pointed teeth. Despite not knowing a thing about this woman, her responses earlier that day during the Mx. Medeusald competition, subsequent interventions during the melee, and now gathering here in this abandoned pub with torture instruments all added up to someone that Zarâm was interested in getting to know. She certainly was suspicious of this woman, who seemed to be both a Rohir and a minion, but perhaps that conversation was meant for later – after she knew what was going on in this building and why they were all assembled, aside from the obvious triage going on with Frost and Zor.

Before anything else could be said, to Zarâm’s great surprise, Írimë entered the room! She was flanked by two others who Zarâm did not recognize: a man and a fellow orc, though a much bigger one than she. She turned towards Írimë and said, “Fancy meeting you here. Who’s running On the Rocks if you and your two assistants are all currently in this abandoned one?”

Some way or another, Zarâm had managed to avoid any nasty injuries in both the Campaign and in the fire escapade. She was a bit stiff and her clothing a big singed, but no injuries that required medical intervention. Zarâm turned around at the sound of a very angry Thali who immediately began to rant about proper medical procedures, what the fredeger was going on (that comment was directed towards the stranger Allacan) and commanded Frost to take off his shirt.

She watched bug-eyed as Frost slowly removed his shirt and let it fall to the floor. She knew he was a handsome fellow, his chiselled jaw certainly showed that, but the eye candy of a half-naked Frost was not something she had expected to see. But she certainly didn’t regret the sight. Even in the candlelight, and despite the obvious bruising, Frost’s tattooed chest stood out as a great wonder. Zarâm didn’t exactly have a category in her mind for “beautiful” but some small part of her mind from way long ago, registered Frost’s chest as something to be admired. Not to mention, the impressive tattoo of a sea serpent. And he had a good many scars, a quality Zarâm greatly admired. It clearly meant that Frost was indeed more than a flirt. Of course, this was common knowledge to anyone who had spent any amount of time with the man, but the physical evidence of his battle scars was admirable.

And then Thali commanded Orco, who must have snuck into the put at some point during the Frost undressing sequence, to watch over the man while she addressed the burn that Zor had received. Zarâm knew that it was only thanks to her that Zor had made it out of the fiery tent with simply a minor burn on the arm. Some honey was slapped on Zor’s arm and once the procedure was over, the woman joined Zarâm over by the counter. It was evident by the way she was looking around, that she hoped the gathering wouldn’t descend into a brawl.

Waiting for an explanation as to what was going on (the question that several members of the eclectic group had already asked), two more unexpected things happened. First, Thali shouted up into the rafters commanding Taeth to come down. Of course the Rohir woman would be in the pub. Zarâm was glad to know that she was okay, as they had had an interesting bonding experience in the Campaign, mutually agreeing to attack the fiends that had brought about Frost’s quick defeat. There was nothing like a fight to gain camaraderie. The second was the arrival of the ghost horse and the chilling atmosphere it brought with it.

[Eléowyn]

(Then) The high country of the Wold, a morning's hard ride from the Undeeps

Ringbold had set a cruel pace for the journey, but Eléo bore it, reminding herself she had endured worse as a cavalry officer. But she had been younger then, and her body now ached, her mind was weary, and she would kill for a pint of strong ale. Nonetheless, the journey had been otherwise pleasant; the weather had held, and Ringo was an entertaining companion.

When, on the fourth day, they could at last espy the mighty Anduin, Eléo breathed a sigh of relief. Their journey was near over, though for the first time she began to think hard about what they find at journey’s end. She had been there, atop the tafelberg, she could remember being there with Aodh, could remember the dread of an oncoming evil. But memory stopped there. Her next memories were recent, of Edoras. And why had Aodh not returned with her?

Ringo’s chatter broke into her thoughts. “Aye,” she replied, “this looks like a good place to camp. And yes, that is the Anduin. Beautiful, is it not? But treacherous at times.”

She slid down from Daesûl (no fancy dismount for her, though she chuckled at the sight of Ringo’s antics), and removed her saddlebag, grinning at Ringo’s assessment of Riders’ moods upon return from campaign. “Grouchy, indeed, and that’s when we have had success!”

She busied herself opening up the saddlebag and pulling out what she would need for the evening. She felt dirty and wished the Anduin were closer. But the nearby stream was still slightly swollen from spring rains and would do nicely for a bath of sorts. As Ringo headed upstream to gather water, Eléo spied a spot just downstream with a small cove hidden by a slight bend, and she headed there. After glancing about to make sure Ringo was indeed out of sight, she slipped out of her garments and sat down on a smooth rock to splash the cold water over her aching bones.

(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps

Aodh’s words soothed her, and Eléo felt a stir of hope. They were united again, and for the first time she began to realize what a mighty force they could be if they held true.

The smoke from Aodh’s pipe drifted across her vision and disappeared into the air above the plain. But something was off, and she realized with a shock that instead of shadows shortening as the sun rose, they were now lengthening again, and within moments the moon’s crescent was in view. She should have been confused, shocked, frightened even, but gazing out to the Anduin, the thought came to her that perhaps time was fluid, like the river in the distance. Sometimes it ran fast, sometimes slow. Could it have even run upstream, bringing them to this time and place where they were younger than they were before? Could it now run fast enough to wash them back to a time when her hair was graying at the temples and Aodh’s finger was missing? Or would it wash them even farther, into a future unknown?

All of these thoughts she kept to herself, afraid to express them for fear she might sound mad. Instead, with the color disappearing from the sky and the world around them now in shade, she smiled at her husband and replied, “Aye, I can do that.”

@Aodh Hammerhelm

[The Elf Imperishable]

Orco del Oro

Frost had apparently decided it was now time for some half frontal nudity, at which Orco visibly rolled his eyes, removed his offered hand, and turned his back towards him, deciding to focus his stare at the door. His fists clenched as he saw the door opening, shoulders tightening as if anticipating not-so-friendly intruders in their gathering.

As Írimë appeared, Orco's shoulders relaxed, a grin appearing on his face as he was about to greet her, when his eyes noticed who was flanking her.

Or rather, one of the people flanking her, Orco couldn't care less about the human (Khaulzîm) in comparison.

No, it was the other one, Swiltang that drew his attention. A neutral guarded expression appeared on Orco's face as he moved out of the way of the new group of Mordorians entering. While doing so, he nodded at Swiltang in greeting, keeping his eyes on the back of the orc's head. Whatever raucous events and other minor occurrences that were occurring did not draw Del Oro's attention as he kept a neutral gaze on Swiltang, and only noticed out of the corner of his eye a familiar face.

A look of surprise appeared on his face as his beloved Thalionwen appeared, requesting him to keep an eye on Frost.

"Or I could just knock 'im out and leave em in the cworner," Orco responded, "eeh, I'll keep 'im conscious. Just so long as he doesn't flirt with ya again."

With that Orco approached Frost, a business-like expression on his face as he lifted his chin over the other, "yer going to lie down in the corner over there," Orco pointed somewhere with his giant thumb, "Now don't make me drag ya by the ear, ya here? Heh, that rhymed."

So whenever Frost eventually moved to the corner and lied down, Orco would loom over his feet, a shadow casting on Frost's lower body, "Now let's get this straight. I don't want you to flirt with my wife no more, okay? And no flirtin' with me either; we're both taken and I don't like sharin'. I don't care who you flirt with, who you show ya body to, me and her are off-limits. Understand?"

Orco turned his head for a moment to see Zôrzimril clamp her jaws on Thalionwen's hand, and he scowled, curling his left hand around the hilt of a weapon attached to his waist. He then uncurled his hand and resumed a neutral expression as it became apparent that his wife had not apparently come to harm.

But the scowl returned as he heard Thalionwen's words about people hiding in the rafters. Orco audibly inhaled and exhaled, breathing through his mouth as he turned his gaze upwards. Suddenly, his left eye twitched, as if in realization, as his eyes darted back towards Thalionwen, a slight frown now on Orco's face.

He heard the soft whisper-like request from Thalionwen, and Orco gave a tender smile as he wrapped an arm gently around her waist.

"Ya wanna leave your friend in the rafters (Taethowen) behind for the wolves, hon?" Orco asked, whispering. He looked into her eyes then, narrowed, then signaled with his eyes and a very slight shake of the head in the direction of Swiltang.

"That one," Orco whispered, "the lean, tall orc. My fathuh told me stories about him. That orc has thousands of years of war 'xperience, murderin', killin', all sorts a things.

Promise me, Thalionwen. If things get dicey, run far far away; head back home. I'll covah ya."

Orco's voice grew louder, a grin appearing now on his face, "Ya said somethin' about a ghost horse (Beaducyrm), hon? Ya think the horsie would let me pet their mane?"

[Amhran]

Amhran, West Emnet, with @Wamba_the_Fool (touche!)

((OOC: Edited, rather dramatically. I was gently reminded that Rohan is a pre-Christian society in which personal revenge and blood feud are acceptable, so Amh would not have objected. And now she doesn't. Carry on, Mr. Bowditch.))

Through Blaedtunge's story, Amhran had been standing apart a little, arms folded, a frown of concentration furrowing the space between her eyebrows. When he finished, there was a silence as she mentally untangled, sorted, and filed the threads. Finally she spoke.
"So what you're saying is, you came out to find your captain, but wound up on a quest to avenge him." Another pause, and then she blew out a long, low whistle. "Not an easy task, freond min; the Haradrim don't fight fair. And it seems you're not the only one with a hungry sword. Obviously our friend in the copse can't have been the only one who killed your captain, did you see his face? What was left of it anyway. There was a tiny knife-nick wound on his left cheek. That wouldn't kill him, but poison would. It wasn't an accident, and no man of Rohan uses a poisoned blade. That means there are other Southrons. We need to tell Eomer King."

They returned to the clearing where they had left their horses. Each was silent, busy with his own thoughts, as they tightened girths, checked saddlebags, assessed supplies, ran their hands over the horses' necks and legs to make sure they were good for a long journey. Amhran was feeling fidgety; this detour was going to mean being gone far longer than she and Athelstan had bargained for; and even though this was one of those rare circumstances where her duty to her king actually took trumps over her duty to her hearth and husband, she still wished she could have at least sent him a message so he wouldn't worry. Also, she missed him. And their children. She knew they could manage, but wondered how they would take her prolonged absence.

And there was another duty that bound her. Blaedtunge was her blood brother. Oaths they had taken in the days of their youth to aid and defend one another. His foes were her foes, and vice versa. She would gladly go with him and help him, if he wanted it, to track down the murderers of his captain. She still wasn't clear on some of the parts of his story, though, and kept turning over in her mind which ones she would ask him about, and how. But, after the manner of human minds, and perhaps particularly and delightfully of feminine minds if there is a romantic cast involved, her concentration kept recurring to the one thing he had said merely in passing, the one thing irrelevant to the task at hand.

Astoril. He had mentioned a woman named Astoril, and though he had not said as much she gathered from context that she was his wife. And there were children. Details! She wanted details! So many years behind them, it would take many hours of hard talking to catch up on one another's lives and she couldn't wait to hear all about it. Amhran had absolutely no compunctions when it came to pumping her old friend for information.

By now they were both mounted and heading back the way they came, toward the road to Edoras. Amhran had just opened her mouth to say, "Tell me about Astoril", when she suddenly shut it and wished she never had to open it again. They were approaching the cairn of the dead Southron and the smell was back. Only it was somehow different.

A pungent-thick-cloying-gestanc...

The cairn, which they had left bare, was surrounded by sickly yellow flowers...

The blood had drained from their faces. Amhran choked out, "We need to leave. NOW."

[Aodh Hammerhelm]

(Then) The high country of the Wold, a morning’s hard ride from the Undeeps: NPC: Ringbold Took

When the hobbit returned with wood and water, there was no sign of @Eléowyn at their camp-site. He set his load down carefully and stood a time, head cocked, as his eyes flitted over the surrounding countryside. All was quiet and peaceful, but a sense of unease fell on him as he took in the brooding presence of a tall flat-topped hill on the horizon.

Shaking off this sense of dread, he stilled the panicky call that rose in his throat. He prepared a fire, shaking his head as he whistled some long forgotten ditty. What were you thinking? A bit of time to yourself, you said. And there you were about to frighten the life out of Eléowyn with your screeching.

Cooking stilled his beating heart further, it had always been a perfect way to unwind, and the hobbit worked quickly and efficiently. His set of pans allowed him to cook several courses at once, and a hot brew at need. He placed the prepared ingredients into each in turn: thick rashers of bacon in one, sliced ‘taters with some of the fat in another, sliced cabbage and diced turnip in the third. He added a sprinkling of seasoning to each pan, and a good measure of water to the vegetables, before settling them out on the coals.

Nettle tea again, he sighed, not the Harriers' brew of choice, cawfee dark and strong. But they were out in the wild weren't they, and not in a position to be choosy. As the pans sizzled and bubbled away, he dug into his knapsack and retrieved the oilskin wrapped parcel. He set it down carefully on a flat stone he’d chosen as a seat, and glanced once more towards the woods and stream.

There was still no sign of his companion. He’d just about decided to set off in search of her, though that would in all likelihood mean scorched offerings for dinner, when he saw her emerge from the scraggly pines. Eléo's hair was wet and her face scrubbed clean of the toil of their journey.

The hobbit stood abashed, dusting absently at his wes'kit and trousers with grimy hands. He knelt and splashed his face with a slug of water from a skin, wishing he had a comb to hand. His hair was a fright and his feet looked even worse!

“Suppers ready, freond!” he called to his friend. “Three courses and a mug of tea is all I could manage, I'm afraid. There’s an apple for afters and a smoke for me, and then, less enticing, palaver to be had into the wee hours…”

---

(When) The Tafelberg, beside Anduin, above the Undeeps:

High upon tall Tafelberg no fire burned. None of the tet saw the warm glow of Ringbold’s campfire away west, on the edge of sight. Aodh Hammerhelm held his wife’s sleeping form close to his. The night had come down unseasonably chill, yet the pair slept soundly. The time of debate had come and gone, their path was set for good or ill. They lay together, mayhap for the last time, but at peace. The blankets and deerskin over their bodies kept them snug. Their piles of folded clothing, their boots and Aodh’s sword-belt lay close to hand.

Across the ledge Goldwhæt Dughlaich slept too, but fitfully. He writhed and moaned upon the hard ground. The cold gnawed his body, chilled his heart and stalked his dreams. The clocking of worn boot heels filled his head. He rolled onto his side, drew into the pit of his belly the relic he and Nadene had retrieved, and grasped it ever tighter.