Ost-Halatir: Elven Guards & Rangers RPG (Lindon & Rivendell, Mirkwood & Lórien)

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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"Elrond will send out a fair number...Elrond is sending Elves, and they
will get in touch with the Rangers...we shall have to scour the lands
all round for many long leagues."
- Gandalf, from
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - The Ring Goes South

"What power still remains lies with us here in Imladris,
or with Círdan at the Havens, or in Lórien."
- Galdor, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - The Council of Elrond


"There are some of us still who go abroad for the gathering of news
and the watching of our enemies."
- Haldir, from
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring: Lothlórien

"The Silvan Elves were hardy and valiant." - Tolkien,
Unfinished Tales, The Sindarin Princes of the Silvan Elves

Out leaped Wood-elves (Of Mirkwood) with their bows and spears."
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit, Barrels Out of Bond


Beyond the Mitheithel water swirling against three great arches of the Last Bridge you will come to a narrow ravine. It leads northwards through the highlands on the left of the Road. This is a sombre country of dark trees winding among the gentle slopes of sullen hills. A threatening, unfriendly territory where once sorcerers of Rhudaur plotted evil. As you venture about you will notice the hills become more lofty, reaching intimidating heights. Across these ridges you catch glimpses of ancient walls of stone, and the ruins of great towers which have an ominous look. If you are brave enough to press on, you will find yourself in a long valley; narrow and deep, shadowy and silent. Trees with old and twisted roots hang over cliffs, and piled up behind into mountain slopes of pine-wood where you suddenly catch a welcoming glow of lanterns lighting your way through the dismal murk. Those daring enough will draw closer...and see mounted Elves riding out of an isolated white turret.

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"Q - Halatir, kingfisher." - Tolkien, from the
Etymologies of The Lost Road and Other Writings


Here stands on the hill-side an Elven fortress: Ost-Halatir, Fort Kingfisher, named for the birds which swoop down from their perch and, subsequently beat their prey with blows of their sharp bill. This tower is the headquarters of the Elven League where groups of guards from the four elven nations - Lindon and Rivendell, Mirkwood and Lóorien - work together to combat the evil of Eriador and Wilderland. Seldom are the Rangers of the North seen, aiding their elven friends to rid minions and ruffians from the surrounding lands.

The Elves and Rangers maintain a sleepless watch here in the Angle once known as Rhudaur. In the distant Misty Mountains there are prowling Orcs and evil giants anxious to thwart the crossing of travellers. Hungry wargs hunt the region and ravenous werewolves stalk the passes, often coming to the plains to eat. There are trolls in the cold-fells north of Imladris and highwaymen terrorize the Road, emerging from the dreary woods to attack their victims. In the distant southern regions are few tribes of Hill-men, vicious and territorial.


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Basement:

Adabrauta - The forge where a number of workers regularly repair and replace weapons. Soldiers with knowledge of forging may also use the room to work on their own projects if they choose.

Ohtagard - The armoury, a storehouse of weapons - swords, spears, shields, bows, quivers, arrows, and more - can be found here as well as uniforms.

Aessogmen - The pantry located right below the kitchen of Merenthrond, and connected to it by a staircase, is a large, highly organized room full of enough food and beverages to sustain all those leaving on missions.


In the First Hall:

Merenthrond - the castle's feast hall. A heavily vaulted, taspestried hall with many rows of long beechen tables. You may also visit its pantry which is full of enough food and beverages to sustain all those leaving on missions.

Lissëcirban - The infirmary dedicated to several treatment and recovery rooms. Soldiers can obtain healing supplies here unless they have a healer going with them on assignment. Adab Nestad medics are welcome here and may accompany the Elves & Rangers into battle.

Sammath Dagor - A hall of airy sparring chambers reserved for soldiers and Ranger guests to hone their skills alone or together. Also in this corridor is an in-door archery range for elves and mortals who don't favor the cold of late autumn and winter or the heat of the summer sun.


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In the Second Hall:

Sammath Ohtarim -The Chambers of the Warriors where aphadors, maethors, and tirns live, and soldiers of equivalent ranks from other regions are housed.

Sammath Elessrim - The Chambers of the Healers where the medics live.

Sammath Orchelrim - The Chambers of the Superiors. Slightly more spacious accommodations for the Tar-Taidron, Arahiril, Taidrons, Taidrils, Authons, and Authils are located here, and where soldiers of equivalent ranks from other regions are housed.

Sammath Parvsenda: The lounge & library. For relaxation and reading. Tomes of lore regarding the flora and fauna of Eriador and Wilderland are shelved here. Guards have written guides and scrolls relating to their journeys and what places they've found on their errantries, including what dangers they've faced which may be beneficial to scouts.

Sammath Lasto: The hall of Aigronding and Tavari where they speak with subordinates concerning their missions.


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Outside:



Melima Lotharda - A picturesque garden with statues of elven and mortal heroes. There are fountains carved in the likeness of Valinor beasts and Maiar of Ulmo as well. In the spring and summer the healers nurture a whole array of medicinal plants to treat injured warriors. In autumn, the herbs are dried and stored in a room on the lower level of the fort, so that there will supplies enough for the winter. There are many trees here as well like hornbeams, magnolia, dogwoods, beeches, and bushes of roses and bilberries.

Mar Aldaron - The Cathedral of Oromë. Like the other shrines of the Valar in the garden, it is an elegant and columned white limestone rotunda erected for the worship of the Seraph of the Hunt. The building's stained glass dome features scenes of Maiar and the mighty Vala King courageously slaying monsters and fell beasts beneath the starlight in the Years of the Trees when Middle-earth was young on one side, flowing smoothly into depictions of Oromë and his hunters in Valinor on the other.. A belltower stands adjacent to the building to summon Halcyon Guards to discuss matters of grave importance with the Tar-Taidron. There is an oculus, a fairly large circular opening in the round roof, allowing rain water to fall inside the edifice which is carried away by drains and keeps the basilica cool in the summer months, and sunlight to stream inside in all seasons. Tavari, who was an acolyte of Oromë in Aman, may often be found here.

Talath Hedi - A target field for soldiers and adventurers to practice throwing spears and sharpening their archery skills in pleasant weather.

Rochir Ardhon - A horse training field for soldiers and adventurers to bond with their mounts. Jousting competitions are hosted between Halcyon Guards here. Large stables of yellow brick roofed with slate provide shelter for soldiers' horses at this site as well.

Cardh Emlin - An aviary where birds are kept for falconry and messaging.

Gador - The dungeon. Enough said.

Ranking:


Former Imladris Guards: For those of you returning to the Host of Imladris, welcome back! Please speak with me in the Rivendell Activities OOC thread regarding your rank, letting me know which rank you were (Aphador, Maethor, Tirn, Authon / Authil, Taidron / Taidril) and if you still want it. Please understand that any rank above aphador is considered a leadership rank and you'll be expected to lead others on missions. Authons and Taidron / Tadril ranks are expected to make their own missions if wanted for their subordinates to enjoy. You may interact with other guards and join them on quests. Aigronding and Tavari (Moriel) are your most senior superiors.

Former Lindon Guards:
For those of you returning, welcome back! Please speak with me in the Rivendell Activities OOC thread regarding your rank, letting me know which rank you were (Winë, Tirno, Vayatiriwë, Ciryaquen, Varyaëar) and if you still want it. Please understand that any rank above Tirno is considered a leadership rank and you'll be expected to lead others on missions. Vayatiriwë, Ciryaquen, Varyaëar ranks are expected to make their own missions if wanted for their subordinates to enjoy. You may interact with other guards and join them on quests. Telkelion (Aigronding's NPC) is your most senior superior.

Lorien Guards:
Dincairwen is your captain. She has the right to orchestrate your duties, ranks, and promotions. For the time being until she arrives, you may interact with the other guards and join them on quests.

Mirkwood Guards:
Gellam the Fool (Moriel) is your chief, as Arphen of the Mirkwood Guard. He has the right to orchestrate your duties, ranks, and promotions. If you are rejoining the Mirkwood Guard, let Moriel know in the Imladris OOC thread which rank you were (Othon/Tauror/Pengron (archer) or Magron (swordsman)/Dagnir/Rochir/Caun). Please note that the trainee rank has been eliminated, and Chief Guard of Mirkwood has been replaced by Arphen.

Adventurers:
Anyone who doesnt' want to be a guard or seek rank advancement may still interact with the guards and serve as a scout. You're welcome to come to the host leaders and warn them of certain dangers in Eriador and Wilderland which we can also base missions off of; your news is important!

Rangers:
It's historically canon that Elves and the Dunedain are friends, that they fight along side each other frequently. Rangers are welcome here.

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- There are three ways to post in Ost Halatir:

A. You can roleplay in the tower, for instance working in the forge, eating at the feast hall, sparring with other soldiers, et cetera.
B. You can be involved in a mission given to you by a commander whether it's an Elf or a Ranger.
C. Alternately you can ask for a task, like forging a weapon or armour; cleaning the stables; gathering food for the pantry, et cetera.

Uniforms: You can wear what you want now.

Ranking (For Rivendell and Lindon presently until I speak with Dincairwen and Baingil):

You will progress to each rank by earning renown from merely posting. Bonus renown points could be awarded for exceptional posting or/and IC deeds. For insance, this scale based off Mordor's Black Host:

Aphador: 5 - 10 Renown
Maethor: 11 - 16 Renown
Tirn: 17 - 22 Renown
Authon / Authil: 23 - 28 Renown
Taidron / Tadril: 33 Renown

Renown points will be tracked in the Imladris Archives OOC. viewtopic.php?f=10&t=192

Out of character remarks and plotting can be done in the Imladris Activities OOC. viewtopic.php?f=10&t=34



Tharmáras RPs Aragorn in this thread, including guest appearances of Glorfindel and Elrond and Galadriel.

GM UPDATE:

If you like, your first post can be speaking with Aigronding
(Tharmáras ' NPC) and Tavari (Moriel) about assignments.
It's a misty morning in the autumn of TA 3014.
Last edited by Eriol on Thu Mar 18, 2021 9:11 am, edited 2 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Sammath Parvsenda

Númenyraumion made his way slowly to his familiar spot in the library, off to the side, next to a window with lots of golden light streaming through. There was a large oak table there, with a stone bench woven around it. As he sat down, the Teler, closed his eyes. He had not been here in many years. He tried counting in his head back to when he had been welcomed here but became lost around three hundred years.
“Too long,” he mused to himself. A smile came to a corner of his lip, an unbidden thing wrapped up in nostalgia. He did like it here in Ost-Halatir. There were parts of it that reminded him of Andúnië, the simplistic, functional design of the place had a cold charm about it. It was far from Imladris too, or far enough at least. He remembered well the last time was there. It had been nearly a thousand years since the argument with a friend and driven him from the Hidden Valley and kept him away. Now, when he had stories to transcribe, he came here. The Guard had been surprisingly welcoming, allowing him, a civilian, access to the library in order to write down all the tales that he had gathered over the years. He opened his heterochromatic eyes and glanced around the shelves, beautifully and painstakingly carved to emulate the great trees of the past. A good third of the books and scrolls here had been recorded by him. He travelled, had been doing so since the dawn of the Third Age, going from western shores of Lindon to the Iron Hills in the northeast, and as far south as Khand. Everywhere he had gone, he had collected stories. Bits and pieces of legends, old wives’ tales, folklore passed down through two dozen generations. He heard tales of bright sunshiny hills, of heavy misted thickets, and peat choked bogs, and hidden, shadow smeared hollows. He remembered every one of them, and those the told the tales. He heard grandmothers, young children, farmwives, blacksmiths, and retired infantrymen. He brought those tales here. To Sammath Parvsenda. He recorded them as if it were a sacred duty that had been given him from the Powers beyond the spheres. Some of the stories, such as the one he brought with him today, he would turn into epic poetry, a vast, twisting tale of gallantry, heartbreak, hope, and fortitude. He had been to Fangorn at long last, and sat with an Ent who told his tale, a meandering, descriptive tale of how he crossed from the great forests of long sunken Ossiriand to the green enshadowed realm of Fangorn. It had taken nearly seven years for the tale to finally be told, but Númenyraumion remembered every single word.
He began that tale on the parchment the same way the old Ent had started his tale, a great hoom hum and an invocation of Yavanna, a plea to her to hear their tale and bless the words like seeds. The words the old Ent had used were ponderous and heavy, weighty with meaning and life.
Númenyraumion though, after a nearly seventy lines, began to feel drowsy. It was still morning out, a beautiful and quiet summer morning, golden red light mixed with the soft pitter-patter of songbird wings. There as a low drone of conversation, a few hushed tones adding a soft buzz to the soundscape. There was a smell of honey and lavender in the air, honeysuckle and thyme too. His eyelids felt heavy.

He knew he was dreaming the moment he fell asleep. The mist was different here. Out in the waking world the mist curled around his arms and legs like a mischievous cat, this mist clung to him like a slime. He could hear something. Voices. Many voices. Coming from all directions. So many voices. He recognized all of them. All the voices he had heard in his 4000 years of life. They were screaming in pain, screaming for help, screaming in terror and agony. The sound reached such a crescendo that the very sound sent Númenyraumion to his knees. The voices collided with each other, merging until finally the sound no longer resembled that of voices but that of a great wave. Water crashed in through the mists. Great, behemoth waves with caps of dirty foam. Waves he remembered all too well from the sinking of his home. He couldn’t move as it hit him. His chest caved and all the air was pushed out of his lungs, blood foamed and bubbled at his lips.

He awoke with a start. Half panicked and half mad. The morning was growing late, the mist was still thick, curling around the dark rich beams. The table before him was cold and unwelcoming. The parchment, seventy lines of introduction and invocation, seemed a thousand miles distant from him. He tried to blink away the unease, the panic, and the disorientation but the world seemed to unbalance itself, it all sat at a precarious angle and threatened to topple over at any given moment.
Númenyraumion stood slowly, nearly losing his balance as he moved away from the table. He had not had a dreams like this in a very, very long time. It had been at the end of an Age then, a time when war was beating down his door. Perhaps now it was the same.
He looked with sad amusement at the blade on his hip, a weapon he carried with him for 3000 years and had only ever used a single time.
“Perhaps, Métimamuntë, now is the time for you to shine a second time.”
The Teler knew what he had to do, no matter how much did not want to do it. War was beating down his door again, the same villain too. A knot began forming in his stomach, his throat was dry all of the sudden. The memories and emotions that he had kept buried for so long began to resurface.
Before he could convince himself to run back into the wilderness and wait out the encroaching darkness, he made his way through the many winding halls of Ost-Halatir until he stood before the doors of the Hall he never wanted to enter. His hands shook, not with nervous or fear, but with regret. He swung the doors open and stepped inside Sammath Lasto.
“it’s time I joined the Guard,” his voice was strong and hale. He was going to need it in the days to come.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 5:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Rochir Ardhon
Early Sunrise

“Oh happy is as happy does, misery never useful was, and I am happy now because, I’m with the ones I love!”

Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir, second in command of the Host of the Eldar, sister to the Tar-Taidron, noble nís of the Erindan’s house, acolyte of Oromë, was mucking out the stables. She had nearly finished, toiling with pitchfork and barrow, her long wheaten hair coming loose from its plait to stick to the back of her neck and her forhead. She was spattered with dirt and who knew what else, there was straw in her hair, and she smelt of sweat and horse, but she smiled and sang as she worked.

“Sing fa la la a lary-lay, as I go happy on my way, with the good ones that I love!”

Tavari threw the last forkful of dirty straw into the barrow and trundled it down to the end of the stables, ducking under the crosstie that held Ñaltanáro, the curious Eastern stallion that was her pride and joy. When Gellam had gifted him to her in Mirkwood, he had been a horse the likes of which she had never seen before: he was tall, but rangy, almost spindle-legged, with a long, thin, arched neck that joined with his jaw at a curious angle. His muzzle was delicate and the ears long and pointed, his tail set high, but thin. Most wondrous of all, his coat was the as the gold of a new-struck coin, gleaming and shining in a many-faceted shimmer, faint dapples visible beneath the gold, which faded into black at the hocks; his mane and tail were black also, and their sparse hair flew at the slightest provocation. His shrill neigh followed her down the stable, and Tavari laughed.

“Oh fie on you, you great disgrace,” she sang as she returned, grasping his soft chin in one hand and petting his velvety muzzle with fingers of the others, “look at that sad unhappy face! I’ll not walk with you, not one pace, you’re not the one I love!”

Ñaltanáro snorted and jerked his muzzle back, flicking his ears, and Tavari laughed again.

“Sing dumble dum a derry-dee, you’ll have to smile to come with me, til happiness doth let you see, you’re the one I love!”

The horse whuffed and muttered to himself as his mistress moved up and down the stable again, filling each stall that would be used that day with fresh, clean bedding. When she had spread the last flake of straw in the last stall at the end of the row, Tavari returned to Ñaltanáro with her grooming bucket and set it at her feet. The process of grooming was something they had had many conversation over the years since they had come together, during which the golden stallion had made his opinion plainly known. But through time, trust, and the nís’s keen understanding of horses and this one in particular, it had come to be something they both enjoyed immensely, whether the horse cared to admit it or not. Not for nothing had Tavari been surnamed Roccotaurë, and Ñaltanáro grunted with pleasure as she pressed and flicked a stiff brush firmly over his hindquarters, dropping his head toward the floor in a long stretch. At length, when Ñaltanáro’s coat gleamed even brighter than before, every speck of dirt dispatched, every tangle of tail teased out, and the first golden rays of morning had begun to creep through the stable door, Tavari put up her tools. From either side of the halter on the stallion’s head she unclipped the cross ties, and then slide the halter itself from his face. His ear’s perked as she fisted her hands in the base of his mane and said with a feral grin, “Come, my love,” a mighty swing of Tavari’s outer leg saw her lean form flow up onto the horse’s back, “let us run!”

Ñaltanáro needed no further bidding. The prancing of his anticipatory hooves became a rhythmic clatter on the cobbles of the stables, then a steady thrum on the ground out of doors, as the pair made for the gate of Ost-Halatir, out into the wild.



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Sammath Lasto
Some time later

The angle of the sun had alerted Tavari to the fact that she was, as was so often the case, running late. Flying over the moors with Ñaltanáro seemed to take no time at all, and yet before she knew it, they were forced to turn back to the white tower, nís and horse both yearning to stay. But return they did, and as she approached the gate, Tavari waved at the cheerful, curly-haired ellon atop the wall. “Remlasson! Is my brother about?” He grinned, and winked at her. “I believe the Tar-Taidron is in the hall.” “Excellent! I’ll see you later, my friend.” At a swift trot, she made her way back to the stables. She turned Ñaltanáro into his box with a thankful pat, left him a stiff feed for his morning’s work, and raced off to her quarters.

There she gave herself a rudimentary wash and changed her clothes and arrayed herself in the garb that was habitual to her, worn with travel, but sturdy: dark trews, a long mossy tunic and brown leather jerkin, all neatly repaired in one place or another. Her hair was combed up to the top of her head and woven into a single plait, bound at the nape of her neck with black cord, from which it hung down freey, pin-straight, the length of her back. At her hip was belted the dirk Glamor (echo, Sindarin). Its blade was as long as the span of her elbow to fingertips, and its hilt added the length of a further handspan. A curious weapon, halfway between a dagger and sword, it had once belonged to her twin, but now the steel-cased crystal of its pommel absorbed the heat of her hand alone.

Satisfied, Tavari set off rapidly to Sammath Lasto, not quite running through the corridors, btu not exactly walking either. Just outside the door she slowed to a more reasonable pace, and strode in with the confidence of someone who was not distinctly behind schedule. Aigronding was already there of course, and Roina, to whom she tipped a subtle wink before greeting her brother. “Good morning, háno! No crowd of eager recruits yet I see.”



((Song from Martin the Warrior, by Brian Jacques))
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Raina Sáiyamorë - Vayatiriwë, Lindon Guard
Almarëa Mordollwen - Maethor, Rivendell Guard
Lindariel Elenessë - Tirno, Lindon Guard

Last night, somewhere in the hills of Rhudaur

“Well, we’re not going to make it tonight. Not unless you want to keep riding in the dark.” Eyeing the already-setting sun, which was painting the sky above the dark hills with streaks of dark red and purple, Almarëa checked her horse in a small clearing.

“There is no deadline, last I checked!” Raina hollered back, the auburn-haired elven woman standing in the saddle and turning back to yell over her shoulder. “I mean, are you really in a hurry to tell someone that ‘Círdan sends his greetings’?” She waved a hand and did an imitation of a mock bow, before quickly righting herself and sitting back down in the saddle. The black gelding she was riding was well used to Raina’s antics, but if it could speak, it probably would have said ‘Really?’ As it couldn’t, it settled for simply tossing its head and snorting. Almarëa, meanwhile, laughed and returned the overly grandiose hand gesture. "True - there is really no hurry."

Raina, don’t fall off the horse – I do not want to have to patch you up again. Do you know of a good place to camp nearby?” The third member of the party, a golden-haired woman, caught up to Almarëa and reined in her dappled grey mare. Lindariel had been watching for a suitable place for the last hour, but they had not been travelling through very hospitable terrain – stern rocks and exposed, windswept hills, with stunted, misshaped trees that had barely managed to survive the harsh conditions.

“There’s a ruined stone circle not far ahead. It would shelter us from the wind at least.” Almarëa shrugged. They had the right gear to camp out pretty much anywhere – though she knew Lindariel had been hoping for a hot bath and a bed tonight. They had travelled quickly, but it had still been a long ride from Lindon, where she had spent the last several months.

“Lead on, then.” Raina gestured to Almarëa to take the lead. “One last campfire under the stars with just the three of us before we have to return you to duties and work and other assorted nonsense.”

***

All three rode into Ost-Halatir bright and early the next morning, almost before the sun had finished rising. They had set a watch, but nothing had disturbed their rest. Horses were stabled, and brushed, and fed, and the three elven women made their way into the fortress.

“I presume Aigronding is still in charge?” Lindariel asked, as they walked – it had been years since she had spent this much time outside of Lindon, and she had spent far less time in Ost-Halatir and Imladris than the other two.

“Who else?” Raina raised an eyebrow. “And Tavari, who fortunately has a bit more sense.”

Diplomatically not commenting (since Raina’s disdain for both Aigronding and Rilien was well known, of longstanding duration, and somewhat mutual – three thousand years was a long time, but Aigronding had probably not forgotten the occasion on which Raina had unceremoniously duelled him, beaten him soundly, and left him stuck in a very large and tangled thornbush), Almarëa led the way to Sammath Lasto, where they found both Tavari and another elf Almarëa did not recognize (Númenyraumion), who was speaking to the captains.

Waiting a moment, so she would not be interrupting, Almarëa walked over to Tavari and greeted her with a smile. “It’s good to see you again! I’ve just returned from Lindon. How are things in the valley?”
She/her. Almarëa - Rivendell / Jaena - Lone Lands (T.A.) and Gondor (F.A.) / Layna - Mordor

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Rîn, Tirn of the Rivendell Guard
A pass in the Misty Mountains
On a scouting and gathering mission with Caranfindel

“This way!” Rîn called over her shoulder before scrambling through the narrow opening between the boulders and down the other side. Rocks skittered out from under her feet, and she had to catch and steady herself so as not to go tumbling down the slope. Her eagerness almost always got the better of her, and she knew she’d hear about it from Caranfindel as soon as he caught up to her. The personalities of the two redheads were both forces to be reckoned with, and combined to make them an unlikely but formidable team. But as usual, she didn’t wait for that to happen. With a grin of triumph on her face, she began to pick her way down the hill of rocks and into the wider pass below. She and her scouting partner had been looking for a way into this small, remote valley for several days, and the path had proven much trickier than anticipated. She hoped they would find an easier way out once they had explored the area, but this ingress would suffice for now.

The trees thickened on the sides of the mountains as the elleth descended, and a warmer breeze swelled up to meet her. She was glad of it; they had spent several days in the true heights of the Misty Mountains, which were always cold and snowy regardless of the season. Back at Ost Halatir, Rîn knew things would be blooming and green, heading well into the heart of summer. Her missions charting the nooks and crannies of the Hithlaegir often kept her from enjoying the turning of the year’s wheel, and she felt she spent her time in winter more than anything else. But she didn’t mind. It was an even trade for the thrill of exploration, the discovery of new paths and places, the sweet satisfaction of marking a road or valley on one of her maps. The Elf loved what she did for the Rivendell Guard, and she wouldn’t have given it up for anything. Well, almost anything, anyway.

The rocks softened into earth and sparse greenery the further she went into the valley. At last Rîn stepped off the uncertain terrain and onto a soft bed of pine needles below the trees. She padded quietly forward, her leather boots gentle on the ground, and peered ahead into the forest. It looked like the pine needles gave way to grass soon enough, which was a good sign of things to come. She hoped she would find great treasures indeed to bring back to Quill, who ran the elven hospital, Adab Nestad, in Imladris. Her younger sister had been badgering her - in truth kindly requesting her - to gather some herbs to restock their apothecary, and she didn’t want to let her down.

She also didn’t want to get too far ahead without her scouting partner. Rîn stopped where she was and glanced back at the treacherous path that had brought her here, searching for signs that Caranfindel was close behind.

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As approved by @Aigronding Mordagnir

And Elves, sir! Elves here and Elves there! Some like kings, terrible and splendid ..

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FLASHBACK - Sarnirion, with his parents Lord Sarnir Erondo and Menellote Silosse
The city of Tirion-Upon-Tuna, during the Years of Trees



Sable hair sluiced the length of the Elf’s back, melding into the deep gloom of the carriage, so that his blanched countenance appeared to hover, spectral above the plumed seat. The sculptor’s garb was equally as pitch as starless night, yet bordered with the ancestral silver and pale blue twilight of seven pointed star, his noble house. His fingers danced like the flurry of a spider’s legs, rapping in a repetitive motion along the arm rest. Impatient. Wordlessly he found his gaze drawn to the garden they had stalled before, the steps that led up to a door. There a small pale figure was suspended as a statue, silent in some contemplation of the barrier, as though he had never met one before now. How long they had been caught in this checkmate, Sarnir could not have guessed but knew with all certainty; it was too long.

He will do it in his own time,Menellote leant forward and placed her hand softly over that of her restless husband. As an avalanche of snow, it pacified all motion, stifled all notions of protest. The Noldo sighed, breathing calmer as though doused by her tranquility. Or smothered, by her confidence. He knew not which. And so for a further ten minutes, they two sat, and watched and waited. But still the small statue did not move.

I could be about much, in the time that this is taking,Sarnir muttered, yearning to be back about his work. The Falmari smiled, a slight tuck of one lip to sneak him the gift of it.

You are a good father,” she remarked. Drawing back about her own seat, the sanguine mother shifted in the folds of her shapeless, pearled attire. “And he is his father’s son,” she sighed, with a slight shake of her starry mane.

We have no need of this,” her husband was relinquishing his faith about their project more so with each moment it kept him. “He is not unschooled, and he is strong. Like stone. Like his father. What more could we ask ?

Only Menellote would have recognised the true cause for Sarnir’s reluctance. The same moment of doubt, the same want to grasp all that he had created with his skilled hands, and flee back to where he might continue to do so, to ever work it to a perfection that his eye alone could suppose. But statues must be seen. And sons must find the company of other children. And stone, even as strong as her beloved husband could not be marked by any thing in this world. Save for the slow caress of the seductive tide which polished it’s hard surface to reveal the soft earth beyond. Menellote was as that sea, the sole force which might leak through the sculptor’s porous heart, and soften it, if granted time. They had agreed to enjoy the rest of all time together. And they had agreed to not attempt another child, until they had perfected the first, as with any project undertaken. She understood her husband, and she wished that he could understand why she knew this was for the best. To Sarnir, their child was theirs, alone. He required no ‘finishing’ by other hands. A further fleeting look spent on the boy and his inability to seek out anything of others, even friendship, especially help .. proved how like he was to his father in truth. And a mother knew, her husband had given the boy as much as he could. Still he was not finished.

A sharp knock of the Noldo’s bone-white knuckles found the wall of their ride, clarified Sarnir’s limits, and encouraged their departure. The carriage pulled away and for the first time in more than ten minutes, the small pale boy stood on the doorstep stirred. Eyes almost as translucent as water turned to watch his parents hasten far from reach and quite where he knew not. They had driven here and he did not know the way home. He had scarcely been beyond his home. Slowly he turned back once more to consider the great door which rose before him. And what it would mean. He was not yet completely sure of that.

And then the door yawned open, and a hand reached out for his.




***********
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Erfaron Silugnir, Authon of the Imladris Guard. Approx 7,000 years later
Faced with yet another door. Entering Sammath Lasto

The outcome of so many years had carved an Elf in strange blend of his dark, unyielding father and his pale, remote mother. Sarnir’s high brow was distinctly mirrored, with the same stamp of arrogance and breeding barely assuaged by Silosse’s moon-white stare. He stood apace below his almighty father’s height, a lesser stature more honed toward fluidity and movement than the telltale of strength. What matter of intensity might have been marked by adopting a contrast in sable hue, the signature of his brothers of Mole, Erfaron forewent, eschewing all want to declare himself any more than was entirely necessary. This was not the city where he had been raised. He had come upon the cusp of adulthood to a world far removed, far more uncultivated. The survivor of Maeglin’s ilk was that proud of his allegiance that he saw no need to hide, to withdraw that those who might despise him be spared their awkward chill. Neither though was he so foolish to openly parade about in the colours of one slain. It was a matter of survival to adopt, to acclimitise, and his apparel reflected this. The marriage of deep browns and paler tan made him far the less conspicuous about the lone lands where he prowled most oft. It was the habit of snakes, after all, to spring out of the grass and strike, unexpected, their venom directed without prejudice, should they be unwelcomely disturbed.

He had stood afar from the door a long while, meaning to broach his old friend and speak upon .. what he could not find words, so shuttered were the thoughts, on what he ought, and what he could not share. Several had since worked their admittance to the chamber of the Tar-Taidron and to refrain longer might whisper of failure or cowardice. He had heard those whispers before and they were unfounded, at least in his own understanding. But there was but one means to prove that. And with an escalating audience to spare him the full force of his old friend’s attention, Sílûgnir threw back his own head to it’s neck and cast aside his barricade.

The doors fell apart, rebounding from the walls before they fled back to each other in comfort and closed, but undeterred by detonating such commotion at the back of the hall, the Elf, flanked at each hip by a short sword and one handed axe, respectively, stalked a place to the far corner, feigning interest in glancing out of the window there. The eventual yearning saw him seek out the reason he had returned; the sole Elf in all of Endor who would be so brave, or desperate, to summon him to serve yet with what honour might be found. For a flicker of a moment he observed a small, golden haired boy upon the immense seat, dwarfed by a decadent cloak of office, a bejewelled sword it would have been comical to see him aim to lift, and a bold shield, boasting the noble gryphon ..

A blink, and a brief release of breath, saw the memory evolve before him. Until the grown, the warrior, the Tar-Taidron had took his place at the head of their assembly. Erfaron did not require to address Aigronding with anything more than a slight dip to his chin, signifying yes. He was come. And that was enough. Because by the stars, it was surely not that simple. But that was a subject he could not indulge.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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Sammath Lasto

“Almarëa.” Tavari returned the greeting and the smile both, grasping the elleth’s arm warmly, and nodding to both Raina and Lindariel, with the shadow of a wink to the former. Tavari did not know Raina as well as Aigronding did, but had heard the thornbush story enough times to appreciate her. “Welcome back! Things in the valley are peaceful as ever, if you don’t count Gellam’s persistent thievery from the kitchens. If you do- well, we’re constantly in a state of war.” Tavari laughed, and glanced to the side as a movement caught her attention. It was an ellon she did not know (Númenyraumion) who had arrived about the same time as she, and seemed to be waiting patiently for something. “Excuse me,” with a nod to the group and a touch on her brother’s arm, Tavari strode towards the newcomer. Before she could quite reach him, the banging of the doors attracted her attention, and her eyes flicked to the perpetrator: Erfaron, skulking quickly to a place in the corner. The briefest of eye contact with sullen Silûgnir indicated that now, perhaps, was not the best time to pay a social call, and she returned her gaze to the ellon newly come (Númenyraumion). Tavari halted before him, taking in his odd eyes, and the skin which, like her own, bore evidence of a life lived out of doors. “Greetings! I am Tavari Mordagnir, Arahiril of this guard. You have come to join us? What is your name, and from where do you hail?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Sammath Lasto

He tried to hold the awe from appearing on his face. There were few Elves he had heard about in his three thousand years of wandering that could measure up to the nís that just spoke to him. He had never seen her before but he knew exactly who she was before said her name. Tavari Mordagnir. She was legendary. She was beyond legendary. He grew up on Númenor hearing tales of her exploits during the War of the Jewels.

He had once met Galadriel, Queen of Lórien. He had been similarly awed by her. Their eyes were ancient. They had eyes that beheld the stars before the sun and moon, these eyes had taken in the light of the Trees. Where Galadriel was all grace and wisdom, Tavari was a panther, a fire, a roiling storm of might. And she was talking to him. Suddenly everything in the room flickered out like a candle, his legs felt rubbery. He squeezed his palm and bit his tongue. Get a hold on yourself, she might be your commander and you can't devolve into hero-worship every time you see her!

He cleared his throat, hoping he had not stared too long. Suddenly he was aware of his eyes. Their strangeness often unnerved people. He looked down, and stared at the floor for a heartbeat before looking back. Was she looking at them? Again he looked away, his eyes unable to settle on any one thing in the hall for very long.

“I, my name is Númenyraumion, my lady.” Without thinking, he bent a knee and half bowed his head. “As to where I come from…” he looked up and gave her a half smile, “I come from wherever there is stone and sky and water. I’m a wanderer, a story gatherer. I think that’s an occupation you know a little about? I’ve heard many tales about you, my lady. I’ve come to join the guard, aye. I think, I think that it past time I merely listen and record stories. I believe it is time that I start writing one of my own.”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 5:47 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Sammath Lasto

Some qualm seemed to pass over the newcomer, and Tavari wondered for a moment if he was going to be sick. But as quickly as it had come, it seemed to pass, and he was inclining head and body in a slight bow, which she returned with a tuck of the chin. “Númenyraumion,” she turned the word over in her mouth, savoring the many syllables of his name. “You are most welcome. You are correct that I know about those things,” she gave a small, humorless laugh that did not quite match up to the smile in her eyes, “but please, put aside any thought of ‘my lady’- I am Tavari, or Arahiril Mordagnir, if my brother is listening.” Tavari put out her arm to grasp Númenyraumion’s. Whatever tales he might have heard of her, they would be comrades in arms now, and she sought his eyes again with a firm and reassuring gaze. “In any case, those stories are behind us. Your story lies ahead. You may join us as an Aphador, though if you apply yourself and are as diligent in your new duties as you are to your stories, I am sure you will advance. Come,” Tavari gave his arm a final squeeze, “I will introduce you to the Tar-Taidron my brother.” Even as she turned and began to lead Númenyraumion back towards Aigronding, another disturbance rattled Sammath Lasto.


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A tall, lean ellon hurtled in, long mahogany hair whipping out behind him as he spun to face the doors, which he quickly shut behind him, having just banged through. He was a Silvan elf, slightly swarthy of skin, with bright dark eyes and a clever mouth that now twitched with agitation, where it might normally with merriment. His garb was somewhat less than formal, a rustic jerkin of russet, belted at the waist, with a row of buttons curving up from waist to throat, though the top few were now undone with a flap of the jerkin hanging down. From beneath the jerkin protruded the full sleeves of his butterscotch colored tunic, gathered into brightly embroidered cuffs at the wrist, and his breeches were of dark green, disappearing into the tops of his tall, soft boots. A long baglike brown cap surmounted his head, holding fast just above the brow, so that his hair disappeared beneath it and emerged again from beneath its fold, from which hung a small bell, on the opposite side. Gellam the Fool had arrived, flamboyant as ever, absent lute, and present a slight air of anxiety.

Gellam barreled up the hall towards the group at its head and skidded to a halt in their midst, sweeping the cap off his head and cutting a swift bow to each of the three ellyth standing near Aigronding (Almarëa, Raina, Lindariel), an elegant leg to Tavari, a good natured wave to Númenyraumion whom he had met in Adab Gelir, and finally a salute to the Tar-Taidron himself, pressing his fist to his heart. “Tar-Taidron, forgive my lateness, breakfast you know, and then, well, er,” he thrust his hand into a pouch at his belt, producing a somewhat rumpled scroll, which he held out of Aigronding, “the Elvenking sends his regards Lord M and, well, it seems I have been asked to take over leadership of the Mirkwood contingent of the Host.” Gellam’s eyes flicked from Aigronding to Tavari and back, and he fervently wished he had stopped to eat that extra éclair.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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"I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea..."

- Edgar Allan Poe


"You need to have more friends than the just girl, son."

- Aimira Mordagnir


"These are the Nermir and the Tavari, Nandini and Orossi, brownies, fays, pixies, leprawns,
and what else are they not called, for their number is very great: yet must they not be confused
with the Eldar, for they were born before the world and older than its oldest, and are not of it,
but laugh at it much, for had they not somewhat to do with its making,
so that it is for the most part a play for them..."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One: The Coming of the Valar


"And here in Rivendell there live still some of his chief foes: the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar
from beyond the furthest seas. They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt
in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the
Seen and the Unseen they have great power."

- Gandalf, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring: Many Meetings

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A Long Time Ago in Paradise

"You have a new statue in the garden, Aig!" The red-haired Elf-girl tugged his sleeve in excitement and grinned. She pointing at the sculpture poised between two yew trees.

"I don't recall its like but certainly it must have always been there," Aigronding assured her and waved hello at Nyello who glided into the Elf-boy's bedroom. The joyful Maia was a small glowing spirit who spoke with the voice of mellow bells, the chirping of insects, and tuneful whistles. Nyello was bright and ethereal like the manír of Manwë. He dwelled in the garden before the manor was built around it before the coming of the Eldar. Nyello never left. He interacted with Erindan, Aimira, and their children quite often but visited Aigronding more as the twins grew older. "We look from this window every day and would have seen it placed," Aigronding reasoned.

Glimmering Nyello alighted on the carpet near the children and stood near the window with them to see the new addition to his beloved garden. He loosed golden peals of laughter. Aigronding didn't know what was so amusing about a statue.

"We don't spend all our playtime here!" insisted Roina and folded her arms. "The gardeners must have set it when we weren't looking."

"We must discuss something else. Aigronding said, speaking loudly over the noise of Nyello's melodious laughter as the spirit drifted away just as swiftly as he entered, shimmering with coruscating beauty like a speeding comet.

"If our new friend isn't here soon we need to figure out what we're going to do today," he decided. His parents told him that a boy would be arriving, Sarnir's son. He was a lonely child, his mother Silosse told Aimira, and needed to be sociable.

Roina looked at him with a lopsided grin.


"Why do I always have to choose our plans?" Aigronding asked but not unkindly.

"Because you have the best ideas," answered Roina and kissed his cheek. She had been more affectionate than usual since that starry night he held her in the poppy field of red-shining fumellar. "Will you stay with me forever?" she had asked, falling asleep to the sound of singing angels. "Always," he promised her with his young face in her titian hair. He waited until he was sure Roina was asleep uttering in a quiet voice that he loved her and succumbed to the drowsy odours the towering pines exuded at dusk. Aigronding would have to speak with his parents or Tavari about this. They would know what to do. He came to them or the Nelya for advice.

"I'd like to take our new friend, Sarnirion, to Murmuran, if he hasn't been to the hall of Irmo before," determined Aigronding, still gazing at the pale statue outside, mesmermized by its flawless symmetry. "We can ride the great glowworms through the mists, all three of us, and chase each other through the cedar labyrinths. Nenmeldo says there are deep pools there, ones I suppose we've missed you and I. We can swim and see who can last underwater the longest." He paused for a reluctant second. "Ruim, a Maia of Námo, told me Lake SIlindrin can be found there in a ring of cypresses. He says Irmo can see visions in the silver water...." Aigronding's voice trailed off as he looked at Roina's spellbound expression.

"There's no one like you." She caressed his unruly blonde hair.

"Children."

Roina and Aigronding gasped. They awkwardly turned to Aimira who was grinning broadly in the doorway, wearing a white gown and a circlet of pearls. Her periwinkle eyes sparkled as she gazed at her son and Saira's daughter fondly. "The boy is here. Go meet him. Tell me about your journey with Sarnirion upon your return. Be sweet, have fun, and if you see Morgath...run."

"You have to talk to him first!" Roina demanded, smoothing her beringed hands over her fiery hair, clearly nervous, when Aimira departed.

"Aw, why do I have to talk to him first?" Aigronding asked, distressed this time.

"Because I'm rude. My mother says so."

"Everyone says so,"
Aigronding mused aloud.

"Shut up!"
Roina blurted through giggles, giving him a lighthearted shove.

Aigronding winked at her. "Race you!" The kids bolted out, alarming several housemaids, and rushed down the carpeted stairway. Aigronding beat Roina to the carved oaken door of the front collumned porch. "Are you ready?"

"Do I look fine?"
worried Roina.

"You are the loveliest elleth of Aman,"
Aigronding assured his blushing friend, drawing his palms down the sleeves of her colorful caftan dress to soothe Roina. He took a breath, released it with a heavy gust, and held a charming smile as he swung wide the door. His mouth opened in astonishment as he reached for the hand of the living statue. Roina screamed so loud that her shriek, they afterwards discovered, Nenmeldo heard in Alqualondë....


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Present Day, Ost-Halatir - Sammath Lasto

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"I have a great idea, melindo,"
commented Roina Mordagnir as she walked with her husband, Aigronding, into the hall of captains. The wan sunlight beaming weakly through the mists outside shone through the arched arrow-slits. It gleamed Roina's gilded mail, the tall golden plume of the helm tucked uner her armored limb, and the round shield strapped to her back that was red as her flaming hair. Aigronding allowed the Imladris battalion to wear any uniform they wanted on duty so Roina had chosen what she wore as a Guard of Gondolin's Gate. Her husband followed suit, clad in the silver mail of the wardens of the Fifth Gate but instead of a white-crested helm he had the opaled one of his father who was murdered in the Fall.

"I thought I was the one with the brilliant ideas," joked Aigronding, halting at one of the arrow-slits. He looked outside and raised his gauntlet in recognition when he saw his white wolfhound, Nimlos the Snow White, chasing rabbits along the slope.

"You must take me back to Rivendell, the valley of waterfalls and majestic gardens," said Roina, sapphire eyes twinkling, knowing he'd disagree.

Aigronding gasped in mock dismay. "You mean to say you're not enchanted with this dreary menacing wood I've brought you to?"

They both laughed but Aigronding soured when Roina mentioned Raina was coming with Lindariel and Almarëa. "Ah. This time you'll do all the talking," Aigronding enjoyed the company of Lindariel and Almarea - especially Rilien as well - but his relationship with their friend Raina was not pleasant. They mostly kept conversation minimal to avoid arguments.

"I'm rude, remember?" Roina reminded him. "Raina is also rude. You see the problem??"

They both chuckled again, shaking their heads ruefully. "You would have beaten Raina in that duel if you only allowed yourself to be calm like how you trained to challenge Hatholdir in Gondolin," astute, logical Roina pointed out in all seriousness, "but, no, you were emotional and she took advantage of your weakness. Raina is a clever fighter who knows how to defeat her enemies and viciously. You have to be prepared."

"It will not happen again, melisse," Aigronding promised her.

They ceased speaking when Tavari entered the hall. She winked back at her sister-in-law. Wonderful memories warmly filled her thoughts. She loved Tavari dearly from childhood's hour.

"I expect this place to be crowded soon,"
Aigronding told Tavari and felt a brief wave of sadness tide over him. He wanted to sit down with Tavari and discuss her latest journey over a delightful feast but there was no time for that. The ephemeral feeling vanished swiftly because he knew they had all the time in the world now.

Just as Aigronding predicted the trio that was Lindariel, Almarëa, and Raina appeared. He smiled joyfully, memories of building sandcastles with Lindariel in Lindon and hiking with Almarëa in the summery woods of Echoriath flickering through his mind. His grin faltered when he glanced at Raina, recalling the intense clash which sent him crashing in a rosebush during their unforgetful pursuit. Did he hate her? No. Although Aigronding didn't get along with Raina he did, truly, respect her. She was a capable warrior and a good friend to Almarëa. That was all that mattered

He waved briefly at Tavari when she moved to speak to a new recruit, trusting her. He picked his sister to be his second-in-command knowing how well she led as a commander. He drew in a deep breath of contentment when he saw Erfaron come in next. "I called you and you came," Aigronding spoke, walking closer with Roina to clasp Erfaron's forearm. He walked in darkness but when Aigronding looked at him through the Unseen, the High Elf saw an effulgent glow of light behind a cloak of engulfing shadows. It was that piercingly bright ray breaking through the black mantle that encouraged Aigronding to trust him no matter how far he fell in the cold abyss he shared with the Mole King. If he was honest with himself, Aigronding saw a similar kind of shine enveloping Hatholdir but it was dimmer in luminosity...enshrouding not a grown Elf but a small boy screaming in silence as thick coiling stormclouds smothered him, illuiminated with lambent bolts of thunder.... "There's all kind of evil in these parts, we need you, gwador," Aigronding told him when he could find his voice. Aigronding always called him brother no matter what mischief Erfaron did in this life.

Aigronding grinned widely when Gellam hurtled in. The Fool no longer annoyed him. Over time, seeing how Gellam treated his sister and the good cheer he brought to his children, a brotherly love developed between them though Aigronding had not yet admitted it but he was sure the Fool knew. "Well, you are fortunate that Nimlos did not steal your breakfast this time, mellon!" Aigronding exclaimed, remember one morning the wolfhound had pounced Gellam and stole his sweet roll. "We need to pay Merenthrond a visit, Fool," pleaded Aigronding. "Aewrusca has told me you can juggle five apples at once! You must understand I have to see this feat to believe it." Aigronding looked at the rumpled scroll in his hand and held Gellam's shoulder. "I am proud of you," he told him in earnesty. "I expect a song of your battles when you return from the field," Aigronding told Gellam, clapping the lean fellow on his back with a wink.

Aigronding was silent for a moment, looking everyone over. They would make an excellent team. "Does anyone fancy a mission?"

"We have plenty for soldiers to do,"
Roina confirmed with a nod, "but let's settle on just one for the present."

"We have a fort named Echad Gwedeir located in a deep barren valley south of Rivendell among rushing streams and rugged hills." Aigronding gestured, impelling Roina to give a map....to Gellam the Fool. "It' serves as a base for Elrond's sons on the west side of the Misty Mountains," Aigronding explained. "I sent captains Edan Amrun and Taurina Ithildinloch there to command the soldiers. Elladan and Elrohir are on errantry with the Rangers of the North for the time being so Edan and Taurina are leading the troops there in the meanwhile." Aigronding frowned. "I've recieved silence from Edan and Taurina for nearly a fortnight....that is not like them. There are more than forty Elves serving there and many from different realms besides Imladris. We need to know what's going on. I fear a horde of Orcs have assaulted Echad Gwedeir. I need a company to investigate and aid them if necessary. Who will go with Gellam?"



"Yet steadily the mountains were drawing nearer. South of Rivendell they rose ever higher,
and bent westwards; and about the feet of the main range there was tumbled an ever wider
land of bleak hills, and deep valleys filled with turbulent waters. Paths were few and winding,
and led them often only to the edge of some sheer fall, or down into treacherous swamps...."

- Tolkien, from The Lord of the RIngs:
The Fellowship of the Ring - The RIng Goes South

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GM Note: This quest, "The Claw of the North", will lead directly into our first RPG.
Last edited by Eriol on Mon Sep 14, 2020 3:44 am, edited 2 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Aphador
Sammath Lasto

And just like that, one of the things he had tried to avoid for thousand years happened. A light phrase flowed from Tavari Mordagnir’s lips so easily that he could have almost missed it. With just a simple word, he was in the guard, the lowest rung of course, but here he was at long last. And she was no longer Tavari Mordagnir, she was Arahiril Mordagnir, his commander. Creation shifted on its axis, Númenyraumion could feel it in his bones. Anárion would have laughed heartily, had he been here to see it, Inziladûn would have rolled her eyes and called him silly. He did not feel as different as he thought he would. The world kept on spinning and the waves stayed in their place.

He was about to follow her toward the back of the hall when none other than Gellam entered! Númenyraumion blinked several times in surprise. Of all the people he could have expected to see enter Sammath Lasto, it was Gellam. They had only met the once at Adeb Gelir, but the night was a memorable one, filled with far too much wine, far too many pies, and songs that lasted until the sun rose. He looked as though he were on official business here, he only had time for a single wave before Aigronding began to address him. The Teler hadn’t even noticed him until he stood and spoke. The very presence of his warrior sister had clouded Númenyraumion’s vision. Now that he had a breath to see him, he was just as regal as the stories had said about him. His bearing was different from Tavari, no Arahiril Mordagnir, but it was no less regal. There was an easiness about him, but the elf knew that that easiness was a well maintained façade. He had even more tales in his head about the exploits of the man before him. Tar-Taidron.

Númenyraumion listened as they spoke, then the Tar-Taidron began speaking to those assembled. Apparently there was a mission about to commence. He knew Echad Gwedeir, or at least he knew the area it was located near. He had spent a night with a family attempting to cross over the Misty Mountains. They had exchanged ghost stories all night, the children too afraid to sleep but too fascinated to stop.

“Would I be eligible for such a mission,” he asked the Arahiril beside him “or should I wait until I have more training to my name?”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 5:50 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Caranfindel, Captain of the Rivendell Guard
A pass in the Misty Mountains
On a Scouting and Gathering Mission with Rîn

The Colony:
Chapter One - Alone Together



"There were many paths that led up into those mountains, and many passes over them. But most of the
paths were cheats and deceptions and led nowhere or to bad ends; and most of the passes were infested
by evil things and dreadful dangers. Boulders, too, at times came galloping down the mountain-sides,
let loose by midday sun upon the snow, and passed among them (which was lucky), or over their heads
(which was alarming). He knew something unexpected might happen, and he hardly dared to hope
that they would pass without fearful adventure over those
great tall mountains with lonely peaks and valleys where no king ruled."

- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Over Hill and Under Hill


"She remained... and the two of them were alone together. Alone together. Medan pondered that phrase.
It was all two people could ever be to each other, he supposed. Alone. Together. For the dreams and secrets
of our heart may be spoken, but words are poor handmaidens. Words can never fully say what we want
them to say, for they fumble, stammer, and break the best porcelain. The best one can hope for is to
find along the way someone to share the path, content to walk in silence,
for the heart communes best when it does not try to speak."

- Narrator (Margaret Weis or Tracy Hickman), from
Dragonlance: The War of Souls - Dragons of a Lost Star


Caranfindel felt a stab of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with with his exertion to keep up with Rîn. He gracefully moved between the thin gap of the boulders with practiced ease which came with millennia of experience and his impulsive nature. He paused for a moment, feeling invigorated by the crisp mountain air. He looked down at Rîn fondly as the loose rocks tumbled under her quick moving feet. He wanted to reach for her in paternal desperation but avoided the opportunity; whether that reluctance was to save himself from her chiding him or to escape the wave of grief cutting through his soul Caranfindel did not know exactly. Her skill, the glory of her red hair, and Rîn's intrigue of new frontiers reminded him of the daughter he lost a long time ago.

Caranfindel wasn't aware if she knew the story of his child's death from older Elves. When they spoke of their lives at camp beneath the stars he usually tried to steer the conversation from his memories of the First Age so she would not discover the truth. He wanted no awkwardness between them. They had always been a phenomenal team. "Send Attanárë!" Aigronding Mordagnir, the Tar-Taidron, would demand, designating Rîn and Caranfindel respectively....The Two Flames.

He smoothly descended the slope of stones and nimbly alighted on stable ground. They had come to a vast expanse of pine needles which half evenloped a clearing of lush grass. Caranfindel stood still, letting the serenity of this secret wooded place nestled by lofty mountains ease his troubled mind. He closed his blue eyes, immersed in the rapturous feeling the cool zephyr gave him and the redolent scent of the towering conifers soaring to gleaming snow-capped peaks.

When she glanced at him he felt his soul transported to a different time, another forest. It was as if he stood in Dorthonion again with Dannathelyn, her looking back at him in the west woods of Finarfin's sons, crying out happily as she pointed to the dark waters of Rivil's Well. It was new to her then just as this little valley was to Rîn. He returned to the present moment and came nearer with a broad, easy smile. Could he tell Rîn that in her pioneering spirit he saw the woman he raised? No. Could he tell Rîn that in her bravery he saw the hero his daughter was just beginning to find when the monstrous wolf had taken her life with its rushing fangs? No. That Dannathelyn's screams in Minas Tirith still haunted his sleep, why he always insisted to take the longest watch of their nights together no matter where he ventured to with Rîn? No. Could he tell her she was his closest friend though? That, perhaps. He feared to break the fragile bond of their partnership...or did he only believe that the fragility existed when actually it didn't? He resolved to just grip her forearm, a comrade's embrace. His smile widening as he told Rîn how happy he was to be up here with her where possibly no one had ever been before.


"Did your sister tell you what kind of alpine flora we might discover here, Rîn?"
Caranfindel asked her, slightly raising his fair voice to be heard over the wailing wind. He passed her a small leatherbound book of Ost-Halatir's library he kept in his backpack. "I've taken a look at it a few times while we've been hiking," he assured her, turning his sight on the boulders they had narrowly passed between. Huge stones had the startling habit to come rolling down the snowy heights. "Annamíri told me walking at this altitude is like taking a stroll through an herbalist's garden," he remarked, roaming a few yards away from Rîn . "Syrup from butterbur can treat coughs, fever, spasms, pain, and migraines I've read. The juice of cuilëoiala, which mortals call orpine or live forever in the Common speech of Westron, can be applied to the skin for burns, warts, and insect bites-"

Suddenly a gleam of metal caught his attention so Caranfindel abruptly stopped speaking. With one gloved hand wrapping around the grip of his sword, he motioned to Rîn for her to follow him. He slowly crept toward the forest with the grace of the Eldar, cautiously shifting his gaze about the sun-dappled shade of the pines until he stood over the piece of metal. He sucked in his breath, touching her wrist without looking at Rîn. Lying dead in ruggedly beautiful patch of woolly uilosarphen (Eidelweiss) was a Ranger of the North. His limp pallid hand clutched a sword; it was stained with his blood as were the white flowers he bled on. Caranfindel calmed the racing of his palpitating heart in mere seconds which he owed to his seasoned years in the armies of Elvendom. He squinted deeper into the thick aisles of the forest with his shining blue eyes. There was darker blood just as fresh as the Ranger's glistening on the windblown grass and large bushes of pink mountain laurel in sight of a yawning cavernmouth. The thin rough-hewn fissure opened the mountainwall on the opposite side of the small remote valley.

"This must have happened recently just before we came here," lamentered Caranfindel, feeling a heavy weight crushing his spirit. He knelt down and closed the grey staring eyes of the Ranger. "Only the good die young," he murmured more to himself than to Rîn, quoting an old Bree-land adage, and mastered his roiling emotions. Caranfindel rummaged through the Ranger's belongings until he found a canvas book with deckled pages. Rifling through it, just glancing at the dates on the paper and the carefulness of his many notes, the Ranger must have seen many dangers in his brief span of life. The stubbled Dúnadan with the hawkish face couldn't have been much older than thirty summers. Caranfindel looked at the last page where he saw the last portion of his writing. "There are more Orcs in these mountains than we feared five years ago, their ranks increase incessantly," Caranfindel read aloud for Rîn. "I've stalked one of their chieftains here. I will destroy him and find Elvanwa." Caranfindel flipped the pages back to the beginning. "The Journal of Archarn, Scout of Osdolen."

Caranfindel put the book inside his backpack and shook his head ruefully before looking up at his companion. "Rîn, we need to give this man a proper burial. I suppose since we have no shovels we resolve to do it the Gondolin way. A rock cairn. Will you help me get the stones we need from the mountain-side? When we're finished we have some choices to make, mellon nin." Caranfindel arose. "We collect the medicinal plants we need for Quill then we investigate that cave-" he pointed to the menacing dark void yonder " - or we check it out now then get the supplies for Adab Nestad, maybe even save a little for Ost-Halatir's infirmary, too. There's also the option we take days going back to the fort with what we have and tell the Mordagnirs about the Orcs before we see Quill in Rivendell." His gaze drifted back to the cave which seemed larger with every glance. "We can expect a clash, that's for certain, and we don't know how many enemies there are lurking inside. We could be walking into a trap...but..." He gave her a lopsided grin. "We've escaped those before and have lived to spin a few good yarns in the Hall of Fire, Rîn."



"3009 Elrond sends for Arwen, and she returns to Imladris; the Mountains and all
lands eastward are becoming dangerous."

- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix B - The Tale of Years


"Orcs came upon us unawares. They came from over the mountains. The spies of the Enemy are many.
The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon's fall have returned
in greater numbers, and Mirkwood is again an evil place, save where our realm is maintained."

- Legolas (c. TA 3018), from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - The Council of Elrond


GM UPDATE:

Quill, your move, old friend! If you decide to enter the cave we will eventually
find trouble but also some reinforcements...
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Elder of Imladris
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Elsilner
Tirn
Sammath Lasto

Elsilner
moved gracefully through the courtyard. Here was Talath Hedi, his favorite haunt of old; the sharp deadly arrows huddling together in the quiver on his back sang to him, bidding him step once more into the archery field and free them to compete with the whistling wind. He resisted the temptation, stopping to gently gaze at the field with memories surging through his clear brown eyes; then turned and walked away, whispering lightly, "Soon, old friend, you will fly again." If he knew anything at all about Ost-Halatir, this pleasant island hidden in the center of the raging wild, it was not a place where one could stay long; those who passed its gates were soldiers, warriors who swore to defend Middle-earth against the evils that constantly sought to destroy it. They had no time for vacations or merriment, he thought. They were always preparing, always on the move, planning faster than their foes, fighting swifter than the swiftest arrow. The floor within the towers was strewn with missions; quests awaiting to be taken piled high up in dusty corners.

The golden-haired Noldo entered the Second Hall and made his way to the Sammath Lasto, wishing to present himself to the captains. It seemed ages have passed since he last paced those halls; suddenly his clothes felt worn and ragged, the long grey cloak filthy. He had traveled far and wide, and many an orc found its end by a long arrow forged in the hidden valley of Imladris. He had changed, and was no longer clothed with the Guard's uniform; but everyone looked a little different, too. A storm is coming, he thought, with a shiver of foreknowledge that had nothing to do with the drifting mist outside.

He was a Tirn, and he was proud to be one; serving on the borders of his home, a protector and a member of a legendary Guard. As he stepped into the Sammath Lasto, his eyes began to shine with the excitement felt on the brink of a new mission. He was not mistaken; the Tar-Taidron himself was speaking; a sense of overwhelming loyalty swept over the Noldo, and he bowed low, rising with a fist pressed above his heart. "My lord," he said, his voice sharp with anticipation, "may one young soldier offer himself once more to the service of the Guard? If I understood his lordship correctly, Lord Gellam is assembling a company that would travel to Echad Gwedeir; and if that is where I am needed, it is with him that I shall go."

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Erfaron Sílûgnir, Authon
Sammath Lasto

There are so few who would bid me come, rather than leave,Sílûgnir met his old friend with honesty, and a tightened hold, but briefly, upon Aigronding’s forearm. The gesture was subtle but sincere, with never a cause for any weapon to find hand within their presence. Once the call to drop a weapon from hand though. It had not been forgotten. “You are one of a very select few I would heed, in either regard.” the rogue Elf admitted, affording Roina with the meet of eyes, a similar inclusion to the sentiment.

They did not change. It was eerily reassuring. And he counted the pair as almost a one, for so long had he known them both. Erfaron had never had a brother, though there were two in the world who named him so. Those he each held in the deepest of respect, for awarding him that honour. But while Hatholdir had once asked his fellow Mole to swear a blood oath to defend or avenge him, and while Sílûgnir had obliged, willingly; Aigronding had never openly asked it of him and, for that, the Mole was equally as inclined to oblige. For it was evident that Mordagnir was possessed of more faith than was good for him. He required protecting from his own good nature.

It takes all kinds,” he allowed as far as he might make any commitment.

Then almost immediately thought better of it. A curious glimpse had found the trio of ladies who he had not seen before, but soon a roll of eyes had pursued Gellam’s entrance into the chamber, concluding in a glance toward Tavari, and the new friend she had seemingly acquired. Hopefully the strange-eyed Elf would be an improvement on her last acquaintance. The only reason Erfaron could envisage for Thranduil to name ‘the Fool’ such a promotion, was some want to see the latter far and from his forest. It transpired that Aigronding was of a similar mind of course. The mission here outlined called for a sharp intake of breath to seek out Mordagnir who, to his credit, had moved a safe distance away before mentioning the particulars. There was only one reason Erfaron could think of that would keep Taurina so negligent, other than her husband who (this time) was her accomplice. That reason was bottle-shaped and rhymed with ‘fine’. Narrowly refraining from enquiring out loud whether there were a well-stocked inn at Echad Gwedeir, Sílûgnir reflected a moment on the rustic WoodElf’s reaction to being ‘saved’ by Gellam … and decided that it might be worth his playing audience to that amusing scenario.

A golden-haired archer though encroached upon the scene first, with a far more noble response to the assignment. A golden-haired archer who had proven himself worth noting on previous encounters.

I have small doubt you will be needed, Elsilner” the pale Elf spoke up as well, but failed on all other counts to fall toward good conduct. “And to all great misfortune, I can currently imagine naught else that demands my time. So ‘Lord Gellam' must forgive the further swelling of his flock.

He inclined with no great speed toward the circus that was shaping up. Pausing only to offer a deliberate sigh aimed at Aigronding as he passed the Tar-Taidron.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Forester of Lothlorien
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Delunaer and Mistriel
On the South Eastern side of the Misty Mountains
From the direction of Mirkwood


The Colony:
Chapter Two - On the Run



"You know what to do, don't you, my daughter" Delunaer held Mistriel's thin shoulders firmly in his grip and gazed into her eyes, intently, pleadingly. "This is our only chance."

Tears welled up in frightened brown eyes and her voice shook, "Our? You're practically sacrificing yourself so that I can escape!"

Delunaer did not know what to say. His heart hurt. So much! So much had happened in the last few days. He hadn't had time to think except to make sure the two of them survived. How long, how often, how much had he quarrelled with Rior? And over what? A piece of land. Land in a forest that had for years seen the Silvan elves in its verdure being driven deeper and deeper into its very heart by the spiders. A fued! For what? When they had grown up together and been childhood friends! Delunaer let out a whimper and sank to the floor.

Mistiel watched him anxiously but said nothing. She could see the pain her father was in, but she could do nothing. She did not know much, but from what she had managed to gather on their run out off Mirkwood, was that something had gone wrong between Delunaer and Rior. But how could that have been? Had not the elves been out on patrol? Had Rior perhaps been killed by spiders. Or worse, by orcs! But then what had that to do with the predicament they were in now -- hiding away in a tiny cave in the faced of the Misty Mountains aware of an orc patrol out to look for them.

She sank onto her haunches as her father began to talk. He was now huddled against the rough wall of the cave, and gazed out its opening. His blue-grey eyes looked glazed, as though he were not really there. But his voice, as he spoke now, came in a quiet whisper. "I killed him. I killed him with an arrow in his back. I killed him." He turned his glazed, haunted eyes to Mistriel whose own eyes were struggling and seeking to understand. "I didn't mean to. You believe me, don't you, Mistriel? I wanted to save him. I was aiming for the orc behind him. I wanted to save him. You believe me, don't you, Mistriel?"

Delunaer's voice was beginning to rise in agitation, and Mistriel flung her arm around his shoulders to comfort him. "I believe you, ada. Of course, I believe you!"

He clung to her. "It was a mistake," he said pleadingly.

"Yes. It was." Then Mistriel asked quietly. "So, why are we running?"

He pulled away from his daughter and curled up against the wall. Mistriel watched him in pity and dismay. Her heart ached for whatever pain her father was going through.

"They would never have understood. They would have thought I had done it on purpose. They would have accused me. They were all there. They saw my arrow sink cleanly into his back and come out through his heart. I'm supposed to be an excellent archer. They would never have believed me." He gasped, and curled into a tighter ball. "There are times when I'm not sure I believe myself."

Tears flowed down Mistriel's cheeks as she finally understood what was haunting her father. She tried hard to swallow the lump in her throat. But it was struggle. She gasped for breath, and then rushed to the mouth of the cave. She stood at its opening and gazed out at the darkening sky. If they did not leave, the orcs would find them. Those creatures were quicker and more alert in the night. Darkness was their territory.

She brushed a slender hand across her eyes, and turned to look at Delunaer, the elf she had called father for the last three hundred and fourteen years. Her mother had passed away soon after she was born, and Delunaer had loved her and cherished her. He often told her that she looked like her mother with the same doe-like eyes. Her voice, he had said, sounded as sweet as her mothers as well. Yet, he had named her Mistriel, after her tendency to wander off to explore. He had taught her to hold the bow, and he was right. He was accounted among the best archers of Mirkwood. Rior. She believed her father. True, things had not gone well between Rior and Delunaer for the past couple of centuries, but she did not think their daily antagonism towards each other would have ever been cause for either of them to want to kill the other. She felt certain that, if King Thranduil were to be informed of the matter and called to judge, he would do so fairly in favour of the killing being an accident.

"But, it will not do to tell him so for he is not in his right mind now," she murmured sorrowfully to herself. What could she do to make this elf she barely recognised as her father, that would make him feel better? She looked about the cave and her glance fell on their weapons piled up in one corner of the cave. She pursed her lips in determination, and went to Delunaer. "Come, ada. I will do as you say. We must get ready, for we do not have much time. Please ada, let us prepare for the confrontation with the servants of the dark. I will cover your back."

Delunaer came to from the stupor he had fallen into and looked at his daughter. He eyes cleared a little, and a frown gathered upon his brow, "Not cover, little one. Run. You will run! You will run to safety. I will follow you when I am through. I will find you." Mistriel moved to protest, but Delunaer was her father again, firm, certain and in command. "That is all, Mistriel. You are too young to be in this skirmish."

"I have fought spiders! Many of them!" she replied in a fierce whisper.

Delunaer's eyes softened and he pleaded, "For me then, Mistriel. Let me not be responsible for the death of my beloved daughter at the very least."

Mistriel realised her father had won. Won. Her lips twisted wryly. Had they been playing a match then? She hugged her father fiercely. "I will do as you say then, ada. I will run." She choked on the last word.

Delunaer relaxed under his daughter's gaze, and for the first time in many days, she saw a small smile stretch his lips. "Yes, little one. We will run to the elves of Rivendell. Master Elrond is wise. We shall seek shelter with them."

At the mention of Rivendell, Mistriel's eyes brightened and her young heart began to beat. She could not imagined anything she would have liked better.

A sound of falling rocks, however, brought silence into the cave. The light was below the horizon, and in a few moments night had settled over the landscape.

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Sammath Lasto


“Five! Hah! Five at least, Lord M, I- “ Gellam began to babble about the great number of objects he could indeed juggle, but was cut off by by Aigronding’s hand hand on his shoulder, and the Tar-Taidron’s simple assertion of pride. The wood-elf’s face colored rapidly, his voice spluttered to a halt, and gore a moment his dark eyes shone as if they had seen the light of Aman. Over four millenia he might have lived, served the Elvenkings honorably in battle, diplomacy, and in court he might have done, but Aigronding’s overt approval, much less his pride, meant something great to Gellam. When first he had come to Imladris, Lord Mordagnir had thoroughly disapproved of the Fool, discouraged his sister from associating with him, and all but begged Elrond to send him back to Mirkwood. Now he embraced Gellam as friend and comrade, something neither could have predicted would ever happen. Further, Aigronding now handed Gellam a map, and an assignment to go with it, and the woof-elf’s expression shifted to serious consideration. It was indeed until either Edan or Taurina to be so long in silence when they were expected to report, and something significant must have occurred to prevent them.


Tavari was grinning broadly. Gellam’s elevation was unexpected, but not unwarranted. With no ranking member of the Mirkwood Guard present but he, combined with his recent service in Imladris, it was only natural that Thranduil should ask the Fool to take over the position for the time being. Her eyes danced and as she awaited her chance to congratulate him, Númenyraumion spoke at her side, questioning whether he would be permitted to join the mission. This brought Tavari back to the task at hand, which concerned one of her oldest friends, Edan Amrun. The corners of her mouth dropped back down into thoughtful lines, but she spoke encouragingly. “Yes, you should join this mission if you feel you are prepared. It may be nothing more than an investigation and report- but it may also be more.” She glanced at the sword at his hip. “You should be prepared to use your blade. Can you promise that?”

Gellam looked to Elsilner as he approached and bowed, offering his service to Aigronding. But at the honorific he appended to the Fool’s own name, Gellam began to splutter again. “You may join my company, certainly, but I am no lord! That is, well, Arphen would be the appropriate military title given my new position,” -he categorically refused to take on the title ‘Chief Guard of Mirkwood’ when he was not resident there- “but I am no Lord, I- “ again he was interrupted, and Tavari snorted her amusement, murmured to Númenyraumion, “He’s usually much more eloquent than this.” Erfaron too offered his service, and, too, he addressed Gellam as ‘lord,’ though this was clearly a more mocking tone. “Oh for- ,” the Fool threw up his hands in resignation, and Tavari stepped in to rescue him. “I too will go!” she held up her hands with the palms towards Gellam who would be the first to note the mischief in her eyes, placating, “In support of the new Arphen. It is your mission, of course. I have no doubt you will lead it admirably.”


GM Update:
We’ll give a little more time to see if anyone else wants to join this mission, and then get going!
I’ll post in the Rivendell OOC thread also when it kicks off.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Elder of Imladris
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Elsilner
Tirn
Sammath Lasto


Never a good judge of humor, Elsilner glimpsed the mocking tone in Erfaron's words only after a moment of consideration. Not quite catching the hint, he began to wonder whether Sílûgnir was suggesting his uselessness in battle (having remarked that he had "small doubt [Elsilner] will be needed"), and feeling slightly wounded he turned and opened his mouth to protest (as politely as possible, naturally), when it dawned on him that he missed the beginning of the Tar-Taidron's speech, entering a little late. A name triggered his memory, rousing rather unpleasant recollections.

"Did his lordship mention Taurina Ithildinloch?" He inquired carefully. For a fleeting moment his eyes leapt to inspect Erfaron's expression, and he felt certain, though it did not make him terribly proud, that his own face mimicked the Authon's doubtfully amused look.

He remembered the pale Authon from the previous mission he'd embarked on with the Guard. On that mission, he'd been under Taurina's command. He did not like her, but her rank and the Tar-Taidron trusting her assured his respect. She was not, to the best of his memory, easily threatened. She was not, also to the best of his memory (and to this, he felt, Sílûgnir agreed), very sober. Elsilner was not known for his trusting nature, yet once someone gained his trust, it took much effort to convince him otherwise; and he trusted Aigronding Mordagnir. If the supreme commander of the Imladris Guard thought Taurina's silence was a cause for worry, it was enough for him.

Gellam seemed rather baffled by being addressed as "lord", so Elsilner hurriedly apologized. "I did not mean to discomfort you," he explained, feeling his eyes leap once more towards the pale Authon, who clearly had other intentions when he used the same title. Only barely avoiding finishing the sentence again with "my lord", he noted inwardly to call him "Gellam" in the future, unsure even if "Arphen" might be too troubling for his new commander.

A pleasant surprise presented itself when the Arahiril herself ventured to join the mission. Again he felt a surge of loyalty rise within him, together with deep pride, to be serving under such legendary warriors. "Arahiril Mordagnir," he bowed. "It is an honor like no other to set on a mission with you."

Balrog
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Aphador
Sammath Lasto

Pomp and circumstance were, while not completely alien to him, not something Númenyraumion felt comfortable with. He was happy for his friend, regardless. Gellam, for his part, seemed absolutely flabbergasted and his consternation only seemed to heighten when he was given the title of “Lord” by one of late comers to the ceremony. Númenyraumion could not help but crack a small, brief smile.

At his side, the Arahiril told him that he should join if he felt himself ready. Images flashed in his mind, the faces of the children to whom he had told ghost stories, the faces of the parents, worn and world weary but with bright eyes still full of life. He swallowed. “I am ready, as ready as one can be right before they take a leap off a cliff.”

She pointed to his sword and asked if he was willing to use it again. Was he? He had used it once, a lifetime ago. What would it take to make him use it again? His fingers felt jittery, he touched the hilt of the sword reflexively, feeling the cool, soft leather and the icy blue steel pommel. He wasn’t sure. He knew if trouble arose on the mission he had an array of weapons that could fight in the defense of the party, but the sword was a different matter. Why was he so connected to it? If he hadn’t used the blade in three thousand years, why did he keep it? There has to be a reason, buried somewhere in his subconscious mind.

“I can,” he said after a heartbeat’s pause. “I will do what is necessary, even if this should turn out to be naught but an investigate and report. I can promise that.”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 5:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Erfaron Sílûgnir, Authon
Sammath Lasto

Gellam may have won over Aigronding over time, but Erfaron tended to spend substantially less time within the valley than their mutual acquaintance. He held thus to his own lasting first (and only) impression of the Fool; that of Gellam’s casting nonsensical rhymes to diminish his assaults during their mutual battle with foul beasts in Mirkwood. That particular encounter had, furthermore, led to a tense standoff with some extremely rude woodelves, which had done naught further to endear their kind to Sílûgnir, any more than had a very long-standing grudge of outrageous bad humour between himself and the belligerent, frequently intoxicated, Taurina, another of the Greenwood ilk. For all that Ithildinloch was a mighty warrior, she could not be said to take her duties at all seriously. Erfaron was not prepared here to expect any more of anyone so similarly carefree in demeanour as he believed of Gellam.

It was true of course that the number of souls Erfaron did not in fact dislike could be counted upon the fingers of just one hand, and might even then not require all digits. Despite this, there was a fundamental truth that the best warriors to have at one’s back did not always include those you’d choose to befriend. Few observed this understanding as well as he, who had, as a fugitive Mole amongst a party fleeing Gondolin’s then very-recent fall, proved that his sword more than made up for his lack of comradery. Once aimed at a mutual foe, that was.

Whether the new and exceptionally modest Arphen’s gesture of despair, throwing his hands in the air, was to do with the seconded insistence of granting him ‘title’, or the fact of Erfaron deciding to inflict his presence at all upon their little party, the word of the Arahiril ended all debate. Tavari may never have been a friend per se to Sílûgnir, but she had known him since long before he’d held his current name. Which meant she knew far more about the now rogue than he might wish to ever become public knowledge, and thus a degree of respect toward her at least was required. Moreover, the last time he had encountered the hardy nis, he’d been rather worse for wear, to say the least; after a venomous blade had rendered him rather hurt, extremely agitated, but rather more vulnerable. Tavari had been the only one brave enough to test her bedside manner against his petulant lack of co-operation, and had probably saved his arm, if not his life. For that, for her sake, he might be able to hold his tongue from insulting Gellam at least half of the time.

The weight of Elsiner’s bright eyes did not fall on the Authon utterly unnoticed, particularly where the mere mention of Taurina was concerned. Where though it came to consoling their newly appointed leader, the young archer leant similar glance toward the paler Elf as though to prompt some equal gesture. As though he had learnt nothing from their previous experience at all.

I too should like to apologise for making you uncomfortable,Sílûgnir sighed even in the charade of fair play toward the Arphen. “But alas that such sentiment would fall false from my lips,” he admitted honestly. “I might have you then to note at least one who follows your lead here does so not upon mere faith, nor mindless optimism, nor even the hearsay of those dear ones who would not wish to injure your feelings.” The Mole awarded Gellam what small quota of sincerity he could muster as he made his vow, such as it was. “I am not often or easily impressed. And the opportunity for you to see us all superbly compromised or else killed should you err, is not one I would have you forget. So in the interests of assuring you keep that in mind, go on and surprise me. If you really think you’re up to it. Lead off ..

*edit : Spelling
Last edited by Ercassie on Fri Jul 17, 2020 1:07 pm, edited 1 time in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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Raina Sáiyamorë - Vayatiriwë, Lindon Guard

The aubrun-haired elven woman glanced over at Almarëa, whose indecision was clear on her face. "Varda's stars. You and Lindariel just got back to the valley, you were planning to stay in the valley and enjoy yourselves, you don't actually have to go running off to rescue everyone who needs rescuing every single time something goes wrong. You are, in fact, allowed to rest once in a while." She grinned. "Besides, someone has to staff the healing houses - I know you had plans. And I could do with a bit more adventure in my life - so why don't the two of you stay here and enjoy yourselves; I'll see what's gone wrong with the world this time."

She walked over to Gellam. "If you can use another sword, I'd be happy to come. When do we leave?"

She/her. Almarëa - Rivendell / Jaena - Lone Lands (T.A.) and Gondor (F.A.) / Layna - Mordor

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Delunaer and Mistriel
On the South Eastern side of the Misty Mountains
From the direction of Mirkwood

The Colony:
Chapter Two - On the Run (Post 2)


Moving swiftly and silently, his pointed ears on the alerts and his blue eyes like sharp points of light in the dark, Delunaer got together their weapons. He handed over Mistriel's bow and arrows to her while he slipped his quiver over his shoulders, and notched an arrow at the ready.

Mistriel's heart thudded loudly in her ears. She knew a fear. She had never fought orcs before. It had been spiders. Always the spiders. To her, the orcs were a new kind of enemy. She had been aware of them in the rocky paths of the mountains, but she had as yet to see them. She closed her eyes tight and took a deep breath. She would not panic. She could not panic. Her father's life might depend on it.

Voices, rough and guttural could be heard. Mistriel's eyes flew open and found Delunaer's. "Ada," she mouthed.

Delunaer saw the fright in his daughter's eyes. He had already determined to keep her as much out of the fight as he could. He had watched her in action before, slicing at the underbelly of spiders, and springing up and about like some of the fancy toys of Dale. He knew she was capable of doing just as well against the orcs. But, if he could help her avoid a confrontation he would. He gave Mistriel a nod and a smile. "I love you, my daughter. Remember the plan. I am trusting you." And with that he slipped out.

He knew it would be a matter of minutes before they were found. So, why give the stinking creatures an advantage? He would take every element of surprise he could get. His light booted feet scampered over the rocks soundlessly until he found himself staring at the scalp of rather large orc. Delunaer did not take time to think. He simply drew his arrow and then let it fly. No sooner had the arrow left the bow when he had notched the next, and the next. He kept a volley of arrows coming as the orcs were momentarily stupefied. But after a second one was downed they sprang into action, and snarled their way towards the elf.

Mistriel heard the guttural snarls, and nocked an arrow. She stood inside the opening of the cave and peered outside. Her father stood about a hundred metres away from the entrance. She just about swallowed a cry as Delunaer ducked from a flying club. He was unharmed, but his advantage time was over. Quickly Mistriel let fly her arrow at the dark form nearest her father. She did not stop to if it was hit. She let two more fly, and the met its mark. She heard her father cry, "Drego!" as he drew out his long dagger and began to defend himself against a rough-edged sword.

Mistriel dared not hesitate. She scrambled out of the opening and onto higher ground. She heard a gruff cry of alarm behind her and guessed that she had been spotted. Mistriel did not look behind. The terrain might be unfamiliar to light feet. But she had the excellent balance and lightness of foot of her race, and that was her advantage over her large and heavy pursuer. However her advantage was slight. The orc was gaining ground. She could tell when she heard it breathing practically yards away from her. It was on familiar territory, on home ground. She saw the shadow of the outcropping of a large rock high above her, but not to hight. She thought if she could manage to reach it a little faster, she might be able to turn it to good use and shoot an arrow into her pursuer.

Mistriel made to speed up, but she tripped over an unseen protrusion and rolled down to the feet of the ugliest creature she had ever laid eyes on. Even uglier than the spiders! In the sliver of moonlight present that night she saw large, yellowed teeth and a hideous face twisted into a ferocious snarl of triumph. The orc had a sword and was swinging it down towards her when Mistriel got over her shock, and managed to roll away just in time. She felt the sleeve twitch. But she hadn't time to do more. The orc came at her again yelling out in its obscene sounding language. Mistriel rolled away again, feeling the sharp stones on the mountain side biting into her tender flesh through her clothing. This time she managed to scramble haphazardly onto her feet. Still clinging to her bow, Mistriel tried to run. She could tell she could not fight this creature at close quarters. She began to grasp at large rocks and fling them at her adversary, always making her way forward. She did not look to see if she was hitting her target, but the noises it was making alerted her to its direction behind her.

The rocks slowed down the orc a bit, and that was enough for Mistriel to make it behind her rock of defence. The orc was only about fifty feet away. She notched her arrow and aimed for the creatures head. At this close a range she could not miss. And she didn't. The orc went down in a trice and rolled the down the mountainside like a boulder.

Mistriel sank down behind her rock and gasped for breath. She could feel the blood rushing to her head, and she struggled to calm her wildly beating heart. It was a few seconds before she realised she could hear nothing but the sound of her own breath. She peeked out from behind the rock. Where was father? She hadn't been able to watch his back and cover for him after all. The tears gathered in her eyes. He had told her to run. Where was he? Surely, surely he would not have let an ugly creature such as this kill him. "An elf should not by the hand of an orc!" whispered Mistriel fiercely to herself. Delunaer had told her he would find her, but she could not leave without knowing what had happened. She could not!

The wind was cold on the mountain, and it gusted about her in a low moan. Mistriel drew her cloak about her and slowly made her way through the rubble downward. She moved carefully, silently. She had an arrow at the ready in case she needed it.

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Sammath Lasto

“It’s no trouble! I have spent my life serving one noble lord or another,” Gellam replied to Elsilner, “But what a shock it is to find myself counted among them. Now then, it doesn’t look like anyone else is going to join us- ah! Raina!” his dark eyes fell upon the elleth as she approached the group, and he inclined his head to her. “You are most welcome.” Erfaron’s response began similarly to Elsilner’s, but quickly diverted in intent. Gellam hadn’t been expecting apologies from either of them, but neither had he been expecting such overtly caustic behavior from someone who hardly knew him! Even Aigronding had not been so rude in the early days of their acquaintance, and the Tar-Taidron had had reason to believe the wood-elf was attempting to use his many wiles upon his sister. He hadn’t been wrong, but still. Not for nothing though had the irrepressible Fool won Mirkwood’s Most Charming Smile award five times running, and he deployed his flashing grin in Erfaron’s direction. “Not to worry my dear sir!” Gellam chirped with a knowing wag of the chin, causing the bell at the end of his long cap to jingle in support, and his voice slipped into the bight, encouraging tones he had used on his more recalcitrant pupils at the court of the Elvenking, “We should all wish to do things which we are incapable of! How else would we seek to improve ourselves? I have no doubt this mission will help you on your quest for self betterment, and the next time you should wish to apologize to someone, you will succeed.” His merry dark eyes crinkled and disappeared for a moment with the depth of his smile, before he released it and returned with only his normal good humor to face the rest of the group. “Right! As I was saying before Raina joined us, I believe we are all met. Gather up your gear and arms, and a few days’ provisions, and meet at the front gates in say.. one hour? None of us were expecting this mission when we arrived this morning, so take your time and prepare yourselves. We will ride out, so anyone who does not have a horse, Tavari will meet you at the stables,” Gellam looked to Tavari to receive her affirmation, “and see you provided. Alright? Dismissed!”

For her part, Tavari had frozen in the act of nodding her acceptance of Númenyraumion’s answer to her question, to look daggers of ice at Erfaron. Her face was otherwise perfectly neutral, and she knew better than to expect congeniality from him, but took great umbrage at his treatment of Gellam. There was no need to defend the Fool however, for his wit met no match in Sílûgnir and he was, truly, a much better person than Tavari herself. Repressing a grin of her own, she nodded to his request about the horses. “But of course. I believe most of you have mounts, but if not, see me at the stables and we shall find you one.” The Arahiril allowed herself a soft laugh as she turned away from the others and back to Númenyraumion. “I think I will be seeing you at the stables? Do not worry if the horse isn’t your usual mode of transport, wanderer- I have one who will take care of you.”



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Rochir Ardhon

Back in the warm, comfort-smelling stables, Ñaltanáro was making his displeasure known, whuffing and grumbling and scraping a hoof as his mistress committed the unpardonable sin of paying attention to another horse. Tavari only laughed, continuing her grooming of the sturdy grey gelding in the crossties. He was a solid, sensible horse, and lipped the ends of her hair affectionately as they swung with the rhythm of her movements. They had shared a number of outings together before Ñaltanáro, and before Ñaltanáro had been ready to face his own trials. Once the hot golden stallion had been made ready, Tavari had set about turning this fellow into a schoolmaster. “But you still have some adventures in your hooves, don’t you my friend?” she murmured, and the gelding snorted his assent. The nís had prepared herself quickly for the excursion before coming to the stables: two saddlebags hung already from the surcingle which was the only strap Ñaltanáro ever bore, filled with the things she might need, chiefly food, water, cloak, and light, tightly rolled coat of golden ringmail, for no one knew what they were walking -riding- into.

At her left hip still rode Glamor, and peeping over her right shoulder was the hilt of her great, nameless sword. At first glance it was unremarkable to look upon: a simple longsword, the blade just over a meter in length. It was perfectly balanced, capable of thrust and cut with equal facility and finesse. The quillons were straight and simple, flaring through the middle to protect the hand and tapering at their ends to round points. The hilt was pommeled with a thick cone of steel, and the two-handed grip was bound tightly with stout black leather. Below the hilt, however, was the first indication of this blade’s storied history: upon the ricasso on both sides of the blade, had been stamped with the device of Fëanor, by whose hands it had been forged. And below that scribed in runes, the Smith’s name in his own hand. On the opposite angle across her torso was slung the simple horsebow Tavari preferred in situations such as these, and strapped to her belt and around the right thigh was a quiver of arrows, fletched in gold.

With any luck, this would all be unnecessary. But chances were, in her estimation, that luck would have very little to do with it.



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"The Claw of the North"
Arphen Gellam (the Fool)
Front Gates - Ost Halatir

Hwinnien pranced, eager to be off, and tossed her head. Gellam chuckled and ran his hand down the mare’s neck of fleabit grey, leaning to the side to catch her eye. “Soon! A bit of patience!” The nimble mare arched her neck to the side and snatched the end of the wood-elf’s long cap with her teeth from where he leaned, whipping it right off his head and mussing his long mahogany hair. “Hwinnien!” the Fool chided, and leaned forward to scratch her poll. As he shifted his weight, the weight of his ungainly weapon came with him. Strapped to Gellam’s back in a harness with a cunning quick-release clasp on his chest was his lochaber, a vast polearm that was half axe and half hook. The steel-capped and spike-butted pole of the weapon was only inches taller than the wood-elf himself, but the wide blade of the axehead, which began near Gellam’s shoulder when both were standing, continued straight upward until it reached its second rivet at the top of the pole, where it curved wickedly, extending yet a further foot above the fool’s head before reaching its needle-sharp point. Opposing the fearsome blade was a wide, curving hook that began just below the top of the pole and extended up to the tip of the blade before curving back down in the opposite direction to come to its own point on the opposite side. It was a heavy and ill-balanced weapon, but Gellam delighted in it. Hwinnien grunted her pleasure at the scratches, and with another toss of her head, released the cap, which arced backwards, and was caught by the Fool. Taking note of the mare’s unintended advice, he shoved the cap into the pouch clipped to his wide kidney belt. This was after all not a joyride upon which they were embarking, and it wouldn’t do to attract undue attention. Stroking Hwinnien’s neck absently, he waited for the rest of his group to arrive.



GM Update

Gear up, take care of anything else you need to at Ost-Halatir, and meet at the gates! We’ll continue to RP this mission in this thread under the title of The Claw of the North. Please put this title at the top of your posts from now on to help us all keep track of each other.


Mission Roster:
Arphen Gellam (the Fool)
Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir
Vayatiriwë Raina Sáiyamorë
Authon Erfaron Sílûgnir
Tirn Elsilner
Aphador Númenyraumion
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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"The Claw of the North"
Lirien Lamaenthel
Arriving at the Front Gates - Ost Halatir


Lirien had expected, upon arriving in Imladris two days earlier, to be able to spend rather more time availing herself of Lord Elrond's fabled hospitality. She'd ridden hard with a message from Thranduil's court, and the journey had not been a pleasant one. Several days of sitting in the sun would have been nice. Evenings spent in the Hall of Fire, listening to story and song, and perhaps adding her own voice to the chorus that rang out there.

But it was not meant to be. Instead, she'd wakened that morning to the sound of a fist pounding upon the door to her quarters, and found the eager nîth she'd paid to bring her any news of interest standing on the threshold.

"The message you brought?" the young one said, breathing hard after a run through the valley. "It was about one of your gwedeir. Not the one with the wine. The one with the lute. He's been ordered to take over the Mirkwood contingent of the army."

"He's been what?" Lirien had yelped.

"...Yes?" the nîth answered, somewhat taken aback by her consternation. "And he'll be leaving this morning, leading a small party of soldiers to look into a grave matter--an encampment to the south has gone quiet. No good can come of it, things being as they are."

Wordlessly, Lirien flipped a coin to the boy and shut the door in his face.

Not a quarter of an hour later, she'd emerged from her quarters in rumpled traveling clothes still stained with mud and smelling of her last journey. It was a mercy she hadn't sent them to be washed, though--they'd likely not even have made it back yet. Stalking through the echoing corridors, she gave up hope of breakfast, and headed in the direction of the stables.


**********


Lirien's first sensation upon coming within sight of the Ost-Halatir gates was relief. There was Gellam, ridiculous creature, and by the way he was casting sidelong glances at the wheaten-haired elleth on the striking horse, Lirien could only assume she was Tavari. She'd heard much about the Mordagnir Gellam had designs on, but their paths had never crossed before.

Chirruping to Naurlinn, her sour-tempered chestnut mare, Lirien rode forward. When the fine nature of Arahil Mordagnir's weaponry and clothing became apparent as Lirien drew closer, she swallowed back a surge of bitterness.

Homeless, kinless, and friendless but for a precious few, she could not begin to imagine how inhabiting this noble elleth's life must feel. Tavari had every advantage, every comfort at her disposal, and now she had Gellam's regard, too. Yet in spite of her storied reputation and star-touched life--or perhaps because of them--it would take some doing for her to prove herself worthy to Lirien.

For the sake of her gwador, though, Lirien smiled and squared her shoulders, letting confidence settle over her like a second cloak. Perhaps she did not look fine or noble in her travel-stained garb, carrying a bow and sword that had seen much use against foes too ordinary to become part of legend, but she knew herself to be capable and fierce--a staunch ally to any who earned her regard.

That was worth more, in Lirien's eyes, than any noble heritage ever could be.

"I heard you've been given a command," Lirien said to Gellam as she drew Naurlinn to a halt before the waiting pair at the gate. "And frankly, I'm concerned you might die. So I thought I'd offer to come along and keep an eye on things, which is very kind of me as I only just arrived and Alagon promised to make me lemon cake. But I swear that if you let me join you, gwador, I will be the soul of respect and obedience--when those under your command are listening. And if you give an order, I will obey. Let me come--you know how much use I can be, if trouble arises."
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Aphador
Sammath Lasto & Rochir Ardhon
The Claw of the North

Gellam dismissed the hall, no Arphen Gellam dismissed the hall, he had to remind himself. His friend was now the leader of the Mirkwood Guard, he had to think of him in that context now. The hall soon buzzed with activity. Tavari was gone before he had a chance to say anything to her, slipping away like smoke through the cracks in a wall. He was left, relatively, alone in the great echoing chamber. He chewed his lip, going over the stores he had in his pack in his mind’s eye. The sword at his hip seemed suddenly very heavy. He had been able to ignore the weight of the blade for so long, but now, as if it had a life all it’s own and had been awoken, the blade pulled on his hip, dragging him down. He readjusted the scabbard and began the walk from the hall to the gate.

Something then dawned on Númenyraumion, he had no horse. He had never had a horse. For three thousand years he walked and ran everywhere he went. The idea of having ride out on the mission on a horse, though likely obvious to everyone else, had completely escaped the nimir’s thoughts. Of course he was going to have to ride a horse! He flushed, spinning on his heels and making for the stables. Though he had not ridden a horse in three millennia, he could still remember how they felt underneath, he could still recall the way horseflesh smelled at the height of noon in summer, he could remember the aches and pains that came with riding. He chided himself as he walked, passing out of Sammath Lasto and down to the stables. He had not thought his decision through. He had been alive for more than four thousand years and he had still not learned to think about what he was doing. He had chosen to join the Halcyon Guard based on a very old recurring nightmare. No, he had not chosen, that would imply that he had thought about what he was doing, no he had made a decision, a decision that he had not thought about and now must follow through with. He would, of course. There was never a question in the elf’s mind as to whether or not he would go through with this commitment, he was simply annoyed at himself for jumping to something and then having doubts the very moment the decision was made real.

“Calm yourself,” he whispered. He hummed a quick, quiet tone to himself, weaving the melody around him so that he could breath and relax. The bubble lasted only a moment, but it was all he needed. His mismatched eyes were focused and determined.

He entered the stables and was immediately assailed by the smell of horse and hay. It was not an unpleasant odor (living in the wilds for three thousand years can give one a certain perspective on smells) but it was one that could knock a person over if they were not expecting it. Númenyraumion was not expecting it. Despite knowing exactly what he was about to walk into, he had not remembered the strength of the smell of a stable. His eyes watered and he coughed, announcing his rather unceremonious appearance on scene. Tavari was already there, grooming a grey gelding and mumbling calming words to him. He was a fine looking horse and, despite the fact Númenyraumion knew next to nothing about horse husbandry, seemed even tempered and amenable to someone as layman to horses as Númenyraumion to ride him.

“I’m guess this is the lad that will be putting up with me?” he asked, approaching the horse with some trepidation. He turned to the saddle hanging by hooks on the wall, took a step forward to pull it off, then stopped. Sighing in self-flagellation, he turned back to Tavari. “I… have no real idea what I’m doing when it comes to horses. I haven’t ridden one in a very, very long. Would you be amenable to showing me how to tack him?”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 5:58 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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"The Claw in the North"

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Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir
Rochir Ardhon

A cough alerted Tavari to the presence of another elf, and she looked up smiling to see Númenyraumion at the entrance to the stables. “Yes,” she replied, choosing not to comment on his reaction -the poor nér seemed nervous enough already- and finished her final stroke with the brush, stepping back and patting the gelding firmly on the shoulder. She stroked his neck and fluffed his horelock, stepping forward towards Númenyraumion, and petted the horse’s soft nose. “This fellow has carried me through many adventures the past few years. He was fairly green when I came to Imladris to live, and has become an extremely reliable partner through our work together. I’ve never named him though, as I knew he wasn’t to be mine forever.” As if in response, a shrilly neigh rang out from a box behind them, and Tavari laughed. “That fellow,” she said, tipping her head towards Ñaltanáro, who was tossing his head in annoyance, “is the jealous type. Ñaltanáro, who carries me now.” Tavari turned fully to see Númenyraumion with the saddle in his arms, and the plaintive look on his face as he explained his situation.

“Of course,” she said, with an uncondescending kindness. “I have taught him to go under saddle, and so long as you can keep you balance- which is more difficult than it sounds, but a skill that will return if you have had it before- he will keep you safe in most situations, and teach you a great deal in all. Perhaps you will be the one to give him his name!” Tavari lifted the saddle from Númenyraumion’s arms, and replaced it on the peg. “First, the blanket,” she instructed, lifting down the saddleblanket from another peg. She demonstrated how to set it high up on the gelding’s withers, then pull it back into place with the grain of his hair, then removed it and had Númenyraumion repeat the action. The same with the saddle pad, which she explained had been stuffed especially for this horse, to conform to his shape and keep him comfortable underneath the angles of the saddle. She pointed out how not to let the stirrups fall and whack into the far side of the horse’s barrel when lifting it up, how much to tighten the girth (and how to check if a naughty horse were holding their breath during the process, which of course this horse would never do). And finally how to put on the bridle, how tight each strap should be, and how not to pinch the ears. The gelding waited patiently through it all, his ears flicking now and then, listening, one rear leg cocked at rest.

“When you mount, settle yourself gently into the saddle- he’s a kind soul but won’t appreciate it if you flop down on him like a sack of potatoes.” Tavari grinned and turned away, allowing Númenyraumion a moment of privacy to work this out as she walked over to Ñaltanáro’s stall and opened the door. He trotted out and stood himself in the center of the aisle in front of the greay felding, as though determined to prove himself as, and waited while Tavari buckled on his surcingle with her saddlebags. Looking back to ensure Númenyraumion was properly seated, she gave him a nod. “Ready? We should be just a little early to meet the others.” In a movement she had already executed once that day, Tavari gripped Ñaltanáro’s mane and withers and with a powerful kick of her outside leg, swung smoothly up onto his bare golden back. They moved off out of the stables, Tavari holding Ñaltanáro to a brisk walk rather than the trot she would usually have done; there was no reason, she thought, to subject Númenyraumion to that right off the bat, and he would be getting plenty of it before their journey was through. When they arrived in the courtyard she saw Gellam alone at the gates on his sprightly mare and rode up to him, calling, “We’re the first, I see! Punctual as always.”



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Arphen Gellam (the Fool)
Front Gates - Ost-Halatir

Gellam laughed at Tavari’s greeting, for punctual was not a word that habitually described either of them. But as Hwinnien and Ñaltanáro exchanged whuffing greetings he did not have a chance to respond, or to comment on Númenyraumion’s mount, for a new figure approached them from outside the gates. Lirien, looking as though she had ridden in quite a hurry to get here. The Fool listened to her words with both amusement and pride, and only once interrupted her with a shout of laughter as her assertion I’m concerned you might die. When she had finished, Gellam grinned and nodded, reaching out to clasp her arm. “Of course, gwathel, I know you to be extremely useful- and hard to refuse.” His dark eyes crinkled merrily as he continued, “And who am I to say no to my own auntie? The rest of our company are on their way Lirien, but this is Númenyraumion,” he indicated the ellon on the grey horse, “and Tavari Mordagnir, Arahiril of the Halcyon Guard.” Tavari nudged Ñaltanáro forward to come alongside Lirien’s chestnut mare, whom the golden stallion was eyeing with marked interest. She offered her arm in greeting as she spoke, “Lirien, you are, belatedly I admit, though it sounds as if you have found hospitality, most welcome to Imladris. And to this party if what Gellam has told me of you since your arrival is true, and as he is not in the habit of telling lies about his friends, I’m sure it is.”



Updated Mission Roster:
Arphen Gellam (the Fool)
Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir
Vayatiriwë Raina Sáiyamorë
Authon Erfaron Sílûgnir
Tirn Elsilner
Aphador Númenyraumion
Lirien Lamaenthel
Winë Faeleithel
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Melkor
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"The Claw of the North"
Faeleithel
Winë, Lindon Guard



The sound of yet another galloping horse soon was heard within distance of the Gates at Ost-Halatir. On top of the steed was an elf clad in blue garment etched with a fountain on each sleeve, studded leather armor covering much of her body. On top of her head was a polished Lindon Guard helm. At her side was a sheathed sword that was long, bright, and pale. The helmet obscured part of the hair that was bound into a tail that reached to the middle of her back. Her eyes darted around, seeing all the folk that gathered. Many she knew of, and one she narrowed her eyes at. For she was Faeleithel, formerly of the Fountain in Gondolin, surviving refugee of Sirion, assistant and bodyguard of the deceased General Eärcúlinta during The Last Alliance. Before the conflict with Sauron, he was in charge of keeping track of the elves who left Middle-Earth, along with the lists of elves still residing there. Faeleithel did much of the clerical work, so she knew of many names, though the faces were oft not attached.

Along the way up to the gate itself, she recognized a few people. The elves who once resided from Gondolin and whom were former Sirion refugees she knew of. Tavari was another she knew of. Gellam, a person she recalled from the Wars Against Sauron, she remembered. But her mind flickered to an occurrence where her keen eyes saw someone she did not want to see.

The one named Erfaron drew Faeleithel's attention along the way to the gate. Even seeing him the briefest of moments, she glared at him for a fleeting moment once he was recognizable, and thus she commandeered her horse to deliberately be as far away from the pale-faced mole as possible.

Faeleithel eventually approached Gellam on horseback, greeting him with a palm covering a fist.

"Salutations, Gellam of Greenwood of old," she said softly, "I am Faeleithel of Lindon, veteran of the war of the Last Alliance, a Winë of the Guard reporting for duty. My apologies for my belated arrival, for I had just returned to Lindon from a prior adventure and received news later than I desired. I hope I am not too late to be of service?"

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Aphador
Rochir Ardhon & The Front Gates
"The Claw of the North"

One of the things that was often left out in the many, many tales he had heard about her was the kindness she extended to people. Númenyraumion had expected (what had he expected?) something less than the gentle kindness she was extending to him now. She was so kind, in fact, that the nimir felt more than a little embarrassed at the attention she was giving him. He had never been very good at receiving attention in his youth, shying away from any sort of recognition (either positive or negative). He had taken on the life of a storyteller because it never required the attention to be on him. He was the one giving attention, a much more comfortable lot. He took stories, wrote them down, went to the places in the stories, and discerned the veracity of the stories. He was doing something very different now. He was no mere bystander now, he was not the storyteller. What was he? Was he the story? Certainly not with so many other important and impressive folx about. Who are you now, Son of the Western Storm?

He watched Tavari, first mimicking her step with the blanket, situating it on the withers the way she showed him then pulled it back with the grain of the horsehair. He felt like he was moving through molasses as he was readying the horse, each action he took seemed to take much longer than it should have. Next, he took the saddle pad and placed it running his hands gingerly over the fabric as Tavari explained its purpose. Númenyraumion had, in the three thousand years in between horse rides, forgotten there were so many steps in tacking a horse. Despite having nearly perfect recall in the stories he collected (something that served him very well when talking with Ents), his memory of certain things was as blank as a new leaf of parchment. Slowly, and painstakingly, he copied each of the nís movements, tightening the girth just right while noting the position of the stirrups in relation to the horse’s barrel (he was going to have mess of new vocabulary to sort through when this was all over). The bridle was more difficult, mostly from the nimir’s apprehension about putting the thing in the horse’s mouth. Luckily, again, Tavari was there to make sure he was doing it exactly right, tightening the straps just right so the ears didn’t pinch. Through the whole affair, neither Tavari nor the gelding lost patience with him, something he was unfathomably grateful for, and naturally felt equally unworthy of.

A mumble of thanks and appreciation for the help he was not sure was heard and he was on the horse. It felt strange for a moment. He was reminded of what an old farmer once said about them, that they were “dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle” and from his vantage point, Númenyraumion could not disagree with that assessment. He felt like he was a ship that was missing half its lumber. He swayed a moment, feeling the horse without him. Instinctively, he grabbed the reins, but upon watching Tavari leave the stables on her own steed, forced himself to calm down and eased up. “Sorry there, it’s been a bit more than a day since I was on top of a horse. Work with me and I’ll get you and extra apple when we make camp. Promise.” The gelding seemed to accept the terms and soon they were following the commander down the pathways to the front gate.

They had only just arrived to meet Gellam, Númenyraumion considering it a small triumph that he hadn’t ended up sliding off the gelding in the short amount of time he’d been riding, when who should appear but Lirien Lamaenthel. Immediately a grin and a look of horror began trying to form on his face. They’d only met the once, at Adab Gelir, but their song duel had been spectacular, and the nicknames he’d acquired there had been more creative than he’d thought possible. “Well now this mission is doing something, it’s drawn the finest people! Are you coming with us Lirien?”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 6:02 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Claw of the North
Nellethiel and Nostalion
At the Front Gate


"You are slow as always, Nosta!" a voice rang out with laughter as a tall elf swung her great steed about to face the ford that her brother was only just coming out of.

There was an answering twinkle in his grey-blue eyes, "And you, my dear sister, are always in a hurry."

"We have been days upon the road," she responded as he drew near, water droplets shining upon his silver armour from the water his sister had sprayed on him as she had raced him across the river. "I long for the sight of company!"

"Thank you," he said drily.

She laughed again, causing her horse to fall in step with his. "You know what I mean."

"Aye."

The stronghold of Imladris loomed up above them. This was not their first time to the last elven stronghold on Middle-earth, and it was not yet their third. Nellethiel and Nostalion had been journeying for weeks upon The Great Road from the Grey Havens, having been sent from the Lindon Guard Headquarters to be one of few who would aid the other elves on a mission. Not much else had been said. Volunteers had been called for, and it was only natural that Nellethiel and Nostalion sign up. They loved adventuring and grabbed at an opportunity to do so. No. That was not entirely true. Perhaps it was Nellethiel that loved adventuring and Nostalion who followed simply to have her back and keep her out of trouble.

On their own they had the striking appearance of the fair folk. But together, they made a remarkable pair with their dark hair like twilight, braided down their backs; their dark winged brows that had a tendency to tilt upwards toward their temples; and their blue-grey eyes. At a glance, it was difficult to tell the two faces apart. But on a closer look one could see the soft feminine contours of Nellethiel's face and figure, and the chiselled cut of Nostalion's rather determined jaw. Nellethiel was the older by a minute, and she took every opportunity she could to mention that fact. Nostalion rarely heeded her in that regard, but it had become his life's mission to keep an eye on his impulsive, hair-brained, adventure-loving twin.

As the armoured pair drew near the front gates of the stronghold of Elrond Half-Elven, the gathering of elven warriors caught their eye. "There's your company, Nell."

Nellethiel glanced at her brother with mischief in her eyes, "Someone does not sound happy."

"No. I was really looking forward to good food and some music in the Hall of Fire."

The maiden patted him on the shoulder sympathetically, and as they were almost upon the warrior company, said quietly and reassuringly, "We will as yet have it, little brother." Nostalion was hard put to it not to roll his eyes as Nellethiel continued to introduce the two of them to the elf in charge. "We are Tirn Nellethiel and Tirno Nostalion, volunteers from the Lindon Guard. Our sword and our skills are at your command."

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“The Claw of the North” mission
Erfaron Sílûgnir, Authon
Sammath Lasto >> Front Gate – Ost-Halatir

There was naught raised further than a stare, as Gellam either misinterpreted completely, or else wisely elected to ignore the undertones of Sílûgnir’s honesty. The latter was a feat which few others had managed with such a show of good humour, but neither was the Mole likely to be disarmed toward leniency quite so soon or easily. Erfaron had been schooled from an early age that challenge would reveal more, and swifter, of what a person was made of, than an hour of polite conversation. Their company here had still a potentially long venture before them and there might yet be the horrors of travelling song to contend with, which he deemed would prove the initial hostility well founded.

With an innocent shrug and subtly mouthed “What ?” offered to Tavari, he failed to point out quite how restrained he had actually been, for her sake, if not her acolyte’s. Clearly recent time spent with Hatholdir and that ilk had put Erfaron in the mood for sardonic amusement, were he not always so inclined. Thankfully he had brought his own ride from the valley to Ost-Halatir though, else he was quite certain the unimpressed Arahiril would have selected him a lop-legged donkey from her stable as penance. She had said naught, nor did she require to. He had seen that look before.

It had been administered less often lately than the look he gained from Faeleithel. They too had history, as much as any survivor from Gondolin, and then some more; so he snorted with little surprise as she urged her steed to hasten on and away from even his own steady approach. The Lindon Guard was narrowly beaten to the gate by a rather dishevelled lady whom Erfaron overheard someone name as one of Gellam’s friends. For all that, she appeared relatively sensible in at least eschewing all thought of fashion for their trek. Tavari’s new best friend was equally in attendance, and Sílûgnir held back, allowing them their merry meet without having to suffer it’s probable inanity.

It was growing more and more tempting to merely fall back on purpose and hunt their small company along it’s path from the privacy of a small distance. He could not imagine they would complain. But his horse betrayed him into their company even as he idled thoughts at the prospect, and it was too late to turn back now. As further more volunteers made themselves known, Sílûgnir did the opposite, to better appraise their lot. Mercy had seen fit, he observed silently, to at least have Gellam lose that ridiculous hat.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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"The Claw of the North"
Lirien Lamaenthel
At the Gates


The greeting Tavari offered was courteous, and Lirien returned it with similar grace, whether she felt it or not. She hadn't lived through centuries at the courts of both Thingol and Thranduil without learning to expertly mask her true feelings. Númenyraumion she greeted with a little more genuine warmth, albeit a flush of embarrassment. It irked her to recall how unguarded she'd been in her general conduct, that night at Adab Gelir--she could not even blame the wine, for she never drank to excess. It had only been the good company which drew her out, and had none but Gellam and Alagon witnessed her merriment, she'd not have minded. But others had--she'd been foolish, at least by her standards, while among strangers, and to her such behavior would always be shameful.

At least the memory would serve as a reminder to be more guarded during the course of this particular undertaking.

Nodding to Númenyraumion, Lirien reined in Naurlinn and drew a little apart from the gathering adventurers. There were more than she was comfortable with already--she preferred to journey alone, or at most in company with two or three others. This, to Lirien, was a crowd, and an ill-matched one at that, and she fought back a fretful sigh.

Near her, a shockingly pale elf (Erfaron) seemed equally displeased by the party that was forming. He had the air of one about whom many stories had been told, but Lirien had made an art and a discipline of learning only what might be of importance to her in some way. She'd never crossed paths with this pale elf before, and so knew nothing of him. But as she watched him briefly, she realized that while he might feign aloofness and disinterest, little of what was happening escaped his notice.

"It is not, perhaps, a gathering best suited to success in our current undertaking," Lirien said quietly to the pale elf, for at the fringes of the party, they would not be overheard. "Nor to working in accord. But I suppose that is a fit test for a new commander--to bring together those whose natures and temperaments differ, and knit them into a unified whole."

Shifting her weight in the saddle, Lirien smiled, though there was little light behind it.

"I will confess though," she said. "Unity and the bond between those who've taken up arms together has never much interested me. But surviving whatever comes, by whatever means necessary? That I take a great interest in."
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Delunaer and Mistriel
On the South Eastern side of the Misty Mountains
From the direction of Mirkwood


The Colony:
Chapter Two - On the Run (Post 3)



She could hear nothing but the sound of the cold wind whooshing about her hair and ears. All else was still. The light of stars shone down with pin-pricks of light, and the moon, nestled in the dark velvet of the night sky, glimmered its silver crescent. Mistriel loved the moon, and always kept an eye out for it. But this night, she shrank into the shadows, the silver point of her arrow glistening ahead of her, as she made her way as quietly as possible back to the cave. A sense of pride washed through her as she found that her father had managed to stick quite a few arrows into these foul creatures. But the pride was soon supplanted with worry. Where was he. No life stirred about her. The orcs were dead, of Delunaer there was no sign.

"Perhaps, he made it out of here? He has thought I'm on my way over the mountains and is probably out to catch up with me?" Hope soared in Mistriel at that thought. Ada had made it. And here she was, a disobedient daughter, not on her way to Rivendell at all, but out looking for her father near death. Letting out a sigh of relief, Mistriel made turn and head back up the mountains so that she could catch up with her father when a noise caught her ear.

The little elf stopped short, and listened. Only the wind moaned. She heard nothing else. Had she been imagining things. She stayed still. The sound met her ears again. She whirled around and her eyes scanned the bodies on the ground. She had heard a groan. It was distinct. Warily, she notched her arrow and held her weapon out in front of her. One of the orcs was alive. She moved further into the scene of the skirmish and saw a huge mound that was being slightly jostled from beneath. Mistriel gasped.

There, below the moving mound, with his pale yellow hair spread about the mush was Delunaer. He was frowning as though in pain. His lower body and left hand were trapped under the mound, and he was trying to push the dead orc from off him. Mistriel ran to him. "Ada!'

Delunaer's eyes flew open and he gazed at his daughter through a haze of pain. "Mistriel! What...what are you ...doing here?" He struggled to get the words out. He grit his teeth. "Why...are you...here?"

The elf maiden saw that the older elf had a deep gash on the left side of his torso and was bleeding profusely. Tears sprang to her eyes. "I came looking for you!" she said accusingly, as though it were his fault he was in this situation.

"I...told...you...to run." He tried to glare at her.

But the younger elf tossed her chin up at a show of defiance. "There's no use chiding me now, father. What sort of daughter would I be to leave her father to die?!"

"An obedient...one."

"An unnatural one!"

Brown eyes glared into blue. The blue gave in. "Help me get this big yrch off me."

Satisfied she won this little argument, Mistriel quickly shoved at the mound of orc, and shoved if further to send it rolling off the edge of the rise they were on. She felt that in doing so she had got her own against the creature that had trapped her father. She turned to help the other elf up, but Delunaer was in too much pain. Mistriel noted that was so much blood upon the ground. Too much. And her father's face looked pale. So pale. She quickly went to him, stripping off some material from her cloak, and attempting to bind the wound to stop the flow of blood.

She swallowed. "Let me take you back into the cave, ada. We're just here..."

"No!" He gasped out through gritted teeth as he attempted to sit up. It was no use. The pain was too much.

Mistriel tried to help him. "What do you mean, no?!"

"There will be more," he wheezed. The cold was beginning to get to him. "When these don't report in, there will be more. They will come to scout."

She understood. They wouldn't be safe. But they needed a place to stay! She bit her lower lip, "How much time do we have until another patrol comes to investigate?"

Delunaer shrugged wearily. Mistriel scanned the surroundings. "Ada, let me help you into the cave for now, away from the wind. I'll quickly have a look through the area and see if I find us some shelter."

Delunaer pursed his lips. He hated that he was a burden to his only child. Out here, alone, in the harsh mountains of snow. He was responsible for her. He could not let her do this on her own. He looked into her eyes though, and saw that his little girl could be quite determined. He didn't argue. Time was short. They had no idea how much of it they had.

Mistriel was relieved to see him now in acquiescence. Together, half dragging and half walking to the cave, the two elves made it. She handed Delunaer his bow and picked up some of his arrows, adding them to his quiver. "I'll be back, ada. Wait for me. Do not sleep, Ada!"

With that Mistriel went out of the cave and melted into the night.

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Delunaer and Mistriel
On the South Eastern side of the Misty Mountains
From the direction of Mirkwood



The Colony:
Chapter Two - On the Run (Post 4)


It took Mistriel a long while to find a cave in the face of the mountain that she thought might be suitable for Delunaer. She had gone higher up, and the night was misted over with an ice-cold wind that threatened to blow the little elf off her feet. But she gritted her teeth, as he made her way back to the cave. Wisdom told her that this weather was the best thing to happen to her and her father. The orc patrols would surely not seek out easy victims in this finger-numbing cold. This also meant that the orc patrol that her father had almost single-handedly destroyed would lie undiscovered for a long while yet. But, this also meant, Delunaer would have to brave the cold with his injured legs.

Mistriel hurried into the cave. Delunaer looked at her with relief. "You're back in one piece! You took long. Did you find anything?"

"I went higher up, Ada. I wanted to find a place that we were likely to be safe in even with the patrolling of orcs. I northward and upward. I nearly missed it for the outlay of rocks that lay before it. It is well hidden. If I hadn't been looking for a secluded cave I might have gone by it. I don't know if we'll be entirely safe, but I suspect it should keep us for the rest of this night."

Delunaer nodded. "Then let us go. It looks like the weather might have given us a brief respite from any more of the yrch, but we must make haste. I have heard too many dark tales of these mountains."

The two elves gathered together their simply packs, and their weapons. Mistriel tried to shoulder Delunaer's things as well, but he refused her firmly, "I'm not dying, Mistriel. Just wounded a little." But as they left the cave together he laid his right hand heavily upon her shoulders as he shuffled forward murmuring, "Besides, you need to take this weight on your shoulders, love."

Mistriel smiled wanly, and guided her father's taller figure further up the mountain. The going took far longer than it had taken Mistriel when she was on her own. A few times they stumbled, and let lose rocks that went bouncing off the edges of the mountain side. But eventually, after much gasping and struggling, and frequent breaks, they made it to the little cave behind a scattering of boulders.

Delunaer saw that his daughter had indeed managed to get them a good place. It was in a deep recess, and it was only when he had been guided behind the boulders that he was even aware there was a cave. His little elf was sharp. How carefully had she been looking? The cave itself was not deep, but was fairly large. This meant they could start a fire at the farther most part of the cave, and it would not be seen from the outside. He spotted a bundle of sticks strewn at this part of the cave, and tenses.

Mistriel saw her father's glance in the darkness of the cave, for their elven sight allowed for them to see many things even in the darkness of night. She noticed the tension in him, and guessed at once what he was thinking. "It was I, ada. I was the who brought in that bundle of sticks." She moved around him to set up the wood and light it. In no time a soft, friendly glow lit the back of the cave, and the warmth from the fire was gladly welcomed by the two elves.

Settling himself against the rocky wall of the cave, and positioning himself so as to ease his injured side, Delunaer watched his daughter quickly rummaging through their meagre supplies. His eyes were softened, tender and also full of wonder. His little girl was growing up. She had thought of the wood before getting him. No doubt this is what had delayed her. A little sound of dismay came from her, and he focused his attention on the few things scattered on the floor -- rope, a role of clean cloth and other odds and ends. "We are nearly out of food, ada." She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I will need to go hunting." Delunaer pursed his lips. Already he could feel drowsiness settle upon him. His upper body throbbed, but the warmth from fire coupled with his tiredness demanded that he sleep. "We will speak of it in the morning, little one. And I do not think it is far off. Sleep now. We both need it."

Mistriel nodded, returned the scattered things to the pack, and turned to wish her father good night. He was already asleep, however. His forehead was furrowed in pain, and his breathing was shallow, as though it hurt him to take deep breaths. She touched his forehead to check his temperature. He seemed warmer than was normal. Mistriel gazed for awhile at her father's face, her mind lost in thought. She decided to stay up and keep vigil, in case Delunaer would need her for anything.

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The Claw of the North
Fuin Raveara - Taidril
Sammath Parvsenda / Front Gate


She had returned from a long journey into the wilds only a few days ago, finally making it home to the Valley of Imladris. Aigronding had given her a few weeks leave and technically she was still on leave, as the Tingdain had fallen behind but already it was catching back up when she caught wind that there was a mission. She was in the Library looking something up when she caught wind of it. Her own journey had simply been for her own benefit and she was not terribly weary from it nor was Lume her steed, for it had been far to the West and through the peaceful lands of the Shire. She assumed that her friend thought she would need more time to get the Forge caught up, which is why she had heard about the mission only in passing and not as a summons to Sammath Lasto. She was going. That's all there was to it. She headed quickly to gather her gear most of which was still packed for her own travelling.

She quickly replenished her food and water rations as well as her medicinal supplies, bandages, salves, needle thread, a few other items just in case since she had heard that there was a good chance that there had been an attach and if Edan and Taurina were not managing to get word out something was wrong. Aigronding did as well or he would not be sending help he'd send a message. She slipped her grey cloak on over her brown leather armor and forest toned tunic and leggings, her fingers reaching back and brushing the dark fletchings of her arrows, they had simply been used for hunting her last outing, this time they might find purchase in an enemy making sure the quiver was set right as she did up the last buckle on her quiver before heading to get Lume.

The large horse was antsy in his stall, several others had come and gone geared for battle, and he wanted to go. She rested a hand on his velvety muzzle, "We are going, you can give Aigronding a nip when we get back. He did not summon me." She said softly Quickly putting a saddle and her healing pack on his back before leading him from the stables and swinging onto his back and making for the Gate.

She arrived to see Gellam, and was not someone that she overly knew, but most of the others seemed to be following his lead and she would of course do the same. "Apologies on the late arrival, our dear Tar-Taidron did not think I needed to go on a mission so soon after returning." She said with a smile, she looked about, it seemed to be quite the group, she had not met most of them but over all it seemed like it would be an interesting and capable group judging from their weapons and demeanor.

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Tar-Taidron Aigronding Mordagnir
Taidril Roina Mordagnir
Sammath Lasto

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Aigronding observed the gathering of Tavari's party, looking through an arched glassless window with his wife. He shook his head, a rare grin broadening when he saw Fuin joining his sister.

"Did you honestly believe you could keep her out of battle?" Roina asked, giving her husband an incredulous look. "You should have known the moment you gave Fuin leave she would not spend it entirely indoors." Although Roina worked with stone, she respected Fuin's mastery of smithing and was delighted to know another industrious woman who had a charmingly blunt way of speaking...

"I can just imagine our conversation when she returns. 'Fuin, I gave you a vacation -"

'Thank you for the freedom to do anything I want, I used it some of it to stab things,'
Roina chimed in, smoothly imitating Fuin's voice. They both laughed, watching the party disappear. Aigronding's serious countenance inevitably returned and Roina took his hand.

"When we were children, you always wanted me to decide what games we'd play," the brooding Light Elf remarked wistfully, glancing at her. "Now we're older and the games I choose are dangerous ones," he spoke again with a grave countenance. He turned to face Roina, caressing a wisp of his wife's red hair. She did not meet his gaze, preferring to avoid discussions like this. Aigronding wanted to go home; so did Roina but she would not leave Middle-earth unless the power of Mordor was broken. If Sauron was rising, she would see him defeated first before their family went into the West. Aigronding had told none of his friends nor his sister but he planned to leave Middle-earth when either the Shadow's threat was eliminated or if Lord Elrond departed, whichever came first.

The ring of Merenthrond's bell rang, its melodious peal welcoming warriors to a new feast. "I doubt there will be many soldiers requesting assignments at present, melindo," guessed Roina, interlacing their hands together. The couple left the hall together.

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*


Taidron Edan Amrun
Taidron Celeg Loboth
Laurëlotë, Tar-Turwen healer
Echad Gwedeir
The Claws of the North


"The Mountains and all lands estward are becoming dangerous."
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix B - The Tale of Years


Edan - known among his fellow Elves as Urinraumo Amrun - awoke on the bed of his quarters inside the keep, groaning. His whole body ached. The captain's Silvan wife, Authil Taurina, was nowhere to be seen in the guttering candelight but there were two Elves present. One of them was a blonde, grey-robed High Elf named Laurëlotë; she was a healer of the Halcyon Guard and had been Edan's friend since the Second Age, both of them having served King Gil-galad and Lord Elrond in Lindon before the establishment of Rivendell. The silver-haired Telerin Elf wearing dwarvish mail and a fur cloak smiled at his bedridden colleague. Edan had the misfortune of knowing him since the Fëanorian attack on the Havens of Sirion.

"You," Edan muttered, permitting Laurëlotë to unwrap his compress bandage.

"Me," said Celeg, taking a seat on a carved wooden chair opposite Laurëlotë's near Edan's bedside. Celeg once served Princes Angrod and Aegnor in Dorthonion as an ambush fighter, making "hit and run" attacks against the enemy. He gave his fealty to King Thingol when King Finrod's brothers were slain; Celeg later became a soldier of Lord Círdan's realm of Lindon in the Second Age which he continued to fight for to this day. He was still referred to as Loboth, the Rabbit. The ruler of Doriath had given him a different epessë however, Gwaewcorch...Stormcrow, due to Celeg's infamous habit of declaring troubling reconnaissance news.

"How are we faring?" asked Edan, gingerly sitting up. He allowed Celeg to support him so Laurëlotë could delicately rub his bruised sternum with fragrant frankincense oil to treat his bones and keep the swelling down.

"Same as the last few days," Laurëlotë replied dryly, preparing a new crompress bandage. When Edan caught sight of the pale red glow of flames and rising smoke outside through the window he became startled, but Laurëlotë lowered him onto his back with Celeg's help. "We are burning the corpses of our dead and theirs on the bailey grounds," she told him bitterly.

The Misty Mountains were becoming more perilous than ever before not just to pass through but to station soldiers near. Orcs of the worst description besieged Echad Gwedeir for nearly two weeks. Fortunately this place which was once an encampment but later replaced by a fort of stone endured the Orc aggression but the strength of the Elves had been weakened. Edan and Taurina led a brutal sortie this morning, driving an Orc-band east into the bleak hills from whence they came. In the ensuing clash, a blow from an Orc mace sent Edan falling from his horse; he tumbled roughly down a slope, breaking a leg and fell into turbulent waters. He would have drowned, Celeg told him with subtle arrogance, if he had not rode up with his Lindonese company formerly hidden in the treacherous swamp a few miles away to the south.

"Where is my wife?" Edan coolly demanded.

"Resting in the healing ward," answered Laurëlotë after some hesitation. She wasn't looking at the captain, boiling water for his dandelion tea to further encourage Edan's bone health.

"She's been sick," Celeg explained.

"An arrow did injure her and she was wounded by a dagger," Laurëlotë affirmed, throwing a sidelong glare at Celeg, "but," she was quick to add, "no, Taurina has not been poisoned. I am sure of it in my inspection of her."

"Then why did he say that Taurina has been sick?" Edan pressed, raising his voice.

"She has been nauseated and vomiting..." Her voice trailed off before she heaved a heavy sigh. Laurëlotë muttered just loud enough to be heard that this wasn't the place nor the time for this kind of discussion. Laurëlotë gazed at him now with a melancholy, sympathetic stare. "There are some things a wife deserves the respect of telling her spouse first," Laurëlotë calmly responded when she collected herself.

Edan felt his heartbeat quickening and a cold dread seize hold of him.

"Congratulations, mellon nin!" Celeg exclaimed merrily to shatter the thick awkward silence, causing Edan to tighten his lips and threaten him with a raised finger.

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"We need to track these Orcs to their lair in the hills and wipe them out, all of them," Celeg, wisely changing the subject, determined in a low icy tone and started pacing the room. "We've already lost well over two dozen Elves to the Orcs' savagery. We need more help before attemping a pursuit."

"You haven't heard from Aigronding , Tavari, or Fuin?" said Edan, taking the steaming tea from Laurëlotë.

"Since it's been almost a fortnight with no reply, I must assume that any post-riders or doves we've dispatched have been slain. For the moment we are alone. There's something else..." Celeg froze, raising an eyebrow. "These Orcs are fiercer than the ones native to the Misty Mountains and there was a Hobgoblin leading them in our last encounter... I would expect the Delgaran was behind this but none of the Orcs wore helms bearing her sigil and Hobgoblins -"

"Hail from the Grey Mountains, not Angmar," Edan finished for him, grimly speaking through his teeth. Many of the most volatile Orcs, Goblins, and Hobgoblins were indigenous to that range. "If we survive, I'll speak with Tavari and Aigronding. We need to investigate the Vale of Anduin and purge the territory of their filth. We can't let these kinds of Orc infest the Misty Mountains; the evil there is difficult to contain as is-"

Suddenly, a raucous sound permeated the air...the blaring of Orc-horns. Their assault was renewed. Celeg strode out of the chamber, taking the axe off his belt to fight the Orcs in the firelit night. Edan balled up his hand, feeling defeated. Here he was broken and sipping tea while people died. There was also Taurina he worried about. Silvan Elves were hardy and rustic. Would his wife remain safe in the hall of healing or stubbornly risk not just her life but the one inside her at the embattled curtain wall? "Come soon, Tavari...we need you," Edan murmured, viscerally believing his close friend would arrive any second.

"Are you sure it will be her?" Laurëlotë asked with subtle humor, gliding lavender ointment across Edan's brow to sooth him. "Perhaps Aigronding will send a Fool..."
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Dúnadan
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Giliathriel
Second Hall, Sammeth Lasto

Giliathriel clutched her satchel close to her as she made her way through Ost-Halatir. She wasn't used to being around this many people at once, which was a pleasant change from her normally solitary traveling. She climbed up the stairs, admiring the sleek architecture. In all her years of life, she hadn't managed to visit this fortress before, and she was sorry for it. What a grand testament to the unity of the elves!

She stumbled slightly as she entered the room where Aigronding and Tavari resided. Catching her breath, she smiled sweetly at them, nodding her head in greeting. "Mae Govannon! My name is Giliathriel, I'm from Lorien," she managed to say without stuttering. How long had it been since she'd had a real conversation with people? Too long. "I was told that you were the ones I needed to talk to about possibly accompanying a group on a mission, possibly. I can't fight," she said, honestly, figuring a military group would appreciate bluntness, "but I'm a master navigator. I've spent the last 400 years making maps, mostly of the stars but some regular ones, too. I haven't managed to get a ground view of lots of places yet, however. It's too dangerous for one elf to go traveling on her own in many parts of Middle Earth, which is why I was hoping I could join one of your groups on their next mission. I wouldn't be a burden, I can promise you that. I can take care of myself and I may come in handy." She stopped speaking, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she tried not to fidget.

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Tar-Taidron Aigronding Mordagnir
Taidril Roina Mordagnir
Tirn Calselda Mordagnir
Máheri - Daercudir Nenmallen

Sammath Lasto



The Colony: Chapter Three: A New Friend


"There were many paths that led up into those mountains, and many passes over them.
But most of the paths were cheats and deceptions and led nowhere or to bad ends;
and most of the passes were infested by evil things and dreadful dangers."

- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Over Hill and Under Hill


Roina and Aigronding were just about to open Sammath Lasto's carved wooden door when suddenly a younger Elf stumbled into the hall. She was a willowy elleth with auburn hair and pale bluish-green eyes. She introduced herself as Giliathriel of Lothlórien, a seasoned cartographer. Giliathriel admitted with some nervousness but frank honesty that she couldn't fight but was eager to serve the Elven Host as a mapmaker. She promised that despite her lack of experience or ability with combat that she wouldn't be a burden and could take care of herself.

"Many Elves are leaving for Aman so any help would be appreciated!" Roina answered, softly holding Giliathriel's hands . She gave her a husband a narrowed look, no doubt demanding in silence that he would agree.

"The dark places which our warriors venture to are many and the Misty Mountains, especially, are exceedingly perilous," said Aigronding with a grave countenance, "but....I will allow your service." He was concerned about Giliathiriel, knowing she wasn't as capable as most other soldiers, but she had spirit and Aigronding wanted to honor that. "As my wife said, we need to strengthen the host since our enemy outnumbers us." Aigronding's gaze drifted toward the craggy peaks of gloomy Hithaeglir. "There are many paths into those mountains and countlesss are the roads winding through them," spoke the High Captain to Giliathriel, pointing at the gargantuan towers wreathed in dense clouds of fog. Morgoth mightily raised them with his demonic power in the primordial eon of starlight, the Years of the Trees, the time before the First Age, to prevent the crossing of the Elves during the Great Journey. Some of the Elves chose a silvan life as Nandor, deciding to remain behind...and became the Galadhrim in Lórinand, later known as Lothlórien, Giliathriel's home.

"Most of the routes are deceptive, leading to dead ends or things of evil," Aigronding explained to Giliathriel clearly. He assumed most of those paths were made by the servants of Sauron but Aigronding was sure that plenty were devised over the years by Hatholdir's Moles of Tol Noldare quarrying in the Misty Mountains to rival Aigronding's miners supplying Fuin's forge. "The passes are infested with dreadful creatures, Orcs predominantly, and their legions are swiftly becoming a more dangerous threat than in years past." Aigronding returned his attention to Giliathriel and his features softened. "I do not mean to discourage you," he said in all honesty, "but for you to realize the grim reality of the situation. Perhaps you know that for yourself though? Lady Galadriel has told Lord Elrond that Lothlórien has become an island amid many perils and that the hands of the Galadhrim are more upon the bowstring than upon the string of harps."

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He smiled wanly. "Given your expertise with creating maps, I would like to ask you to join one of our surveying teams." He gestured at a tall Elf-woman who stood with Aigronding's daughter, Calselda, behind Giliathriel; they had been standing ever since he began speaking but waited politely for him to end. The older woman - Calselda's mentor and the mother of Aigronding's son-in-law - who held Giliathriel's forearm in greeting introduced herself as Nenmallen of Lothlórien, Daercudir and high captain of Galadriel's contingent. Nenmallen was silver-haired and blue-eyed as Calselda. She wore a white surcoat emblazoned with the yellow and silver image of a mallorn unlike Calselda's blue one depicting a flying kingfisher. Nenmallen and Calselda had an aristocratic bearing; the elder had high cheekbones and a refined beauty but Calselda's features were delicate like porcelain, doll-like, in sharp contrast to the plate and chainmail armor she wore.
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"We scout territories of the Misty Mountains we have not yet explored," Nenmallen told Giliathriel. "We must familiar with every lonely peak and desolate valley. Routes must be established that are safe, for warrior and civilian alike, so we can know the good from the back."

"Your knowledge of drawing terrain would be invaluable to us and important for travellers!" Calselda insisted, holding Giliathriel's shoulder for a moment. "You say you can look after yourself. I hope that means you have some skill with bow and blade although you prefer not to use. Little skill is better than none at all in the events our party is attacked. If there is a battle, hopefully you can target foes from a safe distance or defend yourself as best you can in melee if we find ourselves in dire straits. We will do our best to protect you, however."

"You can have the novice warrior rank of Magor but if you favor the bow, you may have Cudir which is the archer equivalent in the host of Lothlorien," Nenmallen granted Giliathriel. "If you would like to accompany us on a surveying mission, you may we leave with us now."


GM Update: @Giliathriel , you can write ""The Colony: Chapter Three: A New Friend"
in yor next post respond back to my Elves as you like. Accept Nenmallen's offer to be in her company
in the Misty Mountains, assuming the role as army cartographer to map trails
and surrounding terrain! Once you post, I'll change our setting to the mountains to meet Nen then...the fun shall begin...
Last edited by Eriol on Thu Oct 22, 2020 2:59 pm, edited 12 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Thranduil's son finally arrived at the gates of Ost-Halatir after a refreshing and reviving ride, since the air was clean and the nature was flourishing and vibrant. However, something along the way troubled his mind but Legolas couldn't really tell what it was, except that it was somewhat of an uncomforting feeling that arose when he looked into the far. It felt like a kind of darkness or shadow emerged and it came nearer and nearer...

Legolas entered through the front gates and slowly rode his horse past the Talath Hedi and Rochir Ardhon, while briefly studying the practicing guards and a little smile appeared on his face, as he perceived how dedicated and ambitious they all were. He rode his horse towards the stables where he supplied it with water and hay. The elvish prince has never visited the fort before, now wanted to see it with his own eyes and also gain new intel, which he could then report to his father. Great things has he recently heard about the courageous guards and their deeds.

So, Legolas was about to enter the first hall, as he perceived some commotion at the front gates through which he had just recently entered. He decided to take a glimpse at what was going on and instantly saw a face that was more than familiar to him; It was Gellam the Fool and Legolas suddenly remembered that his father has instated him here as the head of the Mirkwood Guard. Quite some time has passed since Legolas's father has sent Gellam to Rivendell to have him cheer up Lord Elrond and therefore it's been too long that Thranduil's son and Gellam have seen each other. Now, however, it looked like Gellam was about to ride out with a group of other guards. Curiosity overcame the son of Thranduil.

'What better opportunity would there be than gaining new intel, witnessing the courage of the guards at first hand and to catch up with Gellam, than by simply joining them on their trip?', Legolas thought to himself. Without any hesitation he got back onto his horse and rode over to Gellam.

"Q Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo Gellam.", the Elvish prince said as he approached the group and he smiled.
"I must admit, it is good to see you and it has been far too long. Also, great stories have I heard about Ost-Halatir! Now I want to see for myself if the guards are really as courageous as they were portrayed in the stories and rumors that I've recently heard." He paused and studied the group briefly. Then Legolas frowned and now looked at Gellam in a more serious way. "What better way would there be, than just assuring myself of it by joining you. Also, we have some catching up to do.", and another smile appeared on his face.
Last edited by Legolas on Mon Sep 28, 2020 1:24 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Mae govannen mellon nin."

Black Númenórean
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"The Claw in the North"
Final Mission Roster
Arphen Gellam (the Fool)
Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir
Taidril Fuin Ravaera
Authon Erfaron Sílûgnir
Tirn Elsilner
Aphador Númenyraumion

Vayatiriwë Raina Sáiyamorë
Tirno Nellethiel
Tirno Nostalion
Winë Faeleithiel

Lirien Lamaenthel
Legolas Thranduilion



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Initially it had seemed only a small party would be setting forth on this, Gellam’s first mission as commander of the Mirkwood Guard, but since their arrival at the gates elf after elf had arrived and declared their intention to join the group! “You are most welcome,” he had said in turn to Faelethiel, Nellethiel, Nostalion, and Fuin, as Raina and Elsilnir also made their way to the gates to complete the party. Eleven, including himself, and many of them veterans of great campaigns! And- yet one more. From within walls of Ost-Halatir itself came Legolas Thranduilion, son of Gellam’s own king! He must have arrived sometime before the party had begun to gather at the gate, for the Fool had had no knowledge of his arrival, and now here he was riding towards them. “My prince!” Gellam cried in delight, nudging Hwinnien forward until he could extend his arm to grasp Legolas’s in greeting. “It has been too long! I believe you will remember Arahiril Tavari Mordagnir, and Lirien?” the Fool gestured behind him to the ellyth of whom he spoke. Tavari pressed her hand to her heart and inclined her head to Legolas as Gellam gestured to her. “Mae govannen,”she greeted the prince, a slight smile tugging the corners of her mouth at the enthusiasm of the greeting between Legolas and Gellam. Tavari, Gellam knew the prince should remember, for he had introduced them himself the first time she had accompanied him to Mirkwood. Lirien had traveled so widely and so often he could be less certain of their acquaintance, but given her frequent visits to Mirkwood since the beginning of Thranduil’s reign, he would be surprised if they did not know each other. “You are just in time Legolas, as you can see we are about to depart. If you would care to join us, you, too, are most welcome.”

***

As they rode out from Ost-Halatir, Gellam explained the situation to those of his party who had not been present in Sammath Lasto with the mission was handed down- which indeed, was most of them, the party having expanded greatly at the gate. They were to travel to Echad Gwedeir, and outpost where the sons of Elrond managed the patrols on the west of the Misty Mountains, but as they were now on errantry with the Rangers of the North, Aigronding had sent Edan Amrun and Taurina Ithildinloch to replace them for the time being. However, since their departure, Echad Gwedeir had fallen silent, with no reports for over a fortnight. And, given the increasing activity in the region by orcs and bandits, the Tar-Taidron had decided it was time to see what was going on. They did not know what they were riding into, be it some simple explanation or logistics, or the destruction of the fort and more than twoscore souls within. With these sobering thoughts in mind, the party had traveled south for several days in quiet comradeship.

Tonight the party had just halted, having found a likely place to camp. They were not far from Sammath Lasto and would easily reach by the middle of the next day, but given the unknowns, Gellam had opted to stop their journey as dusk fell, rather than push on through the night and arrive weary in the morning. The area where they had stopped was on the edge of a wood, a grassy sward with the trees they had just passed through at their backs, and to the south a large rocky outcrop that partially encircled the sward, providing a bit of shelter. It looked to be a fine night, and Gellam cheerfully ordered them all to go about the business of setting up camp. Some fell to starting a fire, others to organizing supplies and beginning to remove tack from horses, others to gathering water. Gellam himself had slide from Hwinnien’s back and had just finished relieving her of the pack she carried for him, when he heard the sounds. A crackling, not of fire, but of twigs and grit underfoot, followed almost immediately by the smell and whooping howls of attaching orcs. “Yrch!” he cried, yanking at the straps that bound the lochaber to his back and swinging it forward, even as he gave Hwinnien’s rump a slap to send her away from the impending action. “Orcs! To arms!” From over the top of the outcrop they came, scrambling and swinging avariety of blades and clubs. They were large, larger than he would have expected from this area. But, Gellam thought, they would die like any others. “Oh lay, you’ve come to play, but it’s not here you’ll stay,” he sang grimly as the first orc charged him, crude sword upraised, and promptly lost its hand to the wicked lochaber’s axe edge, “For today, today, the Fool shall slay.”



GM UPDATE:

Feel free to write as much of the departure and travel as you wish, and then respond to the attack! Your characters may be in whatever state/involved in whatever activity of the beginning of making camp you wish, whether they’re still right there when the orcs arrive, or have to come rushing back from somewhere. The elves will be outnumbered, but not by much, as the orcs attempt to swarm the campsite. If you wish to plot with others about working together during the attack, or what your characters might be doing prior to it, please feel free to do so in the Imladris OOC or on Discord. At some point, one or more of you should notice that on their helmets the orcs bear the mark of a dragon’s head, whether this is during or after the fight.


NB: the colors I put everyone's names in in the roster are merely to designate which guard (or lack thereof) they belong to, no need to post in those colors. And if I somehow missed you on the roster please let me know :googly:

@Vampire Bob @Fuin Elda @Thalionwen Hunigfolm @Dwarrow Elf @Almarëa Mordollwen @Ercassie @Nolewen @Nen @Legolas
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

High Lord of Imladris
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The Claw of the North
Fuin Raveara - Taidril
Travelling/Camp


For all her play and mirth in the valley, on the long ride to Echad Gwedeir she was somber. Those that were stationed at the fort were her friends, she knew some of them very well, and for them to have had no word out? Yes there were logistic issues that could come up but this was too long, and the orc activity increasing was too suspicious. She assumed most of the party were having similar thoughts as they travelled for it was quiet for a group of elves. There was no singing, not even of war songs that had often emboldened them on their way to battle. Perhaps because they did not know if they were on their way to battle, or to the remains of a massacre. The only outward sign that Fuin showed was a tightening of her lips on occasion. She had seen many battles, she had fled from many battles, and she had lost many friends and loved ones in the past. She was not sure what she hoped for: A besieged fort surrounded by orcs or a razed one? For what good could 11 extra swords be against an entire horde? Her dark thoughts were interrupted for the call to make camp.

She slid from her horse's back, his bridle and saddle already off, and on the ground she was brushing him down before putting out her bed roll, she was further away from the outcrop than the others as she had been tending her horse before making herself comfortable when the call of 'Yrch' went up and She pulled her short sword from the bed roll and looked at Lume, who stood almost expecting to be tacked back up for battle the beast was far to well trained. "Baw! Tirith mellon" She said sharply and raised her chin towards where Gellams mount was headed and the steed snorted but turned and headed off with the other horses.

Fuin for her part unsheathed the short sword from where it was on the saddle sitting on the ground and backed away from the outcrop several steps more before unceremoniously put it in the ground beside her, the orcs clambering over the outcrop before she drew out her bow an ancient black thing from the first age that had spilled more than it's share of blood and nocked the first arrow and let fly striking an orc that looked like it was thinking about trying to flank the group. It found it's feet taken from it by the force of one of Fuins dark fletched arrows with a howl, it did not come over the outcrop again so she assumed it was dead. "Archers an eye to our flanks!" She shouted out not a command but a reminder, knowing that Legolas at the least was a well known archer, and that if they were encircled they would be in far more trouble than if they were fighting from just one side, her arrow had definitely kept the left side of the attacking force much tighter, and she planned on keeping it that way, loosing another arrow at the orcs striking a second though it managed to keep it's feet only because of the orcs behind it pushed him forward he wasn't dead but certainly wounded enough he would make for an easy target for some of the elves fighting with axes and swords. She'd keep striking at the orcs from a far for now until the came to close to her and then they would taste the steel of her short sword.

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Legolas smiled as Gellam greeted him and the elvish prince pressed his right hand to his heart. Then Gellam gestured behind him and pointed out that Tavari and Lirien were also present. "Of course, I remember! Too long it has also been that we have met." His eyes made contact first with Tavari, then with Lirien. Nothing has changed in their beauty until this day and back in Mirkwood they all together have laughed and reminisced and told each other stories about times of happiness and grief.

Especially Tavari's stories about her, Fëanor and Morgoth the son of Thranduil remembered and Legolas couldn't but take glimpse at Glamor, the sword of her youth from Fëanor's forge and he briefly wondered in how many battles she has wielded it. She was very fair, tall and due to her beauty one could have mistaken her for a Maia if one wouldn't have known better.

Also, Lirien's wonderful voice Legolas remembered, since she has sung to them and clear she has made through her songs and poetry, that she was independent, strong and proud. It was nice to see both of them again and it warmed his heart, despite the hour and place.

The party was about to head out and since Legolas has already made up his mind, he rode next to Gellam who briefly explained the situation again. Then they rode quietly and after a while an uncomforting feeling overcame Thranduil's son once again. It felt like some type of darkness came nearer and towards them but he couldn't really define what it was, least of all prove anything.

After riding for days, the party came to halt and it was decided to set up a camp. Legolas got off his horse and hitched it to the ground. The feeling, however, hasn't vanished and it troubled the elvish prince. He unintentionally walked over next to Tavari while he just wanted to take a closer view at the outcrop and he frowned and said, "We must move on. We cannot linger." before he looked into her eyes with a serious expression on his face.

Only seconds passed until the party heard Gellam shout that orcs were attacking the camp. Thranduil's son immediatly drew his bow since he has been alert and awaited an incident of this kind for the past couple of days. "Archers an eye to our flanks!", he heard of an elvish woman he didn't know (Fuin) and within the blink of an eye Legolas drew an arrow from the quiver on his back, placed it on the string and aimed at an orc who has just been wounded by someone else's arrow. He released the string and the arrow hit its target and struck it down for good. Then the elvish prince kept going, shooting arrow after arrow...

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Aphador
The Claw of the North

They travelled for quite some time. Númenyraumion, for his part, kept to himself for much of the journey. Each of them seemed content to keep their own company, particularly Lirien, whom he had hoped to converse with, so the nimir followed suit. He observed the wild country they passed and let his imagination wander. He’d passed through this country at least a hundred times in the last three thousand years yet now as he looked at the gently roaming hills and the cascades of greens and blues as the land met the sky. The autumnal reaper was about his work in the trees, and with the touch of his scythe the greens became an array of red and gold and orange. The air was crisp, a hint of a chill lay in the winds that that picked up and swirled the dry, crunching leaves. Númenyraumion loved the sound of the crinkling leaves. There was something infinity satisfying in the sound of his horse padding along. The CLOPCLOPCLOPCLOPCLOP was punctuated by a KSHSHWHSHWHSH. There was a melody in that, the nimir was lulled by the soft drone as the miles stretched on. Words flittered through his mind, a pentameter of swishes and clops and whooshes. The language of the land. What sort of song it could be, he knew not, but the sound of it still filled his mind with an easy peace.

Riding a horse was something very new for Númenyraumion, or at least riding one this long. Tavari was right, the horse was a very good temperament for him. There seemed to be some unspoken agreement that he had no idea what he was doing, and he was going to need help getting along. He had expected the nameless steed to behave rambunctiously and cause an endless array of issues, but he never did. He was surefooted, steady, and calm, all things the elf desperately needed. He did not realize how sore he could be, just sitting astride a horse for hours and hours on end. When they were done riding that first night, he spent much of the time after setting up camp massaging and stretching out his aching limbs. He also attempted, in the early hours the next morning, to practice his footwork away from the eyes of his superiors. He was the least experienced of everyone here, he could feel it in the way everyone moved. He needed to at least be able to hold his own should a fight break out.

The movement felt like dancing, shifting one’s balance from one foot to the other, pivoting, pirouetting, sliding, and shuffling, only with much a more serious intent. He used a staff, not trusting him to use the sword that bounced heavily at his side just yet. Each morning, as the fog rolled back like a parchment over the landscape, Númenyraumion was covered in a sheen of sweat. It felt good, he had to admit.

That afternoon, when Gellam, the Arphen, called a halt, Númenyraumion was more than glad for it. He had not expected the soreness of the ride to compound with the soreness of his training, more fool he. He was stumbled around camp, doing his best to stretch the soreness from his limps when the hue and cry went up. The smell of them reached his nose a moment later, a foul, unearthly metal tang combined with unwashed filth and slag.

He was glad, in that moment, when he did not panic. He had dealt with orcs and their like more than a few times in his many years wondering and knew how to deal with them. The added pressure of fighting within a group and looking out for not just himself but a company (though that company was far more than capable) had weighed on his mind since they’d set out.

Reflexively, the nimir drew his blade, the same blade that he had not drawn in battle in over three thousand years. He did so without a second thought. There were at last a score of paces between himself and Gellam, but he could see the ellon making swift work of the orcs around him, singing as he did so. The act, as absurd as it seemed, bolstered Númenyraumion’s confidence.

His sword arced out over his left shoulder in a two-handed swing that caught the first orc in the neck. Thick, putrid blood spurted from the wound. He pulled his sword free, twisted about to catch another orc in the face with his elbow. They were closing fast. He spared a single, last glance about the camp, then turned his attention back to the orcs that had come within his purview. The orc he’d smashed in the face recovered and bore down in him with a dirk. He swung wide, still dazed from the nimir’s elbow, and missed. Númenyraumion ducked easily under the swing and, taking a step closer, slashed his long blade across the orc’s chest. The Westernesse worked elven steel cut through the leather and hide the orc used as armor with ease. He gave a cry of dismay. Númenyraumion pivoted, taking a step back from him and sliced again, this time at the orc’s unprotected neck. The swing did not sever the head completely, but the weight of the body toppling over the to the ground finished the job of decapitation. Another orc, coming from his blindside struck him in the side with a heavy mailed fist. He grunted, turned and managed to grab hold of the orc’s breastplate and swing him away the precious few steps he needed to recover himself. He hummed a low, soft drone and the orc stumbled as he tried to move forward to attack. He recovered almost instantly, but it was all the elf needed to gather himself into a Nebenhut stance, his blade hanging loose at his right side, pointing down and his feet staggered, left foot forward. He swung his blade in a sharp upward arc, lopping off the orc’s arm at the elbow as he lumbered forward to attack. Taking another step with his right, he gathered the sword to him then thrust forward, steel slicing through hide to pierce the orc’s stomach. He ripped the sword free again, spilling the steaming guts onto the brittle grass.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 6:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
The Claw of the North
Fuin Raveara - Taidril
Travelling/Camp


She watched as Numenyraumion sliced down orcs with his sword he was very skilled as an Aphador, but then again most elves were especially if they had lived for any amount of time, there were always an orc to fight, or goblins since the tainting of the world by Morgoth. Now however was not the time for reminiscing over long forgotten Ages that she had never even seen, she turned her body catching Legolas shooting down the walking dead that had merely been kept up by the press of orcs behind it and aimed for their right flank now since the Prince was paying head to their left. The orcs had fanned a bit wider on the right side making it easy to pick them off one at a time with no orcs behind them to catch them the heavy draw of her bow put the first down with a thump their body rocked back.

She drew another arrow, already the orcs on the right flank had noticed that it was no longer safe there as well and tightened up even as the second one fell spinning off of the bodies of its companions with a shriek. As long as the archers kept the flanks of the opposing forces tight the swords men should be able keep them safe as they thinned the numbers in the center of the opposing force. Now she was busy seeking shots to help those that were fighting with swords, a far more tricky proposition as she had no urge to have to pull one of her arrows out of an ally. The numbers were less out of the elves favour now at least with, she did a quick tally of what she was guessing seven of their numbers were already down while the small contingent of elves so far was more or less undamaged. She caught sight of the Aphador being struck but he recovered admirably and finished the orc in two swings of his long sword. Pretty soon she was guessing looking at the numbers pitted against them and the efficiency of the elves they would be looking at an advantage, and she swore she could hear singing, and humming coming up from their center and gave a laugh even as she sought out her next orcish target with her bow.


Afarfin
Joining the Lorien Guard
Sammath Lasto


Afarfin marched his way to the Ost Halatir grounds by himself, he'd wished to join the Lorien Guard but the main forces of the Golden woods were currently in Imladris, and so he had needed to travel. He did not mind this though, he wondered perhaps if he'd catch a glimpse of Melviriel there, having heard she'd long stood defending Imladris, but for now he had one task to make sure he could become an Aphador. It was strange that he was nervous of such a thing, he had fought long battles many years before, but this body he was in, while it was his and he was use to it, had never seen true battle before. Sparring jests as children with his brothers and father at best. He'd never felt the rush of battle in his limbs, nor the smell of decay, and sweat as he breathed in the battle field, he'd not tasted copper in his mouth, but he remembered all those things, long ages ago now. He came to entrance of the Second Hall after a member of ranks had pointed him in the right direction. He wandered into the building calmly, his pack on his back and he was addorned in the light greys and blues that he was once so fond of years ago and still suited him being from the woods of Lothlorien.

His grey eyes swept about looking over the beauty of this place, dark though it's true purpose was it was still as most elven things were a creation of beauty and now in the Third Age a place of hope perhaps that they may no longer need to fight however the world was once again darkening, but at least from what he could tell there was no madness in his kindred which drove them to slay each other. He moved swiftly on until he had found what he guessed was Sammath Lasto, there were no real signs but he heard a voice that he was certain he knew from Ages ago, he stepped in to see Aigronding, older and more worn than Afarfin remembered him and he could not help but smirk at his old friends little brother. When he had drawn silent and the plans for... whatever was happening had finished the elf stepped forward his smirk playing at his lips. "I thought you looked more of a man after Helcaraxe, it seems armies of the elven forces have aged you even more friend." He said with a laugh and swung his pack off his back, showing a simple blade from Lorien there not his old one that had gone missing many ages ago. "I have come to join the Guard, I have heard that there is need for more able bodied swords men if you'll have me, though I swear I don't have armour this time so I'll want some before I go out with you again." He turned then to Roina "And you look as beautiful as I remember you." He said with a bow to her knowing full well Aigronding out ranked her but one should always bow to the beautiful women and not their husbands.

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Giliathriel

The Colony: Chapter Three: A New Friend


Giliathriel smiled warmly at Aigronding, glad of his careful consideration of all the situations that seemed to be facing them. "The roads have gotten more dangerous, this is true." She turned to Caselda and Nenmallen and beamed nervously at them, greeting them in turn. "Mae Govannen, friends! I'm more familiar with the bow than dagger, to be truthful. I became accustomed to traveling alone, before the roads became so dangerous, and often had to hunt to feed myself. I would graciously accept the rank of Cudir, if you think that's appropriate. My own people found me a little...unreliable for military customs." She bowed her head, slightly ashamed to be admitting to military failings in such a stronghold of elven power.

"I would be honored to join you on a surveying mission! It's more than I had hoped for, if I'm being honest. But to travel with others again sounds wonderful, especially if there will be excitement to be had! I know we'll find many new routes to take, and I'll happily map them all. I'm accustomed to navigating by starlight, but have all the necessary supplies to make regular maps already on my person." She gestured at the pack slung over her shoulders, full of her supplies.

New Soul
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Tar-Taidron Aigronding Mordagnir
Taidril Roina Mordagnir
Tirn Calselda Mordagnir
Máheri - Daercudir Nenmallen
Sammath Lasto



The Colony: Chapter Three: A New Friend

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"Perhaps we can rely on you to catch our food!" suggested Nenmallen Nórima through golden laughter. The Máheri high captain, the Lady's Hand, of the Lórien contingent touched Giliathriel's shoulder with maternal ease. She was a parent and was considered a mother figure to many younger Elves in Galadriel's host. She removed a lacquered mallorn box, one of many, from her satchel. Opening the container, she revealed double rows of Lórien leaf brooches in grey velvet cloth. The first line of pins were constructed of copper, electrum, silver, and gold. "These are brooches for those who wield bows," Nenmallen explained. "Cudir, thenincudir, bellcudir, and daercudir," said Nenmallen, indicating the ranks of archers from left to right. She repeated the gesture with the next grouping of clasps: Bronze, rose-gold, white-gold, and platinum. "These are brooches for those who wield blades: Magor, Theninmagor, Bellmagor, and Daermagor." Nenmallen gave a copper Lórien brooch to Giliathriel.

"Keep that box open, Máheri," advised Aigronding, beaming at the next Lórien arrival. Being more light-hearted than Arasoron had been, Aigronding was sure Afarfin - his sibling's best friend - wouldn't mind when he grasped the Elf's forearm before he pulled him into a cormade's tight, fleeing embrace. "This is Afarfin, my late brother's companion, and has been reborn," Aigronding introduced him to Nenmallen, his daughter Calselda, and new recruit Giliathriel.

"It is a pity we haven't met in Lórien but I anticipate getting to know you," said Nenmallen, hand over heart, "and I will strongly encourage the Elves of our contingent to treat you with the same respect as they treat me."

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"I must ask you for many stories at fireside," Calselda insisted with an ebullient taking of his arm, excitement lighting her blue eyes. "You must have countless memories of my uncle and parents-"

"He can gush about your mom but leave out his recollections of me," Aigronding interjected with a wan smile and chuckled, knowing Afarfin wouldn't spare hiw most embarrassing knowledge of him.

"Well, at least he wasn't there at Núath Forest when you fell-"

"Let's not talk about that fiasco," Aigronding grimaced, remembering the demon Kratos blasting him out of a tower window in the Glorious Battle. Arasoron heard his brother was injured in the great fall following the battle of Amon Rudh; he travelled with Afarfin to the House of the King encampment in Núath just to smack Aigronding who was on the mend. His smile broadended now in reverie. Arasoron mentioned he would have fallen dead were it not for Meril Duvain, the future bride of his nephew, beheading his Orc attacker. Aigronding slapped him right back. Then all three Elves shared a hearty laugh.

"It's not just the management of armies which have aged me, otorno ("Sworn brother," Quenya), but the people I've lost leading them," Aigronding admitted, now somber. He quickly recovered though, never liking for his daughter who emulated him to see father morbid.

"We'll need your expertise, Afarfin," Aigronding assured him with a firm nod. "Many of our best surviving warriors from the Wars of Beleriand and the Last Alliance are leaving for Aman which depletes the strength of our combined Elven forces. There are many terrors in the Hithaeglir and there are foes which horrify the Bree-landers if they knew just what kind of evil lurked a day's march from the Hill. I expect you will want to work your way from the bottom..." He glanced at Nenmallen.

"I give you the Blades rank of Magor," Nenmallen declared, giving Afarfin a Lórien leaf of bronze for his cloak.

Roina thanked Afarfin for his sweet compliment and gave his cheek a chaste, sisterly kiss.

"You know what the sages say about Gondolin women, otorno," said Aigronding to Afarfin, drawing his wife close by her slim waist with one-armed pull toward his strong chest. "Fair as the sun and as lovely as hte moon and brighter than the stars." He closed his eyes when Roina pressed her soft coral lips to his mouth for a tender passionate moment. "Tharmaras and I are fortunate men."

"And he is just as lucky," Roina remarked, looking happily at Afarfin and winked at him. "Fuin...Melviriel... she remains unmarried. I am sure she still loves you. Elves, we know who we belong with. She is on a quest with Tavari but I have faith Melviriel will return." She almost spoke of Angmar but realized that would not be the best thing to do at present. "Your girl is a tough fighter," Roina decided to say instead.

"Nenmallen, Giliathriel, and I are leaving on a surveying mission and I'd like you to come with us," Calselda welcomed Afarfin, clearly eager to have the friendship of another Elf who was in her parents' circle of longtime companions. "We'll be mapping regions of the Misty Mountains no one has been to before and building new trails for travellers to trust since many of the existing paths are treacherous."

"First he needs a shield and armor," Aigronding said with adamant force of voice, feeling protective of Afarfin. "We're not having a repeat of the Mouths of Sirion again." When Nenmallen and Calselda led Giliathriel away, saying they would meet Afarfin outside within the hour with their troop of forty Elves, Aigronding and Roina walked Afarfin to Ohtagard, the armory. "You can keep the sword for now," Aigronding reasoned, "but I have kept yours all these years. Once you are ready to visit Imladris, you may frequent Linayamaril - Crystalpool, our estate - whenever you like as Melviriel does. Your blade is waiting for you...as is the mausoleum of Arasoron."


GM NOTE: Anyone wanting to join the Elven contingents of Ost-Halatir,
you may speak with Aigronding and Roina at the Merenthrond feast hall.



Chapter Four: The Descent


FIVE DAYS LATER
THE MISTY MOUNTAINS - NEN'S SIDE OF THE CAVE


Tirn Calselda Mordagnir
Máheri - Daermagor Nenmallen
Tirn Lhaindir
Aewrusca, Healer
Dineth, Healer


"They sent Fili and Kili to look for a better shelter. Soon Fili and Kili came crawling back,
holding on to the rocks in the wind. "We have found a dry cave," they said,
"not far round the next corner; and ponies and all could get inside."
"Have you
thoroughly explored it?" said the wizard, who knew that caves up in the
mountains were seldom unoccupied.
"Yes, yes!" they said, though everybody knew they could not have been long about it;
they had come back too quick. "It isn't all that big, and it does not go far back."
That, of course, is the dangerous part about caves: you dont know how
long they go back, sometimes, or wehre a passage behind may lead to,
or what is waiting for you inside. They all got up and prepared to move.
The wind was howling and the thunder still growling..."

- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Over Hill and Under Hill

"From the ear to the wafer none were permitted
to handle this grain, save those
elven-women who were called
Yavannildi
(or by the Sindar the Ivonwin), the maidens
of Yavanna; and the art of the making of the
lembas
was a secret among them, and so ever has remained."
- Tolkien, from The Peoples of Middle-earth:
Last Writings - Of Lembas
"Thank you for the deer meat, Giliathriel," said Nenmallen and washed down a venison steak with her wineflask of Nimrodel water. "We don't want to eat all the lembas," she mentioned. Nenmallen was one of Galadriel's Ivonwin, Elven women taught the secrets of making the celebrated grain and were the only ones allowed to handle the wafer.

They had spent neary a week in the mountains, seeking out new territories already not mapped so Giliathriel could make new detailed drawings so routes could be established and sectors patrolled. At present they were encamped at a wide ledge of a wooded mountain. It afforded the Elves a panoramic view of vaporous craggy mountains beyond and the mist-enshrouded forested valley below. Above them snow and fog wreathed the mountain's lofty pinnacle.

Nenmallen had loosely commanded the party, graciously permitting Calselda and Afarfin to lead more prominently. The Elf-girl was a Tirn and needed to prove herself for greater command; the Reborn Elf had to display how effective he still was to be formally advanced to the officer ranks although Aigronding, his wife, and sister knew he was capable. Nenmallen smiled softly, watching Calselda look at the cave for the umpteenth time. She had not frantically watched the slope for Afarfin to reappear with his small recon group nor had she incessantly stared at the yawning cavernmouth where Aewrusca and her lover, Lhaindir, had vanished into with their scouting band. It was enough times though to provoke Nenmallen's mentor into teaching another lesson.

She gently turned Calselda's doll-like face to meet her steady gaze. "You did well sending soldiers inside so we know what we're dealing with in the dark." She lowered her tender gloveless fingers and looked skyward. Stormclouds scudded across the twilit misty skies, pregnant with rain and illuminated with sudden bursts of lightning. "We must flee inside soon to escape the inclement weather. First we need to determine how safe it is inside. Hostiles must be eliminated; you understand that." She swept drizzle from her blue eyes as the first droplets began to fall. "All kinds of horrors creep in the night, lissore ("Sweetheart," Quenya)," said Nenmallen grimly, slowly turning her gaze downward. "Afarfin is being cautious." Her unsettling stern countenance softened when she gripped Calselda's hand where they sat on the vast stony shelf of rock. "You are delegating responsibilities. Lhaindir is the same rank as you and is not a foolish Elf-boy. Afarfin has lived for many centuries in the life he lived and has seen a hundred summers in the golden woods of Lórien; do not worry about him either. I see much of your father in you. He has mastered the uncertainty of his loved ones' fortunes as you must do."

A cold bitter wind swept over the ridge of the encampment and gusted in a low moan across the ledge when Afarfin returned with his company. He told Nenmallen and Calselda his findings. Handing over an Orc helmet, his ill news revealed there were a dozen slain Orcs in far down the slope which their own troop had not ventured over yet and there was a trail of elven blood leading up to their current position.

"Excellent work!" Nenmallen congratulated Afarfin, observing the calmness of Calselda as the Reborn Elf spoke of the sigil of one large Orc's breastplate he found. Calselda was looking with a serene coolness at the sable void of the huge opening of the cavern. There were Orcs within undoubtedly but the Elf-girl stood straight and relaxed still, not overreacting nor did she cry out in jubilation when Aewrusca came hurrying out of the gloomy fissure with pale Lhaindir, an axe in one hand and a buckler shield in another. He was a slim raven-haired Elf her age with deep-blue eyes and handsome angular features.

Image

"We found these Silvan Elves, Delunaer and his daughter Mistriel," explained the redhead, motioning to the strangers. She was a tall limber Elf-girl slightly Aewrusca than Calselda. She strongly resembled Roina and was as vivacious though Calselda was quieter like their father but Aewrusca acted grave and serious. She was a healer novice of Adab Nestad and served as an army medic. Her fiery hair was braided. She wore chainmail and a grey surcoat emblazoned not with the Bruinen kingfisher of the Imladris Guards but the fountain of Estë, a Vala Queen and Healer of Hurts.

"Explains the elven blood Afarfin found," Calselda said more to herself than anyone else.

"Did you thoroughly explore the cavern?" Nenmallen asked sharply, putting her gauntlets back on.

Image
"I assume it's deeper since there is no dead end," answered Lhaindir and raised her voice above the noise of thickening rain.

"We need to scour the passage or we'll be swarmed when we take shelter from the rain," Calselda said with a decisive edge to her dulcet voice. "You stay here," she ordered Aewrusca. Her little sister was, of course, defiant. "You've been hanging around Fuin and Erfaron too much," Calselda muttered, loud enough for Afarfin to hear. "You just don't want to sit here being afraid for me."

Stubborn Aewrusca stood akimbo. "I've been trained, huonissë! ("Female dog," Quenya)."

"Don't swear!"

"I'm going with your team! It needs a healer. You don't know what's in there. You and Ada have no respect for your self-preservation, needing to be bailed out of trouble. EVERY. FIVE. SECONDS."

Calselda glared at Aewrusca, who clapped her hands three times at the end of her tirade for emphasis, because she was making too much sense. Really needed to stop hanging around Fuin and Erfaron. She was even beginning to curse like them. "Who will heal him?" shot Calselda, pointing at Delunaer.

The Mordagnir girls and Lhaindir looked at Dineth. She was Aewrusca's golden-haired best friend and her lover's sister. "I will sit here, happy as a clam as they say in Lindon," spoke the healer Aphador, throwing her hands up, as the entire elven troop moved camp into the first few yards of the cavern entrance. "Besides, I know healing better than you anyway, so." Aewrusca sneered playfully at the smirking Elf-girl who already was making Delunaer comfortable to operate on.

"That's enough ladies," Nenmallen commanded, drawing the cowl of her hithlain cloak over her silver tresses. She had made everyone, even those Elves who weren't warriors of the Lórien contingent, had worn the camouflage Elven-cloaks on this quest in the perilous mountains. The silky grey material turned jet-black from dusk-grey when they entered the cave. She ordered few lanterns to be unhooded but the few beams which shone labently banished the cimmerian murk of the cave. She took only ten of the Elves with her which included the Mordagnirs, Lhaindir and Afarfin, and Giliathriel. "Remember these passageways to the best of your ability, mellon nin," counselled Nenmallen. "You will need to draw these twisting mazes and any distinguishing features for the host. There are colonies are Orcs springing up constantly so we must be aware. Many will be stormed and others perhaps avoided. Elrond and Gandalf must be notified."

"There are small quartz viens here with pyrite and free gold," spoke Lhaindir, placing a Moleskin glove reverently on the glistening cavern wall. The cave trembled and the Elves could hear loud crashes from without. Possibly boulders were loosened in the storm's rage or the stone-giants were at play again. Nenmallen siezed the Elf-boy's arm when he nearly fell in the shivering tunnel. "Move, son. There's no time for that. Giliathriel will mark its place. Aigronding will send his miners for Fuin's smithy when we purge this mountain of its filth."

"Red light."

She faltered in mid-stride into a cross-section in the midst of gigantic tangled tunnels, hearing Lhaindir's murmuring mellow voice, and leaned against a stalagmite . He directed her attention to the crimson haze of a great campfire in the left passageway. She took a deep breath and exhaled it, raising her gauntlet for everyone to halt. She told Calselda to have archers to ready their bows and for blades to be freed. With elvish grace and stealth of their cloaks, neither their boots or weapons sounded in the shadows nor was their slow approach heard.

Two dozen armored Orc slavers bearing whips on their belt sat huddled near the firepit. They ate the meat of donkeys and horses which must have been captured from Elves or Mortals they killed or captured. The grey and sallow hulking monsters spoke in croaking voices.

"Úcar is dead," proclaimed one of the Orcs and received several yabbering agreements. "He should have returned. Too brazen. Perhaps we will be discovered."

"We are legion!" yelled one snaga, bolting up, and there was a chorus of affirmative shouts. "They cannot kill us all!"

"We have allies now," said an Orc, bobbing his head in fervent glee. "We will topple those Mordagnirs."

"Tavari first!" hollered an Orc in severe loathing and spat on the ground. Word of Aigronding's menacing sister had reached every Orc stronghold in the Misty Mountains, apparently.

An ashen-grey Orc stood and bellowed "GOLDFEATHERS! SLASH HER AND BEAT HER AND BITE HER!" The others jibbered in euphoric mania. Some cavorted in merriment, others clamped and stamped while the rest of the dreadful assembly sang in terrible echoing voices.

"Grip, grab! Pinch, nab! And down down to Goblin-town You go, my lass!" The Orcs snickered and pantomined grabbing Tavari with exaggerated throws of their sinewy limbs. "Clash, crash! Crush, smash! Pound, pound, far underground! Ho, ho! My lad!" Orcs took their bludeoning weapons and whirled them through the air as if they were beating Tavari to death.

One Orc lashed the air with his whip, striking an imaginary Tavari into servitude in the stony halls. "Swish, smack! Whip crack! Batter and beat! Yammer and bleat! Work, work, don't dare to shirk while Goblins laugh, round and round far underground, my lass!"

"Bake and toast her!"

"Fry and roast her!"

"Til hair smells and skin crack!"

"Elvish bones in cinders lie beneath the sky! TAVARI. WILL. DIE!"

A cedar arrow shot from Aewrusca's hickory bow, the one Fuin had given her. It sped through the smoky air with sure, volatile speed and pierced the throat of an Orc singer. He fell into the bright hot flames, dropping like a sack of Shire potatos.

The Elves rushed from their concealing shade and the roaring Orcs met their bold charge with scimitar and cudgel and spear.

Goblins are cruel, wicked, and bad-hearted.
- Tolkien, from The Hobbit: Over Hill and Under Hill
GM UPDATE:


@CHAOS and @Negotiator , you can respond back at Sammath Lasto then timewarp days later to this scene in the mountains.

Fuin, have Afarfin investigate the lower slope and see the remains of dead goblins including some elven blood. Respond as you like to the drama on the ledge and begin fighting the Orcs inside the cavern, guard Giliathriel.


Giliathriel, you can write your character making a map of the present terrain and reacting to the unfolding drama on the ridge and inside the tunnels. Fight the Orcs with your bow, shooting down the goblins attacking the warriors with blades. Afarfin will be near you.

You can number the amount of kills in your posts but please leave some Orcs for me and Annúnfalas (she will be arriving shortly).
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Magor Afarfin

The Colony
Chapter 3: A New Friend
He grinned widely and hugged Aigronding tightly as the...well older elf now he supposed, clasped him tightly. He gave a nod to Nenmallen and Giliathriel as well as Calselda. "No need my lady, I would rather earn their respect as would be proper than have them be told to do as much. I am sure it will be earned swiftly as long as this body can keep up with my mind and what it wants to do in battle." Afarfin said only to blink at the fact Calselda had him by his arm and was half bouncing in excitement.

"I swear though I am but a handful of years older than you, you make me feel so old" He said with a laugh and nodded. "Perhaps when we all get back safely I will regale you with tales upon tales of the horrible things Arasoron and I got into and did to your father." He said with wicked grin, the first thing that came to mind was Nahar and the apples, and the short cropped hair Aig has sported afterwards. "And if we get your father drunk enough of Dorwinion Wine, I am sure we'll get the story of Nuath out of him of his own accord though there may be bouts of slapping involved." He looked at Aigronding again as his friend sombered up. "I am afraid that dealing with the losses of friends, is managing the army. Keeping it together after losses is perhaps the hardest task and not one I envy of you."

He nodded his thanks as the broach was clasped to his chest and Roina gave him a sweet kiss. He felt a pang as Aigronding held Roina close, he had not gotten to hold his beloved yet nor even see her at this point, he just knew that she was here in the Valley, he didn't know much else aside from what Aigronding had told him, that she as part of the Imladris Host, a Forgemaster (he would not have guessed it for how she avoided most Noldor but then it had been Thousands of years), and a healer, however apparently she still did not own dresses so somethings never changed. Aigronding had not even told him if she had moved on and found another, he doubted it they were twin flames and he could not imagine her with anyone else. Roina blessedly put him out of his misery and told him that she had in fact waited.

"Your husband was not so kind as to tell me that much, and where Gondolin women are brighter than the sun, my Nandor is the pale specter of the moon and it's blooming night jasmine. But if she has survived this long as part of the Host, I am sure she is tough." He turned and rested a hand gently on young Calseldas hand as she invited him to join the mission, about to inform her that that was not up for her, but for Nenmallen and her father for they were the ranking members that could decide such things. Aigrondings comment about shield and armor gave him his answer though and he nodded.

"I would be devastated if that happened again. Hopefully in the last six thousand years you've gotten better at watching your blindside." He said with a chuckle and headed to the armory with Aigronding and Roina, and swiftly outfitted himself in a a gleaming silver chest plate, it was perhaps better suited for someone of a higher rank than himself with it's beautiful sections that moved with the body and delicate engravings of what looked like Athelas upon the edges of each section. He took matching pauldrons, greaves and bracers all stunningly wrought, as he put on a gambeson before putting on the greaves and then the chest plate and pauldrons and finally the bracers. He picked a shield to match and he looked very much like himself of old save for his eyes did not shine brightly with the light of the trees. As he admired the handy work of the shield Roina for her part smirked looking at him.
"What is funny?" He asked setting the shield down and adjusting the armors strappings so that it would be comfortable for a long journey, and so that he could put the hithlain cloak over it as well as fasten his sword belt. The copper brooch of the Magor seem ill suited to the armor but he did not overly care it would be replaced soon enough with something more suiting.

"You've got Fuin- Melviriel protecting you well, that's one of her mastercraft pieces from ages ago when she was testing to become a Master Smith. Nobody has been brave enough to wear it while she's been about." Roina said with a smile at that Afarfin cocked his head slightly and laughed, he could not imagine his little doe being terribly frightening at all especially not to warriors.

"What rank has she gotten to?" He asked expecting Melviriel his gentle doe to Tirn if he understood the ranks properly, it was as high as her father ever rose and when Roina stated she was a Taidril he froze for a minute. Blinked and repeated what he had heard from his friend. "MY VALAR, the next thing you all are going to be telling me is that Aigronding is a blooming great grandfather." He shook his head. "Bloody Namo should have found me a body and family sooner in Middle-earth. At least it was not Calselda telling me as much." He muttered knowing full well that Aigrondings first two children could easily have children and grandchildren by now for they were alive when he was long years ago.

Aigronding for his part let him know his sword, was still about, though it would not be able to go with him on this quest. If he'd been smart he would have sent word to Aigronding but perhaps he'd been scared that word that he was coming would get to Melviriel and she'd avoid him, especially if she'd moved on, something that he was still grateful was not the case. His throat caught at the grave of his best friend, his first brother and words escaped him for several moments before he nodded slightly, the reminder that his friend Arasoron was no longer in the land of the living was painful, and something he knew, he had seen him in the Waiting, had had still been there when he had left.

"Let's get going." He said finally picking up the shield with a deep calming breath.


Chapter 4: The Descent


The time they had spent in the mountains had been somewhere between leisurely and on edge, aware always of the danger posed by goblins and orcs. He had taken it upon himself with Nenmallen's permission - a habit from centuries spent in the armies of the old Lords and Kings, to scout and make sure the location was safe, something he had done many times when they had found a pool of blood just inside the cave that opened onto the ledge they were settled upon. He'd tracked the blood from where it had pooled now old and dry up into the mountains further by some small path what bothered him more was where the blood seemed to have come from which was below them. He took two of the men assigned to his scouting mission and the healers.

"I am sorry to ask this of you child, but you and your friend," He said motioning to Aewrusca the other healer "I need to you go with these men, take your bow in case. They are following a trail of blood, I think it is blood of some poor soul that ran afoul of orcs or goblins, I do not know what they will find but there is a chance they may need a healer. As an aphador she may need your help even if it's just an extra set of hands, and I see no sign that orcs followed them up the trail, but if there is danger you both flee down the mountain and call for aid. They will protect you so that you can escape." He looked at the men he was sending, who nodded understanding the order. Aewrusca was the Tar-Taidrons daughter even if Afarfin was a Magor the order went without saying, and for a Magor he had already proven sharp minded and hardy as Aigronding had promised them. He for his part felt that she would be safe, after all he recognized the bow in her hand, it was no bow crafted for Aewrusca herself, no as far as he was concerned it was better than that and it made him smile seeing it move away up the mountain. That was Melviriels first war bow, after she had finally been given a second bow that was not meant for a child it had meant a lot to her and had been one of her precious possessions that she would have always had on her, he was not even sure that the young elleth knew the full history of the bow, she did seem to adore it though.

"The rest of you," He called to the men and women under his lead, "Are coming with me. We are tracking where the blood came from, we likely have more of a chance of battle before us than they do, so be on your guard." With that they headed down the slope following the dried blood that had been partially washed away from rain and wind but traces of it were still visible to someone that knew what to look for and soon there was no need to look hard, the stench of decay filled the air swiftly not far down from the camp where the wind was calmer and allowed it to linger on.

"Well there is that scent burned anew in my mind." He muttered, and to think he'd been lamenting that he'd not smelt something this terrible yet in this life. "Look for any other victims." He said calmly and the group fanned out with the two archers he had requested watching over them as they searched the abandoned battlefield. He turned on creature over and found a strange symbol he did not recognize a dragon head on it's helm, perhaps Aigronding or Nenmallen would recognize it it was no device that he'd heard of before the one he knew best was a red eye and this, this was not that.

He tracked the fair blood to a pile that was near the edge and when he glanced over seeing scuffling marks leading to the edge there was a massive orc rotting just below stuck on a tree, a hobgoblin from the looks of him his breast plate was blazoned with the same dragons head Afarfin scowled, unless he was wrong that hobgoblin was out of place, he seemed the wrong sort of orc for this area, most of the ones he'd seen when he had been traveling from Lothlorien to here had not been like this, he did not know where he came from but he would report that something was amiss. There were a few others that were strange in the fallen group but none so large nor as boldly marked, he must be the leader. He glanced up storm clouds were gathering and he hoped that Aewrusca her friend as well as the men he'd sent were as fortunate as they were.

"Alright these are dead, make sure we don't have any cracks in the mountainside, we don't want to be set upon from two directions if we can help it during the storm." The men nodded and they scoured the area as swiftly as the could satisfied that there was no immediate opening that these orcs had come through they began marching back up the mountain to let Aigronding and Nenmallen know what they had found.

He gave a nod to his commander, and spoke about the hobgoblin and his breast plate, he'd brought along a helm that bore a similar marking to make sure that they all could see the mark and be aware of it. "There were no other victims down there, but there was a mess of goblins and... several including a hobgoblin that had no business being there dead or alive." He said glad to see Aewrusca, the other Aphador Dineth and his other men were already back and that they had company, two elves that they had pulled from a shallow cave further up the mountain (Mistriel and Delunaer). They'd put out the fire and brought them back down to the main group, mostly because there was no way the shallow cave could hold all of them.

He looked at Calselda incredulously, they kept speaking of Melviriel like she was a rough soldier from the First Age and he knew that was certainly not the case, what had she gotten up to after his death, and why wouldn't anybody tell him more than fleeting snippets and funny stories. After all something had to have happened that caused everyone to call her Fuin primarily rather than her proper name. He should his head and followed orders as they started to sweep through the tunnels.

He took up position with the group beside Giliathriel he had been told to make sure she was safe in these twisting tunnels and that is what he would do he stayed beside her he grabbed her arm at the soft whisper of 'Red Light' That meant fire and they had not lit any so that meant someone else. He looked at her and pressed his finger to his lips and motioned that it was time for her bow. He could see Aewrusca in the faint outline that the red light gave them that she was readying her own bow. He tipped his head to Giliathriel and motioned for her to follow near him, he would rather have the two of them near each other so that they were easier to defend in case any orcs broke through their front line.

The whole group crept forwards and Afarfins blood boiled at the jabbering and jeering of the orcs, if he was not in charge of the two younger women he'd have charged in and put several of the goblins teeth in with the butt of his shield instead there was a sharp whistle near his ear and a feathered shaft sped past him with a soft twang that was missed by the carousing orcs. The arrow itself when it struck and silenced the one permanently was not however. And the group surged forwards blades and bows matching clubs spears and sword. Afarfin pressed forward slightly though he kept an ever wary eye out on the two women that were shooting past him into the masses; he was not about to let anything happen to either of them. In the red light the shield flashed back the red light of the orcs fire as he knocked aside more than one spear that was trying to make it through to the two archers. Several orcs pushed into the lines their numbers were enough that Afarfin was worried at first as he brought his shield up from low to crack the first creature under it's jaw its hand going slack and the club it had been wielding dropping as it fell dead as the reborn elf snarled angrily, the sword he had flashing out like a red hot iron in the light driving into the gut of the second even as one of the women put an arrow in the creatures chest spraying his face with a tiny amount of the orcish blood before he withdrew his sword and any others from advancing any further towards Aewrusca and Giliathriel.

2 Orcs Dead

@Nen (My post doesn't quite line up with Tharmaras' however we discussed it and I pointed out he'd misread your location so this is sort of a fix of what he'd said as to why you're back at the lower cave with the main group now as per a discussion with him directly)

Guardian of Imladris
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The Claw of the North
Legolas Thranduilion
Travelling/Camp


Legolas counted his fourth kill as he swiftly pulled another arrow out of his quiver, while he spun around an elf who just drew his sword and was about to engage into close combat. He therefore backed off to give other swordsmen enough space, as another one of his arrows hit its target. The situation already looked better than just a few seconds ago. The elvish prince was impressed by how quickly the guards have brought themselves into advantageous positions and by how fast they were ready for combat. 'So, the rumors might just be true...', he thought to himself and tried to find his next target in the turmoil.

As the elvish prince found his next potential target and Legolas was ready let his arrow fly, however, the orc suddenly was struck down through another one's shot and with legendary precision. Instantly his focus left the dead orc and Legolas seeked out the archer who stole his kill. She was an elvish woman, who he hasn't noticed or to whom he hasn't paid any attention to before (Fuin). Legolas raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Seeing that she was looking for her next target, the elvish prince suddenly felt the urge to return the favor. He backed off further and deeply focused on her movement and her surroundings, to figure out which orc was a potential threat to her. As her eyes and her movement seemed to reveal that she found her next potential victim, Legolas paid attention to when she had a clear vision to take a shot, while he already put an arrow into his bow; And as the moment was there and she was about to take her shot, Legolas was faster and prevented her from having to come up with the effort of letting her arrow fly. Then the elvish prince smiled at her, while he sarcastically shrugged with his shoulders before he completely focused onto the battle again.
Last edited by Legolas on Mon Nov 02, 2020 1:58 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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The Colony: Chapter 4 - The Descent


The Forest Near the Opposite Side of the Mountain


Ciryatur Telkelion Hender
Vayatiriwë Elmarya Anaronnen

"I must see if I can't find a more or less decent
giant to block it up again," said Gandalf,
"or soon there will be no getting over the mountains at all."

- from The Hobbit: Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire


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"My first battle was over a decade ago in the Eregion ruins!" Elmarya Anaronnen bragged about her martial history to Annúnfalas, one of her father's chief lieutenants. "A horde of Dunlendings came out of nowhere and fought us on a rainy night much like this one," said the energetic blonde. "The barbarians did not expect to meet their match in the form of a mere Elf-girl..." She wrapped her gauntlet fingers around the hook-shaped falcon-like hilt of her sheathed falcata.

The one-eyed Lindon general looked from the boot and large foot tracks they were following in the alpine wood to the serene expression of modest Annúnfalas. He grinned at her. She usually didn't interact with Elves young as his intrepid Elmarya . "Tell Annúnfalas how Moriel, the Half-Elf Ranger, rescued you from wildmen, lissëórë (
"Sweetheart," Quenya)," the High Elf suggested with a brighter gleam in his lone green luminous eye. He chuckled when Elmarya's mouth nervously moved without speech, her pale face flushed scarlet, embarrassed. She was trying so hard to impress the Valiant lately.


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"I hope these tracks don't lead us to a bad end like many deceptive paths in these mountains do," Telkelion confided in Annúnfalas, studying the imprints, both normal - either belonging to Elves or Mortals - and huge in the mud in grim thought again. The small Lindon Guard patrol were investigating new routes forged to determine how safe they were from Orcs or their wargs, trolls or werewolves, vampire bats or banditlords; when they discovered these boot markings and other signs of passage, they pursued their unknown wanderer. When Telkelion and Annúnfalas were serving the military leaving his vineyard and her housing committee in capable civilian hands, they were leading the land-based soldiers. Tharmáras Isilherven oversaw their naval force, protecting Lindonese coasts and waters from Umbarians and sea-monsters.

"Did you hear that?" He asked her pointedly, his soft-spoken voice hardening. He swung his arms back, signalling everyone to stand still. An alarming crash sound grew steadily louder. A cacophony of breaking trees chilled Telkelion yet he stood firm and spread the word with Annúnfalas to prepare their archers. The ground thumped. Telkelion looked again at the path of pitted earth and saw the rainwater vibrate, rippling wildly, as the earth shook. Telkelion only realized what they were hearing when he heard the rich drone of a didgeridoo in the distance....

Telkelion told Annúnfalas to command the bows to stand down and asked her to trust him. The reason why hurtled into appearance moments later, an immense human-like woman in hide armor, and her ebullient arrival toppled several hardwoods near the astounded Elves. The strong being had a kind homely face. Her luxuriant russet locks, clinging to her fair skin in the downpour, were golden-brown as were her bright window-sized eyes. She carried a carved ironwood staff and a net filled with a slain deer .

"One Eye!" exclaimed the giantess in the common speech of Westron which Telkelion fluently understood. Her wide smile revealed large buck teeth. She pointed at Annúnfalas and marvelled at the silver beauty of her long tresses, muttering, "Moonhair..." in awe.

"Annúnfalas, Gralka; Gralka, Annúnfalas," Telkelion introduced. "You know my daughter, Elmarya."

"Loudmouth!" affirmed Gralka the giantess and tossed back her head with booming laughter.

Fey Elmarya fiercely objected to the name which the giantess gave her. She declared in an haughty tone that Elrond, Lord of Imladris, had given her the title Anaronnen, the Sunborn, in token of her vibrant personality but Gralka didn't seem to care.

"She's a good giant," Telkelion assured Annúnfalas and the Elves with them who hadn't met her yet but Elmarya crossed her arms, still upset about Gralka's monicker.

"Come, raining," the gracious giantess insisted, a being of few words like her kin. "Cabin, got new home now."

"Your family has a home now? I must tell Aigronding." Telkelion told Annúnfalas that Gralka's family were good giants which helped the Imladris Guards and Gandalf the Grey. It was decent Grickly, the giant patriarch, who the wizard chieftain got to seal Goblin Town during the Quest for Erebor. Usually Grickly and his children strayed through the Misty Mountains with no permanent abode, relocating when wanderlust fancied them. Mordagnir, Telkelion, and the Rangers cooperated with Grickly's clan since the giants observed a myriad of creatures and curious happenings in the mountains and hated the Orcs likewise.

The Elves were led to an imposing house constructed of very tall and ancient oaks, tendrils of smoke rising from a rough-hewn chimney. The giantess swung wide the enmorous carved door and ushered the Lindon Elves inside. The place was rather spare but homey, generously carpeted Anduin rushes and alpaca rugs. Gralka's mother, Gertrud, was nowhere to be seen nor was her son Gunnar; Gralka explained that her mother and sibling were hunting snow trolls, monsters which often came down from icy regions of the Misty Mountains to attack travellers and Elves and Rangers. The giant father, present this day, had arrayed a long oaken table with charred meat of mountain goats. Water-filled wooden cups twice the size of a man awaited the coming of his wife and son. The golden-haired giant with the tangled beard and merry hazel eyes was dressed in a robe made of bear fur. He sat on a colossal chair and blew deep mystic sounds with his didgeridoo pipe until Gralka and their visitors came. The genial host offered treated them a meal and the Elves drank from their wine skins.

"Find yer pointy ears?" Grickly asked through a mouthful of goast flesh.

"Pardon?" said Telkelion. "We're not looking for Elves. Just scouting. Are you saying you saw another company of soldiers?"

"Two Elves," said Grickly and swept dribbling grease from his hairy chin. "Elf and...El-leth."

"Could be Caranfindel and Rîn," Elmarya told her fathe rand Annúnfalas. "They're mission partners of good repute, usually surveying the wilderness."

Telkelion resumed speaking with Grickly. "Were they alone? My party discovered prints of your feet and boot prints of smaller folk toward this way."

"Rangers, Man and Wo-man," Grickly affirmed, bobbing his head.

"Were they with the Elves?"

"No. By themselves. Not together."

Telkelion assumed he meant the saw the Rangers in the vicinity but journeying apart. "How long ago was this?"

Grickly and Gralka shared a look of intense concentration. Giants did not recko time as Elves and Men, Dwarves and Halflings did. "Two Moons ago."

"Two days ago," Telkelion translated and received a nod from the giants. "The Elves?"

"Rangers longer," said Gralka. "We saw them first."

Telkelion decided not to ask just how long that was, seeing the greater difficulty the giants had communicating in extended sentences. "Do you know what they were all searching for?"

"Elves hiking," answered Gralka, "and the Ranger girl."

"Ranger man, looking for his woman," Grickly added. He moved restlessly on his seat, grunting in slight annoyance. "Many questions, One Eye..."

"I know, my friend, but will you permit me just one more?" Telkelion carefully asked then was given a reluctant rolling motion to hastily continue. "Where were they going?"

Grickly glanced at Gralka. She pulled aside a hide flap on a wall and pointed to the cliff looming above the valley. One which had a split pinnacle the High Elf espied from the giant house.

*

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Telkelion, Annúnfalas, and Elmarya trekked through the woods and traversed the rocky height until they reached the lofty summit. Beyond the narrow opening between the cloven wall was a treacherously steep and stony slope. It terminated at a shady vale cradled by encircling walls which soared to misted unseen peak. Trees thickened about the perimeter, nestling a high glen of verdant grass. It was blanketed with pine needles and dense clusters of star-like fuzzy white flowers. In the midst of this serene secluded place was a cairn and a dark fissure of a cave which marred the peace of the place with a trouble sense of foreboding.

As the Lindon troop spread out to either side of him Telkelion closed his single eye, relishing the crisp montane air and the renewed elation of experiencing the unknown again. He felt Ellindalë's soft hand grip his stronger one and he turned to gaze at his wife with rapturous delight but she was not there, only his headstrong daughter Elmarya, and to his left was steadfast Annúnfalas. It will always this way, he thought in stoic acceptance. He spent more time with women who were not his spouse. Tana ná cuilë, Earenolwë would say. That is life.

One at a time and gingerly did the Elves venture down the stony slope and approached the cairn, all the while wary of the cave before them. "Ada, Heru a Falassë," Elmarya addressed her father and Annúnfalas. "There is a message chiseled in this rock." The Elf-girl drew their attention to Tengwar runes inscribed in one of the stones framing the burial pile. Telkelion felt an icy tingle of dread creeping up his spine, reading,"The Yrch are here," aloud then stifled a gasp, hearing a blade being drawn from the direction of the cave. Telkelion brandished his longsword in a swift whirl toward his raucously screaming foes.



GM UPDATE:



@Annúnfalas, respond as you'd like to the events prior to the attack.
There are eight Orcs and two big ones - Hobgoblins whose breastplates are emblazoned
with a cabossed head of a dragon - which need to be killed between us before we enter the cave.
We will shortly run into Carafindel and the group which has Afarfin and Giliathriel within the mountain.
Quill told me on Facebook a couple weeks ago that she doesn't have time for the Plaza currently
but I'll say that her character is with mine just in case she changes her mind before this quest ends.

@FROM HERE TO THERE, no rush at all (saw your post in OOME) but
for your next GM post you can wrap up the battle
then move your group to Edan's embattled fort since
Fuin and Legolas, Frost and Rivvy are still along and I will be, too, as Edan and his crew.
Cassie and Alma will reply when they can; we don't know when
Thalionwen and Nen will return but we need both mission groups
to finish their concurrent storylines around the same time before
the launch of the (as yet) unnamed Dragon-Orc RPG which these quests are tied to.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Points:
The Colony: Chapter 4 - The Descent

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Erasmus Nyx and Annúnfalas
in The Nyx Torture Chambers in Angmar

T.A. 1974


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She could not recall when last she had seen the sun; felt the beams of its warm light tickle the face of her smooth palms... or the comforting touch of a friend’s embrace. Bonds of cold, enchanted iron were the only things she felt on her skin now. Hurt and sorrow her only companions.

Erasmus Nyx stood before the barred entrance of her prison, clad in robes of black silk. His layered garments had been trimmed with copper thread and his muscular physique perfumed with a musky oil. He looked upon his captive with blue-eyed determination as he stepped into her presence quietly. She had grown horribly weak in her time here, and it seemed to him that her starlit beauty had dimmed.

Nevertheless, Erasmus: sorcerer, torturer, and executioner - desired her no less than he had in all the long years he had been appointed to her. Even when the other members of The Order of the Scorpion urged him to end her life, he hesitated. Annúnfalas had held steadfast even under excessive and unrelenting pernicious suffering, never once disclosing the information her enemies wished to know.

It was the strength of her spirit pari passu with her utter loveliness that had won Erasmus over and he promised to spare her from all manner of pain if only she would give herself to him willingly. Annúnfalas was unmoved and did nothing to hide her outrage at the sorcerer’s degenerate request. Erasmus had found this rejection insulting as well as hurtful.

He had asked to take her under his experimental torments himself as a way of exacting his revenge, but now Erasmus had grown remorseful and thought of calling upon the brave Elf-maid one last time.

Annúnfalas had curled herself into a fetal position on the dungeon floor, with only her tattered garments and now lusterless silver hair to wrap herself in. Limp and trembling. And yet, so beautiful still, thought Erasmus, as he lowered himself down to her. Surely now, after so long she would reciprocate his intense feelings.

Erasmus turned her face to his and gently brushed aside the matted silver hair that clung to her fair features. He cast back the hood of his robes to reveal the chiseled handsomeness of his own face in the torchlit dungeon, and then he pressed his lips against hers. For a brief moment, it seemed that Erasmus Nyx would have his way after all.

Annúnfalas slowly came to and the last flame of resistance in her was lit with sudden anger. She struggled to push herself away from her tormentor as Erasmus tightened his grasp, forcefully deepening the kiss. Annúnfalas however, found the final remnants of her strength. She curled the fingers of her right hand and thrust them forward, stabbing Erasmus in the face with her nails and cutting across.

Erasmus howled, releasing his hold on Annúnfalas. Bright lines of fresh blood filled the gaps of his new diagonal wounds and trickled down his face. He cast aside the exterior layer of his robes with provoked fury and seized the linked chains that connected the shackles of her slender feet together. He then dragged her out of her cell and in the direction of his laboratory. A thought had overcome him in his wrath, one of an act so perennial, so cold-blooded that even Erasmus himself would come to regret. Yet in his mind, the Black Númenórean was convinced -

If she would not bear his children, then no one would.


*

Heru a Falassë - Annúnfalas the Valiant
The Forest Near the Opposite Side of the Mountain

Present Day


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Time could not heal all wounds.

This was a fact that Annúnfalas had learned all too well in the last Age. While it had now been over a millennium since her rescue from the hellish grip of Angmar, its mark lay upon her still. Its poignant disturbance following like an ever-present shadow.

She turned her attention contently to the young golden-haired elleth as droplets of rain whipped against her emblazoned surcoat. “Oh, my havens!” expressed Annúnfalas, touching her lips with the armored fingers of her right hand, “To best a Dunlending is no small feat, and you say you defeated them all by yourself?”

She placed special emphasis on these last three words with a warmhearted smile, perceiving the deeds of valor that Elmarya Anaronnen claimed were not... quite what they seemed.

Annúnfalas had only just begun to spend more time with the younger generation of Elves, such as the adolescent jester of her Lord, Círdan the Shipwright; and she had found that it was always best to play along with whatever declarations they made. To do otherwise would be to put out the admirable spark of enthusiasm they possessed and unintentionally ridicule their intelligence. Annúnfalas, after all, she had been that raw and plucky once herself many lifetimes ago.

“Do not worry dear Sunborn,” she said to Elmarya in a reassuring tone when her father reminded her of who had truly won the victory in her first skirmish, “We all need a little saving every now and again.”

There was no telling how much the Elf-girl would understand what Annúnfalas meant by ‘saving’. Telkelion was well aware of the shoreland financier’s years as a prisoner of war, but Annúnfalas did not know if he had ever relayed this part of her personal history to his own daughter. It was without a doubt the darkest chapter in the entirety of her life, and not one Annúnfalas enjoyed speaking of.

She crouched low to the ground, coming to the general’s side with his command to halt. Annúnfalas sniffed the air instinctively and focused her hearing on the path ahead. Rainwater rolled off the soft tip of her pale nose and quivered as it returned to the earth, joining a larger collection in the uneven ground with tremulous movement.

“No, but I do smell it,” she replied to her commander, her senses filled with the scent of animal skin. Annúnfalas secured her footing before raising two fingers at the Lindon archers behind her: a signal to notch their arrows on their tightened bowstrings and position themselves in what the coastland Guard referred to as The Arrow Wall.

The loose basso vibrations of an overblown musical instrument rushed toward them with swirling force. Annúnfalas looked at Telkelion warily but raised a hand again with the order to stand down - an upright hand slowly closing into a fist.

Lifting her gaze from the quaking ground, Annúnfalas beheld a large female of superhuman size protected in leather gear and bearing the evidence of a successful hunting trip. She came near them with a bellowing and welcoming greeting, looking in wonder at Annúnfalas.

Ithillaus? Moonhair? I have not been called that before,” remarked Annúnfalas with a flash of her teeth, tickled pink by the moniker bestowed upon her by the neighborly giantess. The same feeling of flattery however, was not shared by the tenacious Elmarya.

Annúnfalas looked towards Gralka with further wonder as Telkelion illuminated her on the history of her clannish family. By the time they reached the rustic abode the colossal woman shared with her kin, the Sea-elf felt as if she had learned something new for the first time in a long time. At over seven thousand years of existence, these moments had become all too few and far between.

She inclined her head politely with the invitation to dine, tearing a small piece of roasted goat from the oversized table before her and nibbling it. It was… filling. Not quite as savory as the oyster platters she always enjoyed eating in Girion’s inn or the succulent lobster that had been steamed to perfection the summer nights she had supped at the Gaearon Cenedril while on holiday.

As critic Annúnfalas wiped her dominant hand clean with a cloth from her belt, pangs of unforeseen and unwanted fear washed over her and the freshly sanitized fingers began to twitch.

Not this again, she thought frustratingly; the frantic and rapid beating of her heart echoing in her pointed ears.


My mother told me
Someday I would buy
Galleys with good oars
Sail to distant shores

Stand up high in the prow
Noble barque I steer
Steady course for the Haven
Hew many foe-men
Hew many foe-men

(from the poem by Egill Skallagrímsson)


As Telkelion received some much-needed details from the giants who had allowed them into their home and her drinking comrades sang, Annúnfalas took in a series of prolonged and deep breaths, making great effort to conceal her own panic attack. She rested an elbow on the counter, shielding her troubled countenance with her more tranquil hand.

...

As they made their way up to the pinnacle of the mountain, Annúnfalas was brimming with self-doubt. Had reenlisting in the Lindon Guard been an error on her part? Was she truly damaged beyond all repair? No, it could not be true, she thought wistfully to herself encouraging Elmarya to stay close as they approached a sundered wall of stone.

“We should be cautious,” uttered Annúnfalas to her companions; her elven instincts ringing with alarm. They often did when a higher power attempted to warn her of an upcoming bad situation.

Annúnfalas winced. Erasmus had branded her with his initials near her heart and it ached at times. She looked bittersweetly at Telkelion, who seemed to have imagined the loving presence of one who was not there.

They descended the following slope downwards and funneled into the cairn with caution. The light-colored scars on her wrists itched now and Annúnfalas could not help but think that somehow the dark magic lingering in her old body marks was being triggered with the approach of something hostile and malignant. Her foreboding was justified when Elmarya pointed out a warning etched on the cavern rock.

“Arrow wall!” shouted Annúnfalas, reaching for the embossed quarterstaff slung on her back. As the Lindon archers bared their longbows, she sprinted towards the rushing horde. Her scarlet cape unfurled behind her like a banner in the wind as a reflection of pale light raced across the pearl and steel bands of Cáen the Just - the ironwood weapon of coastland renown.

Annúnfalas raised all nine feet of her pole instrument above her head, passing the quarterstaff from her right hand to her left, she twisted the head of an Orc swordsman with a bone-jarring CRACK!

An nin Anaronnen! To me Sunborn!” she cried, urging the falcata-wielding lieutenant to follow her lead; knowing their brothers and sisters in arms would aid them with the long range of their yew weapons.

Annúnfalas pivoted with her quarterstaff in full circle, stabbing one steel-plated end of Cáen into the base of another Orc’s throat and mortally-wounding his windpipe. Again she whirled and drove the other pearl-enforced end of the quarterstaff through the eye of another Orc. Annúnfalas retracted Cáen puncturing the roof of its dark mouth as she forced the steel end in and up. She raised her thrusted enemy until he was airborne, sending gushes of inky blood spilling onto the red wave on her surcoat.

She threw him dead aside and sent two other Orcs reeling. Annúnfalas then seized a nearby Orc by its mail collar and sent him flying toward Elmarya. “He is all yours Vayatiriwë,” she said as the heavy footfalls of another stomped in her general direction. Its eyes glowed with a fiery white color, sharply contrasting its coal-colored skin. The wide expanse of its blackened breastplate embellished with the head of an enraged dragon. A Hobgoblin. Annúnfalas met its ignited gaze with her own piercing one, unsheathing her stiletto from her belt. An Orc scampered towards her in a desperate attempt to flank her but she made quick work of it and dispatched him by sticking the blade of her thin dagger at the center of its slimy forehead. It fell flat on its back with a spout of blood squirting through the air.

The Hobgoblin revealed a greataxe of monumental size; its double-headed blades still stained with the blood of its previous victims. Annúnfalas ran forward with Cáen stretched out behind her. As the colossal Orc brought his weapon down upon her, she swiftly leapt and propelled herself from the serrated blades. In a flurry of quarterstaff movements, Annúnfalas unfastened its breastplate and sent it falling to the moist cavern floor with a ringing clang. Her stiletto pierced the center of its chest, cutting through the linked rings of its mail hauberk. Without warning, she carved a splitting wound down to the base of its stomach. Annúnfalas then sunk Cáen into its mass of guts and pulled away. The Hobgoblin fell, its wiggling bowels spilling onto the ground.

“Annúnfalas!” cheered an archer. “The Valiant!” yelled another appraisingly, as an aura of silver light glistened from the sun-kissed face of Annúnfalas; radiating against the stalking night permeating the cavern.

Yet as quickly as her full beauty and might had begun to illuminate, this outwardly flare was snuffed.

Cáen fell. Slipping from the quivering fingers of its wielder.

No, please. Not now.

Annúnfalas groped the cavern ground in utter dismay, as both her hands now shook with fierce involuntariness. Lord Elrond had warned her that these instances would occur, but he could not have known how often.


4 Orcs dead. 1 Hobgoblin dead. 4 Orcs remaining and 1 Hobgoblin remaining.

Black Númenórean
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Mar Aldaron
the past, shortly after Tavari’s return to Imladris
and the events of Alliance,
before her appointment as Arahiril
(Private)

Tavari had convinced her brother she was well enough to return to duty, and left Imladris at first light. Truth to tell, as there was no real pressing need for her to return to duty, she would have preferred to stay where she was- but she could not stand one moment more of Aigronding’s overbearing protectiveness. She knew in his heart he meant well, but a suffocation deeper than that the orc Swiltang had attempted to inflict on her haunted his words. Gellam had offered to accompany her on the way to Ost-Halatir (though she suspected he had not mentioned this to her brother), and Tavari had agreed. The Fool’s company was buoyant, and a warmth on the chill journey as snow flew around them. Once they arrived at the fort they had parted ways, for Gellam was due to return to Imladris before long. Tavari had made her way to Lissëcirban to apprise the healers there of her condition, and gone about the business of settling into her chambers at Ost-Halatir. Aigronding had quietly given his sister larger quarters than soldiers of equal rank, and she felt a pang of guilt at her flight as she stepped inside them. Attempting to shake off this feeling, she unpacked her meagre possessions, and determined that she should better acquaint herself with Ost-Halatir. Tavari had a feeling she would be spending a great deal of time here.

A short while later, Tavari slipped through the arched portal in the wall that separated Melima Lotharda from the rest of Ost-Halatir. Rather than her more habitual and utilitarian garb, she had donned the deep forest green gown she had worn on the night of her return to Imladris. It was a simple thing; woolen for lightness and warmth, its sleeves lined and trimmed in black, and here and there amongst the green a faint thread of silver. It was belted at the waist with a soft rope of the same silver hue, and over all she wore a heavy cloak, to turn away the bitter wind. This wind seemed to die away as she entered the garden; its walls blocked the worst, and the snowdrifts that piled heavily here and there seemed to absorb the sound of what remained. In fact, the garden was an oasis of quiet: no sooner had she entered, than the day to day noise of the fortress vanished. Only the sounds of wind rustling the trees and hardy winter bushes remained. Snow was falling silently, and it seemed that she was alone: no voices sounded, and no footprints broke the smooth whiteness before her. The sudden feeling of isolation after the bustle of the fort was overwhelming.

Tavari stepped forward, and broke the pristine plane of the snow. In the summer, she thought as she paced through the many rows and twists of the garden, this must be a lush green sanctuary, a place of beauty in praise of those who cultivated it. And yet, Tavari considered, there was a stark, wild kind of beauty about it now. The empty arms of the trees reaching towards the sky; the whisper of brush twigs as they murmured secrets to each other, and the raised beds lying peacefully under snow cover, artful cornices curling over their edges. Among the garden were scattered statues of heroes of old, animals, and Maiar; there were small shrines too, dedicated to each of the Valar. The largest of these was situated near the back wall of the garden, and as though she had known all along where she was going, Tavari’s feet had led her there.

The nís looked up, taking in the sight of the shrine of Oromë. It was all white limestone, a round building crowned by a smooth dome, supported by pillars, and with a wide, arched entrance that had no door, forever open to any supplicant. As Tavari gazed at the building, a beam of pale-gold winter sunlight broke through the clouds and fell upon it. The dome erupted into a riot of color, and the chamber within illuminated. In need of no greater summons, Tavari surged up the steps and through the entrance to behold the sight: pure light streamed through the center of the dome, where an oculus opened to the sky, allowing snow to drift through, and in a circle around it were cast the varicolored shadows of the stained glass that formed the center of the roof. And she stopped and beheld all the beauty, like a beggar receiving an alm, and each window and pillar and arch seemed to fill her with light. The light of Mar Aldaron.

Eyes wide in the light, and with the breath frozen in her throat, Tavari’s silent feet carried her forward slowly, until she had reached the center of the rotunda. There was no more sound her than there had been out in the garden, but it seemed as though faint whispers surrounded her as she gazed up at the scenes depicted in the glass of the dome. Oromë, hunting in the nightlands of Endórë beneath the stars, pursuing creatures in the company of his maiar; a lake beneath those same stars, and the unclothed figures of elves beside it. She rotated on the spot, taking in scene as it changed, to the wild, lush woods and rolling green-and-gold fields of Valinor and again Oromë upon the great Nahar. There riding with him was Tilion, and the heart which had risen to reside in Tavari’s throat at her first sight of the Huntsman’s image expanded at that of her friend, who now tarried through the sky alone. There were others; elves and maiar of Oromë’s company and several other scenes of their exploits and there, in the last, as she had turned almost back to her original position: Oromë upon a galloping Nahar, and just behind him, upon a dappled-grey horse rendered in loving detail, half rearing, rode a nís, wheaten hair flowing behind as she drew her bow to full stretch, and there could be no mistaking who it was meant to be.

Tavari fell to her knees, the cloak a dark pool about her body, stark against the white stone beneath it. Her sobs wracked her body and the silent air, an avalanche of grief and sorrow, conflict and loneliness, that shattered the peace of Mar Aladaron. Her throat, still bandaged and bruised from her injury in the fight with Swiltang, came afire with pain within and without as she wept, hoarse muted cries escaping her among the tears. One hand clutched at her heart, and the other splayed against the cold limestone floor, supporting her body against complete collapse. Her head was bowed against the pain; not that of her throat, but that of the unrelenting anguish of Ages that threatened to tear her apart. She had spent so long with it that it had become part of her; a constant companion, sometimes quiet and capable of being ignored, other times lingering close to the surface and demanding to be seen, but it had been a long time since it had battered down the gates of her heart and mind, and all the healing she thought she might have achieved. The sight of herself there in the temple dome, immortalized in glass for what must have been close to a thousand years, had neatly pulled the linchpin from her carefully constructed defenses.

Tavari wept, abandoning herself to the void of her anguish, until her body was hunched forward into a ball, arms tucked against her chest, grasping hands buried in her hair. But even an avalanche must have its end, and at length the heaving spasm of her sobs began to lessen, little by slowly, until finally Mar Aldaron was quiet again, and there was no sound but the slight stertorousness of her breath. Tavari did not know how long she had knelt there, but when she opened her eyes she could tell that the beam of sunlight had passed, for the light was dimmer, and the throw of the stained glass had gone. Still, there was a soft circular brightness about where she sat, for the oculus allowed in even overcast light. It had begun to snow more heavily, and a thick dusting of flakes shook from her back as Tavari slowly straightened, and brushed the accumulation from her hair. Her face was hot, and at the same time chilled from the dampness freezing upon it. Her hands and feet were cold, and her knees ached. For a few moments she simply breathed, until that too became quiet again. When she looked up, tilting her face back into the glow of the winter-pale light, there was the face of Oromë, looking back at her out of the glass, his gaze as steady and kind as she remembered, even in this flat imitation. Tavari sighed deeply, and when she spoke, it was in hushed tones, both from exhaustion and injury.

“I don't know if you can hear me, or if you're even there. I don't know if you would listen to an exile’s prayer.” They were words with which she had begun her addresses to Oromë many times since the Flight; in moments when she could speak to no one else, or needed the strength of her greatest guide, when there was nothing left but to hope that he might forgive her, she reached out and spoke to the Huntsman. And here in Mar Aldaron, it almost felt as if he were there. “I know so many less lucky than I. I have survived so much, for so long. I don’t know why, but I’m still here. Sometimes I wonder if that’s part of my penance. Wouldn’t it have been easier to slip off to the Halls of Awaiting? Is it peaceful there? I imagine it is. I hope that it is.” Tavari stared up at Oromë, and new, silent tears welled in her eyes and ran down her face. She did not wipe them away. So many she loved had gone to Mandos’s Halls. She could only hope they were at peace there. “I ask for nothing,” she whispered, “I can get by. All I seek is understanding. I don’t know why I returned to Imladris, and a seeming end to my exile in Middle-Earth. Is this where I’m meant to be? How am I to know? I still feel… driven, by Maitimo’s command, at times. But at times now, I do not. And I don’t know what that means.” She smiled plaintively. “I was ever full of questions for you. And I look to you still.”

Words left Tavari then, and she sat silently, gazing at the scenes overhead. She thought of running through Oromë’s woods and bursting out onto his fields in the blazing fullness of Laurelin’s light. She thought of midnight hunts and chases in Telperion’s silver gleam. She thought of Fëalasso, bugling his joyful greeting as he cantered to meet her. And she thought of Oromë, touching her face and the pride in his eyes as he proclaimed her Roccotaurë. At long last, these thoughts brought her not despair and regret, but a warmth that began to fill her up from the inside, pushing out the yawning emptiness. And with these thoughts came another memory: the memory of Oromë, striding amongst his herds, singing to them. It was a simple song of the day and the dawn and the grass and the trees, of the simple joys of the horse and the hunt and the bond of herd. She had walked the herds with him at dawn enough times to know it in her bones, and before Tavari knew it her voice was raised in song.

The words were in the Valarin tongue, which was harsh and unlovely to so many elves, but Tavari was one of the few who had tried to learn it. She would never have claimed complete mastery, but the understanding allowed her song to soar as she lifted her voice to the dome of Mar Aldaron. The sound bounced and rang and shone, the brilliant glass and stone refracting her voice in perfect alignment. There was no pain in her throat as she sang, nor any pain in her heart; her eyes were dry, and gleamed with the light of Aman. The song ended upon a high and glittering note, and when its last echoes had died away, Tavari felt, for the first time in Ages, clean. She knelt for another long moment, this time in contentment, and her hands were no longer cold. Another sound broke the spell: the unmistakable shrill neigh of a horse. Tavari blinked in surprise and looked around: nothing was there. Then it came again, and she registered whence it had come- from the direction of Rochir Ardhon. Turning back to the glass above, she caught sight of the figure of the Huntsman again, and her eyes crinkled in a smile. In one fluid movement Tavari stood, and shook the snow from her cloak. She pressed her fist to her heart, and reverently inclined her head. Then on swift and curious feet she swept from Mar Aldaron to investigate the sounds from Rochir Ardhon, not noticing the second set of footprints which had peppered the snow outside.



(with thanks to The Hunchback of Notre Dame the Musical for the bits of Into Notre Dame/God Help the Outcasts I have borrowed)
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Aphador
The Claw of the North

Númenyraumion’s breath was ragged and shallow, his chest heaved from exertion. Beads of sweat followed on his brow and burned as they slipped down into his eyes. Reflexively, and still with blade in hand, he wiped his face clean. He’d thought all the orcs had been dispatched, but when he lowered his hand, it seemed like a dozen or more materialized out of the air. For half a heartbeat, he froze and his stomach clenched. He’d barely been able to deal with the first wave, his instinct taking over saved him more than any semblance of skill. Still, he had survived. He would survive again. How, he wasn’t sure, but something in his mind told him to stand up. His muscles tensed and he resumed a waiting stance, his blade outstretched and pointed over his head. The first orc came at him from an angle, swiftly dodging from right to left as Númenyraumion stroke went wide. The jagged, half rusted blade came down, narrowly missing the nimir’s arm. He stumbled back a step, but the orc moved with him, refusing to allow him to reset. Instead, the orc swung for the head.

The only thing that saved Númenyraumion was his instant to bend backwards. He could feel his spine compress as he moved. The blade went wide, a rush or foul wind hit him full in the face. He blew out a breath he’d been holding and howl wordlessly. His shimmering blade flashed out wildly and without skill, in his desperation, the nimir reverted back to the most basic of attack, hacking down on the orc with all of his strength. The technique, for better or worse, managed to catch the orc off guard. He threw up a hand to defend himself, but the arm was hacked off in a spray of blood and bone. He continued hacking, exhaling hard with each downward stroke until he’d pushed his way through the orc’s arm and landed a strike on his neck. A great gout of blackish blood sprayed him in the face, hot and vile. The orc stumbled, gurgled and fell over.

He chided himself for his lack of composure, his lack of situation awareness. Hacking a single orc to pieces was the work of a rank amateur, one that had never held a sword before or had not lived for four and a half thousand years. He wiped the blood from his face and huffed. If he was going to survive this encounter, he was going to have to stop acting like a gormless child. His mind began to race. Unwittingly, a memory resurfaced from his life on Mar-nu-Falmar, a memory of Tyelpelfindis and he in an empty studio. “Now, plié.” He remembered being in first position, his heels touching and pointed in opposite directions, he remembered bending at the knee until he was nearly parallel with the marble floor. “And relevé,” her voice echoed. He stood, his arms out wide, as if he were trying to hug a cactus. Ballet! He had no idea why it had happened, but he recalled his time learning the art of ballet dancing! He had never been great at it, but his foster mother refused to allow him to quit. She was a ruthless instructor, making sure he practiced both the movements of ballet and exercised the power of his voice. Day in and day out. She had seen something within him that prompted her to train him. He had never known what is was or how she’d seen it, but she cultivated it. Like a master horticulturist, she pruned and trimmed and watered him until he was a competent performer. In the days of his youth he resented having to wake up before the sun and practicing scales in an empty theater hall or jumping and running and standing on his tiptoes until he thought his feet would fall off. Now though, he whispered a prayer of thanks to her, wherever she was now. He learned determination, perseverance, and diligence from her. He missed her terribly.

Another orc’s guttural growl brought Númenyraumion out of his reverie. Despite his predicament (surrounded now by at least half a dozen antagonists), he smiled, wild abandon in his eyes. He moved rapidly in to the fifth starting position, his legs crossed and feet pointed in opposite directions with his arms raised in a relaxed position above his head. He spun out of the position, his sword flashing, deflecting a blow form the closest assailant. In a grand plié he ducked under the counter swing, twisted around the orc to move from his right to his left side and thrusting the sword backward through his chest. Stepping forward, he used a tendu, a stretch to create a distance between him and the next assailant’s, whose short jab when wide. A demi plié, a short bend, and Númenyraumion dodged the strike, knocked the blade aside and quick stepped his way inside the orc’s reach. The orc then, desperately headbutted the nimir, which send him stumbling back, stars clouding his vision. He stumbled back a few steps, nearly tumbled over, but caught himself at the last moment. He assumed second position, his feet wider apart, then dodged the next assault using a ronde de jambe, twisting his hips around to swing around to the orc’s unprotected flank. He drew the sword across the orc’s neck and sliced. Placing a knee in the dying orc’s back, he pushed forward and sent the corpse into his fellows, allowing the nimir to reset and ready for the next assault. A frontal grand battement, full extension saw his booted foot slamming hard enough in the orc’s chin to make his severe his tongue. He howled with rage and rushed Númenyraumion. The elf barely had time to recover as he was bum rushed, tackled, and pinned to the ground.

Another memory came to him, unbidden. The memory of Finnbarr Galedeep singing wildly (and drunkenly) as he fought a half dozen opponents with his boarding axes. Again, despite his predicament, he smiled viciously. “I’ve been a wild rover, for manys a year! And I spent all my money and whisky and beer!” He pushed the orc off of him, using the power of his voice to reinforce the strength behind his push. The orc stumbled, looked momentarily shocked, then came at him again. “But now, I’ve returned home, with gold in great store! And I never will play the wild rover no more!” he rolled to the side, used the momentum to stand up, and moved immediately into third position. He spun out, pirouetting with great rapidity so that the orc didn’t have time to slow his advance. The orc screamed as the blade caught him first across his chest, then at his knees when Númenyraumion finished with another plié. “I went to an alehouse I use to frequent, and I told the landlady me money was spent.” He began a chaîné, a rapid series of pirouettes that continued to slam into the orc until he was knocked back and fell. A grand plié later and the sword was jammed so far into the body that it half buried itself in the soft earth. “I asked her for credit, she answered me ‘nay’ said ‘a custom like yours we can have any day’!” He piqued, a turn with a sharp movement of his knee, and landed in front of two orcs. Using the disorienting power of his voice, he moved into a glissade and slide between them as their swords stabbed out like hornet stingers. Dodging them, the nimir bend forward, kicking his leg up into the air until he was nearly parallel to the ground, then flipped. His feet separating and kicking both orcs in the face, disorienting them further so that he could use a single, long slice to cut across their spines. “I brought from me pocket ten sovereigns bright, and the landlady’s eyes opened wide with delight.” The last orc standing before was larger and better armored. He knocked Númenyraumion aside, sending the elf careening to the ground. He was fast too, just as the elf finished rolling, using the momentum to leap back up, he was on him. The pair exchanged blows, each deflecting the other as they looked for weak points. Númenyraumion tripped, went down, but relevéd and perfomed a pas de chat to create space between himself and the massive orc. “She said ‘I have whiskeys and ales of the best, and the words that I spoke they were only in jest’!” He sprang forward, sword raised to his left. He slashed down, his blade deflected at the last moment by the orc’s parry but he came back stronger; again the orc only just parried; again and again and again until finally, his blade found flesh. “I’ll go home to me parents, confess what I’ve done, in hopes that they’ll forgive their prodigal son!” He kicked the orc’s side, sending him stumbling, unbalanced, backwards. A hard grin appeared on the nimir’s face as he leapt forward, performing a saut de chat, a great bounding leap that brought him far over the orc’s head and, in the moment of confusion and unbalance, his blade flashed down and removed the head. “ And when they've caressed me, as oft times before, I never will play the wild rover no more.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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