Ever On: The World Beyond - Free RP

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
New Soul
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Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone.
Tree and flower and leaf and grass,
Let them pass! Let them pass!
Hill and water under sky,
Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.
Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,
Let them go! Let them go!
Sand and stone and pool and dell,
Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.


- Tolkien, Walking Song from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

Have you been to Hildorien, the birthplace of Mortals? Have you ridden with the Variag mercenaries of Khand? Perhaps you've scaled the golden walls of Yellow Mountains to look on the shining waters of the Inner Seas and the emerald shroud of Dark Land beyond ? Maybe you've climbed the Red Walls of Orocarni where dwell Dwarves - both the good and the bad - above the elven forest of ancient Wild Wood and swift flowing waters.
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Have you travelled the warm uncharted plains of Rhûn beset with danger? Have your journeys taken you across the hostile desert of Harad or deeper south and behind enemy lines into the lush, volatile jungle of Far Harad under silver towers of the Grey Mountains? Have you come to the vineyards of Dorwinion or skated with the Lossoth of Forochel? Have you taken ship from green and quiet Lindon to visit the fountains & flowers of Tol Eressëa? Do you find yourself slipping into reverie, remembering your idyllic days in the blissful realm of Aman?

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This is a Free RP thread in spirit of the old Castles in the Sand thread. You may chronicle here the travels of your characters in places far and away which we have no other activities for. You are welcome to post "flashback" writing as well, relating to moments in the past your characters experienced. It is a supplemental companion thread to Ages of Arda which will be appearing shortly. You may RP in any Age and in any region of Arda here. I will be providing descriptions of territories in the Rivendell Archives thread for people who'd like to follow my lead about some destinations.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Melkor
Melkor
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From 19/Aug/2014, 07:02 AM. Probably the latest post of mine I could find in the old Castles of Sand thread :(



Eärcúlinta and Menellinda
On the Grasslands of Tirion
Years of the Trees
Private RP



A raven-haired elf laid on a soft bench, resting. He had lain there for quite some time, forgetting the world and entering the land of his dreams. A soft breeze blew by, placing a fallen leaf on his neck. Eärcúlinta's cheeks twitched and he stirred, turning on his side, causing the leaf to fall to the feet of another raven-haired elf.

Clad in a bright green raiment, she folded her hands and tutted in disapproval. Her eyes bore the same color as her older brother's. From the time she was born, her eyes shone with laughter and joy, which only grew as she reached her elfin adolescence. She was a foot shorter than him, and her cheeks slightly rounder due to her youth.

Menellinda smiled, and cooed, "Wake up Linta; wake up dear brother," as she attempted to rouse Eärcúlinta from sleep. His birthday was the day before, and he was still recovering from the raucous celebration.

He snorted in response, muttering, "Not now Menel; wake me later." He turned to his other side and continued sleeping. Eärcúlinta carried a sight grin on his face, enjoying his current dream.

His sister tapped her foot and no longer was amused. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, walking towards a tree where a bucket stood next to its base. She struggled lifting the bucket, but was able to carry it slowly towards the prone form of his brother. Menellinda raised the bucket and promptly poured all of its water onto Eärcúlinta's upper body.

At once, Eärcúlinta gasped as water flowed from his wet hair onto the bench and ground below. His eyes, wider than they have ever been, spotted his sister holding an empty bucket, with an aloof expression on her face as she looked innocently at a passing squirrel.

"You... You'll," he spat out some of the water, "pay for this!" He lunged for her but missed. Menellinda dodged, laughing, as she promptly ran away into the open fields. He immediately chased after her, water dripping from his hair and clothes onto the grass. I had a good dream too, Eärcúlinta thought as he began closing the distance between himself and Menellinda. Although she was swifter than him, he surpassed her in endurance. By the time they ran a quarter of a league, he was ten feet away from her.

Menellinda turned and glared at her brother as her bucket bounced side-to-side, "you're only catching up because you're a foot taller than me," she taunted, blowing a raspberry at him.

Eärcúlinta returned her glare, "just you wait until I get my hands on you!" he yelled as he continued running, "where are you going anyway?"

Menellinda turned her head again, as her eyes slightly widened in surprise, "you forgot? But you promised yesterday!" she yelled. The ellon was five feet away from her.

He narrowed his eyes in confusion, "I don't remember promising you anything... D-don't throw that-!" the bucket collided with his head as Eärcúlinta fell, rolling in the grass until he lay face first in the ground. He was not moving.

Concerned, Menellinda turned around and approached the prone form of her brother. She sat on her knees, placing her hands on his back, whispering with a sad frown on her face, "are you okay, Linta?" she asked.

But a sudden movement later, she was in his grasp, one hand clutched around her waist; the other rolled into a fist rubbing the top of her head back and forth. "I have you now, sister!" Linta yelled in glee, while she squeaked and shrieked in pain. Out of the corner of her eye, Menellinda spotted a trio of Vanyar maidens, a rare sight to behold in Tirion. She quickly elbowed Eärcúlinta in the stomach, causing him to grunt in pain and release the hold. Before he could utter an angered response, Menellinda gestured for his attention to the Elven maidens. He looked, noting that they shook their heads in disapproval, turned around, and walked the other direction. Eärcúlinta sighed as he stood and brushed off the grass from his ankles. His hair was still damp, and to his surprise he heard an audible sigh from Menellinda as well.

"You're disappointed?" Eärcúlinta asked incredulously. Menellinda ​responded, "that was one of the maidens Fareglín brought yesterday." The ellon raised his eyebrows, "within those three?" he asked. Menellinda nodded in affirmation, as she rose from the ground and stood beside her brother. Eärcúlinta sighed again, and she continued, "you two seemed to like each other too. I thought it would've been a good fit."

A good fit? thought Eärcúlinta. He concentrated a bit more, perhaps next time he would not drink so much wine. It had been his 50th, his coming-of-age party that was hosted by his parents. Fareglín and his entire family came, and he brought a few of his friends with him. The golden locks of her hair first caught the birthday elf's attention. More details came to mind. When she turned around, he found difficulty speaking. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Eärcúlinta swore to all of the Valar that she was the most beautiful maiden he ever met. Of course, Menellinda and Fareglín urged the two together. However, he remembered little of the conversation; he could not even remember her name. Still, from what he could remember, he was intrigued by her, and she was intrigued by him. He wished he could've remembered it more, and Eärcúlinta was about to mention his thoughts to his sister.

"She turned around, Linta," Menellinda interrupted. He gazed once again towards the maidens, as he once again saw a familiar face. Though the distance was far, their eyes met, and for one moment the ellon swore the Two Trees stood still. She had the most brilliant hazel eyes, matching her shining hair. Standing still, it was as if she was inviting him to join. Unknowingly to him, Menellinda smiled as she saw the entire scene.

"Go to her brother, you still have time," Menellinda softly said. But, just as soon as the Two Trees stood still, they moved again, and Eärcúlinta was summoned out of his reverie. He glanced at her. To him, the choice was obvious.

"No, Menel," he began, as he patted her hair. She scowled in response, muttering, "you know I hate that". Her eyes, however, stared into her brother's to gauge his response.

"I remember now," Eärcúlinta continued, "the promise I made yesterday." Menellinda smiled and began grinning in realization, and his brother grinned back. "Let us go fishing today!"

"Yay!" Menellinda yelled in happiness, hugging Eärcúlinta in response. He returned the hug, yet at the same time his eyes shifted to the place where the maiden was. They vanished over a hill, and his eyesight could not percieve beyond.

Perhaps we'll meet again, thought Eärcúlinta as he carried Menellinda as if she were a babe, much to her protestations.

They never did.

Melkor
Melkor
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Here's the first part of an old post in Castles in the Sand on August 1st, 2017:

Slowpoke the Baby Turtle



A small fingertip-like head protruded from a tiny glistening dark-green shell, as Slowpoke slowly turned his head to the left and right, checking if the scary red-haired monster was still there. Then suddenly, he heard a sharp shriek from upstairs. This scared the turtle, his tiny neck quivered in fear, as he hid within his shell again.

He did not like strangers. Strangers wanted to pet his sensitive shell. But they poked and prodded too hard sometimes, so the baby turtle often hid. Once they left, Slowpoke would peek out to see the enclosed world around him. The brown sky, the blue barriers holding in his little lake that he enjoyed swimming in, the sand on the ground, and a grey rocky basin in the middle where he curled his tiny legs to sleep.

His beady eyes widened, as the door opened and closed, and smelled a very familiar scent. Her favorite elf in the whole world was here again! His head, arms, legs, and tail popped out and crawled as fast as he could to greet her.

New Soul
Points: 1 396 
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Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:30 am
@Ercassie :smiley17: , I hope you won't mind me getting the first posts
of a short background series for some of my characters in Ages of Arda before
I reply back to our Mole Island tale here. :smiley11:


- Before the Fire: The Antebellum Years - The Tale of The Lucky Tower -

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A series of short stories to supplement my upcoming Mortals and Elves
in the Bragollach War, most of them appearing in the next few posts and
subsequent RPGs of Ages of Arda.


The Tale of the Lucky Tower
Introduces
Nathaniel Galerida and Gwendolyn Dara (Khallador's ancestors),
Beledor and Malenbess (Beren of Gondor's ancestors),
Rincion Gurthion and Aranroval Sandastan,
Alasaila and Uhanno
with my frequent NPC Edan Amrun.

This RP set 15 years before the Bragollach War is OPEN,
mortal characters from Woodmere and Elves
of Dorthonion are welcome.


*
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FA 440
Woodmere, Dorthonion


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"The great highland of Dorthonion stretched for sixty leagues from west to east; great pine forests it bore,
especially on its northern and western sides. By gentle slopes from the plain it rose to a bleak and lofty land,
where lay many tarns at the feet of bare tors whose heads were higher than the peaks of Ered Wethrin; but
southward where it looked towards Doriath it fell suddenly in dreadful precipices. From the northern slopes
of Dorthonion Angrod and Aegnor, sons of Finarfin, looked out over the fields of Ard-galen, and were the
vassals of their brother Finrod, lord of Nargothrond; their people were few, for the land was barren,
and the great highlands behind were deemed to ber a bulwark that Morgoth would not lightly seek to cross."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beleriand and its Realms.



"The Edain dwelt in the lands of the Eldar, some here, some there, some wandering, some settled
in kindreds or small peoples; an the most part of them soon learned the Grey-elven tongue, both
as a common speech among themselves and because many were eager to learn the lore of the Elves.
But after a time the Elf-kings, seeing that it was not good for Elves and Men to dwell mingled together
without order, and that Men needed lords of their own kind, set regions apart where Men could live
their own lives, and apointed chieftains to hold these lands freely. They were the allies of the Eldar
in war, but marched under their own leaders. Yet many of the Edain had delight in the friendship
of the Elves, and dwelt among them for so long as they had leave; and the
young men often took service for a time in the hosts of the kings."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Coming of Men into the West


"The eyes of all the Elves taht had dwelt in Aman impressed those of Middle-earth
by their piercing brightness. For which reason the Sindar often called
them Lachend, pl. Lechind 'flame-eyed.'

- Tolkien, from The War of the Jewels: Quendi and Eldar

Nathaniel Galerida stood on the weathered stone of Mount Arthen, scattering Tristan's ashes in drear silence. Beledor, a longtime companion, gravely took up the golden urn filled with the cremated remains of Nathaniel's foster parents and dashed the contents over the rocky high place. Edan Amrun, the High Elf of Himring responsible for giving Nathaniel a home in Dorthonion, solemly emptied a silver vessel of the powdery remnants of Nathaniel's adopted sister.

All of them were killed in the storm a fortnight ago when a shaken tree was uprooted and broke the homestead in its terrible fall. Nathaniel hadn't been there when it happened. He'd been with Beledor to enlist at Mindo Manheren, the fabled Lucky Tower, one of the fortresses of Dorthonion. He must have signed his name on the roster of taciturn Captain Rincion Gurthion that rainy night when when his family and best friend died.

Nathaniel, a tall cleanshaven man in his early twenties with long brown hair and his Hadorian mother's blue eyes, had lost his Bëorian father in Himring when he was just a child. A werewolf, the last devil of the deadiest pack haunting the March of Maedhros, escaped the pursuit of the king. It entered the settled lands of the lesser hills and murdered Nathaniel's father right before his eyes. Edan was too late to save the father but he delivered the son from the jaws of the predator. The attack had left the boy emotionally scarred for life. Edan took care of him for a little season but inevitably the constraints of his oath to his liege proved greater than fostering the mortal child. He gave him up. Edan took him to Dorthonion, having been in contact with the Galeridas; the patriarch of the Lark Clan desired to have a son he could not concieve with his wife. They were desperate and were gladly willing to have an orphan bear the family name. Nathaniel was in good hands. He grew up in a loving household and became a musician. Hearing tales of war from Edan who staid connected and warriors returning from Ard-galen inspired Nathaniel to guard his hometown so no child would ever see war brought to the doorstep. His village was named Woodmere in the common speech; Taurëlóna in Eldarin'; Eryn Aelin in Grey-elven.

Nathaniel took up his elven lyre of Falasian turtleshell, fighting a flood of stinging tears, as the warm summer breeze swept all that was left of his world from the soaring stack of stones. He paced the bare ground of the giant tor looming over Lake Valerie with its homey array of log cabins, stone houses, and timber homes. Nathaniel strummed the seven strings with the plectrum, summoning dulcet notes from the small U-shaped harp. He sang the melancholy lyrics he wrote with his anguished soft-spoken voice, his friends joining in chorus.


One more day, one more time
One more sunset, maybe I'd be satisfied
But then again, I know what it would do
Leave me wishing still for one more day with you
- (from One More Day by Diamond Rio)

His steady hand faltered and the pick dropped from his trembling supple fingers.

The Men supported their weeping friend down the long ancient stairway into the small cozy village nestled against the sheltering wall of Woodmere's mighty tor.


*

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"You can't give up the army life!" Beledor remonstrated Nathan in his mellow voice over his supper table, careful not to wake his childen.

His slender blonde wife, Malenbess was not as tender with Nathaniel. "Don't be a bloody idiot!" she shouted at him, losing her temper. It was customary for young men to take service with the elvish kings and Nathaniel's time had come, a time he'd been anticipating with Tristan and Beledor since the advent of their manhood.

"The babies, my love!"
Beledor groaned, hearing Gostor and Eressil shriek from the nursery. The lean, wiry man got up, cursing in Sindarin.

"You swore an oath, Nate, don't be a fool,"
Malenbess, seething, urged her dolorous friend, reaching past the candles to seize his hand in a tight grip. "I know you're grieving but if you stay here or run, Rincion will find you."

"Then you'll get tossed in the Sirion,"
Edan interjected, dead serious, recalling what happened to Earenolwë Noldorseron.


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"It was always Tristan's dream to be a soldier, how can I serve my duty there without him?"
Nathaniel muttered, tears drifting over his cheeks again. Tristan was determined to register that rainy night but he got sick days before with the sweating sickness like the malady which killed Nathaniel's mother. He wanted to take care of him since Tristan had no family anymore. Tristan and the Galeridas were adamant, telling Nathaniel and Beledor to leave with Edan for the Lucky Tower, that they would see to his health. "I should have died with them," Nathaniel mused in morbid thought but knew better than to speak this.

"You are alive to honor his memory."


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Nathaniel heard Edan's stern words but said nothing, still clinging to the hand of Malenbess. He looked into Edan's brilliant eyes when the High Elf demanded it. His irises were flaming like green suns. The eyes of Calaquendi who lived in the Light of the Two Trees shone with an effulgent glow. That's why Nathaniel named Urinraumo Amrun Edan, "Little Fire," in the Bëorian speech. The Exile continued to introduce himself as such and was often recognized by the honorific Nathaniel had bestowed.

"You are alive and you still have loved ones. Live for them. Live for your village. Live for yourself. Find the joy of your life. That's why I saved you, boy. Don't squander the chance I gave you. Do something noble with it. Don't shame me, Nathaniel. That will be the last mistake you ever make."


Edan's emerald eyes bored into Nathaniel's soul as he slowly rose. "If you do not meet me at Mindo Manheren tomorrow by mid-day I will search for you before I come to Himring." A cold lengthy pause ensued as Edan's gloved hand rested on the fiery jewel of his sword's pommel. The Fëanorian soldier's intention was clear. "Better me than Rincion." Silence reigned save for the contented sounds of the babies Beledor soothed unseen. "Don't make me pursue you for desertion, Nathaniel." He opened the door and stepped outside, his eyes gleaming like a cat's in the balmy evening shadows. "Niether of us wants that." He turned and walked away, closing the door behind him quietly for the children's sake.

Malenbess drummed her fingertips, observing Nathaniel who looked ready to faint in abject terror. "You might want to see Rincion tomorrow." she recommended, cocking a flaxen eyebrow with a ghost of a smile drifting over her lips

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*
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Beledor grinned at Nathaniel when his friend hugged Malenbess, kissed the twins, and stepped away from the cabin at first light. They both wore a suit of ringmail beneath green tabards emblazoned with the white and gold sigil of House Finarfin. They mounted their horses and walked along the grassy banks of Lake Valerie, its reflective surface burnished with the bright rays of daybreak. Beledor acknowledged Nathaniel's decision in silence, both of them walking their chestnut steeds in companionable silence as they left the dirt pathways of Woodmere.

They waved farewell to the bakerwoman who saluted them with energetic waves of her kerchief, the smell of fresh bread wafting from her place of business. They raised their fist in salute to the burly blacksmith who lifted his hammer from anvil in proud recognition. They quickly gained a following of well-wishers and children which accompanied them to the tallest pines at the village gates. Aranroval Sandastan, their lord, awaited new recruits at the encircling stone wall of the community with his bodyguards. Aranroval - a fair, sturdy, and golden-haired man of Beorian-Hadorian lineage - was astride his white armored piebald destrier. He lifted his cleft chin and looked past the sea of new soldiers to gaze at his wife.

Lady Alasaila, a melancholy woman of striking beauty, stood on the balcony of their granite home in the distance. She was clad in a red gown with her brown curls blown astir in the warm morning zephyr, tears sliding down from sad grey eyes. Everyone in town knew her grief. She was barren or perhaps he was infertile himself. She wanted her man to stay, he wanted to protect her. Aranroval left her alone too much and mired in sorrow. A darkly handsome man with a goatee, dressed in a black velvet belted tunic, appeared at her side and raised his palm towards Aranroval. He was Uhanno, Aranroval's steward who ruled Woodmere in his stead when he was on errantry.


"You will return but not any time soon,"
the kingly voice of Aranroval rang out. "Perhaps never I know some doubters here may imagine but it is said that the warriors of Mindo Manharen have the highest survival odds in Dorthonion, being the finest trained in the realm. We are among the best in the field." He raised his voice proudly. "Our enemies will fall before our swords. We will fight but we will not falter. We will fight and live to tell our tales."

The brave men and bold women in the company gave a cheer, drawing their long blades in the air to catch the gleam of the summer sun. Nathaniel kept his sword in its sheath unlike Beledor. The reason why Rincion's tower was called "lucky" is because that in its storied 390 years of history Lord Rincion never lost an engagement and a great number of warriors remained alive on his watch. Having become a cynical man, Nathaniel had a bad feeling its luck would run dry someday and hoped he wouldn't be caught in its mighty ruin.

Soon the calvary left Woodmere behind. Aranroval led them through the vast forest of pines not too far from Rivil's Well to the south. The standards were unfurled: The flag of Finarfin, the Harp & Torch of Finrod, and the Golden Eagle of Aranroval. They journeyed northeast toward the turret of Rincion on the gentle wooded slopes of Dorthonion. There Lords Angrod and Aegnor maintained their sleepless watch. With the bleak highlands to their back, the calvary entered the domain of Rincion within a couple hours. When the lofty citadel arose above the treetops assuden, Nathaniel was nudged by Beledor to sing. Without the aid of his lyre, Nathaniel sang a familiar bittersweet war song as old as the hills....


"The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father's sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard
"Tho' all the world betrays thee
One sword at least thy rights shall guard
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

- (from The Minstrel Boy, Thomas Moore)

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"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Balrog
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Rembina
(Private with Moriel)

Alqualondë, 2 hours prior to Fëanor’s arrival

“Like this atar?” The young elf whipped the pole backwards then flicked his wrist, sending the fishing line streaming into the water.

“Yes,” the older elf laughed softly and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re doing magnificent Finnbarr, no fish will be safe from your lures in a few years’ time.”

“You have the makings of a great fisherman, my little one,” Finnbarr’s mother emerged from within the boat and stood on the opposite side of her son.

Finnbarr beamed with pride. He was going to be the best fisherman Alqualondë had ever seen. He was going to be so great that songs would be song of his battles out at sea. He was a small boy now, slight and waifish, but what he lacked in physical prowess and strength of arm, he more than made up for in strength of will. His hair was the dun color of the fallen autumn foliage with flashes of deep red and burnished golden hidden within.

It was beautiful out. The stars twinkled, and their reflections winked at him from the water’s surface, daring him to jump in and discover all their secrets. He loved diving and swimming almost as much as he loved fishing. His father joked that he must be part fish himself to take to the water so ready. “I’m no fish!” he would say “I’m a great leviathan!” then he’d splash and splash and scare away all the fish in his overly dramatic portrayal of the legendary sea monster. The air was cool and crisp, there was a sharpness to the wind, an iciness that made his parents nervous.

There had been a great commotion a few days ago. The light from beyond the mountains had gone. No one was sure what that meant, least of all Finnbarr. The elders seemed very concerned, even scared. But what could they do? Life had to continue on.

Finnbarr’s parents weren’t part of the wealthy nobility here. They owned a simple fishing trawler that his father had crafted, guided by the designs of the great shipwrights. It was not a large boat, Finnbarr could only run ten or twelve paces from bow to stern. But in those ten or twelve paces, he felt like he was a king. He could imagine all sorts of adventures to be had within those paces, all sorts of stories could be told. What stories could he think of today?


~~~~

The sounds of metal on metal rang in his ears, the shouts and screams of rage and pain nearly brought him to his knees. He didn’t understand what was going on around him. There was so much screaming. People were running terrified through the docks, trying to escape whatever it was that was happening. Finnbarr was too small to run fast. There was an icy, hard fear in the pit of his stomach. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he didn’t even know what it was he was afraid of.

The starry sky now rang with sounds of blades rather than the song of birds, instead of singing and laughing it was shouts of fear and panic. The dark blue sky that had once held so much wonder and freedom now looked down on Finnbarr with cold impassivity. The stars seemed so far away. Their light was dimmed and blotted out. Tears flowed down the young elf’s face.

Finnbarr!” It was his father. He broke into a run, as fast as his legs could carry him. “Finnbarr where are you?” His father sounded more scared than he did. What could scare his atar? His father had faced down sharks three times the size of their boat and come away the victor. He was fearless. Finnbarr’s skin felt clammy, the knot in his stomach grew larger and harder. He wanted to hide in the boat and wait for everything to be okay again.

Finnbarr! Get in the rowboat!”

What? Why did his father not want him at their boat? It didn’t make sense. No, he was almost there, he could make it if only –

Finnbarr! NO!” His mother was shouting too now. She had a bow in her hands, an arrow already notched and ready to fire.

Without hesitating, he leapt into the water, barely making a splash as he slipped into cold, uninviting waters. They too had lost the charm and sense of welcome. He paddled to the rowboat and climbed over.

Fear was beginning to cloud his vision, the edges of his sight were blurry. He thought he could see figures dashing over the docks, bright pieces of steel in their hands. They glinted red, reflecting angry starlight. His mother loosed her arrow at them. What was going on? Who were these people? Why were they attacking them? He crouched low in the little rowboat, fearful tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He tried to make himself as small as he could, as unnoticeable as he could.

He could still hear everything though. He could hear the ringing of the bells, a frantic, atonal clanging. He could hear other ringing too, like steel on steel. He did not understand.

There was a splash in the water, it was the splash of something big and heavy. He peaked over the side. There was something floating toward him. It looked like an elf but it wasn’t moving. There was something red leaking out from underneath it. Was that blood? Finnbarr whimpered and ducked down again. Shouts began getting louder and louder. He could hear words in the cries now. Angry words. One man was telling the others to take the boats, take the boats and… No! Finnbarr tried to jump out of the rowboat. They were going to hurt his mother and father! There were so many of them, as he careened over the side, he saw them.

There were at least a dozen, backlit by roaring red fires and rising grey smoke. They held something that looked like spears in their hands. They were sharp, and glinted in the starlight. Finnbarr couldn’t make out any faces, but he could tell by the voices that none of these men were people he knew. The way they spoke was funny, they used words he didn’t understand.

He splashed into the water and suddenly all the figures turned and looked, they saw the floating thing and several pointed with their speak like objects but none of them moved toward him. The man in the first said something harsh, with a voice like a ringing bell underwater, and they began moving again. Finnbarr tried to keep his head above the water, but his arms were growing heavy and the waters were very cold. He could just make out where they were going. He could hear the shouts of his mother and father, pleas to leave them and their little fishing trawler alone, leave them in peace.

The water was so cold. Finnbarr’s limbs were growing heavy. He tried to swim to his family’s boat, arrows began flying downward, striking at the feet of those that would try to steal the trawler. Finnbarr’s eyesight was growing fuzzy around the edges. His limbs felt heavier. He wasn’t going to be able to make it to the boat. He wanted to shout, to stop the attackers but every time he opened his mouth to take in a deep breath, he sank a little deeper into the dark waters. The water was cold… his limbs were too heavy… he tried to shout but he couldn’t move… his limbs were too… water too cold…
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 1:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Rembina
Alqualondë. YT 1495.
(Private with Frost)


None of them could have known what was to come, cloistered there in the manse on the shores of Alqualondë. A council of elders had gathered, to discuss what the sudden darkness might mean, and the rumors of troubled stirrings. Though he dwelt by the sea among the Teleri, Davos traveled inland more frequently than many of his distant kin, and the ancient Nelya had been called upon to tell what he knew. It was not much: only that there was conflict between the sons of Finwë still, and that Fëanor jealously guarded his bright jewels. There had been rumors aplenty, and whispers of Melkor’s hand in it all. But none knew whence the darkness came, only felt the terrible emptiness that came from the sudden loss of the trees’ light. Davos was born to starlight, and loved it dearly, but this was wrong. The shuddering shock of the darkness rang through Valinor, rang off every tree and stone, over the boundless waters, and off the stars themselves. And with that terrible darkness a terrible silence too, as though all of Eä were holding its breath. Their voices were hushed in council that day, as if by their quiet they could keep from disturbing whatever was to come.

It was to no avail. The Noldor swept into Alqualondë with Fëanor at their head, and the rumbling and shouting of their coming sent those in the manse running for the door, the balcony, the roof, to see what was happening. Among the rest, Davos crowded the balcony rail, straining his keen eyes towards the shore, where the fleet of swan-ships lay at anchor. The Noldor approached the wharves like a wave of the ocean itself, its foam umber torchlight beneath the stars. They washed up against the docks, meeting those who had been there at work beneath the lamps. The voices were too quiet to hear at this distance, and by the time they rose to such a volume as might be heard, the great tide of them jumbled the words so that none could be discerned. Louder and louder the voices: then a scream, abruptly cut off, and a shock seemed to judder through the assembled crowd. It swept palpably through the Noldor, up the beach until it reached the house and the Nelya on the balcony, freezing the breath in Davos’s chest and causing his hands to clench upon the marble rail. Though he could not have articulated it in words at that moment he knew, as did those around him: at the head of that crowd, one elf had slain another.

Before any of them could process what had happened, the cacophony on the shore burst free from any bonds of civility and now no voice rose above another but to shriek, no words were distinct, only the wordless roar of battle as bodies crashed together and feet ran in every direction, fires blazed and above it all, steel sang for the first time in deadly earnest. Davos had seen the blades that had come into being at Fëanor’s forge, but never could he have imagined them put to such use, kin cleaving the flesh of kin. His knuckles grew whiter and whiter, and it was not until the marble cracked beneath them that the spell of unreality was broken. The shipwright turned. All around him panicked voices shouted and those who had stood with him on the balcony now ran, fleeing back into the manse. To seek shelter? To go to the aid of their brethren? He did not know, and it was too later. The rolling tide of Noldor had sprawled back up the beach and in every direction, and by the time Davos had forced his way back inside, they had burst through the front doors.

Shouts of anger and cries of pain echoed and bounced within the confined space of the manse, and they as much as the bodies of his fellows buffeted Davos as he ran, his legs finally spurred to action. Back inside, back, across the landing back, down the stairs and into the spreading melee. There at the bottom of the stairs a Noldo had thrust a spear into the torso of a Teler and as he withdrew the head from the wailing elf’s body, Davos’s hand smacked down on the shaft just below it, and his heel cracked down on the shaft close to the Noldo’s hands, ripping the spear from his grasp. This was no alient weapon for the Nelya had been fishing by spear since before he ever beheld the light of the Trees, and it was the work of an instant to pummel the Noldo in the center of his chest with the spear’s butt, flip the weapon is his hands as his foe stumbled back, and cast it with unerring skill. The point of the spear crunched through the Noldo’s sternum as easily as it might have crunched through the scales of a great fish, such was the ancient’s strength, and his look was one of surprise as he collapsed to the floor. In Davos’s numb mind as he wrenched the spread from the dying elf’s chest, the Noldo had all the sentience of a great fish. Just another fish. A shark, threatening his people. He faced the next Noldo, running at him with sword upraised.

A short while later, Davos crouched in the winecellar of the manse, huddled in a dark corner with his arms around the trembling figure of his friend. Ramyanér had taken a slash to the side of his neck, and Davos’s calloused fingers now clamped across the wound, wet with blood, as his other arm encircled the Teler’s chest, pulling his back firmly against the Nelya’s own. Davos had dragged his companion of many voyages down the stairs near the end of the battle in the manse, secreting him away, and they huddled here, waiting for safety. “Shhh,” Davos whispered, “I think it’s clear now. I think we can get out, Ramya. It’ll all be over soon.” But even as he made to shift to his feet, a clatter of footsteps sounded from upstairs, and he froze. It didn’t sound like more than one, but he could not both staunch the wound and protect them both, so he waited. Interminably, while the feet searched about, and Ramyanér trembled. He began to gasp weakly, silently. “Shhh, shhhh…” Davos’s breath hissed between his teeth as he gazed up at the black ceiling, waiting for the feet to depart. Then the trembling in his arms began to subside, and he noticed that new blood was no longer leaking between his fingers. “Ramya? Ramya!” Davos’s whisper grew frantic and careless, and he wriggled out from behind his friend, managing to keep a hand on his wound, and laid him gently on the floor. “Ramya.” But the Teler’s chest had ceased rising, even as Davos patted him gently on the cheek. “Ramya!” Pale blue eyes met deep grey one last time before the blue glassed over, never to behold the stars again. “Ramya…”

A wordless howl of fury broke from Davos, and he charged up the stairs. Heedless of the dozen minor wounds he had taken, of what the footsteps might mean, of anything but vengeance, he pounded up the stairs and into the entry hall of the manse. Corpses were scattered everywhere but among them, a single living being. A nís, on her knees upon the floor, but rising as he rushed towards her. Davos seized her around the throat and slammed her against the wall, the wheat-gold over her hair flying, straggling across her bloodied face. His fury was such that her feet lifted from the ground, and her hands scrabbled at the backs of his uselessly. He did not even look at her face until she wheezed, “Mercy... mercy, please.” Davos looked at her then. Her face was streaked with blood, but also with tears and grime and mucus and vomit; she was grown, but in her there was still something very much of the child. And her eyes: their periwinkle hue, all allusions to summer sky lost in this chaos of death, so like those in the cellar that had just closed forever. He released her and strode from the manse, sparing her not a glance as she collapsed to the ground.

Out on the shore, the wind whipped Davos’s hair back from his face and peppered him with sand. Dark as the sky had been before it was darker now, and if anyone knew the signs of a storm gathering, it was he. The battle had moved away from the manse, but it still raged in places, even as Fëanor led his sons toward their stolen ships. Down at the waterline, at the nearest dock, close enough that he could see clearly what was happening, a small group of Noldor were swarming a fishing trawler, and two Teleri aboard were defending it. Davos ran, sprinting through the sand, arms pumping furiously. He caught up a spear that had been stuck in the sand as he ran, but he could see it was too late. The nís was firing arrows at the encroaching Noldor as the nér shouted and pleaded. They went down under the oncoming Noldor even as Davos gained the dock. His speed increased on the rebounding boards and he vaulted aboard the little boat. The first Noldo fell to a spear thrust in the lower back, and the second to a thrust in the neck. They knew he was there then, but there were few of them, none too expert with their swords, and Davos had got the measure of them. Those who remained fled, down to the beach, away to the ships which actually mattered, that would carry them away from this place. Davos knelt beside the nís, who was still breathing faintly. “My.. son…” she manged to croak out, “my.. son..in.. water..” her eyes flicked to the rail of the boat, and without hesitation Davos dove overboard.

The Belegear was colder than it had ever been before as it struck the Nelya’s skin, driving the breath from him in a gout of bubbles. His head broke the surface and he cast about. There was a small rowboat nearby, but no one in it. Where was the boy? The surface of the water was rough and harsh, foamy with rage and comeuppance. But- there! An arm, flashing above the surface, the flailing attempts of the exhausted to swim. The arm sank below the surface. Davos struck out for where it had appeared, but there was no figure on the surface. Taking a great breath he dove again, and peering into the depths saw the small body, rapidly sinking into the sea. If ever you gave me strength, let it be today. Davos’s mind whispered to both Ulmo and Ossë, If ever you showed mercy let it be today. Let me save him. His hand closed around the small, cold wrist. Pulling the boy to him, Davos kicked for the surface. They emerged into an air that was full of flying rain and wrath as Uinen wailed and wept, and terror gripped Davos for the first time. Gaining the rowboat, he flung the boy over its side and scrambled in himself after. Swiftly he examined the boy to ensure he was breathing, and then seized the oars and drew upon them until the rowboat bumped into the side of the fishing trawler. Seizing one of its hawsers he lashed the rowboat fast to it. Davos pulled the boy’s limp form to him and for the second time that night wrapped his arms around someone who might not life to see another starlight. The boy was small and easily contained for warmth by the Nelya’s broad arms and there in the lee of his dead parents’ boat they sheltered, Davos whispering a constant stream of prayers to Ulmo.

Let us survive this night.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Old Friends, New Friends - Private RP with @Ercassie
A Few Days Before Erfaron's...visit...to Tol Sangwa



You're a
Natural
A beating heart of stone
You gotta be so cold
To make it in this world
You're a natural
Living your life cutthroat
Took an oath by the blood of my hand, won't break it

- Imagine Dragons, Natural



"But you have to live with yourself, Raistlin. And there are times
in the night when that must be damn near unbearable. Think of this
though. You have done good in your life, Raistlin - maybe better than
most of us. Leave this. Come home."
"The dark crimes that stain my soul, brother, you cannot begin to imagine.
If you knew, you would turn from me in horror and in loathing. And, you are right.
Sometimes, in the night, even I turn from myself. But, know this, Caramon - I committed
those crimes intentionally, willingly. Know this, too - there are darker crimes before me, and
I will commit them, intentionally, willingly..."

- from Dragonlance: Legends: War of the Twins




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The wailing of the Gondorian slaves may have been unbearable if Hatholdir Nârroval wasn't accustomed to making hard choices in this life. Finished breaking camp he sighed, frustrated with Alagossel's incessant disapperances, and started tracking his daughter through the verdant forest. It was fairly easy following her trail since the young Elf-girl didn't bother to hide evidence of her passage which Hatholdir and Erfaron had taught her well. She believed no harm would come to her here since she was the daughter of the Elf-lord in league with the Umbarians. Alagossel, a privileged and spoiled Elf-princess, was terribly mistaken.


- If the pirates will not kill her, the snakes will -
whispered Anguirel, the glowing black blade of Maeglin. Hatholdir discovered the sword, the mate of Eöl's weapon Gurthang, near the pillar of fire he found Maeglin's blazing corpse in when Gondolin fell. He took Anguirel when he claimed lordship of the surviving Moles and encased the sword of star-iron in a reddish-gold sheath. Wherever Hatholdir went, Anguirel was with him. The blade spoke with the voice of the Dark Prince - a smooth and patrician timbre, a stark contrast compared with the cold and threatening tone of Gurthang if the legend of its speech was to be believed. Meluiwen, Hatholdir's wife who once was sworn to Gondolin's House of the Tree, never told Hatholdir he was insane but he saw the truth in her worried countenance; she thought Hatholdir missed Maeglin to the point of executing manic decisions to honor him, including the belief that his chieftain's memory forever lasted in the coruscating meteoric iron. Meluiwen assumed Hatholdir did not want to accept Maeglin's death and move on, becoming the better person she wanted her husband to be; as long as Maeglin was alive, Hatholdir would serve him. He was certain that Erfaron, one of his two best friends and who seldom judged him, believed the sword could speak and agreed that Hatholdir should believe Anguirel's encouraging words...

Hatholdir risked shouting his child's name in desperation, hoping he could find her here in the perilous woods. Alagossel couldn't resist climbing trees...like mother, like daughter.

"I'm here, Taryo!" cried Alagossel's merry voice suddenly. Hatholdir paused, following the sound of his child's giggling laughter toward the tallest birch of this primordial forest. Alagossel, brown-haired and bearing a strong resemblance to him rather than Meluiwen, was not perched on the tree itself but sat atop a huge rock in in a ring of great mossy stones near the birch. Sometimes she wore black raiment like a Mole but today she was dressed in leggings and jerkin of green leather, favoring the color which her mother's people wore in Gondolin. Hatholdir suffered the unexpected flight of his eldest daughter, Kalina, from Tol Noldarë; since her vanishing, Alagossel had become the apple of his eye. The Elf-girl could be sweet as her mother but just as cruel as her father. She strove to appease both her parents. Right now, she was acting more like Meluiwen, throwing caution to the winds for communion with nature.

Hatholdir would have railed on her and it wouldn't be for the first time - and luckily she didn't resent him for disciplining her unlike Alagossel's older brother - but just one look at the birch stifled him from lashing out. The sight of it rendered him silent. Although the birch was separated from others it was distinguished by its circle of heavy rocks and... the carvings on the silver bark. Large rough-hewn images of a Bat between the head of an Oliphaunt to the right and the face of a Mongoose to the left. These crude bestial representations were shaped into the trunk along side its natural dark eye-like impressions. Hatholdir stood motionless, overcome by roiling emotions he tried earnestly to keep at bay and not for the first time.

"It's your Tree, Taryo! It has emblems like the ones I carved on Erfaron's door in our castle!" Alagossel exclaimed, jumping off her lofty seat. "That's your symbol next to Hrango's and Herontortha's, I know!" cried the jubilant Elf-girl, running to her shocked father whom she threw her slender arms around. "You told me Hrango and Herontortha never came to Tol Sangwa."

"That is true, from a certain point of view," answered Hatholdir, rolling his moleskin glove over his daughter's long hair. "They came with me first here when this forest had no shorelands." Hatholdir gently eased her away, heaved a ragged sigh, and staggered his way to the Birch. "I've been to Tol Sangwa countless times since we started buying the mortals from the Umbarians but I never thought of visiting this particular place," he admitted, caressing the carven heraldic images of his house, Hrango's, and Herontortha with a reverent tenderness.

"I led many of our people on the Great Journey from Cuiviénen before we were Hammers or Moles," Hatholdir told his daughter who relucantly drew closer to where her father stood at the Birch. He had spoken so quietly that Alagossel had gently asked him to repeat himself. "Hrango and I were eager to stay at Drengist but many Elves in my following were afraid of the sea - wide and dark and deep - so Herontortha urged me, nettled me more like, to take them back to Doriath or expect dissention among the ranks. The Noldor tarried in Neldoreth and Region but my company - numerous but smaller than the rest who followed Finwë - remained a people apart since our moods were at odds with the main host. We encamped in Brethil, this wood, until Ulmo summoned all the Noldor and Vanyar to the coasts of Beleriand."

Hatholdir paused here, glancing at Alagossel who look enraptured by his storytelling. He didn't wish to speak of the Years of the Trees but she looked too interested for him to stop now. "You've studied Gwenbril's ancient maps of the old country. You know these places and their respective distances?"

"Yes, Taryo."

Hatholdir grunted his approval, nodding. "Hrango and Herontortha and I believed we would never return to Middle-earth. We considered the Teleri lagging behind us and the Avari sill living in the East would be left behind when the Noldor and Vanyar were gone. So we carved beasts into this Birch, animals we thought symbolized us in some way, so the remnant of Elves would see our signs someday and know that the strangers made it this far." Hatholdir was silent for a spell, immersed in happy memories which he wanted to suppress but now the bones of the past he tried so hard to keep buried were exhumed. A tide of nostalgia threatened to drown him in depths of sorrow and regret. Hatholdir loathed himself as he felt the sting of hot tears welling in his flaming blue eyes, blurring his vision. He hated these moments often shared with Erfaron and Hrango, Herontortha or Meluiwen. He didn't want his daughter who was embracing him again to see him this vulnerable. "We were...just a few brave Elf-boys looking for adventure...that was all we were before..." Before my lust and greed sullied our lives forever. Hatholdir didn't say that but it's what he viscerally acknowledged. There was a time when Hatholdir didn't care how his choices affected others but ever since he married Meluiwen she had changed him or at least she tried appealing to his better angels. Now Hatholdir felt a growing shamefulness when he devised his best laid schemes but...

- Will you fold your hand - sharply demanded Anguirel , Maeglin's voice colder than frost.

No. He took blood oaths. Those promises were binding and he needed to protect his people, keep his family safe.

"Enough reminiscing, ninya moina," ordered Hatholdir, regaining his strength. He held out his hand. Gloves of black and green joined together. He guided Alagossel to the slopes of the towering hill, Amon Obel, which rose mightily above the birches. "You were unwise to sneak away from me," Hatholdir lectured his child.

"I'm the daughter of the Mole King!" Alagossel objected with an arrogant tilt of her chin.

"That is true but these Umbarians have not met the Princess of Tol Noldare," Hatholdir said clearly. "If you were discovered alone," he said, "then the Corsairs would mistake you for an Elven astronomer's daughter who's hidden herself away. They would take you to Pharak and he'd offer you to his god, Mairon, as a burnt sacrifice unless he'd sell you into eternal slavery in the East." When she did not speak, his eyes enlarging wide as one of Gwenbril's many owls. "So it would behoove you to keep near me whenever we visit Tol Sangwa. Understood?"

"Yes, Taryo."

Hatholdir grunted his approval again and led her beyond the deserted domiciles of the missing astronomers and healers, walking along the dirt trails leading to Amon Obel's summit. The closer they drew near the observatory, the louder noises of desecration became. Hatholdir assumed that was what the Corsairs were doing, wrecking what Elves built. When Hatholdir and Alagossel reached the zenith and entered the stargazing tower the Pandemonium issued from, father and daughter were greeted by vast ruins of once beautiful architecture. Gangs of boisterous sweaty Corsairs, cackling like hyenas, lassoed marble pillars with ropes. They tore down soaring columns of the rotunda with mighty pulls of corded strings. Imposing extravagant statues of the Valar looking toward the vaulted ceiling were given the same irreverent treatment, shattered by lawless thugs laughing gaily as they reveled in the wanton disintegration of marvelous art built to honor the world's seraphim. The glass of the observatory dome was sundered, littering the floor with jagged shards of twinkling crystal. The great telescope had been smashed. A sculpture of Varda was being viciously pummelled by powerful swings of cudgels and hammers by the bronzed, hairy uncultured swine of Harad.

- You invited the Devil to your garden, don’t expect him to clean his feet and respect the flowers -

Hatholdir heard the counsel of Anguirel but Alagossel did not. "My father didn't order you to break anything we own!" The child shouted at the Umbarians. They acknowledged their presence with mockery and dark chuckles.

"Where is Matsu?" demanded Hatholdir.

"Bringing a mûmak here if he's fortunate this time." A bulky tanned Easterner with a shaved head and gold hoop earrings approached Hatholdir with a broad wicked grin. He wore a belted tunic decorated with gold embroidery along collar and cuffs which he must have liberated from an elven or Dol Amrothian dormitory here. Silver rings bearing glittering gemstones adorned each of his meaty fingers, booty the pirate must have seized from a Gondorian raid. He was Majnun Qorako, slavemaster of Tol Sangwa. He was hand-picked by Matsu's grandfather. Hatholdir and Majnun detested each other but the Mortal minded his manners toward the Mole King now. When Hatholdir discovered that the overseeer was abusing the slaves he brought to Tol Sangwa, Hatholdir put an end to the cathauling and taught Majnun how agonizing the punishment was. Hatholdir demanded satisfaction for the injury of his property. They dueled. Once he beaten the human down and commanded the slaves he bought to bind the Harad brute spread-eagled to the ground, Hatholdir ordered buckets of salted water to be brought. He forcibly dragged an Umbarian cat's claws along Majnun's bare back then...he applied the brine to the screaming overseer's bloody, lacerated skin. Majnun never injured another thrall of Tol Sangwa after that. Hatholdir was remonstrated by the Halsads and warned the High Elf not to interfere again in the castigation of slaves again. There would have been hostilities exchanged between the Elves and the Haradrim but the Halsads wanted to keep Hatholdir as a buyer and didn't wish to risk the retaliation of the fearsome Mole army.

"Behaving yourself?" Hatholdir asked nonchalantly, his sapphire eyes gleaming brighter when Majnun affirmed this good behavior in a stuttering voice. The overseeer dabbed the perspiration from his brow with a gaudily colored kerchief. The beads of sweat rolling off his browned skin had nothing to do with the exertion of tearing down monuments.

"You will handle our property well!" Alagossel hotly interjected, knowing the story from her father. "Cripples can't work. If we get a lame slave, it will be your fault and you will have to offer your life in repayment."

Hatholdir restrained a proud grin, especially observing the sheer fright exhibited on the mortal's jowly mustachioed face. "This is an unexpected delight, milord," confessed Majnun, nervously twisting the fabric of his damp kerchief. "We are honored by your presence..."

"I had aggressive negotiations in Forlindon," Hatholdir mentioned with a carefree shrug. Alagossel and her father had to kill a vengeful Elves, former Gondolin refugees living in Círdan's realm, hiring Molehunters to murder Hrango's son and his company at Esteldin. Hatholdir and Alagossel wiped out a troop of Shadow Dwarves in the territory, survivors of the assault Aigronding and Telkelion had last mounted, and made the grisly murder scene appear to be the butchery of the stunted evil vermin instead of themselves. "Decided I'd pay Tol Sangwa a visit on the way home and see if you have any slaves for sale and, you know know, check to see if you're actually doing your job for once." Hatholdir turned to regard the ravaging of elven engineering with a mildly disapproving mien, gloves laced together behind his back.

"Just having a bit of fun," Majnun insisted, spluttering. "I have my orders. Matsu wants an altar. For sacrifices."

Hatholdir glared at him, pointing the overseer to lead him out back where the slave pens were, determined to take as many slaves as he could away. He hadn't many Elven friends who were Moles nor did he trust most Elven strangers but he cared for Men who weren't Easterlings. Ever since he made allies among the human villagers and refugees living in at the Vales of Magor when he came to live in the Ered Wethrin Mountains, Hatholdir had forged many fellowships with mortals. Dúnedain he was particularly on good terms with.

The slave pens were situated in thickets of low-growing plants called Tossamlugs, Dragontrees, by Mirwa. Idrasaith's youngest daughter was one of Mole Island's greatest poisoners and had ranked the Tossamlugs - appearing within a decade of Glaurung's death - among the most toxic plants of Tol Sangwa. The Umbarians had not discovered this yet but the Elves knew and so did the Dol Amrothians before their disappearance; the Elves and Gondorians recorded the poisonous nature of the thorny Dragontrees so people would be aware of their danger but Hatholdir did not want anyone to jeopardize the collection of his samples until he had enough toxins to suit his fancy, especially which was garnered from the large black and orange flowers. All parts of the plant except were lethal by consumption for animal, Elf, and human; the dark glossy leaves however, could be used as antidotes for many kinds of poison, Mirwa learned.

Majnun presented Hatholdir with thirty unhappy thralls, some young Elven unknowns from Harlindon raids but more there were more Men of Lebennin and Belfalas in the pen it was said. Majnun gleefully refused him Elves again just as Matsu had done for months but he allowed the purchase of the Men, both males and females. The sight of one mortal caught his interest...a slender man of dark hair and soft features hardly concealed by his rough beard. It was his intelligent, penetrating eyes which captured Hatholdir's curiosity the most. The man stood by a smaller but tougher-looking young bearded man in his early twenties with the customary black hair and silver eyes of many Gondorians. The taller man's face was bruised and the shorter walked with a limp Hatholdir noticed as the kid started to pace, whispering to the older fellow.

"I'll buy them all," said Hatholdir. "What happened to them?" He said, talking loudly over the lamenting cries and curses of the Gondorians.

"The young fool attacked me so I had to educate him, Sir Elf, so don't cross me!" Majnun protested, getting defensive rather fast.

"He attacked you for what reason?" Hatholdir, seething, inquired vociferously. Majnun said nothing, nostsrils flaring.

"Do you want a biscuit?"

Both Hatholdir and Majnun stared down at Alagossel whose presence they had momentarily forgotten. She must had wandered into the slave kitchen were thralls were baking food for the Umbarians since she carried a basket of warm and buttery, goldenbrown flaky rolls. "You must be famished from labouring so hard to pull those statues down. Try this one!" Exuberant Alagossel flashed him a charming smile and pointed at the lightest, most tender biscuit. "That one looks rather fluffy, no?"

Majnun snatched the proffered roll and took a huge angry bite out of it, looking at Hatholdir with his hateful beady eyes as he chewed voraciously. "He's a noble!" Majnun stressed, speaking around a mouthful of food. "One of those erudite sorts aiming to make you feel stupid. I wasn't keen about it."

"You sullied my property for the last time, dolt," Hatholdir uttered. "Matsu will be hearing about this." He smothered the urge to cut the overseer down. He only had Alagossel with him on the island. They were an hour away from Cûlmyrn, the black lebethron carrack of Hatholdir's, docked at the northern shores of Tol Sangwa. He always kept a contingent of Moles aboard when he came here but as reinforcements if negotations ever went awry; Hatholdir dared not bring them with him to Amon Obel so he wouldn't disrupt the fragility of the relationship he had with Matsu's Corsairs in the wake of the cat-hauling incident.

"How did the lot of you get here?" Hatholdir asked the slaves, folding his arms. The man with the arresting gaze named himself Edhelmir Azrubêl. He informed Hatholdir that his younger companion, Ribedir, was a herald of his house and that all the Gondorians were his crew - sailors and their wives - which came with him to the island to see Turaegon's observatory for an extended stay. Hatholdir slowly went up and down the line of slaves, announcing he would be their new master. "My subjects are few so your presence is required on Tol Noldarë. I do not consider you slaves," he told them earnestly.

"You are now my servants. Though you will not work for free, your means of daily living will be provided for you handsomely on my island. We can negotiate an amount of years you're willing to serve me then, once your tenure is completed, you may own a plot of land as a free person. I have a need of trained mariners but there are other roles which need filling as well and whatever you don't know, you will be trained for. I am told there are couples here; that is fine, stay married. You won't be separated from your partners and child-rearing is permissable but they will become servants if your indentures are not concluded by your child's tenth year of age. The Moles of Tol Noldarë will deal with you respectfully; we will not trouble or harm you and we expect the same treatment. It must be stated....none of you may return to Gondor. It would only mean possible recapture of the Umbarians or reprisals of Lindon against me."

Ribedir spat and sneered in defiance. "You said yourself, Master," he replied, suffusing the last word with as much acerbic sarcasm as he could muster. "We're not free until we're finished labouring for you. Call of us whatever fancy term you wish but the truth is we're your still your thralls."

There was a ripple of agreement among the Gondorians which was dispelled by the brightening of the Light Elf's hard and flaming sapphire eyes as he snapped his steely gaze on Ribedir.

"Tell me: Would you rather have my fair, gentle accord or suffer the cruelty of the barbaric Umbarians?" Hatholdir challenged, coming to a death stop in front of the brash youth. "Perhaps you would even delight burning alive on the alter of Mairon or welcome the eternal ignominy that comes to a man forswears his Lord's allegiance?" Ribedir bit his lip, refusing to glance at Edhelmir but did not reply. "No," Hatholdir drawled, "I think not."

He handed over two large blue Balarian pearls the size of a robin's egg to cover the price of the slaves. He reluctantly parted with a pouch of rubies when Majnun smugly reminded the Mole King that Dúnedain - Edhelmir and Ribedir - were sold at higher values and considering one of them was a member of the noble Azrubel bloodline, Hatholdir had to pay a greater sum.

*


Soft thunder sounded and intermittent bursts of lightning flashed over the choppy sea. Cûlmyrn was a sturdy carrack to remain stable under the command of Captain Galudess in the storm halfway to Tol Noldarë. That evening, the small raven-haired Sindarin woman rapped on the carved door of the quarters belonging to Hatholdir and his daughter, having guided Edhelmir Azrubel inside the aftcastle.

"The nobleman as you summoned, Ninyaharan," said the somber elleth, bringing a fisted han to her heart in salute. "I've given the wheelhouse to my first mate so I can rest."

"So that you can drink yourself into a stupor, you mean," Alagossel blurted, unashamed and ignoring Hatholdir's withering stare. Galudess was not a Silvan Elf but she drank as much to sooth her sorrows. Galudess had been a smith of the Mole House in Gondolin. She had come to Idril's house which her people surrounded to talk her father out of following Maeglin but hostilities were engaged; he had been killed by Aigronding in self-defense and she, in turn, had struck at Aigronding to avenge her parent but her own husband - Alphogol, a guard of the Swan Wing - thought she had been part of the scheme to betray Gondolin and he threw her over the wall.

She survived the fall and rescued her child, Nimaewen. They hid themselves like many Moles and waited for Hatholdir's search parties. Alphogol found her first in the ruined city before Asgar, looking for refugees to bring back to Aigronding's encampment in the wild. He wanted to take their child away, still believing her mother was the enemy. Galudess fought him in a bitter duel and murdered him. When she later discovered Hatholdir tunnelled into the Havens of Sirion to see Erfaron, she used the passage against his orders hoping to destroy Aigronding's family by herself. She emerged at the time of the Kinslaying and reunited with her grandfather. When he learned that Aigronding struck his son down in Gondolin, he sought his vengeance but was slain in battle with Roina Mordagnir and Meril Duvain.

"Fact, ninya moina," Galudess muttered drly. Removing a flask of halfling porter from her black cloak, she walked woodenly to her quarters.

Sighing, feeling genuinely sorry for her, Hatholdir implored Edhelmir to enter with a nod of his head and swung the hatch closed. Alagossel ushered the noble to a seat bolted down in front of a table attached to the cabin floor. "Bread, meat, cheese, and wine," said the princess, gesturing at the meager meal, and sat down.

"You'll discover that although I'm wealthy I live a very spartan existence so I must apologize if this isn't the succulent feast you were expecting," said Hatholdir, chuckling, and joined them. "You'll find that the life you knew will be vastly dissimilar from that which you will shortly begin. Your life will be mostly autonomous; you no longer have a family legacy to honor. . You will have your duties, of course, but I will leave you largely to your own devices. The weather is not warm as you're accustomed to but cool, unpleasantly even during the winter. Tol Noldarë is a dismal mountainous island of pines, not the verdant idyllic coastal realm you formerly dwelled in. Tell me, what are you talents?" Hatholdir bobbed his head as the cultivated man spoke of his scholarly pursuits, especially his enjoyment of cartography...specifically the shores of Lindon. He listened to Edhelmir as he spoke with a wan smile. He felt a kinship with Edhelmir; there was a certain art to building maps reminiscent of Hatholdir's own smith work. They were both artists. "I need cartographers," Hatholdir divulged and sipped his goblet of white wine. "The Moles aren't natural mariners and there is a changing of the guard when it comes to replacing Moles dispatched to the mainland so my people can return home often. They will need your maps to reach Lindon in places where they can avoid the major ports to avoid Elves who disdain them. You are welcome to live in my castle and make your maps. You may live with the shepherds on the sea-cliffs and devise maps there while living among your kind if you wish." Hatholdir drummed his fingers atop the table, glowering. "The boy, Ribedir, may join you but I need him to keep watch with the sentinels of Captain Ospiel, observing the coasts from the encircling wall of my island. If he gets bored, he may join the Moles battling on the mainland sometimes but if he deserts their company, Ribedir will be pursued and slain. Let him know that." He started cudtting the slab of brined beef. "If you have a wife or children, forget them. You will not see your loved ones again." He said this, locking a hardened gaze with Edhelmir.

"WE are your family now!" Alagossel rejoiced, slapping the table with both her beringed hands and smiled with all her teeth.

Hatholdir smirked, shaking his head fondly. "You are welcome to find a new bride and father children, Edhelmir, if you so desire. I know the situation isn't ideal but you really are better off with us than you were with the Umbarians and I hope you are relieved to have those heavy iron manacles off your wrists. I'm sorry I can't trust you to return to Gondor with what you know. It's my way and a shepherd must look after his flock. I've protected my people for aeons. I swore a blood oath, to keep the Moles secure." The cabin was quiet then. Hatholdir finally allowed himself this sweet measure of solace, feeling his soul blissfully transported by the mournful sound of a whale and the thickening rain slicking the porthole windows. He was with his child who loved him faithfullly and eating supper with a new friend he rescued from sinister men, afloat on the high seas and hearing a Mole sing a hymn to Uinen. Hatholdir knew what he was coming home to, more arguments with Meluiwen and Herontortha, but for right now he had this peace and it was...pleasant.

- Remember, you are a saint -

He could trust Anguirel.

"We know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it."
- Colleen McCullough, from The Thorn Birds
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Meeting the Moles - Semi-Private RP with @Aigronding Mordagnir
Part 1 - The Arrangement



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Lord Edhelmir Azrubêl, and his herald, Ribedir. Of Lond Col, Belfalas
with Hatholdir, the Mole King and his daughter, Alagossel
aboard the Cûlmyrn, heading from Tol Sangwa, to Tol Noldarë
Days before Erfaron arrives at either Island

I do not like it,Ribedir repeated, as though he might urge some response out of sheer exhaustion at his own tenacity. Beside him, Edhelmir finally shook his head. “Allegiance is freely given, else it is only begrudging obedience,” the Herald added fuel to his personal fire, obstinate against the Noble’s mute rebuke. Curling his bruised leg in close, he propped his chin upon it, sulking. “I chose to serve you. To serve Gondor. Not .. anyone else.

You do not have to like it, but you can not deny nonetheless improvement, upon where we sat a mere hour past,” his Lord observed calmly. Their number had been granted food and water, and the space to rest in basic quarters of the Elvish carrack. Ribedir alone of them remained in shackles, and this because he had took such offense at the Elf who put hands on him, merely to remove those. The Moles had accordingly given the young man some time to calm down, and perhaps reflect on how his own behaviour was the only thing setting him apart from the rest of the Mortal cargo. The Herald’s begrudging mood now was clear evidence that the policy was working, and the others had clearly taken note that Hatholdir’s word was as he had pledged. Fair conduct would meet fair treatment. Ribedir may not like it, but he understood.

When Captain Galudess came to take up Edhelmir though from their midst, a mild tide of protest moved through the group; who huddled protectively about their Lord and dragged at him with their hands as he rose. But the Nobleman went with the She-Elf and without complaint. He had so far not made much of the recent ‘transaction’, save to answer what questions were put to him. And to seek Ribedir, as far as he could, to keep calm. Hatholdir’s purchase of the Mortals had passed it seemed close but not quite at Edhelmir’s consciousness; like a stream polishing the pebbles of it’s shallow seat. The current turned them over, but did not quite carry them in it’s path of motion. He acknowledged it’s happening, yet the realities of what it meant in the long run were not a thing he wished to judge yet, until he’d put time to scrutinise. The prospect though that this odd Elf seemed keen to deliver them from the worst of their recent hardships, was a thing he felt he ought not dismiss hastily.


It had been only a week since they had arrived in Tol Sangwa and found the former starguild already over-run by Corsairs. Edhelmir had given their small party up without fight, for their crew were neither soldiers, nor expecting any incursion, and it wounded him to witness any of their number harmed. It was made clear from the outset that none of them would be killed, not outright, not until the utmost amount of use could be wrung out of him, or her. There would be no glorious death in the face of adversity, for they were both outnumbered and unarmed. Only the slow wearing endurance of hard labour seemed likely, until they were fit for no more than the fire itself. Their first day, an Elvish thrall had sought to make escape and been subject to such abuse and abject humiliation, but not killed, to serve as example. Or so they were informed. Noone had observed the actual offense and indeed the Corsairs seemed to delight greatly in punishing the Elf that it may have been done just for show and sport.

Edhelmir’s own dignified tone and inflection of speech had incited a surprising fury within Majnun, who would clearly not have any save himself assuming an authority over his thralls, least of all one of their own. Any apparent leader or spokesperson for their number would be cut down, quickly, and so was. Ribedir had rushed to his defence before Edhelmir even registered a cause for the blow which took him to the ground. It was the first strike he ever had been served his entire life. And all too soon his herald was writhing upon the ground beside him. Hastily he had held hands forth in surrender afore any others of his party put thought to protesting too.

Now he was led to a table where the Mole King seemed to be apologising for the food at hand. Apologising ? Maybe it was not for the food really. A half-cry, half-laugh escaped the Gondorian nonetheless. He had come to wonder whether he would ever find seat at a table ever again, much less be served even the basest of sustenance upon a plate, rather than some barely edible filth flung in the mud for all to fight over like swine. And then Hatholdir went on to admit the weather on his private island was not fair. It seemed an interview of sorts was in progress here, rather than a dictator’s decree, which threw the Man's thoughts from him. Almost everything that he was being told by this Elf was far from what he expected ! At least though, when asked of talents, Edhelmir found that he felt a rush of want to justify the Elf’s decision to liberate them. There were sailors amongst his former crew for certain, though whether the Elf would trust them to tread far from his shores he knew not. Many had come to the ships through fine fishing trade, and were skilled in sail crafting, carpentry, and the like which would be needful for any coastline settlement. The ex-lord himself (for so he thought himself now) was not opposed to lending his own labours beyond the advertising of his friends.

My late brother liked the adventurous life,” he let Hatholdir know “and often I was sorry enough to travel aboard his vessel when he would challenge the most perilous landings for his own delight and thrill, or to seek out the lesser-known coves to meet and gamble with Elves, like Girion Coruben, in Lindon, who you may have heard of. To keep my mind from the almost certainty of our untimely deaths, I engaged in illustration of the coastlines and became well versed in their shape and nature. I could replicate many of these for you if that is useful. There are places in Belfalas and even Harad if your ventures take you that far where it is safest to dock, or to avoid detection. Tol Sangwa itself, .. this is not the first time I was about that isle. It is the twenty-first,” he confessed. “If a replication of due detail might prove some use to you, or your endeavours, it is not beyond reach.

Quite what the Nobleman was suggesting to Hatholdir here, he left for the Elf to contemplate in his own time. But not even a fool could have missed that there was grievance between the Mole king and Majnun, and personally, the Man wondered how this Elf felt at having been forced to leave the Elvish slaves behind. The business relationship between them had seemed extremely fragile to say the least. Edhelmir was too wary and to polite to ask, especially at this early stage of their ‘friendship’ ? Talk though of his finding residence soon in the MoleKing’s very Castle and being permitted to partake his favoured pastime as a career, free of obligation to live up to expectations ? The price for such true freedom was recanted, what he’d hoped to have misheard back on Tol Sangwa. There would be no going home. Ever.

If you have a wife or children, forget themHatholdir clarified. “You will never see your loved ones again.
We are your family now,” added his daughter, gleefully.

Now it was true that the Nobleman had just spent the last week of his life already coming to the likely terms that he would never see his family again. To speak of it openly however, aloud, to admit that it was real ...it was something of an ask. Many marriages amongst Edhelmir’s peers were carried out by arrangement, some of whom spent only as much time in the same room as it took to perform the expected duties. Despite this, he was personally quite fond of his wife. After being too afraid to speak to her for several decades their marriage had been unnaturally hastened to a union by his interfering sister-in-law to keep the fragile dynasty from dismantling. Hatholdir could not know this, and possibly did not care one iota about it either way. But the Nobleman had done his best to outline what he and his could bring to the table, before asking any further of their already unlikely saviour. He would think no more upon the matter of his family quite yet, save for what calm acceptance of the apparent loss might provide. Kicking up a fuss would likely only see him put back to chains like his Herald, for the sake of losing something he did not currently possess regardless. And the only way to take this precarious new situation forward was not to step backwards even a small step.

I was a second-born son, Majesty," Edhelmir directed his answer from a somewhat less-upsetting subject. "A reluctant replacement for a far better leader, and a sorry lord at that I proved, forever second guessing myself. So I shall admit, a simple life lived far from stifling attention, with chance to indulge in the artistry I can do well for some real true purpose .. that would be a thing I could scarce have dreamt possible. From either the place where you have found me, or the life that was mine before that. What I can do for you, in payment of this debt, I shall, to the best of my ability.” the Nobleman dared some of the wine, as though to drink of courage. For he never had been much of a negotiator and it surely showed. His people might not have been passed between the hands of other men as property, not if he had been his brother certainly !! Still he would do his best. He was not much of a leader, so he must do his best to serve his people as a servant instead. “Ribedir is young,” he conceded, and also, though, justified to the Herald's new owner, “and had once much hope in his heart to meet with Elves and to know adventure beyond the safety of a home that he loved. But our recent encounter has surprised and stifled his capacity for trusting strangers. I believe, in time, he shall adjust without concern for your own interests. I would take you on your offer that we keep him close to those he knows, at least a short while, so that such change may be introduced to him gradually. His leg shall require a little time before he could prove use to you as a guard regardless.

It had certainly occurred to Edhelmir that the singling out of his belligerent herald might be, on Hatholdir’s part, a fair effort to remove the bad seed of opinion before it could taint the rest of their bunch. But the Man had watched the younger Gondorian grow up since he had first entered their home as a child pursuivant. And he believed, from what he knew of the man Ribedir had grown into, that such isolation might breed sullen mood and depression.

It may be beyond my place to even make suggestion, Majesty, forgive me," Edhelmir ducked his chin. "This is a new state of affairs to accept. You clearly though are intelligent enough to learn what is at your disposal, so that it may best serve you. Wisdom may not be a talent of mine, but a certain insight is an advantage I am willing to grant you, that I would not share with the Corsairs. The difference, I assure you, is duely noted.

Silence for a time was his only answer, and the Gondorian finished his glass of wine, to either hide the tremble of his hand, or to at least prove anaesthetic for the punishment to come. As some last means of softening the demand, he waited til the last to add.

My wife bore me a son, an heir whom still is young but whom I trust shall rise up and lead our people as I never could. You are a father,” he nodded a nervous smile toward Alagossel, and summoned forth his last defence. Pity, for hope of mercy. “I know you understand the sacrifice that you demand of any other who has family elsewhere. For the sake of your peoples’ safety though, for the sake of those who were until recently mine; I would give my word to sever all ties. To never seek out my kin again. Though, to ensure it, I might beg you send word to Lond Col that our ship has been discovered wrecked, with no survivors to note. Lest a host of my kin venture forth in search of our missing expedition in due course.


(ERCASSIE EDIT - A little detail has been tweaked, as per later plotting - the age of Edhelmir's son.)
Last edited by Ercassie on Sun Sep 19, 2021 10:56 am, edited 2 times 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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Rembina
Alqualondë, YT 1495
(Private with Moriel)

Slowly, light began to filtered through the great empty void. Tiny pinpricks of light, tiny candles in a vast cavern, grew and shone and twinkled. Finnbarr had felt himself floating there in that great abyss, there was no up nor down, no right nor left. There was no sound in the void but the sound of his breathing, of his heartbeat. It was peaceful here. Whatever problems might await him on the outside were not here. Here, Finnbarr was alone. There was no joy in the void, such a delicate thing could not exist with the light or the sounds of other people, but there was contentment, and that was enough for Finnbarr. He saw the tiny lights, the stars that shone so, so far away from him and dimly wondered why they were here. What possible use could light be here, in his void, in his sanctum? The light grew brighter, and with that light came memories, memories that Finnbarr had come here to escape. His body had refused consciousness and his mind had refused dreams. He had been safe here, for however long it had been. But the light was coming, and with the light came pain, reality, and suffering. The light was inexorable and unstoppable. The void melted as the lights grew. From twinkle to roar, the light invaded Finnbarr’s peace and threw him back into reality.

The world was a smoking ruin. The air was thick with ash and the sounds of the dying. Fires sprouted here and there, yawning gulfs of flame enveloping and feeding on everything. The world smelled like blood and salt. Finnbarr felt it fill his nostrils, the smell crawled all over him, swarmed him like ants. Fear was in the air too, a fetid, acrid stench. At first, there was no sound; slowly, though, muffled sounds broke through. Screams and shouts, people yelling to one another to come help came through and rang hollow on Finnbarr’s ears. The world was still dark and fuzzy around the edges of his vision. His eyes couldn’t focus for a moment, all the colors and light swarmed him and overwhelmed his vision.

He blinked. His eyes hurt. They were crusted over with dried sea water. His body ached. Where was he? The last thing he remembered here was floating in the water, trying to hide. His last thought was that water no longer felt so friendly and embracing. He was not in the water now. He was still soaked, but he was on a boat now, his rowboat. How… how had he gotten here? Finnbarr’s mind raced as well as it could, befuddled and murky though it was. Someone was holding him. He turned his head gingerly, a headache roaring to life as he moved. The arms were not arms he recognized. They were a man’s arms, but they were not the arms of his atar. These arms felt older, warmer. They felt stronger, even though no one was stronger than his father. He pushed against them, his body still weak.

“Who… who are you?” his voice cracked as the smoky air passed into his papery lungs. He coughed, hacking up sea water.

Something wasn’t right. Where was his father? His mamil? There had been fighting. They were outnumbered. He pushed more frantically against the arms the held him. “Where are they? What happened?”

Tears were already flowing down his face again, cutting sharp rivulets through the ash and salt. He threw his gaze about, looking for signs of his parents. Then he saw something red. He was well used to blood, even at his young age. His father had taught him out to gut and clean fish of all sorts before he could swim. This blood though, this was not fish blood. A cold, horrifying thought entered into Finnbarr’s tragedy-wracked mind, a thought that before tonight would have been inconceivable. Were his parents… dead? What happened after he fell into the water? Why were those other elves attacking them? Questions flooded his thoughts but soon, he realized he was still being held by someone who was not his father. In a hitherto uncharacteristic burst of anger, he shoved the arms that held him bound and burst forth.

He stumbled and slipped, the tiny rowboat too unstable for his sudden movement. He couldn’t gain his footing and fell flat on his face. Light exploded and his nose began gushing blood. He stood up, his spindly legs wobbling. He turned and looked at his captor. He was huge, much bigger than his father. His hair nearly glowed with iridescence. Finnbarr squinted. “What did you do?” He asked accusingly. His vision was so tunneled and focused on the man huddled down on the rowboat. He looked up, his vision still tunneled with confusion and rage, his parent's trawler was right next to them, he grabbed a single fraying line of rope hanging over the bow and began to climb.

“What you to do my parents!?” He cried.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 1:50 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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Rembina
Alqualondë. YT 1495.
(Private with Frost)


Rage.

It was the only word to describe the sea, the sky, the lashing rain; the wind, and the howling voices upon it. Rage filled the world in such a way as Davos had never known. He was scarcely aware of the acrid stench of blood and fire all around, so focused was the Nelya on the upheaval of his watery home. Nor did he notice at first the stirrings of the figure clasped in his arms. It was not until the boy pushed at them that he looked down, scarcely comprehending the questions being thrown at him. The boy hacked up seawater and Davos instinctively raised a hand to thump him on the back. He felt the boy’s panic rise, and wasn’t quick enough to seize him again before he thrust himself out of Davos’s grip with what must have been all his strength- only to wobble and smash his face into the bottom of the boat. Then the boy was up again before Davos could do anything to help, accusatory stare fixed upon the Nelya through his blood and confusion. "What did you do?” the boy demanded, and Davos jaw fell fractionally: there were no words for this moment. This must be what helplessness felt like.

In the next moment however, there was no time for helplessness. The boy sprang past Davis, seizing the end of rope that hung down from the trawler, making to pull himself up the line that held them fast to it, up to the deck where he would get the answer to his question, and see such things as no child should see. “Stop- boy, stop!” Davos shouted, twisting around in the rowboat and lunging after the boy. By dint of launching himself at the rope, he managed to seize the boy from behind, arms locking around his waist, and pulled him back. Amid the raging sea and sky Davos overbalanced and fell, his back impacting the far seat of the little boat with a crack. He groaned, but determined that only the seat had sustained damage. Holding tight to the boy in case of renewed attempts at escape, Davos levered himself up right and turned back to his original sitting position. He thrust the boy from him to arms length, turning the small body so that they faced each other, and keeping tight hold of his shoulders.

“Hold still!” he commanded, looking the boy directly in his eyes. The panic of the child settled Davos, and he fought for calm, blocking out the rage as he spoke. “I am called Davos, and I did nothing to your parents.” He hesitated, then shook his head. Whoever he was, this boy would never be the same again, and there was no point hiding the truth from him. “I could do nothing for them, either, but to pull you from the water. Don’t go up there,” Davos gave a tiny jerk of the head, back at the trawler, “They would not want to haunt you. There are forces at work here greater than any of us and you must stay here.” He slackened his grip fractionally; he did not wish to hurt the boy, but neither would he allow him to flee.

“What is your name?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Rembina
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What is your name?”

The question should have been a simple one. Indeed it was the simplest question anyone could answer. Yet, the boy could not find the answer. He stared dumbly at the man in boat, the man who called himself Davos. What was his name? It should be so simple, yet why could he not remember? His parents would remember. Where were they? What happened? Images, horrible and miserable, trickled into his mind, a slow drip at first, the memory of wild spears and shouting, then became a flood he heard his parents screaming and fighting. Who were they fighting? Why were they fighting? He never did get a good look at the faces. His memory was fractured, he was fractured. No wonder he could not remember his own name, all the parts of who he was had been broken and scattered about the seabed. Surely he was different now, he should have a different name. He did not deserve the name he had worn, that his parents had given him. He was unworthy, he had failed them and ought to forfeit that name.

“I…” he started. What should he tell this man? This man who had a name and a purpose. What name should he pick? Did he even have a right to pick a name? Does a caught fish deserve a name. “I’m no one.” he finally decided. It was true at least.

He stood there, wobbling unsteadily. The sounds of the ocean heavy on his ears. The gentle sloshing back and forth, sweet sibilant whisper of the waves as they caressed the sides of the boat. He could hear the roar too, far off in the distance, a wild, raging beast, howling its defiance to the heavens. He could hear the song of the sirens, the melody of the pools and hidden coves. He could hear the humming song of whales far, far beyond them. He wanted to join them. To join in the waters of the infinite. He want to search the depths for Ulmonan, the fabled palace of Ulmo. But the smell of blood came to him then, like a hammer. He had not smelled it before. The whole bay smelled the way his father did after he butchered and cleaned their catch of the day. It was unnatural. The fiery, coppery smell should not be this strong. It washed over him, clung to him like a sticky sap. He wanted to throw up. He did. Heaving over the side of the side of the boat.

He looked at the man who called himself Davos. Really looked at him. There was… something in his eyes, something ancient even though the world was young. His air was white and wild. His skin had been touched by the wind and the waters, calloused and rough. He was spattered in gore, but his face was strangely serene. He scared the boy.

Tears began forming at the inner corners of the boy’s eyes, great wells of horror and sadness. The dam burst and salty tears marred his face.

For the second time that night, he lost consciousness and tumbled back into the sea.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 1:55 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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Gondolin

Author's Note:
Maeglin dialogue made by Ercassie and
with her permission
in our Facebook Messaging.


"Its ruin was the most dread of all the sacks of
cities upon the face of the Earth."

- Tolkien, from
The Book of Lost Tales II:
The Fall of Gondolin



“They, looking back...beheld
Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms:
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest...
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.”

- John Milton, from Paradise Lost


"He left it in thy power."
- John Milton, from Paradise Lost


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"Turgon...caused the watch and ward to be thrice
strengthened at all points, and engines of war to
be devised by his artificers and set upon the hill. Poisonous fires and hot liquids, arrows and great rocks,
was he prepared to shoot down on any who would assail those gleaming walls. /

Meglin...behold, the guile
of that Gnome was very great, for he wrought much in the dark, so that folk said:
"He doth well to bear the sign of a sable mole." /

Meglin knelt before the black throne of Melko
in terror of the grimness of the shapes about him, of the wolves that sat beneath that chair
and of the adders that twined about its legs. Now the end of this was that Melko aided by
the cunning of Meglin devised a plan for the oerthrow of Gondolin. /

Meglin was afreared
that even the secret token which Melko had given him would fail in that direful sack,
and was minded to help he however of the death of Tuor in that great burning, for to
Salgant he had confided the task of delaying him int the king's halls and egging him
straight thence into the deadliest of the fight - but lo! Salgant fell into a terror unto death,
and he rode home land lay there now aquake on his bed; but Tuor fared home with the folk of the Wing."


- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin
"Salgant had told him quaint tales or played drolleries with him at times, and Earendil had
much laughter of the old Gnome in those days when he came many
a day to the house of Tuor, loving the good wine and fair repast he there recieved."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin




Hatholdir awoke and felt a searing pain, in his abdomen. The wound in his side and the tear ripping through his heart. He remembered....all of it. The secret meeting of Angarindë - the Iron Council, the Prince's inner circle of advisors - in Hatholdir's Echoriath smithy.

Few had been gathered at the round table again that fateful evening...himself and the Prince, Erfaron and Hrango, Idrasaith and Herontortha. Each member had a say in the management of Mole House. Hatholdir, alloys and battle tactics. Erfaron, stonework and ore quarrying. Hrango, weaponcraft and metalware. Idrasaith, gemstone delving. Herentortha, tunnel safety and operation. This night was unlike the others. The only affairs of Mole House they spoke of was its betrayal and subsequent survival beyond the bounds of the Encircling Mountains.

*


"You left Valinor to be free of the Valar’s domination and now you are content to sit in Turgon’s pretty cage?" Maeglin rebuked Hrango and Herontortha, the dissenters. "I went out there. Where he tells us we can’t go. And I’m telling you. It’s free," Maeglin continued with impassioned zeal. His pale face glowed redly in the guttering candelight light. His fingers were drawn to the necklace he wore. Maeglin idly touched the olive-green bowenite token of a Mole which Morgoth had given him; it was carved of the serpentinite from the elven mines of Ered Wethrin which the Easterlings now monopolized in the northern ranges Hithlum's mountains. “My father lived out there for centuries, free and indepedent!" Maeglin shouted. "Your king trusts Men more than he trusts Elves. It’s wrong.”

Herontortha, always the voice of reason in their party, stuttered in protest. He could handle a little rebellion from Hatholdir and Erfaron. Dealing with them chafing under his stern authority in the mines where they had a job to do was one thing but this was different. This was insurrection against the rulership of the High King, a cabal led by the Prince who was now the third most powerful leader in the city. He found his loyalties divided as had Hrango who always strove to do good.

Herontortha evaded Maeglin's penetrating stare as he politely but in a halting voice shared his reasons why this was an erroneous idea but the Prince cut him off, his customary smooth tone now acidic. "Do you want to bow and scrape to a mortal as your king ? I should be king. Tuor has no right and Elves led by a Mortal shall be the laughing stock of forever. Staying here makes you thralls of the enemy, because you dare not meet him, you dare not live for fear of him." He gave the strongest Elf among them a baleful, arresting look. "Hrango ... did you leave one prison .. for another ?”

Hrango, large and brawny but sensitive, shattered. His weeping sounded like the groans of a dying beast.

“What on earth have you been practicing for ? Training for ? All this time !! If not to burst from this quiet little corner and take what is ours !!" Maeglin demanded vociferously, yelling in anger and to be heard over the noise of Hrango's strident sobbing. "The Orcs are roaming out there unchecked, unhindered, untroubled. That is our land ! We go. We take it back. We do what you swore oaths to do so long ago ! Melkor will squander his forces on the taking of this city." He took a few calming breaths. Maeglin appeared more confident and noble than irate moments later as he regained his patrician countenance. "Its sacrifice shall be his undoing. My uncle built Gondolin to be hard to overcome, and so it will be. When Melkor's army is diminished, when those of Gondolin have given their lives to decimate the enemy’s strength, that’s when we will be what’s left. We select few. We shall work with Dwarves. We shall dominate the Men who deceived us during the Nirnaeth ... and Melkor shall fall. Gondolin must fall in order to take that much of the enemy’s forces along with it.”

"Our people will defend themselves courageously and, in so doing, we'll weaken the power of Angband," Hatholdir encouraged their friends, supporting the Prince's plot. What he failed to do before Maeglin came, leading a revolt in Gondolin, was now seeing fruition although not the way he envisioned but Hatholdir was not upset; for centuries he had known someone more capable would break their chains.

“We know they’re coming," Maeglin acknowledged. "So we shall direct and design how their assault occurs. From the inside. We know when. We know where. We can fashion the entire thing so that those of Gondolin who must die take as many of Melkor's forces with them ...and then we are what remains. And we make their deaths worthwhile. By accomplishing what they could not.”

"The overthrow of Melkor," Hatholdir aptly addressed, his blue radiant eyes flamed brighter in his ardent determination. "Whoever challenges us wil be put to the sword for the good of our New Order."

"When you say, those who must die, who do you mean exactly, Hour Highness?" Idrasaith asked Maeglin with saccharine sweetness. Her shining dark eyes glittered like galvorn . She soothed her husband with tender caresses along his broad muscled back, appearing not too concerned with their plans of mutiny but Hatholdir knew better. He knew how devious she could be and that Idrasaith had her own list of Gondolin Elves she'd like to see lying dead on a marble street.

"Anyone," Hatholdir strongly interjected, "who would not allow Maeglin to do what he wants, to start over someplace else and without being shackled by oppressive laws." A brief silence reigned. Hatholdir gazed at Erfaron. He relaxed his body and opened the mental link of communication, ósanwe, but denied it to Hrango. He saturated his metaphysical connection to Erfaron, sharing his blazing vengeful emotion for the first time. He needed Erfaron to know viscerally how deep was the hatred of his own father. - Indoninya tyanna indo, ennërimtya ennërim ninyanna ("My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts," Quenya) - He welcomed Erfaron into the furnace fury of retribution he was eager to release. He unlocked the chambers of memory, inviting Erfaron to experience the scenes of his childhood abuse and visions of what he'd do to Ezelondo in the conflagration to come if he could find an opportunity in the chaos. - I promise that I will not attack your friends, the Mordagnirs, unless they confront me or the Moles first but you will leave Ezelondo to me, if you are my sworn brother as you've vowed in the oath we took in blood -

"It’s literally using Gondolin not as a sanctuary, but as a trap," Maeglin explained, becoming more animated now, "to decimate Melkor's power. Not hide from it any more. We control this and the world shall be a better place for it. Gondolin will be the last elvish kingdom to fall and it shall take the Enemy down with it. Both need to be ended. A new age awaits us. A free independent age awaits us. I am the blood of Finwë of old. And I swear. By all of those who share that lineage, and have each chipped little by little away at the enemy .... I shall see him to ruin. I have encouraged him to walk into the trap we shall set.”

"Whoever doesn't stand in our way but would shall fall, dying as martyrs!" Hatholdir declared. He stifled a sigh, hearing Erfaron remark he swore to never kill another Elf.

“But that’s the point. You won’t have to !" Maeglin assured him. "They will face the Orcs and die glorious in battle. Do you have any faith at all that an elf like Laegon will survive such an onslaught ? You won’t have to lay a hand upon him.”

"He's pathetic and won't survive the crucible," Hatholdir guaranteed Erfaron. "Fëapoldië will rue the day she married an effeminate Elf. Nariel will even claim you as her father, ashamed to be the daughter of a vitreous imbecile."

"You all lived in a world untamed. We are the ones strongest of all Gondolindrim. We’ve lived without being babied here before. We will do it again.”

"We don't know how many jewels there are in the Echoriath," selfish Idrasaith mentioned. "There may come a point where we either exhaust our resources for gemstones and metals in the Echoriath. That will effect my guild."

"Do you know how many mountain ranges are out there?" Maeglin said with a persuasive excitement.

"I'm in," Idrasaith replied with an exuberant immediacy.

“You wouldn’t let your wife go wanting now would you Hrango ?” Maeglin boldly suggested. There had been many Elven men who were drawn by Idrasaith's dark beauty. They still attempted to take advantage of her maimed husband's handicap - his inability to speak, having been robbed of his tongue in Angband - but Idrasaith was drawn by Hrango's might and awed by his heroic escape from hell, leading other survivors in their flight back to Nevrast.

Hatholdir swung open the door of their telepathic bond and suffused it with his emotional distress for his longtime companion. - If you die with fools perishing for a pointless unachieved dream, then there will be plenty of brave Moles helping your widow go prospecting ... for a new husband from amongst the brethren -

Hrango vowed his commitment, submitting to his fear of losing Idrasaith to suitors. Hatholdir stifled a lopsided grin, nodding, and told Maeglin of Hrango's willingness then he stared anxiously at Herontortha. The mineboss often saved their lives in the Mole tunnels. They would need him in the New Order.

"Hrango requests protection for his mother and sister in the attack and during the passage we undertake once the kingdom falls, Angharyon," Hatholdir translated for Maeglin, referring to him by his personal honorific, the Iron Prince . "Could you sanction this grace for him?" He saw Hrango glance at Herontortha. He was in love with lmalaurië Vaina, Hrango's blonde younger sister of the Fountain. If she remained in Gondolin, she would most likely be killed.

"So... Hrango wants to ensure his family’s safety," Maeglin mused. "I’m going to need someone onboard to go escort his lovely sister ..." He stared pointedly at Herontortha. The overseer was sweating in quiet. Hatholdir smirked, knowing the Prince had him in his moleskin glove. He just needed a little push and Maeglin knew it. He understood the desires of people's hearts. “Herontortha. There’s no one who cares more for Hrango’s sister than you ... but hmm you’d rather die? So ... who can you suggest she might like to be saved by, owe her life to, be forever indebted to ... can you think of anyone ?”

A cricket chirped in the long blowing grass outside in counterpoint to the shocked, awkward silence of the house.

"I'd-" squeaked Herontortha then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly, adjusting the collar of his black tunic. "I'd rather live for love of lmalaurië. I'll guard her. Hatholdir and I know many holes I can hide her and others in, corridors we can escape Gondolin from unknown to Princess Idril, the Usurper, or Turgon."

"Then let us plan logistics!" Hatholdir decided, clapping his hands together.

Suddenly there was a knock on the smithy's door. Everyone went still and Maeglin was fuming. Tuor had redoubled the watch and Turgon allowed it; there were Elves of the Mole and Hammer and Panion's Rainbow construction company in the Echoriath excavating boulders for the city's defense. Did Roina's father or Aigronding's have spies in the mountains? Herontortha got up and gave a slight, tentative look through one of the curtained windows left of the door. "It's Chief Salgant," he said. "He's carrying a basket of treats from Endalauca's bakery."

- Let him in - Hrango, insisted, making a pulling gesture then rubbed his barrel chest to indicate his hunger.

"Don't always think with your stomach, my love," Idrasaith chastised her big sullen husband. "He can't know about our meeting." She made a sharp gesture and Herontortha stood rooted in place until the Harp Lord wobbled away. The High Elf was heavy and squat. He had not been thickset for millennia though. He was Idril's most frequent visitor, playing the harp and telling tales; the Princess and her handmaidens, Nariel and Aerlinn Mordagnir, were chiefly responsible for his weight issues for they kept supplying him with treats and wine by order of their Mistress when he was home entertaining Idril and Earendil.

"Tell him nothing," ordered Maeglin. Salgant sought Maeglin's favor but the craven had a good heart. He would jeopardize the New Order.

"You will have to trust him in someway that suits our Great Design," Hatholdir supposed in all seriousness to Maeglin. "He may ask you to assign him role in the conflict, Angharyon. Give him something simple a dullard could accomplish. It might even get him killed and rid us of some unnecessary baggage on the road."

*


Hatholdir gasped, blood spilled over his gauntlet fingers when he touched his wounded side. Valadring had pierced his mail. Aigronding Mordagnir took advantage of Hatholdir's injury and his startlement. He was seized by the younger High Elf. Thrown over the battlements, Hatholdir saw Aigronding turn the glittering azure blade of his sword above Erfaron's head...

"Not all of us," he rasped, rising shakily. He renewed the ósanwe meld between him and Erfaron, filling it with his intense worry, insisting Erfaron give him some sign that he was still among the living. He felt a pervasive warmth channelled through their connection and let his anxiety crumble. Suddenly, Hatholdir's frantic heartbeat quickened, reminded of their charge to the Wing Lord's home. The Prince and his Moles came there to claim Idril. Tuor and his Swans fought them.

Maeglin fell.

"Angharyon!" He staggered down the rocky slope of Amon Gwareth, the island-hill of hard smooth stone now mantled in ashes and black sand. A persistent whispering voice drew him closer to a great pillar of fire. Hatholdir heard the honeyed voice of the woman who loved him, Miluiwen, in the pandemonium. He ignored the maiden of the Tree; Hatholdir hurried to the tower of flame, heart hammering. Finding Hatholdir, Meluiwen spun him around and pressed her full sweet lips fiercely to his mouth. He would have responded with ardent vigour but he pushed her away. He didn't want to think about her now.

Miluiwen gazed at Hatholdir blinkingly, reaching for him. "We must escape with Princess Idril and find a new home together," pleaded the small flaxen-haired woman. The softness of her melodic voice seemed at odds with the bloody iron-studded club she clutched right-handed.

"Not without my lord." He abandoned her in the inferno's drifting smoke and the steam of the fair fountains withered in dragon-flame. He came woodenly forward, at times tripping over corpses of Moles killed by Aigronding and the Swans, obeying the summons of the mysterious sibilant speaker.

Hatholdir looked through the effulgent column of fire and fell to his knees, staring at the Prince's charred remains.

Maeglin was broken. Maeglin was burned. Maeglin had died.

"No." One word he wanted to roar in denial but uttered in a low, hoarse tone. He pummelled the hard ground with his balled fists in rage and futility then looked over his shoulder in abject guilt. Balrogs continued shooting fiery sinuous darts on elegant houses and picturesque gardens. Every home of Gondolin was blackened and beautiful trees smoldered. Flowers of imcomparable loveliness were vanished from sublime courts. The white splendor of soaring colonnades resembled the sable emptiness of the Timeless Void.

"I can never atone for this," Hatholdir muttered in bleak despair. "This is my folly."

"Of course you take all the credit," drawled the familar sardonic voice which had drawn him to Maeglin's pyre.

Hatholdir slowly turned his gaze on Anguirel, the sword of his lord. It laid near the Prince's corpse, the edges of its black blade glinting with pale luminous fire. The weapon was of great worth, forged of star-iron like its mate Anglachel. Perhaps either the malice of Eöl's evil heart was in it or imbued with Maeglin's controlling, ambitious nature. The Prince often spoke of Anguirel's sentience but never before had Hatholdir witnessed it speaking until now. With his attention absorbed by the marvel of Anguirel's sly voice, Hatholdir didn't notice a dozen Mole survivors surrounding him in a crescent line. Hrango and Idrasaith were there; they were holding hands as did Herentortha and lmalaurië. Hadron Mordagnir limped into sight supported by Asgarohtar and Galudess with her weeping daughter Nimaewen.

"Alas for Maeglin, son of my master!" bemoaned Anguirel. The voice of the strange blade regained its strength. "A new hand must wield me," it ruminated darkly. "Yours may be sufficient. Maeglin always did like you the best..."

He was unaware of the Moles kneeling in reverence behind him, waiting to be commanded. Meluiwen herself appeared when Hatholdir arose with Maeglin's mysterious sword and turned while lifting it to the ruddy smoke-laden clouds of heaven.

"Hail Hatholdir, Lord of the Moles!" Meluiwen proclaimed. She urged lmalaurië to; they were the only ones not clad in black. Herontortha's lover glowered at Hatholdir as she hailed him as her liege.

The black-clad throng chorused in unison as dozens of surviving Moles joined the black assembly.


First things first
I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been

Second things second
Don't you tell me what you think that I could be
I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea

I was broken from a young age
Taking my sulking to the masses
Pain!
You made me a made me a believer
Pain!
You break me down, you build me up, believer, believer
Pain!
Oh let the bullets fly, oh let them rain
My life, my love, my drive, it came from...
Pain!
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer

Last things last
By the grace of the fire and the flames
You're the face of the future, the blood in my veins, oh ooh

- Imagine Dragons, Believer

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"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Meeting the Moles - Semi-Private RP with @Aigronding Mordagnir
Part 2 - The Archer

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Ospiel Iuliel

Descending the mountain pass - in dire straits
Ered Wethrin - After the Fall of Gondolin - circa 521 FA
Meeting the Moles !


The lasso was pulled tight, pinning her arms at the elbow. The Sinda sucked in air with surprise. And some small pain. The rope was not just so, for the orcs had embedded cruel devices into the knotwork. Barbs and hooks and such that sank their bite into her skin. As the remains of the group towed her now off balance, breath escaped the Elleth in ragged breaths. All that she might focus on was to keep a hold of her bow. She held on. A further rope was slung over her head, that hauled her to the ground. This one was rope alone but as it tightened on her throat that was more than enough. She found her knees on the grassy knoll. Hold on, she told herself. Do not let go your bow. Fingers closed around the shattered wood their swords had already sheared into twain.

"You can drop that toad sticker now she-elf. It won't help you."

It had not been much help, admittedly, not since their foul flesh had called for the last of her arrows. But she had little, and was loath to give aught of what she had left. They would not even have her death, much less her surrender. If she could somehow devise how to halt all their efforts.

A coarse spider of fat fingers cupped her throat from behind and drove her face first into the ground. Still she held onto the fractured bow. Her own bruised fingers were prised one by one from their grip, as though they were slender twigs that snapped easily in strong fists. Ospiel cursed through the discomfort and held on, to her breath also, and the last dregs of her freedom. Rearing her head up from the path unsteadily, she whirled eyes about the scene, as it evolved to utter anarchy.

A clutch of black-clad elves had sprung out of the night. They bore axes and swords and their eyes shone like naked stars unmasked by cloud. Their leader strode up effortlessly in their wake, in his own time; hair like pitch and a face of some unexplained amusement. He coolly regarded the work of his patrol, who had made such short work of the orcs.

"Nine Orcfilth dead," the boldest of his company reported, spitting blood to the ground in distaste for the injury it denoted. And a single tooth. "We took this of them ..." The Sinda shot him such a withering glance as she found her feet, that he backstepped before recalling himself. His nearest neighbour guffawed.

"Four were already robbed of their lives when we arrived," another of their number admitted, honestly, for consideration. Two other Elves cautiously unravelled the bonds about the Elleth. Ever more warily as the meaning of this last dawned upon them. Still, she was Elf, and even were she of the type to want them dead, they outnumbered her. More than one of them regarded her ruined weapon in such wonder and contempt, but she held to it only more so.

"You wear the garb of Fingon" she was informed, of their knowledge of her alignment. She was yet oblivious of theirs, though noted the relief this observation seemed to shudder through their line.

"I am Ospiel, of Hithlum," she shrugged, recovering her voice with the required pride of such a claim. "Charged by the High king to hold to defence of his realm when he rode out to war." There was no need to relate the death of Fingon. All knew. His Enemy had made a celebration of the murder and woe had infected the region in the wake of their King's loss. There had been a successor High King of the Noldor, come and gone after him since then though the Sinda had seen/known this not. As far as she was aware, there were no longer Noldor in Hithlum, nor even Sindar that she had seen, besides herself. Still, she knew her homeland better than the Easterlings who had just lately occupied it, and they had never found her.

"The enemy rode at our borders in droves and on such a storm of riotous victory that we could not halt them. Our allies, they told us, had scattered and been all annihilated," the elleth considered her benefactors, still struck by some awe. All the surviving Elves in Hithlum had been herded off to Angband, so that to have eyes fall on her kind again … seemed strange and suspicious. "That was now some thirty years since," she shrugged, carelessly, and yet in continuation of that movement, stepped up to the tallest of her saviours. "So who are you that came here unlooked for and with such timely intervention ?"

She scrutinised their dark uniforms again. They were as well worn as her own. Clearly living in the wild. Wherever their home had been, she guessed it had been taken from them. Such was the fate of all since the battle of unnumbered tears. Loneliness had been her only friend since efforts to assist the Mortals of Dor-Lomin had met with .. well, disaster was the only fair description. But how could she have known that to rob foods and medicines of the Easterlings to feed their slaves .. would be blamed upon those same slaves ? They had been executed for deeds they had not dared, and she ought not to have dared either. That one duty she might have obliged her friends, denied her, there had been naught to stay for. Save to watch the realm wrought to a malice one lone she-elf could not have contested. Alone .. Doriath had been her intention, if that far-off legend had managed to persist when all other kingdoms of Elvendom were toppled. She did not know, could not have known, that it too had fallen. And she had been reliably informed that Gondolin was so well hid, even Elves as searched a hundred years could not discover it's secret sanctuary.

"We are for Lord Hatholdir Narroval, heir and leader of the House of Mole," they chanted, drawing thoughts to be replaced, by some bewilderment. The Sinda blinked, having never heard of such a contingent, ever.

"King," corrected another, prudently, of his fellows. "He is king now of the moles," the taller gaunt Elf put in, self--important. "Successor of Maeglin, who was nephew to late Fingon, son of his sister the late lady Aredhel."

At this last, the elleth found her eyes widen in shock. That the Lady Aredhel was took from the world, as had been her brother, the High King. But Aredhel had been safely in Gondolin, with Turgon ! Their speech was heavily Sindarised though with a touch of something more culturally unique: supporting their claim.

"I did not think the elves of Gondolin came ever abroad from their hidden home .." Ospiel fought the urge to massage her injuries. It would mean letting hold of her bow. "Has King Turgon relieved his vow ?"

A wave of incredulity passed through the small group, as to which rock this Elleth had been hid under for the … last thirty years ??

"Gondolin is now no more, no more than our late king Turgon," the blow bore through her like a hammer, Ospiel took an involuntary step backwards herself now. The elves clad in midnight were grim as they gave up their news; and relaxed no more than did the elleth.

"The Royal line of Fingolfin is spent, " they clarified. "The Kings daughter Idril stolen by a gluttonous mortal. We are all that has survived the wreckage of our ruin."

They had not made mention of Gil-Galad, she noted, and for that then, did not raise words of it herself. For either fear of hearing tale of the young Prince's demise as well, or that his having been sent south had truly secured his life. It was her duty for the last, not to endanger his existence. "Doriath ?" she dared to question of her ever vain hope. A resounding shake of heads cut through her.

"I fear that I am all of the Eldar in Hithlum left, that was took not to Angband," she warned them of her talent for survival. "The mortals of Dor-Lomin are enslaved by cruel men from the east. I have but my bow," Ospiel sought the eyes of the unexpected patrol, each in turn, and delivered her own undulating stare. "None has ever took it from my grasp, though countless have tried. So I would ask of your intention, and give you due warning. That if you do mean me harm, you shall meet the same fate as did all those eager to see me to languish in their loathsome mines .."

Why they found the threat quite so entertaining, she could not imagine. But .. "Would you be comforted any," the tall Mole lowered his face as he vanquished the small space between them, hands raised, disarmingly, "to learn that at least one other Elf, draped in the tatters of Hithlum's uniform, came to embrace our own before this day ? Not all who followed your High King shared his fate."

It at least bred curiosity enough for the Sinda to come willing, and meet with this Hatholdir figure.
Last edited by Ercassie on Sun Sep 19, 2021 11:15 am, edited 3 times 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.

Black Númenórean
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Rembina
Alqualondë. YT 1495.
(Private with Frost)

I’m no one, the boy said, but it did not seem to merely be a child deflecting a question. There was something else happening behind his eyes, beyond simple terror or lack of understanding. Their little boat rocked in the shelter of his parents’ trawler, knocking against its broader beams as the furious swells reached them. The boy twisted in his grasp, but not to run: he leaned over the edge of the boat and convulsed, emptying the contents of his stomach into the water. Davos would like to have joined him, but the compulsion to protect this boy was more powerful than the roiling in the pit of his stomach. As the boy turned back around, they stared at each other for a long moment, the ancient and the youth, and Davos loosed his grip yet further. He was certain the boy would not run again. The roaring and screaming that surrounded them were indistinct, and in that moment Davos could not have said whether they came from the wind, the sea, or the throats of elves, or from his own mind. He dropped his hands. This turned out to be a mistake: though the body did not try to flee, the sudden tears that ran down his face seemed to have unlocked, or close odd, Davos could not have said, something else within him: his eyes rolled back and his small body crumpled, overbalancing and slumping over the side of the boat and back into the waves.

“No you don’t!” the Nelya lunged and caught the boy by the back of his collar, hauling him back out of the water before he could disappear beneath its surface again. This time, the boy was heavy in Davos’s arms, and though no expert healer, he felt sure would stay that way for quite some time. Stripping off his jerkin, he wrapped the boy in it, and tucked him beneath the seat at the stern of the rowboat, out of the worst of the weather. He was reluctant to step away from the boy, but the compulsion to know what was happening seized Davos, and he climbed the hawsers that bound the rowboat to the trawler with innate skill and speed that belied the howling gale all around him. Bodies strewed the deck he gained, all of them still now, and staining the planks darkly. He ran past, to the bow, then leaping out on the bowsprit, caught a line in his hand to steady himself against the thrashing swells. A fleet was sailing away from Alqualondë. A fleet of white swan-ships, with golden beaks and eyes of jet, was sailing away from Alqualondë and into the black storm. A fleet of stolen ships, ships stolen with blood and betrayal, and where Davos’s stomach had roiled before, it now sank heavily, and his heart with it, as though filled with leaden fishing-weight. A terrible foreboding came up on the ancient as he watched them, and an awful calm pressed against his ears. The rain lashed his face, straggling his hair across it, and washing away the salt-water that seeped from his eyes to join the sea.

Why?

His silent cry went unanswered. The sea and sky were too full of such cries for Ulmo to reply. Night swallowed the fleet, and Davos did not know how long he had been watching it depart. Slowly a hollow emptiness replaced the weight within him, gnawing at the lead in his belly until it had gone entirely, leaving nothing. Numbly he turned, and the figures sprawled about the ship wavered before his eyes. There was nothing he could do, not for them. Scarcely feeling the boards beneath his feet, Davos leapt back down to the deck and retraced his steps, vaulting over the rail and back into the rowboat. Loosing the rope that held them bound to the trawler, he took up the boars and began to row to the nearby shore, aided by the buffeting swells, turning into small, whitecapped waves. Its bow nosed into the sand and Davos leaped over the side, boots splashing into the chill water, and hauled the little boat further ashore. The boy hand not moved, and Davos dragged him out from beneath the bench seat. His limbs and head flopped distressingly, but the warmth of his shallow breaths were reassuring on the Nelya’s neck as he clasped the boy to his chest. One arm looped under the bottom of the boy’s legs, supporting his weight, and the other crossed his back, one of Davos’s large, rough hands cradling the back of his head. He strode up the beach, the sand seeming to drag at his feet. Fires were burning, voices were calling, figures were scattered about on the sand, other figures swarmed the docks, others poured from the city. Doggedly he made his way for its walls, and was absorbed by the chaos.


*

Alqualondë was quiet and frantic. A blanket of silence had settled over the city of pearls, broken only by the swift clatter of wheels over cobbles and running feet. No talk or song rang in the streets; even the swans were silent. Every hand that held healing skills was deep within buildings, exerting all their efforts to save their kin, survivors of the Noldorin slaughter. It should have been morning, but the persistent starlight was pale and sickly, offering little aid to those searching for any who remained alive, and recovering those who lay dead. Dead. Death was an utterly foreign concept to so many of the Eldar; those who had participated in the Great Journey had seen it, some of them- but death by elf, at the hand of elf? Nothing, nothing, would ever be the same again. Davos had to keep working through that endless night to keep has hands from shaking, from remembering the feel of flesh, sinew, and bone parting at the end of a blade; from recalling the sensation of Ramyanér’s blood running over his fingers, and the sick power of the nís’s throat quivering beneath his palms.

He had worked with those sifting through the sands to recover the dead, constructing trestle tables upon the beach in the lee of the city’s wall, lifting body after body onto them to be wrapped carefully in linen, their faces sponged clean, for family and friends to identify. They lay in long rows, white and peaceful against the unholy night. Teleri and Noldor alike, though the latter were vastly outnumbered. The faces blurred together, rage and guilt and despair fought within him, and the only way Davos could keep them at bay was to keep working. He stood now at a trestle table at the end of one long row, having just lifted the slight form of a nís whose name he did not know onto its surface. Her face was still frozen in the same attitude it had been when she had gasp to him that her son was in the water. Her husband lay next to her her. And beyond him, Ramyanér, his eyes closed now, shutting out the horror. The palms of Davos’s hands slammed into the surface of the table as he struck it, leaning upon it as though the support of the earth had gone from beneath his feet, shoulders hunched, eyes screwed tight shut. When he next breathed, it was with a great, rasping cry, half cut off by the constriction of his throat.

A light touch on the back of his arm announced the presence of another. Davos inhaled again, chest heaving with the effort. And again, before he was able to straighten and turn to look at the newcomer. It was a nís, a fellow shipwright he did not know terribly well, but whom he had instructed on more than one occasion. Her work and her wit were admirable, though she now carried the same sadness in her eyes as they all did. She was holding a basket of linens.

“Go home, Davos.”

He shook his head mutely. She shifted the basket to her hip and reached out, peeling one of his hands from the edge of the table it still clutched. She grasped it firmly, the first warm flesh he had touched in what felt like days, but could only have been hours.

“You have been out here twice as long as some. There are others newly come who can help.” She looked out over the bloodied beach and scorched city sadly, before returning her steady gaze to Davos. “And the work won’t be over any time soon. If you drop from exhaustion, we will have to make a place here for you. Go home, Seaworth.”

After a moment, he squeezed back, compressing her skillful hand gently within his own. Wordlessly he walked past her, stumbling here and there in the sand. At last it gave way to the city street as he passed through the rock arch that was Alqualondë’s gate, and mercifully from there, his home was mere strides away. It was a grey stone dwelling a few yards from the entrance to the city, one of the first such dwellings established when they had begun the building of this city, long ago. Davos did not need much space, for the sea was his true home, and so the house contained little more than spaces for sleeping and eating, but it was surprisingly open and airy within, the outside plastered and studded with many designs in pearls, many of which he had dived for himself over the years. Now, it was a blessed sanctuary: Davos’s hand pressed habitually against a small carven metal plate outside the door as he entered, inscribed with designs of waves and runes of the Lord of Waters, the rough edges of the carvings worn smooth by the constant touch of his fingers.

Inside, a silver-haired nér looked up from his position beside the bed. He was seated on Davos’s comfortable high-backed chair, dragged over from its usual position by the fireplace, one bandage-covered leg propped up on a hard kitchen chair. He shook his head. “Not a peep,” he said, gesturing to the bed beside him. Davos walked wearily across to stand at the foot of his bed, and looked down at the boy occupying it. The unknown orphan boy with the auburn hair, looking especially tiny in the bed built for his own burly frame. But he was safe, and warm, and alive. Davos sighed. “Who can know when he may wake? You think it safe to leave him without a healer, Caltano?” The other nodded, folding his arms across his chest. “Aye, there seems to be nothing physically wrong with him, and there is nothing more I can do.” Davos dipped his chin at Caltano’s bandaged leg. “And you?” Caltano shook his head again. “There is nothing for me to do but rest and heal! I am in no danger. I had better be getting home and leave you in peace.” As Caltano began to level himself up from the chair, Davos thrust his arm beneath his friend’s, and helped him to his feet. “I can stay upright a bit longer. Come, let me help you home- I doubt the boy will wake in the next ten minutes if he hasn’t yet.”

When Davos returned, his prediction proved true: the boy lay, silent and still, in the exact posture he had occupied before. So still, in fact, that the Nelya strode quickly across the room and held the back of his hand to the boy’s mouth- but no, his breath still ghosted against the skin. Alive. Davos was suddenly aware of his raging thirst, ravenous hunger, and the feeling of grime thick on his skin. He began to rip off his clothing, turning and barging his way through his backdoor with a hip, to the slate-paved yard outside where his water-barrel stood. The first ladleful be poured down his throat, and the second over his head, repeating this sequence with only pause enough to divest himself of all garments. It felt as though no water would ever be enough to cleanse him of the night’s experiences, no brush stiff enough to scrub the blood from his hands. But cleanse him the water did, and scrub away sand and filth did the brush, even if the feeling of defilement remained upon his skin. Davos had even scrubbed his hair, and it was some time later he sat by the fire within his home, re-braiding its top and sides, alternately staring into the flames and glancing back to the bed, where the boy still lay. The doors and windows were tight-shut against the chill starlight outside, and the light of the fire and numerous candles case a soft, umber glow about the room. Between the inactivity and the warmth, the exhaustion was returning, but Davos did not want to sleep until the boy awoke.

Some things were beyond even his control though, and with a grunt Davos arose, crossing over to the bed. He allowed his body to drop into the soft, deep chair Caltano had occupied earlier, and scooted it as close as possible to the side of the bed. A blanket lay over the back of the chair, tossed there by its previous occupant, and Davos pulled it down to cover himself. The bed was tall and deep, any by dint of slumping only slightly in the chair, he was able to easily rest his elbow on its arm, and his hand on the arm of the boy. Though he intended to keep watch, it was mere moments before Davos’s eyes fell closed, his head drooped to the side against the wing of the chair and his breathing became heavy and slow. He did not know how much time had passed when at length he came awake, but it must have been hours- the candles and fire had both burned low, and the silence was more oppressive. The cause of his wakefulness presented itself almost as he became aware of being awake: beneath his hand, the arm was stirring. The boy, too, was waking. Abruptly Davos straightened, the blanket falling form his shoulders too his knees, and shuffled the chair around so he could face the boy. In the dim light he watched as his face began to stir as well, and eyes to slowly open.

“Hello,” he said softly, watching for any signs of recognition. Who knew what the boy would even remember? “I am called Davos. You are in my home, and you are safe.” Though the question had not gone well before, he asked it again.

“What is your name?”
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Rembina
Alqualondë, YT 1495
(Private with Moriel)

Slowly, Finnbarr was pulled form the black void of unconscious and brought into the light of awareness. He blinked owlishly as his eyes adjusted. He was in a bed. He had never been in a bed so soft, so cushioned. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if he was in the bed of the High King. Starlight filtered down from the heavens and twinkled. He did not know why, but he was filled with a sudden surge of resentment for the stars. They were so far removed from everything, could they even see all the misery? If they could, why didn’t they stop it? Why didn’t the powers beyond those great mountains stop things? He tried to hold onto the bitterness, the resentment, but he found corralling it and holding it was too much effort. He was too tired to do much more than hold his eyes open long enough to recognize this was not his room. The room did not smell of blood and ashes. There was a faint trace of it on the wind, but for the most part, the only thing Finnbarr could smell was sea salt. There was something oddly comforting in that. His eyes hurt. He closed them again but they still stung. His head was pounding, waves were crashing in his head. His stomach roared to life, gurgling with rapacious fervor. When was the last time he ate? The thought moved lethargically through his mind. What day was it? How long had he been where ever this was? His stomach gurgled again, painfully. Involuntarily, he whimpered and tried to curl him on himself again. It was only then that he realized he was not alone in the room. He jumped, startled like a sleeping fish.

He settled, tried to swallow, then looked hard at the man. He looked familiar. Finnbarr tried to think, tried to recall. His memories were fractured and hazy . Why couldn’t he remember everything? He stared intently at the man. He was… the knowledge was just on the tip of his tongue, he tried to reach out and grasp it, but it was smoke. He did recognize him though. He couldn’t remember who he was, but Finnbarr knew he should know him. He was… he was the man that was on the boat with him… last night? His head throbbed and thrummed. He was! He swallowed again, his throat was dry.

“You’re him… from when… I’m sorry I tried to get away,” his voice sounded odd in his ears, it sounded like it belonged to someone else but still issued from his lips. “I’m… my name is Finnbarr.” He looked away, suddenly embarrassed. If this was the man from before then why had he brought him here? Where was here? What was going on? His stomach gargled again, louder and more insistent this time. His cheeks blossomed for a moment. He began coughing. Deep, guttural coughs that shook his small, thin frame. They were dry, wheezing coughs. He clenched the bedsheets, balled up his fists as he fought to get a breath in between spasms. He then coughed up a glob of seawater. He doubled over in pain as another glob burst out of him. It tasted awful. He could taste the blood and the salt mixed together. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing it would all go away, wishing he could hide from it. He opened them a moment later and stared in horror at the wet spot on the bed, sea water mixed with thin traces of blood and saliva. He wiped his mouth and looked piteously at the man.

That’s when it clicked. He reached out and grabbed the memory. He knew how this man was! This was Davos Seaworth! His face brightened for a moment with the miniscule triumph, then he reddening again. He was sitting with Davos Seaworth and all he had done was cough up seawater on his bed.

“I’m sorry… sorry about the bed. I can clean it. My atar taught me how to get blood out of sheets with naught but seawater. I can get it clean. I’m sorry… Davos,” the name seemed too informal, too common, should he have called him lord? He cleared his throat. “Lord Davos, sorry. I can get it… you don’t remember I supposed,” what was he doing? He started rambling and now he couldn’t stop himself. “I met you once. A long, long time ago. I was only five or six at the time, I’m nine now. We met at the market. You bought some fish from my parents. You picked the fish that I caught. You said, you said you would make sure to tell your guests that night it was caught by a master fisherman. Then you gave me a carving. You gave me… me, a carving of a sea otter. You said, you said it was a gift.” He started rummaging in his pockets. He kept the little marble figure with him at all time. He checked all his pockets, checked them again, then panicked. No! No! He always kept it with him all the time. He even slept with the figure clutched to his chest! Tears suddenly welled up in his eyes and began to spill. He had lost his otter! The otter that Lord Davos Seaworth had given him!

He looked back at the man sitting in the chair. He seemed so calm and serene. How could he be so calm? Was that something he could get when he was as old as Davos? He tried to breath through the wracking sobs. “I’m… I’m sorry… I lost it. I don’t know where I left him. I’m so sorry!” He took in a huge gulp of air, held it, and slowly let it out. He did it again, and again, and again. Finally he calmed himself.

As he sat in the most comfortable bed he’d ever felt, as the stars filtered down their shimmering, silvery light, as he fretted over the loss of a sea otter figurine, another thought slammed into his head. His parents…

“They’re… they’re dead. Aren’t they?”

The words felt thick and slimy, like they didn’t want to come out of his mouth. The sound that came out was timid and afraid, but resigned. Death was a strange concept to the Teler. Even though he was only nine years old, he had understood that his life, should he choose, would be endless. His atar and naneth were hundreds and hundreds of years old, so they had told him. Davos was even older, one of the oldest people in the world. Death was not something little Finnbarr contemplated before. Now, his thoughts were consumed by it.

“What,” his voice cracked, “What do we do now?”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 1:58 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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Rembina
Alqualondë. YT 1495.
(Private with Frost)

The boy jolted, full consciousness thrusting itself upon him unmercifully. Davos watched him as he swallowed and stared, searching for his voice. When it came, it was hoarse and apologetic. My name is Finnbarr, the boy said, and something about the name stirred a corner of Davos’s memory. But he was quickly distracted by the harsh, wracking coughs that followed the words, ripping through the boy’s small frame. The hand that had rested on his arm, Davos moved to Finnbarr’s back, patting it gently as he coughed up thick catarrh brought on by his near-drowning in the sea, laced with blood. Before the Nelya could make a move to reassure the boy who now looked at him so wretchedly, there was a flash of recognition in Finnbarr’s face, and he immediately began to apologize, offering to clean the blanket. Davos shook his head automatically as the boy called him Lord- it was an unwarranted appellation frequently applied by those who did not know better, or who thought they did. But words continued to tumble from Finnbarr’s mouth, and he did not think it prudent to interrupt.

Davos did, however, have to smile slightly at Finnbarr’s assertion of a long, long time ago- though of course, to a child, the passage of three or four years in the light of the trees was a long time indeed. He nodded along at the story, remembering it now. It had been a perfectly ordinary day, a perfectly ordinary trip to the market, and a perfectly ordinary interaction with the nice couple selling their catch, and their small son. The boy had introduced himself proudly (”Finnbarr!" Davos recalled his voice, more high and piping than it was now, upon being asked his name), and explained how each large fish had come to be captured and presented for sale that day. A mighty battle had been described between the boy himself and one particularly long, plump specimen, and Davos had exclaimed at once that this fish must grace his table, with a wink at the parents. And he had given the boy the carving, a product of idle hours at sea. Occasionally the Nelya sold these trinkets, but more often than not gifted them to the children of Alqualondë, to their delight and his pleasure. He had walked away with the fish tucked in his arm, whistling and waving his acknowledgement of the family’s thanks, and until now, had quite forgotten the moment, delightful as it had been, as part of an ordinary day.

And now the boy was crying again, frantically checking his pockets, trying to find the carving which had surely been lost to the waters. Sobs tore through him again, and again, Davos laid a hand upon his back, allowing its weight to rest, firm and heavy, upon Finnbarr’s upper back. Davos sat quietly, waiting for the sobs to spend themselves. When at last the boy began to gain control of his breathing, Davos pressed his hand more firmly to the young one’s back, as if in assurance that the contact would return. Then with his free hand he swiftly stripped the soiled blanket away from the bed and the boy and tossed it aside, his other hand instantly replacing it with the clean one that had covered his own body as he slept in the chair, still warm from his body heat. As Davos sat back in his chair from straightening the blanket over Finnbar, he shuffled his body to its edge, and it was then that the boy regained enough breath to speak. They’re… they’re dead, aren’t they? Davos hung his head, his elbows resting on his knees. This moment was inevitable, but it didn’t make the crushing burden of grief and responsibility any lighter. He drew a deep breath; it shook, and he willed his voice to be steady when it was his turn to speak.

The small voice asked, What do we do now?

Davos raised his head, and ancient grey eyes met youthful and wet. “Yes,” he answered, and thanked Ulmo that his voice was calm and showed only sorrow, not the despair in his heart. “Yes, Finnbarr. Your parents are dead. As are many, many others.” He shook his head slowly, before returning his gaze to the boy’s. “Those who killed them have fled these shores. I wish I could have brought them to justice for robbing you of your family.” Revenge was the fire that burned hotly at the back of Davos’s mind, but he tamped it down, gazing instead at the boy with the wan echo of a smile. “As for what we do now, I do not know. I truly do not know what comes next. But whatever it is,” he reached out and squeezed Finnbarr’s shoulder with one hand, and with the other gripped the boy’s closest leg firmly below the knee, leaning close, his face etched now into lines of bleak assurance, “we can face it together. You are not alone, Finnbarr. I know not if you have any other family, but if not, I will be your family so long as you have need of me.” This assertion tumbled from the Nelya’s lips without forethought; though it surprised Davos, he found he meant it, without reservation. “For now, you must rest, and recover. And when you have regained your strength, we will lay your parents to rest.”

His hands slipped away, and came together again the gently grasp Finnbarr’s nearest hand. Should the boy wish to pull away, he would meet no resistance. “For now, they lie peacefully under the eyes of those we can trust, next to my friend, Ramya-“ here his voice did break, and when he blinked, a tear coursed down his rough, unfinished-looking face. “Ramyanér, who I must also tend. Others of our kin, and the stars, watch over them until we are ready.” Almost abruptly, Davos turned away and stood, striding to the sideboard, where a jug of water stood. He poured a glass, and carried it back to the bed, handing it to Finnbarr as he sank back into his seat. “Drink,” Davos ordered gently, “it will help, whether it feels like it or not. In some ways, in any case. In others, only time will help. Drink, and rest.” He sighed, and considered the boy for a long moment before speaking again. The Nelya had long since decided that complete honesty was how he would treat this child, and his every word that followed was true. Equally as true was his desire to give the boy a purpose to cling to, a life raft in the midst of a howling gale. “I can do little to ease the pain of your loss, but to be your friend. I think we both need a friend right now. Can you be my friend, Finnbarr, and walk through this night with me?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Roccotaurë
Part 1


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YT 1454.

Being the daughter of a prosperous merchant came with many advantages, but Tavari was not yet old enough to see them. She was only aware of the disadvantages, like long carriage rides where Mother tried to get her to sit still and properly, waiting while Father conducted business, having to wear “nice” clothes and talk to strangers who all seemed to find it necessary to exclaim what a “fine little lady” she was… Tavari might be very young indeed, but she was smart enough to see through that. So on this particular trip to Valmar she had seized upon the first opportunity to get away from it all. Evading father, mother, and brother all- she felt a bit badly about leaving Arasoron behind, but it would be harder to pull the thing off with both of them escaping, and he didn’t mind the business dealings as much as she- Tavari had slipped out of the house near the edge of the city where they were hosted, and out into the plains beyond. Neat fields quickly gave way to wilder ones, and to the edge of a great forest. Though she did not know it, Tavari had come to the Woods of Oromë for the first time. She looked back at the city, which seemed much further away than she thought it should. Small she might be, with the still-round limbs of early childhood, but she was already a thing of endurance and determination. And joy: her laughter bounced off the ancient bark of the trees as she ran, surefooted, into the forest for which she was named.

Before long, the trees thinned and Tavari found herself in a clearing- more than a clearing, an enormous glade, its surface smooth and mossy, dotted here and there with flowers and longer grasses and clover, and far across it a wide, clear pool, fed from above by a tumbling waterfall. Delighted, Tavari began to run across the glade towards it. But no sooner had she begun than the feeling of the earth beneath her feet changed: a gentle thrumming, then a vibration which grew steadily louder, and the sound of innumerable hoofbeats soon joined it. Almost as soon as Tavari felt and heard these last, their source burst into the clearing: a vast herd of horses of all colors galloping into the glade, leaping fallen trees and brush, rushing muscular bodies and pounding legs, and it seemed to the elf girl, the sound of many voices, all jumbled together. Surrounded by the milling horses, buffeted this way and that and utterly confused, Tavari did what any small child might do at such a moment: she filled her lungs, and screamed. Immediately as her voice pierced the glade, the movement of the horses changed, and one appeared before her, pacing directly towards Tavari. This was a mare of a rich, deep chestnut, and she halted before the girl, gazing upon her with soft dark eyes. She dropped her head, and Tavari reached out to touch the velvety muzzle, soft and strange beneath her fingers. Without quite knowing why, she threw her arms around the horse’s neck.

At once, Tavari felt the earth disappear from beneath her feet as the mare raised her head, easily bearing the weight of the girl as she clung on, desperately fisting her fingers into the horse’s mane. Even as the mare turned and began to walk, Tavari struggled her way down the long, strong red neck, and with an awkward effort, managed to sling one leg over the horse’s back. Panting, she wriggled her hips back until she was seated in a more conventional position, a tiny figure on the broad back. The mare was warm and solid beneath her, and Tavari found herself enjoying the sensation of movement atop the horse immensely. She had never sat upon a horse before. “Well, what have we here?” The voice startled Tavari, for she had not paid any attention as to where the mare was taking her. Even from her position atop the horse, she had to tilt her head back to look up at the towering figure of the Huntsman before her, himself seated upon a gleaming white horse with hooves of gold. She knew who this was, but could not speak, her mouth hanging open in awe. “What are you doing out here on your own, child? Where are your parents?”

“Valmar.” Tavari squeaked at last, and Oromë gave a great shout of laughter. “You have come far afield, little one. What is your name.” After a hard swallow, her voice came out stronger this time. “Tavari.” Again Oromë laughed, and it was a warm sound that filled Tavari up from the inside, and took away her fear. “Then it is well you have come here to my woods. But come. I am certain you did not ask permission to come, and your parents will be missing you.” Tavari’s lips pursed and twisted to one side, her hands curling in the red mane of the mare as she resisted her impulse, but it won in the end. “Must I go back?” she burst out, meeting the eyes of the Vala King, “I hate sitting around in that city! Can’t I stay here with you?” Oromë shook his head, but his smile was kind. “Not today, Tavari. But when you are next in Valmar, seek me out in my house. There is much you may learn, if you wish.” She nodded fervently, and at a gesture from Oromë, the chestnut mare turned so that she stood next to him. “Come, I will see you safely back to your parents.”

A strong arm encircled Tavari’s under the arms, lifting her effortlessly from the mare, and settling her onto the back of Nahar himself, in front of Oromë. If the chestnut mare had been solid and comforting, Nahar was pure energy itself, scintillating beneath her, yet steady and unshakeable. Tavari found herself suddenly breathless, her fingers twining into the white mane before her, and Nahar snorted and pranced, tossing his head, as though he too had felt the current that had passed though the girl. “He likes you!” Oromë’s tone was delighted, with an undercurrent of surprise that Tavari was both to young and too enraptured to notice. “Oh please, please can we run?” she was practically bouncing with excitement, and the Huntsman’s laugh rang out again. “Yes, little one, let us ride!” At the barest touch from Oromë, Nahar gathered his haunches, dug in his heels, and bolted through the trees, trailing delighted peals of childish laughter in his wake.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Roccotaurë
Part 2

(Part 1)

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YT 1460.

A pair of calves flashed though the tall grass, covered in moss-green suede. Their owner had run and danced with abandon amongst the deer and companions of Nessa, since ever she could dance, and her fleetness was a sight to behold. But now she ran to Oromë, and her periwinkle eyes snapped and danced with anticipation. Tavari was not yet full heighted, but had grown into a lean, unbridled thing: here was an adolescent who had never desired to spend idle days shut up in some sitting room. Arasoron was her constant companion in all other things, but here the twins diverged: the time she spent with Oromë and his herds was hers, and hers alone. She had taken the Huntsman up on his offer, those years ago, to seek him out in his house- as soon as she could, and as often. Tavari had learned to ride and to care for the horses that lived under his hand with a speed born of obsession, and natural talent. Oromë had set her to work and learning with others of his followers, but her skill and hunger quickly outstripped many. The maia Tilion had become a special tutor to her, and whenever possible, she found herself at the Huntsman’s side. It was a comfortable, challenging place to be; constantly learning about the world around them, and all the creatures they shared it with.

But it was the horses that captivated Tavari, and with whom she shared an indescribable connection. And today, today was the day. The chestnut mare who had greeted her and brought her to Oromë on that first day was heavy in foal to Nahar, and for days had been moving about ponderously, her belly dropped low and round. Tavari had been present and assisted at the births of many foals over the years, and calves of the kine too, but this foaling would be special. Somehow, this one was different. Even as she had been preparing to set out that morning, a hawk had arrived, bearing the message that she was to come, at once: it had begun. And so she ran, ignoring the burning in both legs and lungs. Now was not the time for restraint, not when the Huntsman called and new life beckoned. Thin branches whipped Tavari as she sprinted through the edge of the forest, tearing bits of her hair out of its long plait, and leaving their morning dew-marks on her clothing. At last, she leaped over a fallen tree and burst into the clearing- that same glade, in fact, where she had first encountered the herds.

There, near to the pool, were Oromë and several others, gathered around the chestnut mare, who lay stretched upon the ground. Tavari slowed to a walk so as not to startle her, and strode quickly to join the group. The Huntsman knelt at the mare’s head, stroking her jowls and murmuring soothingly. Tavari dropped to her knees at his side, resting one hand on the mare’s shoulder- it was hot and damp with sweat, and as she took in the scene, noticed the edge of white around the horse’s eyes, and the trembled heaving of her flanks. She looked sharply up at Oromë. “What is it? How long has she been like this?” He shook his head gravely. “Too long. Something is wrong. The foal is laid awry.” The mare gave a soft, shrill whinny, and his stroking resumed. Tavari looked around at one of her companions from Oromë’s host, rising to a kneeling position from where he had lain behind the mare, streaked with blood and mucous. His face was as grave as the Huntsman’s, and he too shook his head. “The foal is dogsitting.” The tense silence of the group sharpened, and Tavari’s eyes widened: this was a rare and dangerous malpresentation in horses, and one which she had yet to encounter in person. “The foal is too large and the mare too small,” the nér continued, holding up his hands in frustration; though they were far from overlarge, it was clear to see how his right hand had been cruelly constricted within the mare. “There isn’t enough space for me to do anything!” Tavari glanced around the group, and from those present, knew that he had been chosen for this task both for his skill and the slenderness of his hands. Her heart sank.

“Tavari.”

She looked up at Oromë again, and he did not have to speak further to communicate his will. Panic rose where her heart had fallen.

“What? I- no, I can’t- I don’t know how-“

“You can. And you do.”

“Can’t you-“

Allowing an amused look to cross his face, The Hunstman lifted one of his enormous hands. “No, I cannot.” His face fell into serious lines again as he continued, “It’s up to you now, child. Two lives depend on you.” He nodded to the nér at the mare’s hind end. “Move aside and rest, Curumaito. Let Tavari try.”

Shaking, the young nís forced her legs to straighten and moved to take Curumaito’s place. She knelt again behind the mare and pulled back the sleeves of her tunic. The nér offered her sudsy water and cloths and she cleansed her arm, before rubbing it all over with the flesh of a spiky plant that secreted a slippery, gel-like liquid. Holding her prepared arm at waist height, Tavari paused. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, willing her hands to be still and her mind to be calm. There was no need to send her thought out to Oromë to plead for strength: he was there, and his strength was hers as she opened her eyes, and with resolve clambered down onto the ground to stretch out behind the horse. Tentatively, Tavari slipped her hand inside the mare, and did not have to go far to feel the problem for herself. There were the forehooves, and resting between the fetlocks it should, the muzzle. But just beyond and below the fetlocks were the rear hooves- the back legs, which should have been far away and out of reach, were instead stretched forward to their maximum length, up beneath the foal’s body, so that they projected into the birth canal nearly as far as the fore. And not only that, but the hooves were not the comically small ones of a tiny, delicate foal: they were massive, indicating a very large foal. This would likely have been a difficult birth even without the malpresentation, but now?

Tavari looked up at Curumaito, the panic rising in her again, and her eyes must have betrayed her, for he nodded grimly. “It’s so far,” she whispered. The only way to have a hope of saving this foal, its mother, or both, was to repel both hind legs to their natural positions. Their natural positions, deep inside the mare, working against her contractions that sought to expel the foal into the world, and all this without allowing any of the hooves to damage her delicate internal walls. Next to Tavari’s forearm as she felt one of the rear hooves, the foal’s nostrils quivered, and its mouth twitched. Alive. Warm, alive, and so close to being born. Tavari took several deep breaths, then set her lips in a firm line, and nodded to Curumaito. “Let me have the cord.” The nér passed her a clean length of twine, a tool often used in correcting problematic presentations, tied into a loop with a slipknot. She guided it to the foal’s forehooves, then looped it about each of the pasterns in turn with a twist between for extra assurance that it wouldn’t slip off, then tightened the noose down. “And another,” She repeated the process with a second cord, but this time, looped it over one of the rear hooves. She drew the end of this cord up between the front pasterns, and gently maneuvered the hoof so that it formed a kind of bundle with the fore. Then she drew the end out of the mare, and held both lengths of cord out to Curumaito with her free hand. “Gentle traction please, I just want to make sure these hooves stay where we want them.” Wordlessly, the nér did as he was bidden.

Now came the gauntlet. All the while Tavari had been securing the hooves, the mare had continued to strain, necessitating pauses as the powerful muscles clamped down around the foal and her arm, locking them into place until the spasm subsided. Even as she wrapped her hand around the hoof, shielding its edges, another came. The pressure crushed the bones of her hand against the hoof and the foreleg beside it, squeezing and gripping until she no longer felt connected to her hand. There isn’t enough space! Curumaito’s exclamation rang in her mind through the pain. How on earth was she supposed to guide this hoof- this whole leg- the distance it needed to go? The contraction subsided, and Tavari pushed forward, sliding her hand and the hoof within it further inside the mare. There was resistance from all sides, including from the foal’s own leg, but it seemed to be moving. Then another contraction- and the leg shot forward again, with such force that Tavari only just kept hold of the hoof. The soft capsule meant to protect the mare from the foal’s hooves was effective under normal circumstances, but if one of those feet came rocketing against the side of the birth canal at an angle- she didn’t like to think about it. Tavari re-gripped the hoof and began again. And again, the hoof bounded back at her. The nís gritted her teeth, thinking hard. This was never going to work, the hoof was too slippery, and both the contractions and the resistance of the foal’s outstretched rear leg were too powerful. She could not maintain both a grip on the hoof and the necessary resistance against the contractions to keep repelling the leg between more than one spasm. Perhaps there was another way- but would her arm be long enough for it to work?

Tavari let go of the hoof. She slid her hand down the rear leg, until she found the joint of the hock. It was not quite fully extended, with just enough of a bend left in it that she was able to take a grip and flex the joint a bit more, wrapping her fingers fully about it. She imagined the next steps in her mind: as she pushed against the hock to repel the leg it would continue to flex, folding the leg back into its natural position as it retreated within the womb, eventually, at the very end of the process, realigning the hip as well, so that the leg would sit neatly where it was supposed to. It sounded so easy in her mind. No, simple. And it was simple. But she knew it would not be easy. Gripping the hock a little harder, Tavari began to push. The hock began to retreat and flex exactly as she had envisioned- then a contraction struck. This time, the nís braced herself, her whole body stiffening through the conduit of her arm to resist the pressure that sought to send the leg back towards the light. With her arm further inside the mare, the force of the contraction squeezing down around her arm, compressing it against the larger bones of the foal’s leg, was so intense that Tavari cried out, tears starting in her eyes. But she held the hock in place within the mare, digging her toes into the ground for support.

The contraction subsided, and Tavari panted, her forehead resting on the bloodstained ground behind the mare. She felt a hand rest firmly on her back, and looked back to see Curumaito looking down at her from where he knelt with the cords in his hand. “You can do this.” If he had doubts, they did not show in his eyes. The nís gave the briefest of nods, and returned to work. Thrice more she pushed forward, inching the leg back, and enduring the contractions between pushes. Finally, the hock had flexed to its utmost, and her arm had reached as far as it could. Tavari lay nearly to her shoulder inside the mare, and as she rotated her arm upward to touch the foal’s hip with the side of her forearm, a fell swoop of despair turned over in her stomach. The hip was not fully flexed, the leg still had further to go before it was laid correctly. In that position, there was still the possibility that a contraction could send the leg flying forward again. But she could not fix it without further repelling the leg, and she was at the extent of her reach! No, no, no! So close, so very close, and because she was too young and small, both mare and foal might die. Another contraction bore down, and Tavari trembled with both effort and fear, her mind racing desperately. There was only one option. As the contraction subsided, she released the hock. As quickly as was possible in the tight space, she ran her hand down the side of the leg and back to the hoof, where she reclaimed her grip, and pushed with all her might. The folded leg yielded, sliding inches further back, and against her forearm she felt the hip drop into place.

Please, please, oh please, please, let it stay! With her arm extended as it was, the massive pressure of the next contraction on her elbow caused Tavari’s hand to slip off the hoof and be crushed against the foal’s side instead. But, miracle of miracles, the leg remained, folded as it ought to have been from the start, along the back half of the foal’s body. A wave of relief and sheer elation rolled over Tavari and a hoarse laugh escaped her, her filthy, sweaty face breaking into a grin. “The leg is back!” she cried, and an excited titter swept the group, mixed exclamations of relief and congratulation. Carefully Tavari extricated her arm, and swiftly cleansed and lubricated it again. Tired as she was, her eyes shone with determination now. She changed places with Curumaito so that he could kneel on the side of the repelled leg, and she on the side of the one yet to do. Before resuming her efforts, Tavari paused, resting her free hand on the mare’s sweat-slick hindquarter. “Áni apsenë (Forgive me, Q),” she murmured. Patient and wise the horse was, and helping her the nís might be, but much of the pain and fear the mare was experiencing would seem to come directly from her hands. She looked up, and met Oromë’s eyes for the first time since beginning her task. His face softened from its lines of concern, and he nodded. Tavari returned the gesture, and slide back down to her position behind the mare.

She removed the loop of twine around the second rear hoof and tossed it to the ground, then reinserted her hand. This time, Tavari did not attempt to repel the leg using the hoof, merely adjusted it to lie back beside the foal’s jaw, then went straight for the hock. The process was no easier the second time, but a sense of peace seemed to come over the young nís as she worked, and the pain of the regular contractions seemed distant, and nothing compared to what her victory would mean. From the mare’s head, Tavari could hear the Huntsman, murmuring, chanting to the horse in the Valian language the was normally so harsh and unlovely to elven ears, and in that moment it seemed the most beautiful sound in the world. Tavari could feel the mare’s heartbeat, the rush of blood through her veins, and the tiny spark of life inside her that was the foal, waiting patiently to be born. Something intangible connected nís to horse, and a palpable aura of power surrounded her as she lay on the bloody ground, eyes closed, shaking with exertion, arm buried deep inside the mare. Something sang inside her mind, in joyful counterpoint to the Huntsman’s chant, and the foal’s second leg slipped into position.

Tavari opened her eyes, and withdrew her arm until her hand reached the foal’s forehooves, and with swift fingers she removed the cord, even as the mare strained, weakly this time, and those same hooves came into view for the first time in the outside world. She scrambled around to a sitting position, bracing her feet against the mare’s haunch, and taking hold of a hoof in each of her hands. “Come on!” she implored, “Come on, you’re so close now! You can do this!” As if in response, the mare inhaled deeply, and gave a mighty heave. Tavari pulled with all her strength, and all in a rush, the foal slid from its mother and into the nís’s arms as she pulled, knocking her backwards onto the ground. An exultant cry went up from those around, and Curumaito was laughing as he helped her right herself, and Oromë was laughing as he stroked the mare’s face, his eyes shining with pride at his youngest acolyte, and Tavari was laughing, the sound spilling from her like silvery bells, a laugh richer than her years, and she hardly noticed the tears rolling down her face. Oromë’s voice was the first to form words as he asked, in a voice so soft it filled Tavari’s entire heart,

“What will you call him?”

Too distracted by her triumph and the foal wriggling in her arms to realize what his question meant, and the destiny that would follow it, Tavari burst out with the first and most perfect name that entered her mind.

“Fëalasso!” (spirit of joy, Q)
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

High Lord of Imladris
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The Lay of Afarfin and Melviriel
Early Summer 102 FA
Woods Of Brethil Near The River Sirion

Semi Private @Aigronding Mordagnir - OOC me if you would like to take part HERE

Melviriel slipped quietly through the woods her bow in hand an arrow knocked, she was in soft forest tones and her hair pulled back away from her face in a single braid to keep it from tangling in the dense underbrush of Brethil for no man yet lived there nor wood for hundreds more years. She put one foot in front of the other carefully pushing through the leaves gently careful not to make a sound. Her eyes were locked on her prize, a small deer that would mean she would not have to hunt for days and would be a proper feast for when her father returned from watching the borders with Beleg and his company, which was suppose to be tomorrow if all went well.

She paused in her movement hearing something the deer did as well it's head once down chewing on tender shoots shot up and looked north, something was coming and Melviriel tried to listen for it but was also trying to see if she could get a shot off on the doe. She drew her arrow back slowly carefully not wanting to spook the deer further only to have it bound of swift stirring up hens. With a curse she let fly an arrow at one of them bringing it down with ease. However getting the bird would not be easy and they were small she would need at least one more to keep from having to hunt tomorrow as well if she wanted a nice meal for her mother and father on his return. She looked to find a second hen and found one quickly well up a tree.

She drew back another arrow and let fly striking the bird cleanly and knocking it mostly from the tree. She sighed putting her bow away on her back and headed to fetch the two down birds, the one was sitting up in some brush and it was the harder of the two to fetch Melviriel struggled for several minutes until she managed to jostle the sapling it was hooked on, too tall to reach but to willowy yet to climb and have it fall to the ground. She pulled the arrow, cleaned it and put it in her quicker quickly cutting the birds neck with her short dagger so that the meat would not go bad. She pinched its foot into the y of a sapling and let it hang while she began climbing the tree the other was still trapped in. She made it to the hen and slipped back down the tree as gracefully as a cat before treating this hen the same way once. She then began to forage for early season berries and herbs though she knew full well there would be very few to be had this early in the season. The odd tiny wild strawberry, and flowers and dandelions all of which she plucked and put into a pouch at her side while continuing to look for more food.

It was not that King Thingol was meager with help or food or anything that a subject should want, but her father had only brought her and her mother into the Girdle to make sure that she would be safe. She had been born in the wilds beyond the Mountains and they had travelled over them with her when she was but a child when they felt it was too dangerous to continue. Her father liked to stay independant, they lived as far from Thingols grand halls of Menegroth as they could though Luinvir her mother had grown well accustom to the relaxed life afforded to them now that they were inside the safety of Melians spell. It was something that she wanted for her daughter, perhaps even more so, and she had tried desperately to get her unruly daughter to go to the courts of Menegroth with her and to be raised as a proper lady. Instead she had gotten a spirit of wind, and contained and forced to behave as a lady about as often as a strong West wind with thunder heads upon it. The only thing that her father had not yet permitted, was for her to join the Marchwardens, hoping perhaps she'd find some suitor that would draw her attention and perhaps make a proper lady of her, or at the very least be the one to deal with her ire at being constrained. Instead this is what he allowed - a huntress prowling the still safe woods of Brethil where the worst she would face would be a lesser wolf or perhaps a boar. The later she'd likely hunt and bring home as a feast the former as a trophy to show him and to turn the pelt into trim.

She finished plucking the berries in the area, and headed back towards the River Sirion. She had a good several miles to cover before she cleared the woods and was looking upon the border of home.
Sereg a Dîn

New Soul
Points:
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~ artwork by illustrator and renderer Ted Nasmith ~

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at Úrmaica “Fireblade” Tower Mansion
Home of Märsathôn and his family in Tirion upon Túna in Valinor

Years of the Trees 1450


"And when Melkor saw that these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords and axes and spears."
~ Tolkien, Chapter 7: Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor, The Silmarillion


~ Private RP ~


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The intensity of the light of Laurelin, the Golden Tree of Valinor on Ezellohar hill had cast forth its golden sheen upon the great city of the Noldor. There, standing notably higher than the terraced homes that surrounded it, stood Úrmaica, the Fireblade Mansion that had been built by the masons of Tirion in the likeness of a prominent tower. Rivaled only by the Mindon Eldaliéva, tower of Ingwë, High King of the Elves.

It was called “The Pride of Märsathôn”, for it seemed to be cherished by the Master Smith far more than his own family and stood at the same lofty heights of his arrogance. A rather misplaced sentiment, as Märsathôn’s skills specialized in metal and ore, not stonework, and he had little to do with Úrmaica’s architectural designs when they were drawn. He had volunteered, however, to labor his services for its construction, for he possessed a great strength in his body.

But this tale is not about Märsathôn, his follies, and eventual redemption. No, this about his eldest son, Mátholdrên the Flameheart, and the coming-out ball of his demure sister, Miría of Tirion. Nothing more than a distant memory now, long since passed to those who were actually there.

...

“Presenting, the youngest inhabitant of Úrmaica and newest apprentice of Tirion’s own artists' guild… Miría, daughter of Märsathôn.”

Hand-clapping and whistles rang out in the ballroom like a march of golden Noldirin bells, as a crowd of elaborately dressed citizens and guests of the city upon Túna awaited the arrival and formal introduction of the newest member of the Noldorin aristocracy. However, as the butler of Fireblade Mansion extended an arm for the grand entrance of a certain lady, a deafening silence crashed like a sea wave over everyone present, and no one descended the staircase leading down into the ballroom.

“Miría, daughter of Märsathôn,” cried the butler again, expanding the lungs in his chest furthermore this time.

Again, no one came.

“Miría, daughter of -”

“Oh bellows blow, will you shut up!” yelled Märsathôn, shattering the glass of his wine flute with an angry squeeze of his right hand. He silenced the butler before he could finish calling out for his daughter a third time and barked, “You will run out of air and keel over blue in the face before she can so much as hear you!”

Märsathôn tugged at the seams of his burgundy and black swallowtail coat, pulling in the heat of his rising fury at the tall satin collar of his white ruffled shirt. He had already had to endure the presence of many uninvited guests at his daughter’s ball, but this disappearance on her part was the last aggravation he would be willing to suffer.

The butler blushed for shame, moving away from the bottom of the staircase.

“My dear, there’s no need to fuss,” uttered Úthwilra, placing a gentle hand on the side of her husband’s chest that glinted with a golden pin brooch. She had slipped into a snug blue frost gown for the occasion, a close-fitting dress that fit like a glove on her tall, gracefully curving silhouette, and the brilliance of her scarlet hair had been fashioned up in a softly swirled pompadour bun.

“Úthwilra,” growled Märsathôn, his voice rising to a shout, “find your impetuous daughter this instant, or help me, I will whip her without mercy in the public square!”

The resounding echo of many deep and fair voices calling “Miría” resounded throughout Fireblade’s hallways, chambers, and balconies as the tower mansion’s guests spread far and wide throughout the property, searching for the star of the ball who would not come.

Diamonds, white as starlight, draped across Úthwilra’s collarbone and across her brow and over her ears clinked as she hurried down the stairs into the gardens of her family’s elegant home.

“Mátholdrên,” she said, addressing her eldest with concern, “I will search the labyrinth, you walk along the East Wall and search the Fountain Yard… and pray that we find your sister before your father does.”

Mátholdrên, who had been spooning a crystal cup of fruit pudding to his lips before his father’s abusive mouth had begun to spit fire at him and his mother nodded in slow approval and watched Úthwilra along with the tapping sound of her glass heels, fade away and disappear into the north-facing maze of Fireblade Mansion.

He walked along the East Wall steadily in carefully calculated strides, and he heard a slight rustle coming from just behind him on his left.

Mátholdrên peered carefully into the shadows between the shrubbery and saw crimson-red strands of hair snagged and stretched out within.

“I don’t recall our mother, a Master Gardener of the Noldor, planting cardinal climbers amidst the black pines Miría,” he stated, sounding matter-of-factly as he chided her and placing his white-gloved hands on his hips while doing so.

Shhh!” a hiss returned to him from within the darkness of the pines, “I cannot hide here if you let them all know where I am.”

“Please come on out, Miría,” requested Mátholdrên, “the longer you hide in there, the worse your tongue-lashing from father is going to be tomorrow.”

“But I… I can’t,” she squeaked, retreating further into her hideout.

“Why ever not?” he asked, “Märsathôn has spent a small fortune on this soiree for you. All our relatives are here: mother’s family, Aunt Saira and Aunt Aglarebeth, father’s associates, why even Hélenda too. They have all arrived just to celebrate your entry into adulthood and you have only disappointed them thus far.”

“I…like Hélenda,” said Miría, being slow to speak and emerging from the pines from where she had begun to detach herself.


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Her face was the last part of her to be revealed to Mátholdrên, and she would not turn her back to him, lest he sweep her up and over one of his broad shoulders and force her into the ballroom against her will.

“You are an absolute vision little sister,” said Mátholdrên, smiling kindly as he admired his little sister’s raiment. She was clad in a ball gown of mint-green, ruffled with dense ivory lace at the sleeves. The topmost portion of her coiling tresses has been pinned up somewhat and a short jeweled necklace matching the color of her eyes rested at the base of her neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered playing with her thumbs nervously, “mother had it made.”

“Why are you so afraid?” Mátholdrên went on to ask, returning to the subject at hand, “ You have been to plenty of balls in the past. Did your own friends not have débutantes for themselves? All you have to do is spin on the dance floor with your suitors, indulge in a bit of conversation with those kissing-up to our father's progeny, and then it will be over. You can stand in a corner for the rest of the event if you want. He would not even mind.”

“I never wanted a ball,” she said in her defense, becoming upset with her brother’s claims of cowardice, “I don't want to get married.”

Mátholdrên chuckled, licking his lips. “Miría,” he continued, doing his best to hide his amusement so as to not offend her intelligence, “you don’t have to marry anyone. You just have to pretend that you are. This, everything, it is all for show. Father might not have even bothered to host it if appearances didn’t matter to him and his smithing guild. Rubbing elbows with the nobles is how he has outdone most of his competitors. You have nothing to worry about and I would never lie to you.”

Miría flicked her gaze down and did not reply. The possibility of an expected marriage was not the only matter that caused her newly revealed anxiety and her brother would soon discover this much.

Her green eyes grew large and round and fixed themselves on Mátholdrên, as a wave of fear washed over her and sent her body trembling. Then Miría took backward steps into the safety of the pines once more.


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Mátholdrên pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his hazel eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Why are you hiding again?'' he asked, bothered now by his sister’s obstinance.

From the foliage, a shuddered whimper followed by a distressed voice reached his ears.

“They’re making weapons Mátho, all of them. Father, mother… even you! I saw the sword. I saw everything!”

Mátholdrên stood beyond the pines along the East Wall as if arrow-shot. It took a moment for him to find his voice again.

“Now who told you that?” he said, at last, clearing his throat.

“...Birös,” she replied, guilt at this divulgence weighing heavily in her voice, “I went to your forge but you weren’t there. Birös sat me down and told me all about the weapons, and shields and armor you and him have started making. He told me he could make me a sword too and even teach me how to fight. Why Mátho? Why do I need to learn how to fight? Who are we going to fight?!

Birös. Of course, it was Birös. Damn him.

Looking at his sister morosely, Mátholdrên let a long, deep breath out and averted his gaze.

“I don’t know yet Miría,” he said in a low voice, shrugging his shoulders, “nobody perhaps.”

Then again, could Mátholdrên ever truly expect for Miría, who was an avid painter but nobody’s fool, to remain in the dark about the recent undertakings of the Noldor?

Mátholdrên realigned his shoulders and a smile spread across his face. Nothing bad had happened yet, and nothing would come of these things surely, so why worry.

“How about this,” he began, tapping a finger on his chin and motioning for his sister to follow him, “you dance with whoever you have to, and I promise to sneak you out at the first possible chance.”

Miría poked her head out again. “You promise Mátho? No tricks?”

“No tricks,” he reassured her, extending his hand for her to take.

Troubled Mátholdrên and hesitant Miría, returned to the ballroom in silence that was nothing short of intentional, however, the belated arrival of the star of the débutante was welcomed with an uproar of song and cheer in the ballroom; and as Miría took to the dance floor, her earlier disappearance was almost completely forgotten by the attendants. Why even Märsathôn’s rage subsided.


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Mátholdrên watched his sister waltz with a number of young and ambitious herbalists, smiths, masons, and loremasters with all the grace and appeal befitting a member of the house of Märsathôn. She wore a forced smile at all times, though none of the guests present would ever know, that is except for Mátholdrên. They shared the same unique talent, his sister and he, for masking their misery successfully behind insincerity, though he certainly hoped neither of them would be forced to use this ability of theirs too often in the near future.

He was wrong. For the unrest of the Noldor would not die on the vine, and instead would erupt to its full height and lead to a number of dark and terrible deeds being done in the name of rebellion against the Valar, much of which, Märsathôn and his kin would take part in and ultimately regret. Fate, however, would not be kind, and Mátholdrên would be torn away from Miría by the manipulations of Birös, his supposed friend.
Last edited by Farewell on Mon Jan 04, 2021 5:08 am, edited 2 times in total.

Black Númenórean
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The Kumiho
Taur-im-Duinath, First Age


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The forest of Taur-im-Duinath pressed thick around the wandering family of four: gnarled, moss-bearded trees stood like silent sentinels, seeing them along their way. In the heavy, close air of the woods, the elves’ footfalls made not a sound. Two youths clung to their mother’s hands, fearful of the watchful woods and the unknown terrors it might house. What few possessions they had brought south with them were slung over their shoulders in deerskin pouches.

This family was among those few Avari who wandered the Forest Between Rivers, and they were to join those rarer still who made a lasting abode within the woods. The deep cave in which they settled lay at the foot of a great hill, upon which a cluster of trees stood like a crown. Standing atop the hill and outside this circle of trees afforded them a clear view of Taur-im-Duinath for miles. It would have been, in the eyes of the Eldar, a primitive and pitiful home at best, but it sufficed for this family. With moss and leaves they stuffed sleeping pads; an open fire at the cave’s mouth kept them warm and dry; and with weapons made of stone, they hunted and fended off threats to their secluded life.

There came a day when the father of the family ascended to the top of the hill to look in all directions for signs of movement - and, by extension, food. His sons had grown into fine hunters, and they were even now occupied with sharpening their tools. The father circled the cluster of trees to look east, then south, then west, then north. As he faced the northern side of the hill, there was a rustling and then the snap! of a branch breaking behind him. The father removed a knife from his belt and crept back to the edge of the trees, crouched low and ready to strike. Another crack! betrayed whatever lay in wait. He stepped boldly into the shade of the trees, only to find himself confronted by the last thing in the world he had expected to see: a child.

She was dark-haired and clearly of their race - who else could penetrate so far into these woods unharmed? - but quite alone.

“Who are you?” asked the father sharply in his shock.

The child said nothing.

“I said, child, who are you?” he repeated, more gently this time. “Where are your people?”

The girl blinked and shaded her eyes against the morning sun to see him more clearly. Yes, this will do, she thought.

“I have no people,” she replied simply. Though she spoke few words, her voice was sweet and musical. “I am lost.”

The father returned his knife to his belt, then knelt before the child to look upon her more closely. She was dressed all in white, shockingly clean for one so young who had clearly traveled far to reach this place. Her dark hair shone in the rays of sunlight falling through the canopy of leaves above; black eyes gazed steadily into his face. A small stone of deep, royal blue glinted on a silver chain about her neck.

“Where did you get that, child?” he asked, gazing in wonder at her necklace. It seemed strange to him that a lost child should have something so fine upon her.

“It is mine,” was all she said in reply.

The father considered her closely for a few moments more. “Where are you going? Where will you stay?” he asked at last, pity overcoming his deep skepticism of outsiders.

The child shrugged. “I do not know.”

“You will come with me for now, at least,” he said, offering her a hand. She took it silently and walked with him down the hill.

* * *

With time, the reticent child from that day grew warm and playful among her newly-found family. She was the daughter the mother had always dreamed of raising. As years passed, her beauty revealed itself. Her hair fell in a sleek, midnight cascade down her back, and her features were fine. She was cunning and quick, and could soon outhunt her brothers should she put forth the time and effort. This she rarely did, though, preferring the quiet and stillness of solitary walks within the wood. Occasionally, it seemed as though her shadow stretched into shapes incongruent with her form - almost as if she was surrounded by a flowing aura - but the family was happy to ascribe this peculiarity to the dense and gloomy woods surrounding them, and to the strange way the light filtered through the trees.

But even as the parents of this unusual family fell into contentedness in their home, their sons were drawn to the wandering ways of their people. Separately and a few years apart, they packed their things and bid their parents and sister a sad farewell, promising to return every now and again if they were able. Each time a brother left, a small smile pulled on the corners of their sister’s mouth.

The first brother traveled east and, on his first night abroad, came across the carcass of a rabbit. It lay as if asleep on a bed of thick grass, save for the fact that its intestines had spilled out from the savage wound in its belly. They lay glistening in the starlight. Soon enough, he came across a fawn which had died in the same fashion. These two were the beginning of a pattern. He examined each maimed creature he found, puzzled by the strange way in which they all had perished. Their people may have hunted with less refined tools than their Eldarin kin, but their kills still were neat and humane. Whatever had done this was something altogether more savage.

The second brother traveled south and, without knowing what his brother had seen, soon found a similar state of affairs. Neither knew what to make of this mystery, but both feared the work of Powers beyond their comprehension, fueled in no small part by seeds of doubt planted long ago by Morgoth, intended to incite terror in the Avari. They went forth from these encounters with wariness and worry, but they themselves were unharmed in all their travels.

* * *

Many years later, there came a day when the brothers met by chance beside a stream. Each had journeyed far and seen much of the forest in which they had grown, and of the world beyond. Each had heard rumors of a dark presence in the heart of Taur-im-Duinath which had driven away most living creatures. Each had concluded that it was time to return home to see that their parents and sister were safe. And so they traveled together back to the hill deep within those woods.

When they arrived, their sister stood at the mouth of the cave to meet them. Her hair had grown even longer than they remembered; she wore it now in a braid down her back, and her face was dark with sorrow. As ever, she was clad in white. “Our parents are slain,” she said solemnly in greeting, pulling each brother into an embrace. She would not say more, but led the brothers to the top of the hill. Two stones stood on its northern side in memory of their parents.

Try as they might, the brothers were unable to learn more of their parents’ death than what their sister had told them when they arrived. She was cold and quiet, seemingly consumed with recent grief. Despite the evident depths of her despair, she invited her brothers to stay at the very least for one night, and offered to cook them a fine meal. “It will do me good to be among family again,” she said.

And so the brothers stayed, and their sister did indeed assemble a grand meal for them - grand for the forest of Taur-im-Duinath, at any rate. They feasted on boar and pickled roots spiced with herbs. Fresh spring water quenched their deep thirst, and at the very end, they ate a generous mix of fresh berries, whose sweet juices burst upon their tongues with every bite.

Darkness fell, and their fire burned low. The brothers unrolled sleeping mats and drifted off to sleep in the cave they had once called home. Their sister sat beneath the light of a waxing moon, adding fuel to the fire to keep them warm through the night.

It was still dark when the younger of the two brothers awoke. The pale moon and stars above cast a dim light into the cave, and the fire added its own warm glow. He heard the soft sounds of chewing. After a time, he sat up in irritation, for the noises were sticky in his ears, and he could not fall back asleep. “Surely,” he muttered in disbelief, “you ate more already tonight than in the last several years combined?” Shielding his eyes from even the low light of their fire, he turned toward the sounds. A figure sat silhouetted between himself and the flames. “Brother!” he hissed, “if you must eat more, at least pass some to me.”

He stood and approached the figure, placing a hand on its shoulder. The figure whipped around, and he saw not his brother, but the pale face of his sister. Her lips and chin ran dark and wet with some liquid, and her eyes glowed an unnatural pale green, clashing with the blue light of the moon. Her dress, white as snow, was stained red with blood. In an instant, he realized that the wetness glistening upon her face was blood as well. His mouth opened in a silent cry and he staggered back from her, only to trip over the prone, lifeless body of his brother, whose stomach had been torn open, his ribs cracked and tossed aside.

The younger brother landed upon soft, curling intestines which lay discarded in favor of the real prize: a liver, smooth and slick and held, now half-eaten, in his sister’s hands. Her fingernails had elongated into needle-like claws, and he saw, when she smiled at him, that her teeth were fangs. He was a hunter. He had fought off things far stronger than his sister. Yet he could not stand. On his back, the living brother retreated, fighting against a heaviness in his limbs which had seized him the moment those green eyes had locked with his. His heart raced. His sister, eyes still gleaming like beacons of terror, stalked slowly after him, consuming their brother’s liver as she went. The sound of her chewing seemed to echo ceaselessly around the cave and joined with the sound of his own heartbeat to fill his ears until he curled, nearly senseless, into a ball. He reached out without looking to clutch for a root, a rock, anything with which he might fend her off. His hand closed on a smooth, light object and he drew it into his chest. Turning it in his hand to solidify his grip, his thumb slipped into a large, gaping hole in the object. An eye socket. A skull.

His sister took her time finishing off their brother’s liver. Each bite of soft flesh filled her mouth and augmented her strength. Her teeth, sharp and merciless, made a fine pulp of the still-warm meat. At last, she swallowed the final bite. “I have been waiting for you,” she crooned, kneeling beside her brother. He was frozen with fear, still clutching the skull in spite of his revulsion. “There is only so much sustenance to be gained from the creatures of the woods, and mother and father have been gone for so long now.” The brother dared to take another glimpse at her and saw that her dress appeared to be moving of its own accord, for both she and the air were still. He saw nine voluminous tails emerge from beneath her skirt and array themselves behind her, flowing in an other-worldly wind.

She bent to prize the skull from his fingers. He would not release it. He could not. His every instinct screamed at him to relent and flee, but his body still would not comply. His sister loomed above him, her slight shape and those tails - where had they come from? - occupying his entire field of vision. She gripped his hands and, when he still failed to yield, snapped the bones of his fingers easily and cruelly, ignoring his shout of pain. She held the skull aloft and stared into the voids where once there had been eyes. “I thought you or our brother would return sooner.”

* * *

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The fire burned low as day broke over Taur-im-Duinath. The floor of the cave was littered with remnants of the previous night’s struggle, not least the ruined bodies of two Avari who had had the misfortune of growing up with the Kumiho. Ancient even in the days before the rising of the sun, the demon had long roamed formless and free, feeding on the essence of beings great and small - not serving the Dark Lord directly, but certainly left to her own devices at his pleasure. Through the ages, her appetites had grown more substantive, and so she had at last taken up residence in this elven form. She had been patient in finding this family and patient in taking what she desired. But she would never find true satiation, nor would she remain in that one fixed shape.

Paws and snout caked with dried blood, the snow-white fox stepped out of the cave and into the woods. The color of her coat aside, she was no ordinary fox: on all four paws, she stood half as tall as a man; and nine flowing tails, each tipped with charcoal grey, fanned out behind her. A deep blue stone gleamed at her throat.

She gave the cave one last look, and moved on.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

New Soul
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Posts: 769
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:30 am
For @Ercassie , Merry Christmas! Many actions and some character dislodge were from your first Ospiel post of this series.

(To be moved into AOA when the time comes)


Hatholdir Nârroval
Ered Wethrin
- Eleven years after the Fall of Gondolin
and Valion Mordagnir's capture - circa 521 FA

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Narn Cûminya, Tale of the First Bow
- Chapter Two -

"Then the warriors of the Mole being more numerous than those few of the Wing,
and loyal to their lord, came at Tuor and there were great blows, but no man
might stand before the wrath of Tuor, and they were smitten and
driven to fly into what dark holes they might, or flung from the walls."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales II: The Fall of Gondolin


"Their kind was reviled in the wake of Prince Maeglin’s treachery but Ospiel was entirely
unaware of the fate of Gondolin and they were thus considered her saviours....
Hatholdir had taken up the sword Anguirel from the charred body of his Prince,
and led all those that he could find to a place of seclusion where they
might recover strength. They also had recovered several lonely rogues and renegades,
of both Eldar and Edain, who were wandering the fraught realm of Beleriand
in need of support. Ospiel was glad to learn from Hatholdir
that Erfaron had survived the Nirnaeth Arnoediad..."

- from Ospiel's Biography Submission



"The remnant of the Eldar of Hithlum were taken to the mines in the north
and laboured there as thralls, save some that eluded him and escaped into the wilds and the mountains."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad

"I will seek that which was lost, and bring again that which was driven away,
and will bind up that which was broken, and will strengthen that which was sick."

- Ezekiel 34:16, KJV


"And no wonder, for Satan himself
masquerades as an angel of light."

- 2 Corinthians 11:14 NIV


Hatholdir came to the foothills where hidden Mole pathways ascended from the river vale. Hatholdir's people devised the narrow dirt routes which led ultimately to their caverns within Mithrim's southern mountains. They had encamped between Sirion and the nameless stream flowing near Malduin for a week. Hatholdir tirelessly patrolled the Pass of Sirion with his Mole companies to seek out and destroy anything or anyone who threatened their alpine colony whether it be Minion, Easterling, or Elf of the Wing. It had been eleven years since the foundation of the Mole sanctuary but Hatholdir was adamant and no one defied him on this. He sent Galudess, one of the few Mole women, ahead with a scouting team before they dared to venture on.

Night had fallen and Hatholdir was eager to be gone, knowing Orcs enjoyed their evil delights in the evening dark. It was as he feared, receiving the report of Galudess within the hour. There an was an Orc troop coming down with a prisoner, an elven woman who had a broken bow; Galudess, whose heart was softer than most, promised Hatholdir when he pressed her that the bound elleth was no one she recognized from Gondolin. Hatholdir, desperate for allies, decided they would save her. The Moles following Galudessuntil they heard it, the voice of an Orc. "You can drop that toad sticker now she-elf. It won't help you." Hatholdir saw a comely elleth, an archer with pale skin and sable hair. She was tormented by the studded Orc-ropes. Part of him didn't want to care, to move on and go home to his woman, but the other half which always won out thirsted for vengeance and...acceptance.

"She's just an lowly archer," Asgar snarled in contempt. He withered beneath Hatholdir's virulent gaze.

"She is a slayer, that alone matters," Hatholdir rebuked him. "We must exist. We cannot afford to drive strangers away, expecially those with a soldier's experience. Our lives depend on friendship. We take anyone in, Old Moles and New Moles, Elf or Man. Your girl dwells with us. I care; if I didn't, I would have let her starve or die or be captured or...worse."

Asgar, his face flushed in embarrassment, said nothing but nodded duitifully.

Grey meaty fingers grasped her throat from behind and drove the elleth's face first against the grassy knoll. When they started prying her supple fingers from her shattered bow Hatholdir could not allow the Moles to stand idle. Since they had the advantage of surprise, he ordered them to spring from the shadows. They surged past their king, leaping out of the riverine woods. The Moles charged the hillock with axe and sword while Hatholdir remained behind, one hand resting on Anguirel's pommel. Every attack was a killing blow. Moles were efficient, brutal annihilators. When the Orcs laid dead, literally hacked to pieces, Hatholdir strode toward the elleth with a lopsided grin of amusement; he was sure that his Moles impressed her. He coolly regarded the work of his patrol with a fervent pride.

"Nine Orcfilth dead," boasted bold Asgar, panting. He spat blood on the ground derisively along with a single tooth but he didn't mourn its loss; Hatholdir assured him its void would give him a rakish air. "We took this of them ..." remarked Asgar, looking repulsed by the elleth who was rising up. So daunted by her cold stare, Asgar stepped back and Thalbor - his nearest neighbor - guffawed.

"Four were already robbed of their lives when we arrived," Galudess admitted, honestly, for consideration; no doubt wanting the archer to be welcomed into the fold and shot Asgar a baleful stare; she desired more female company than Meluiwen, Idrasaith, and Gwenbril. Galudess unravelled the bonds about the elleth with Herontortha. Asgar and Thalbor were regarding her ruined bow with wonder and contempt. The Moles used two-bladed axes and swords primarily; there were no archers among them. Many of their following deemed archery a coward's means of fighting. Hatholdir didn't share this view; as long as the enemy fell and did not rise again, he didn't care what weapon his warriors used. He only decided with Maeglin what their arsenal would be, officially, to set the Moles apart from any other House in Gondolin; the lot of them followed the standard, bearing axes, but few others favored the sword as Maeglin had. Hatholdir continued silently gazing at the elleth in admiration, a soft smile playing on his lips. She kept a tenacious grip on her bow despite the disapproving looks of Asgar and Thalbor, the youngest Moles.

"You wear the garb of Fingon," Herontortha informed her. He was one of Hatholdir's beloved friends although their personalities laid at far ends of the spectrum. Hatholdir believed the ends justified the means and would sink to the lowest depth of depravity to accomplish his goals. Herontortha was analytical and cautious; he was snooty and self-righteous but had a good heart although he often resorted to immoral decisions, pressured by Hatholdir's silvertongue. The knowledge she was an outsider relieved the company. She wasn't a Mole-hunter of the Wing House.

The slender elleth with the mane of straight ebony hair and an austere appearance was named Ospiel. The High King charged her to defend the realm when he rode off to the disaster that was the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. She told the Moles what they knew already; they had fought on that battlefield where Fingon was slaughtered.

"So who are you that came here unlooked for and with such timely intervention ?"

The Moles proclaimed their origin and declared Hatholdir as their heir & leader. He stifled a chuckle, observing Ospiel's bewildered expression, but a mounting euphoria radiated through him. The Moles could bend the truth or tell any lie and she'd believe them. Hatholdir thrived on moments like this. She was like a ewe, seperated from her herd in the wilderness. The prey of wolves. She belongs to me now.

"King," said tall and haughty Herontortha with clear emphasis. "Successor of Maeglin, who was nephew to late Fingon, son of his sister the late Lady Aredhel."

Hatholdir experienced a swelling elation, noticing Ospiel's widening silver eyes. Some of his best victims were unaware and necessitous. I have her in the palm of my hand. There is no escape.

Hatholdir hardly suppressed the urge to launch his head back, cackling. Ospiel believed the Gondolindrim never left their hidden home. The wave of incredulity passing over the Moles was almost tangible but Hatholdir hadn't felt this triumphant since he stood over Rog's burnt corpse and Penlod's eviscerated cadaver in the ruins of Gondolin.

"Gondolin is now no more, no more than our late king Turgon," Galudess grimly announced, causing Ospiel to step back in utter disbelief, her black grief shared by the Moles whose despair registered evidently on their sorrowful reddened faces.

"The royal line of Fingolfin is spent," Thalbor clarified, slicing the air with the knife of his moleskin glove.

"The King's daughter, Idril, stolen by a gluttonous mortal!" scoffed Asgar.

Hatholdir smirked. He had no qualms rewriting his city's history and twisting the minds of young Moles; even now Hatholdir forced Asgar's scholarly lover - Gwenbril, student of loremistress Aimira Mordagnir - to instruct Mole children on his view of the world.

"We are all that has survived the wreckage of our ruin," Herontortha explained, spreading his long spindly arms to encompass all the Moles present.

Ospiel asked if they heard of what became of Doriath. The Moles shook their heads, not to indicate that they didn't know but that their acquired knowledge was not good.

"When the Dwarves murdered King Thingol, Queen Melian fled oversea which destabilized its protective Girdle," said Galudess in abject bitterness. She was half Sindarin. "The Feanorians stormed the forests of the kingdom and destroyed it in their battle to wrest the Silmaril from Dior, Thingol's heir. He was slain. Many of the brothers met their end in that terrible match, Celegorm and Curufin and Caranthir. Only Maedhros and Maglor and the twins - Amrod and Amras - are still alive. These things we know only from travellers we encounter who have lived beyond the walls of Echoriath."

Hatholdir's sly smile faltered when Ospiel claimed she only had her bow. Her resolute demeanor moved him profoundly.

When she threatened the Moles, Hatholdir's humor returned. Most others were generous with their laughter, especially Asgar and Thalbor who laughed the loudest. Moles were vicious and their cruelty had become fouller in hiding. Idrasaith, one of his most loyal lieutenants, would soon unveil to their Easterling interlopers and Wing persuers the most heinous, terrifying malevolence of her vile imagination...

"Would you be comforted any," Herontortha said in a gentle voice, vanquishing the small space between them, with his hands raised to placate Ospiel, "to learn that at least one other Elf, draped in the tatters of Hithlum's uniform, came to embrace our own before this day? Not all who followed your High King shared his fate..."

Hatholdir saw the elleth visibly relax, saying she would come with them to meet their king.

"You look upon him now, Ospiel of Hithlum!" said Hatholdir, smiling at her charmingly. The Moles, including Herontortha, parted way for him to approach the vagabond. "What they say is true, I am Maeglin's heir and master of the Moles." He made himself look somber, circling Ospiel like a curious shark with moleskin gloves laced behind his back as he spoke. "There's much you don't know. Allow me to educate you." The little white lies came easily. "The army of Gondolin was at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad to succour the Union of Maedhros. We retreated to our city and with us came a High Elf named Erfaron - known also as Sarnirion - looking for his betrothed, Fëapoldië...only to find her married to another Elf, a Sinda of Nevrast called Laegon. Erfaron and I became close friends and joined the House of the Mole; he is not with us though, deciding to protect Fëapoldië's daughter, Nariel, on their journey south."

Hatholdir didn't reveal the location of the Havens of Sirion, not just because he wanted to encourage Ospiel with one tantalizing bit of information at a time but since Erfaron's present whereabouts made him upset as did his stubbornness to watch over Nariel. He swallowed a lump in his throat, missing his comrade, but continued speaking a few moments later when he collected himself.

"The spies of Morgoth discovered our city's location and destroyed Gondolin. Before its fall there were Houses which each subject was divided into; the Moles were one of many. The Swan Wing, led by Tuor the Usurper, accused the Moles of treachery; he encouraged everyone to believe we plotted with the Enemy and that Maeglin - the mighty Prince - wanted to have his first cousin, Idril, for himself. Tuor ordered the Wing to attack the Moles when we came, desperately, to Idril's house to provide her an escort out of the inferno. Maeglin wanted the finest warriors of the city to ensure the protection of the Princess and her son, Earendil. The Swan Wing had tricked,believing we would abduct her for the pleasure of Maeglin."
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Hatholdir came to a stop following one more revolution around Ospiel and heaved a heavy sigh, choking back a real sob to add credence to his gross falsehood. He permitted his genuine heartbreak over the loss of Moles to make him look more convincing to Ospiel. The band of warriors sided with Hatholdir, of course, and Galudess started weeping. Hatholdir opened his strong arms for Galudess to run into. He kissed the young woman's forehead, rolled his palm over her long ebony hair, and caressed her back as she convulsed in his embrace in front of Ospiel. Yes...his smoothly-spoken lies and the emotional turmoil of Galudess would surely impress Ospiel. He kissed her wet face and rubbed her arms to console Galudess, hoping his gentleness would sway Ospiel to accept him more readily. Appearing strong yet tender, a savior who cares, was key to winning anyone he needed in his camp. "Moles were thrown to their death," Hatholdir told Ospiel with Galudess still crying against the muscled haven of his chest.

"Galudess herself was hurled from the walls...by her own husband who was sworn to the Wing. She survived and chose to follow me when Maeglin was murdered. I rallied every Mole over the years and have made a home for them in the Mithrim caverns of Ered Wethrin." Hatholdir eased himself gingerly from Galudess' clutching hold. He looked into her scalding green eyes; he lovingly wiped the stinging tears away, asking her if she was in a better place. She said nothing but that was fine; her reverent gaze spoke volumes. He was and would always be the hero the Moles needed. "We are more numerous than the Wings but they are relentless, constantly trying to stalk us down to kill us all. Galudess had to execute her own husband who would have ended her life."

She broke down again, dropping to her knees to wail in her hands; Hatholdir motioned for Asgar and Thalbor to calm her down. They were aggressive but at times, those two Moles wore their hearts on their sleves.

He resumed pacing around Ospiel. This time, he gave her nothing but the truth.

"We have welcomed many wanderers into our caves. There has been a portion of the Hithlum Eldar who have escaped mines and thralldom of Angband; some have eluded the minions and have concealed themselves in the wilds of Beleriand...or in these vast mountains. We have welcomed all we have been able to rescue from the Easterlings and Orcs; they have become new Moles as have countless straying Elves and Edain evading the Enemy. Smiths and miners and warriors are preferred among us but we accept everyone like healers because we cannot survive on the trades we know, you understand." Hatholdir paused again, gesturing at the Vales of Magor in the distance, the southern slopes of Ered Wethrin nestled beneath the mountains of Dor-lomin and the riverland of Teiglin. "We have friends, the mortals of a Third House settlement. We barter for goods like medicine and food and clothes. I know we look travel-worn but we're actually well-to-do, better than most; we've only been scouting for days and was on our way to our subterranean mansions when Galudess found you."

Hatholdir drew closer to Ospiel with a grave countenance. A wind out of the West rustled the leaves of the elms grown rife and great across the mountain ridges above the grassy knoll. Hatholdir brazenly took solemn possession of her riven weapon. Ospiel and Hatholdir were illuminated in the streaming moonbeams breaking through clouds scudding amid the starsewn heavens. The Moles now encircled them in a ring of fellowship. Their carnelian-bright accouterments caught the lustrous gleam of the luminous sphere, glimmering more vividly.

"Give me your bow, Ospiel of Hithlum," Hatholdir commanded her. His velvety compelling voice was pleasant-sounding as was the whisper of the swaying trees. He didn't mean the bow itself but her allegiance which was just as precious. "You don't have to be afraid anymore," Hatholdir assured her, gliding a thumb over Ospiel's cheek. "I have found a family in the Moles. I want you to find a family in us. I want you to find freedom from fear. If you run, you will chase not flee. This time, it's your foes who will have something to fear. Come away with us and I will give you shelter. The Moles will heal your wounds and we will be your light in the darkness, I swear by Iluvátar's name." The company was startled; vowing by the god of Arda was considered the most sacred and serious kind of oath among the Elves. "If you need to collect any belongings from a refuge of your own your, lead us there. If there are others with you, let me speak to them; they are welcome in our secure haven if they respect our rules."
Last edited by Eriol on Sun Feb 14, 2021 8:07 pm, edited 30 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

Balrog
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Rembina
Alqualondë, YT 1495
(Private with Moriel)

Reality set in. Finnbarr knew what Davos’ answer would be, but somehow hearing the words “your parents are dead” from an adult cemented the reality of his situation. He could feel himself going numb. He wanted to cry and cry and cry, like a child should, but he couldn’t. He wanted to, be wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and cry until he cried enough tears that the Valar across the mountains gave his parents back to him. He knew, though, it would never happen. His parents were gone, taken, ripped from this world in a single moment and gone forever. They were a fishing line. They were bound and tied together, woven so tightly that nothing could break them. They could overcome the greatest obstacles that the material plane could manifest. They were his parents. But suddenly the line was cut. And in the instant it was cut, everything fell apart and broke. Finnbarr wasn’t sure what to make of the world now. He didn’t know anyone who didn’t have parents. Even ancient elves like Davos had parents. Finnbarr didn’t anymore. What did that make him? Before he could weep, before he could break down, before he could cry, he needed to know what he was. He looked across the bed at Davos. He was a man who know who he was. Yet, after what happened, the young Falmari thought he could see something in the ancient one’s eyes. Was that doubt? Rage? Confusion? Grief? Finnbarr knew he was feeling all of those as well. His throat was dry. He tried to swallow and the muscles in his neck contracted, making him feel like he was trying to swallow a ball of cotton.

Davos took his hand. Finnbarr allowed the old one to take it and looked him in the eye again. A few days ago, he would have been high as the stars just to be in the same room as Davos, now he was having a conversation with him. It seemed so wrong, so mundane and ordinary. But it was anything but, Finnbarr knew all too well. Dreadful, horrible circumstances brought them together. Horror had visited ever home in Alqualondë that night, and it wore the face of the Ñoldor. Finnbarr felt something that he had never felt before. He had felt anger when a fish would get away or when his friends would cheat in a swimming race, but this was more. It was more than rage, and it was seasoned with such sorrow that Finnbarr thought he might burst. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t understand why. He searched Davos’ face as the nér spoke. If anyone knew what the do, how to deal with this feeling it was him. “I can be your friend…” Finnbarr said at least, waiting until the ancient one had stopped speaking to begin processing what he had said. Friends? He wanted to be ecstatic. He wanted to dance, do a little jig, jump on the bed, punch the air, and squeal. He would have done exactly that a few days ago. Without knowing if he was a child or if he was an adult or if he was something in between, he had no idea what a friend meant anymore. He supposed he would have to learn. There were many things he was going to have to learn in the coming days and weeks. He had a lot to learn and had no idea how to learn any of it.

“I think,” he ventured, his voice small and unsure, “I think I’ll rest and try to…” try to what? Recover? “regain my equilibrium. I would like to help… when I can.” He had no idea what he would do to help, how he could help, but it felt right to say. Finnbarr tried to smile. He was not very sure the effort was successful, but he wanted Davos to know that things would be okay. That they could find their way out of this net. They could do it together.


~~

Several days later after several nights of dreamless, void drifting sleep, the day of the funerals came. Finnbarr had followed Davos around like a puppy. He hated that he had no idea what he was doing but he felt so lost that the thing he felt made sense was to stick as close to Davos as he could. Davos was his friend after all. He carried drinking water, directed by Davos to who needed it the most, clean towels, and food when it was available. He met people he had only seen from afar, people that looked too important and too elevated to speak to him, he met sailors, doctors, hunters, warriors, blacksmiths, teachers, and gardeners. Davos wouldn’t let him near his parents until today. Each time Finnbarr asked, the ancient nér gave him a different excuse. Deep down, Finnbarr knew that his friend was doing the right thing, but it stung each time he moved in front of him when the young elf tried to catch a glimpse of his parents or told him that it was a bad idea for now.

But today was the day of the funerals. Davos was right. It was not just the two of them that had suffered immeasurable losses. Finnbarr thought he understood the depths of the tragedy, of the horror, but looking out at all these people, hundreds and hundreds of people lined up and stood alongside he and Davos. So much loss, so much death, so much destruction. The taking of life had only been part of the terror. Alqualondë, the city herself had suffered as well. She had been violated, she’d been put to torch, washed in the profane blood of her own children. The City of Swans would never be the same again. The smell of blood, fire, and death would never wash away.

They stood now on the beach, Finnbarr was dressed in a borrowed tunic of blue and black fabric. It was soft, but Finnbarr hadn’t paid close enough attention to Davos when he explained to him what it was. He was too nervous to pay attention to anything really. Davos had even explained how the ceremony and funeral would go today but Finnbarr’s stomach hurt too much for him to pay attention too closely. He walked around the empty streets for an hour, a knot growing bigger and bigger and heavier and heavier until he finally had to run around the corner of a black smithery that stood vacant and empty and hurled. His stomach cramped and cramped until he thought his stomach was trying to wretch itself free of him. He returned but didn’t tell Davos. He didn’t want his friend worrying too much about him today. Today of all days. He wanted Davos to be able to mourn his friend, the same way he needed to mourn his parents. His stomach hurt again.

“Well,” he said nervously, “I think I’m ready.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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~ artwork by AlystraeaArt on DeviantArt ~

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Field of Embracing near Cuiviénen, in Palisor

Years of the Trees 1082


“By the starlit mere of Cuiviénen, Water of Awakening, they rose from the sleep of Ilúvatar; and while they dwelt yet silent by Cuiviénen their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven."

"Long they dwelt in their first home by the water under stars, and they walked the Earth in wonder; and they began to make speech and to give names to all things that they perceived."

"... and to Cuiviénen, there is no returning.”

~ Tolkien, Chapter 3: Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor, The Silmarillion


“... thinking that he had… received the gift of the Elf-minstrels, who can make the things of which they sing appear before the eyes of those that listen.”
~ Tolkien, Appendix A: V The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, The Lord of the Rings


~ Private RP ~

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Upon a field of dandelions, swaying gently in a cool breeze - Okrínü inhaled his first breath. Lying on his back against the soft blades of this floral pasture, he sat upright in newfound wonder. He looked first at the back and the front of his hands curiously then touched the ends of his hair in amazement. Lastly, Okrínü gently pressed the tips of his fingers against the rising and falling of his own chest in fascination. Fascination at his own bodily composition… and existence.

But he was not alone.

Eäl, whose hair swirled about her like a silver stream, had also opened her eyes beside him. She had awoken with the body granted to her reposing on her left side, with one arm resting across her belly and the other outstretched from under her head.

Rising steadily, they looked in awe at their own bare and pale feet and then beheld a dark-hued heaven jeweled with lights, white and distant. It was in this moment that Okrínü became enamored not only of the display above them but of the one before him as well. He turned slowly to Eäl and marveled at her splendor.

When a moment of silence between them had passed, Okrínü took a calm step forward and cupped her cheeks in both of his hands, gazing into the mirrors of her eyes. Eäl’s lips parted but no word did she say to him. Instead, she advanced his way in a similar fashion and embraced him. Never leaving his side from that time forward. So it was that the Firstborn named this blooming corner neighboring the bay - the Field of Embracing.

Okrínü and Eäl walked alongside Enel for a time when he found them but returned eventually to their patch of origin when Eäl conceived. With the support and care of their fellow Nelyar, such as Aphedriel and Nenmeldo, they constructed a dwelling for themselves of dark oak. Okrínü himself thatched the abode by interlacing the branches of the canopy of trees that hovered over the structure. And with their home ready, they welcomed their daughter into the world the Quendi had given by Ilúvatar.

However, from the time of her birth, it became evident that Eärmana had inherited a peculiar foul temperament and a nature bordering on savagery. The infant swatted at the hands of Aphedriel, who had helped in the delivery when she attempted to hold her. Eärmana also bit the hand of Okrínü her father, despite the absence of teeth, when he tried to grasp her and squirmed in the cradling arms of Eäl, wailing in defiance.

Flustered, the mother of Eärmana handed her first child over to her friend Nenmeldo, and in that instant, the child ceased to fuss. Her silver lashes drew apart for the first time and Eärmana imprinted on the Nelya with shining bronze eyes. “It seems she will have love only for you,” remarked Okrínü, not at all disappointed by the turn of events that had taken place in his own house. “Yet I perceive it is an endearment, far greater and purer than we shall ever be able to understand,” he continued, “Another may possess her heart, but only you will she hold in the highest regard.”


...

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Eärmana prodded the contents of her bowl with a tight frown. Displeased with what she saw. Eäl rested her wooden spoon at an angle in her stew before addressing her daughter. “If you do not eat, you will go to bed hungry.” She spoke sternly to her child who was hardly old enough to walk. “You have to eat your food cooked. No more of this raw nonsense,” added Okrínü, radiating like a star as he rubbed the infant’s back gently and encouragingly. Both followers of Enel had attempted to keep a better eye on Eärmana's diet after she had returned home from the woods with blood oozing from her mouth and a half-eaten rabbit in her small hands. “Come on, eat the stew,” reiterated Okrínü, as both he and his wife looked expectantly at the toddler.

Eärmana threw the sloshing bowl onto the ground. “No!” she exclaimed, hurling her spoon as well. Eäl sighed in defeat. “Now now, we only want what is best for you,” said Okrínü, picking up both the dish and utensil his child had pitched. Eärmana however, was adamant. She would eat on her own terms… or not at all. Even if it meant perishing from hunger.

Before either silver-haired parent could supplicate to Eärmana once again, there was an unexpected pounding on their entryway. “Whatever is the matter?” calmly asked Okrínü, looking at the child responsible for the noise. “Nenmeldo is back! He is back!” cried the boy excitedly before running away. Little Eärmana drew in a sharp breath, quickly removing herself from the presence of her parents and waddling out of the oaken house.

“Eärmana, come -” began Okrínü before Eäl pulled him in for a kiss. She smiled at her spouse affectionately and convinced him that their daughter would be fine.


...

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Nenmeldo towered over the overjoyed children as they ran up to greet him. They wrapped their little fingers around his muscular hands and his clothes, pulling him in every direction. “No-o-o!” shouted young Eärmana, shoving the others aside aggressively upon arrival. They needed to understand that Nenmeldo was her friend, not theirs. She moved Ildrö, her best friend gently out of her way before extending her hands up to the bright-eyed Nelya. Eärmana was picked up and carried several strides across the dandelion field. As this occurred, she looked over one of his broad shoulders and stuck her pink tongue out at the other children following behind them.

He sat down on the stump of an oak tree that had been severed at the request of Okrínü and Eäl for the construction of their home and positioned Eärmana on his lap. When the young Ürsa attempted to clamber onto his thighs as well, Eärmana slapped her away. Nenmeldo then removed a flute from one of his pockets and raised it to his lips. What followed next was a song so sweet and so whimsical, that its musical tonations manifested wondrous things before the Nelyar youth.

In a burst of white fluff, the seeds of the dandelions took flight. They pivoted in midair, traveling high and low over the delighted faces of the children. Eärmana grasped at the pappus stalks, placing them in her mouth and chewing on them.

Emerging from the rich soil of the grass, little figures of starlight bearing a resemblance to the Quendi danced at the feet of the young ones and climbed upon their shoulders. They brushed against their toes and trickled their noses before vanishing in a cyclone of brightness. Eärmana bounced in place, clapping her plump little hands in celebration.

Nenmeldo began a second tune without delay, relaxing the pace in which he played his pipe instrument. It resonated tenderly and was filled with longing; such as the yearning for a love within proximity but otherwise unattainable. When he had finished, perceiving that this encore was personal to their beloved Nenmeldo, the children rushed forward and cast their arms around him. Returning his melody and its poignant association to a private matter, with their warmth and affection. Eärmana balanced her weight on the balls of her diminutive feet, pressing her moist, roseate lips to his chin.

He treated the offspring of his clan to a third and final theme, adding his own mellifluous voice to the notes of his flute this time. The children lowered themselves down onto the pasture, sitting on their knees or with their legs crossed. They swayed slowly from side to side, rhythmically with the beat of the spirited ballad unfolding. Ürsa was the first to rise, take Ildrö by his right hand, and begin swinging back and forth with him in time to Nenmeldo’s last tune. Eärmana swiftly dropped from her seat on the piper’s lap and seized Ildrö by his left hand, yanking him towards her. Ürsa, who was as gentle as a deer, would not wrestle or injure the toddler with silver hair but would insist strongly on keeping her dance partner. Ildrö was forced to one side and then another by the girls, but Nenmeldo’s tune played and chanted on.

Oblivious to the battle taking place between Eärmana and Ürsa, the other juvenile Nelyar sprang up from their seats on the floral patch to join in the dance. A boy clasped one of Eärmana’s hands while another girl did the same with Ürsa. They quickly formed a ring, swinging back and forth and from side to side, leaping on occasion. The silver tendrils of Nenmeldo’s hair blew astir in gusts of wind that combed through the grass. Butterflies of every pattern and color, also materialized around the circle of silver and dark-haired youngsters, fluttering about with tails of red, gold, and purple glitter. No doubt a result of Nenmeldo’s enchanted song.

The stars of the firmament wheeled and throbbed, joining in the revelry taking place below on Cuiviénen, and the Field of Embracing was filled with magic and merriment. The like of which, only a few from the early days of the Quendi would live to remember.


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Black Númenórean
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The Mingling of the Lights

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Part I: Laurelin


originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor



Ezellohar was a lonely place. The mound bulked up from the grassy sward of Valinor, sloping upward smooth and green at first. But slowly the lush grasses began to fade and yellow, then crumble into brown relics and finally bare black earth where the ground smelt of poison and nothing dared grow. At the pinnacle of the mound stood two trees, or rather, what had once been trees. They were but ashen husks now, once proud trunks withered, the branches whose heavy-laden boughs once shaded all of Ezellohar now shriveled, curling inwards. In their days of life and glory, one, the elder, had been called Telperion, and his silver light bathed Valinor in an ethereal grow. And the younger had been called Laurelin: the Golden, Malinalda, Culúrien and many names lost to legend. Her leaves had been of a young green like the new-opened beech; their edges were of glittering gold. Flowers swung upon her branches in clusters of yellow flame, formed each to a glowing horn that spilled a golden rain upon the ground; and from the blossom of that tree there came forth a warmth and a great light. The great lush of Laurelin’s boughs had covered the land of Valinor in a rich golden glow that made joyous Elda and Vala alike in the full light of her flowering.

Laurelin’s light was now no more, as she stood in wretched death upon the hill. And yet there was still some spark of life within her core; from her seared and smoldering bough had come the fruit that made the Sun, and though that effort had drained from the golden tree her last energy of life, deep within her lurked the essence of the light and love that had once been, waiting and waiting, ever waiting to be rekindled. Yavanna sat beneath the blackened limbs this day, and Laurelin looked upon her sadly. Of all the things which the Giver of Fruits had sung into being, the two trees had the most renown, the most sorrow, and the greatest measure of her love. Together with Nienna, Kementári had bent all her skill upon the trees, but could not achieve their healing. Throughout the long years she would come at times and sit as she did today, gazing upon the deadened trees and chanting to them in lamentation, though her hope of resurrection was ill. Laurelin looked also sadly upon Telperion- her elder, her brother, her mate. Once he had shone with a brilliant silver light that flooded the land in its splendor, casting everything into shimmers pale and lovely. Once beneath the earth their roots had twined closely together and she could feel his joy. But now she stood alone, roots withered like her branches, and if Telperion’s joy still lingered in his heartwood, she knew not. In the midst of her sorrow, the song of Yavanna reached Laurelin, and the golden tree cast her thoughts back to happier days, and remembered.

At first, there had been nothing. Only the awareness, suspended in darkness, that she was. She did not know what she was, nor where, nor how, but she existed, and that was enough. From a distance, it seemed, there came a sound from the echoes of silence, a singing voice, pure and lovely. She could not understand the words, but they called to her irrevocably and she thrust herself upwards, yearning to meet the song. As she moved, she began to not only know, but to feel, that she was. Something pressed against her tightly, soft and warm and moist. The word came to her from nowhere: earth. She could feel herself drawing from it nourishment, water and nutrients infused her through the tendriling feelers of her roots. They drew in the goodness and flourished outwards, seeking more of the life giving substances. In the blinking between one instant and the next, one of her threadlike roots had touched something unknown, and alive. In that same instant she broke the surface of the earth and in a rush of air the song grew loud about her and she could see next to her a slender silver shoot, bursting up from the surface of the earth in a rush. Then she knew that she was doing the same, the ground tightening about her thickening trunk as she drew rapidly away from the ground. As she crew upwards so her roots grew outwards and twined with his; yes, she knew now, that the other being was the same as she and he was full of joy; so she was also joyful as they grew together. It seemed at once mere moments and yet a very long time as they grew, but how long passed they never knew, nor never would know, but in those instants all that was passed between them.

And she knew that he had reached the song first, racing past her in his haste to know, while she had lingered in contented comfort. She knew that they were meant to be thus entwined and that for all unseeable time to come, they must be so. Together they grew, and strong; she saw him thrust forth limbs of shining silver sheen, a chill and ethereal light bathing the ground to spread and slither into each nook and cranny of the vast land in which they found themselves. At once the impulse and energy filled her to overflowing and with a great inward cry of silent ecstasy she burst forth in a great golden plume, leaf and flower budding and flourishing in an instant. And her light was warmth and love and softness, filling in the shadows left by that of her twin to complete the illumination of the world, perfect and rhapsodic and joyous. The song which had brought them forth surged louder and triumphant, joined now by many voices in welcome and praise and she heard their names proclaimed: Laurelin she was, and would now and forever be. Telperion stood at her side, slightly less in height though the elder, strong and proud; together they would be the light that brought night and day to Valinor, and the strength that bound it in harmony.

Through long ages the Valar dwelt in bliss in the light of the Trees beyond the Mountains of Aman. Laurelin and Telperion flourished and were glad; each waning as the other waxed into full bloom to light the land, and the mingling of their lights at the beginning and end of each day rang silent and lovely, and caused Vala and Elda alike to pause and gaze in wonder. The Firstborn had come to Valinor young and uncertain, wary of the light of the Trees, but Telperion had enticed them with silver beams, and Laurelin soothed them with sweet golden rays, her dews dropping slow to anoint them and here and there a golden flower drifted down to adorn the hair of a maid. Time passed slowly in Aman, but it was not long before the Eldar began to gather at the feet of the Trees upon the green mound, to sing, dance and make merry. Though all the Eldar loved the Trees, there was one nér who seemed to dazzle more at their light than the others. Many long hours he spent with his hands pressed against Laurelin’s bark, gazing up at the glittering gold of her leaves. From him she learned his names, but chose to know him by the name of the mother- Fëanáro, the spirit of fire; bright and hot and yearning.

He was a smith, the son of Finwë, dark and brooding, and Laurelin had watched him grow from slow childhood into strong adulthood; seen him wed, and known the birth of each of his seven sons. But the greatest of Fëanáro’s triumphs was wrought in secret, and the Trees themselves did not know how he had accomplished it. But one day when the waning of her light had just begun, he came to stand beneath Laurelin’s boughs, bearing a heavy iron box tenderly in his arms. He did not speak, but stood, gazing at her lights and reached to brush the tips of his fingers against her bark. Then he lifted the lid of the box, and from within came a dazzling light, hard and crystalline, both warm and cool at once, familiar and foreign. Laurelin looked upon the lights as they dimmed ever slightly, and saw that upon the velvet innards of the box sat three gems, large and wondrous. Yet these were not any gems; they called to her with small voices, childlike with wonder at their being, the lights within them twisting and bending, leaping as though they sought to escape their bounds, though not with anger or fear. And as she gazed at the jewels, Laurelin knew that they contained her light, her golden and warm light- and Telperion’s also, the subtle silver rays of her mate. Together their lights came together in these gems as they did at the mingling, ensnared into living jewels by Fëanáro’s skill.

At first the jewels, the Silmarils they were called, were openly loved by all, and often brought to the Trees, where Laurelin would reach out with her brightest light to touch them. But as the years passed, Fëanáro began to grow jealous in his love of the Silmarils, so far as to be persuaded that his brother coveted them, and for his threat, the smith was exiled. With him he took the jewels, and Laurelin felt equal parts sadness and relief. The beauty of the gems had caused both happiness and strife, and with them safely tucked away in Formenos, perhaps the latter would pass, and peace return to the Noldor. After a time it seemed to be so, when Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë met, and took hands, and the Eldar celebrated their reconciliation. The Trees were joyous, and that night the mingling of their lights was brighter and more fervent than ever before. Such joy, however, was not to be. For even as the Eldar and Valar were occupied with their reverie, Melkor stole across the plains of Valinor. Melkor, who had whispered lies and deceptions into the ear of Fëanáro, who had coveted the Silmarils and caused the strife among the Noldor from his place lurking in the shadows of stones where the light of the Trees did not reach, came hastening towards Ezellohar, and with him Ungoliant, the vast evil in spider form, come hence from the unknown.

Had either of the Trees been able to cry out, no chance would have been afforded them before Melkor came suddenly upon them. He bore a great dark spear and at once thrust its point deep into the heart of Telperion. The shining silver tree shuddered violently before Laurelin’s sight and through the twining of roots which had ever connected them she felt his unutterable agony, his joy shattered and consumed by a black fire that licked coldly from the wound of Melkor’s spear and seared the shining trunk of Telperion. For a moment Laurelin watched in horror as the leaves of her mate began to fall, his limbs blackening and shivering, and it was as she watched that Melkor sprang forth and smote her with his spear. Had she been able to give voice to her pain Laurelin’s scream would have rent the very sky of Valinor apart, tearing stars from their homes and snuffing out their light with the anguish of her cry. The precious sap that was her lifeblood poured from the wound, staining her trunk and the ground below with its precious, viscous fluid. Faintly through the blinding torment Laurelin could see the hulking shape of Ungoliant; where Melkor had gone she did not know, but the spider had set her beak to Telperion’s wound and was drinking of his sap, the sounds that came from her glut lewd and foul in her pleasure.

It seemed distantly that the hulking shape of Ungoliant crawled forward, her thorax grotesquely swollen with the blood of Telperion, but the ragged panting of her breath made Laurelin know that the she-demon was near through her delirium. Bloated as she was the spider hungered still, and her black beak struck now at the wound of the golden tree. No sooner had the bite sunk into her flesh than Laurelin felt the rich flood of the sap begin to drain away, drawn thirstily by Ungoliant who guzzled the rich liquid as though it were water. And not only did she take but also gave; from the spider’s mouth secreted a venomous ooze, drawn in by the desperately dry fiber of Laurelin’s trunk. But it was not the cleansing draught for which she had hoped, but an insidious poison. As it spread rapidly through her, Laurelin felt as though she had been set aflame, every narrow vein of every leaf and flower incensed with fire. Leaves and flowers curled swiftly and died, dropping like some grotesque rain from her boughs. These themselves began to wither, invaded from the inside out by the pain of Melkor and the venom of Ungoliant, retreating and retreating in a quest for safety, dried and blackening as they began to curl inwards. All at once Ungoliant had gone, leaping away after her master and the Trees were left along upon their mound. Dimly Laurelin could hear distant sounds of lamentation, and see flickers both silver and gold. Then the light of Laurelin faded and died, receding in a rush to leave behind only darkness. And the golden tree of Valinor knew no more.

At first, there was nothing. Not even a true awareness, only the sensation of pain and loss. Even these things were far away, and she did not want to more closely approach them. A cocoon surrounded her, hard and unyielding, in which she saw, heard and felt nothing, and no sense of time penetrated. Yet far, ever farther away, some distant point began to chip at the walls of the cocoon, chipping and pointing slowly, then more insistently, growing stronger and stronger until at last it burst through. A crack formed in the wall through which a sound leaked: weeping and song together, mingled in a distressed chant. After a time the weeping diminished, and only the song lingered. It was a familiar voice, longing, full of hurt and hope. It did not diminish, but continued alone in the darkness, unending and determined. Slowly, slowly a thin web of cracks began to grow and curl through the walls surrounding her, and she began to stir, the confinement pressing in upon her more closely. Even as she stirred, the song faltered once, as though a sob of despair had entered the singer’s throat; the next notes were hoarse, then as they mellowed and became smooth again they pleaded desperately, and Laurelin answered the call.

The walls of the cocoon burst in flying shards of sudden blinding white; no sooner had they shot forth than they vanished and in a rush she came awake. Still there was darkness, but this time it was not absolute. From above, the faint shimmer of stars cast pale outlines upon Ezellohar, and upon Yavanna as she stood alone in the darkness, chanting her quavering song. The faintest of touches struck Laurelin from beside her, and she knew that it was the last remaining connection of the web that had for so long connected she and her mate. In that instant of touch and love a great resolve filled the Trees, and with the final vestiges of her strength Laurelin drew all of her energies into one limb. From that blackened limb and withered wood came a small golden bud, which slowly grew and uncurled, and when at last the weight of it became too great, the lushest and most beautiful fruit that she had ever borne dropped from Laurelin’s branch and dropped unhurriedly to the ground. At the same moment a single silver flower drifted from Telperion, and caught by a faint breeze it struck against Laurelin’s fruit on the ground and they rested there together. Even as they connected, the final tendril that had bound the Trees together beneath the earth withered, and was no more. Suddenly, Laurelin was utterly alone. Though Telperion stood beside her as ever he had, he was but a battered husk, and if he still thought, felt, and was aware as she was, Laurelin knew not. She gazed now exhausted upon only his form and nothing more; no light, nor life, nor joy.

Yavanna collected the fruit and the flower, and in the time that followed Laurelin became aware from the talk of Elda and Vala alike what had occurred while she had languished in stasis. The golden tree’s heart sank within her when she learned of the refusal and flight of Fëanáro, who could have saved her. The once-dreamy youth who had spent so long in her light, captured it in unbreakable beauty, grown so jealous that he could not part from his jewels to rekindle that from which they were born. And because of his jealously the jewels were now gone, and many of the Noldor, and many Sea-Elves slain. Was light, any light, worth such a price? Yet darkness could not be allowed to endure, and so it was that two vessels were wrought by the hand of Aulë, to bear the fruit and the flower. These were the sun and the moon, and once fitted with their precious cargo each shone brightly with the final light of the Trees. The moon rose first into the sky, guided by Tilion, the hunter of Oromë. Following after him came the sun, steered by the fiery Arien, who for long years had tended the golden tree, and now safeguarded the last of her light with steady hand. Laurelin watched as the sun rose for the first time into the sky, and the light of Arien’s vessel, her own light, spread out over Aman, warm and soft and unwavering. And for the first time since the Unlight had touched Ezellohar, Laurelin was glad. She stood now a blackened ruin of her former glory, but with the sun and moon beginning their endless chase across the skies, life and light endured, inextinguishable.


That first brightness of the sun faded before Laurelin, melting smoothly into the subtler light of dusk in Aman as a sudden silence called her back to the present. The song of Yavanna had ceased, and the Vala sat in quietude now beneath the Trees’ bare branches. She did not weep, but Laurelin could see the unending sadness that lingered behind her fair eyes. The Giver of Fruits rose slowly, and pressed her hands each in turn against the trunks of the Trees, before turning to leave. As Yavanna made her way slowly from the mound, Laurelin remembered the words of Námo, which had echoed out over Aman in the mighty voice of the Lord of Mandos. One day, great and terrible things would come to pass; the sun and moon would be no more- but the darkness would not prevail, and with the jewels which had begun these trials, borne by Fëanáro reborn, Yavanna would reignite the fires of the Trees and they would flourish once more, illuminating not only Aman but beyond, the Pelóri brought down so that their light and glory could spread, blanketing all the re-made world in their bliss. When this would come to pass, the once-gold tree did not know. But as Tilion harried across the sky, racing to catch Arien in her steady course, a great hope rose within Laurelin. And to Aman, once more, came the mingling of the lights.



(Words in orange are borrowed from Tolkien. This post was originally, and remains, dedicated to Brian Jacques, whose writing has influenced and taught me so much)
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

High Lord of Imladris
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Silver and Blue
Cuiviénen


He woke to the feel of coolness under his body, and in a few blinks he caught sight of something far more fair than the stars overhead. She lay facing him her eyes still shut in slumber a smile on her face. Her hair was dark and spilled over her face as she breathed evenly and he was content to lay still and watch her. His grey eyes glimmering in the twinkling light of the stars but as much as he wanted to look at them he did not want miss those eyes opening for the first time.

He did not have to wait long she began to stir and she gave a yawn and her eyes slipped open and they were were bright and beautiful, and she smiled at him and he felt as if his heart would burst with joy just seeing that smile. He reached out and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face and she put her hand slender and soft on his the smile still on her face. Time felt like it stood still and all they could hear was each others breath and the soft rustling of wind that kissed their skin, and.... He frowned not sure what that sound was she wasn't either clearly and the two of them turned to see others standing nearby and they blinked shocked and stood slowly carefully holding each other gently curious about these others, looking around them more had awoken as well, and then one spoke and his voice was fair and kind and they travelled on.

As they walked they beheld the beauty of the world held in shadows and darkness lit by the beautiful glittering gems far above, and they learned swiftly their first word - elen, and then many more until they had name for each other Hiswa and Helwa.

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Rembina
Alqualondë. YT 1495.
(Private with Frost)

Time passed. Davos could not tell whether it passed fast or slowly, such was the unreality of life in Alqualondë after the massacre. And without the ebb and flow of the light of the Trees, there were no waypoints to mark the hours of the days and nights. Though he had been born to starlight and its eternal twilit hours, it was not the same, and the ancient Nelya hated it. It was a terrible thing to feel, this resentment of the starlight, and even through his haze of anger and grief, Davos whispered silent apologies to the stars and reassurances that it was not their fault. It was tempting, too tempting, to succumb to the paralysis of despair: the only thing he could do to keep going was to work, and care for the boy. Finnbarr, who was perhaps not old enough to understand the full calamity and consequences of what had occurred, but was plenty old enough to take in the horror, and too young to have been made an orphan as he was now. Finnbarr, for whom the bliss of childhood should have gone on for many more years, who would now have to face every day this place where his parents had been stolen from him. Davos had been long since grown when his own parents were lost to him, and he could not imagine what Finnbarr must be going through. Davos fed him, clothed him, gave him a place to sleep, and reasoned that work would be better than sitting and staring at the walls. So he brought Finnbarr with him on the endless tasks that were required for the cleansing of Alqualondë, and gave him tasks of his own. A purpose, no matter how temporary, to keep the boy occupied, and watched him like a hawk. Finnbarr threw himself into the work, and Davos gave him as much encouragement as he could muster.

But today there was no work. Today, all they had worked for the past days was coming to a head. Today, they would lay the fallen to rest. Davos had changed his coarse and salt-crusted clothing for garments of softest weave, black and muted blue. Though these covered more flesh than those he usually wore, Davos felt more naked in them than if he had worn nothing at all. He had washed and combed and re-braided his hair, and helped Finnbarr to do the same. His feet were bare, and the sand was cool beneath them as he stood on the beach, looking in the direction the boy had run off to. He looked away when the boy reappeared around the corner of the smithy to preserve the illusion that he had not seen, and looked down at him as he returned to his side. Davos knew the look of one who had just emptied the contents of their stomach, but said nothing of it. He merely nodded in reply, and held out his hand to take Finnbarr’s.

“Me, too.”

They walked down the beach with the masses of others, row on row of Teleri crowding the sands. There were others who had come from further inland, but the masses were Teleri, kin of those who had been slain. Davos walked with Finnbarr to the front of the crowd, where at the waterline dozens of small boats lay in the surf, stretching away down the beach as far as he could see. Each of these held the bodies of several slain, lovingly wrapped or dressed as their families had seen fit, lying as if peacefully asleep in boats’ flat bottoms. Each of these boats was fastened by long lines to Ossë’s great swans, and as the elves approached the surf, the maia himself emerged from the waters in a somber spiral of water and hovered there, waiting. Slowly Davos paced towards the boats until the waves lapped his ankles, and halted before one vessel. He looked down into it, and the craft was short enough that Finnbar at his side would be able to see into it also, and see the close-eyed faces of those laid within: his mother, his father, and Ramyanér. Davos swallowed hard, and raised one calloused hand to press it against the curving stern of the boat. All around them, the gesture was repeated at each boat by those gathered around it. The ancient Nelya mariner was by far one of the oldest who dwelt in Alqualondë, and as one of the founders of the city, he had been asked to begin the ceremony. How he had come up with the words in those days after the kinslaying, Davos would never know. But again he swallowed, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

“When shores were salt-sea scented and linnet songs were new,
And the skylark teeming rapture down the starry blue,
I felt the restless longing and the call of the sea
That looks fairer as it breaks white on Alqualondë.”


The beach was utterly quiet, and it seemed that even the sea fell silent under the raised hand of Ulmo, who had arisen beside Ossë. Only the voice of the sea-king’s acolyte sounded, deep and rich and full, shaping his words in the tongue of the Falmari. When Davos sang, it was as if all the pain he felt flooded into his feet and into the sea, leaving him empty, but with space to let something else in. His voice seemed to fill up all the air about the beach, bouncing off the white-pearl walls of the city, and resounding over the dark water.

“Out in the bracing freshness of the blowing ocean air,
Out where the dawn comes singing to see herself so fair,
There is no room for sorrow, all life is shouting hale,
In glassy swells a-roaming out from Alqualondë.”


But now there was sorrow, and some sorrows were too deep for words. Davos was an inheritor of the first songs, those that had come into being before words themselves, and his song now shifted. It reached and spiraled into the melodies of a star-song more ancient than he, complete with only the sounds that came wordless from his throat and his heart. There were others on that beach who were bearers of this tradition and their voices arose now with his, weaving harmonies complex and innate. The lines from swans to ships tightened. As they sang, the elves with their hands on the boats began to push, and the swans pulled their crafts from their berths of sand to float freely and then, slowly, began to pull away. Davos kept his hand on the boat, and with the other took a firmer grip on Finnbarr’s as they followed it out into the water. The sea was cold, but Davos scarcely felt it. The Teleri were a people of song, and as the elves at the boats walked deeper into the water, all about them more voices joined the song as if they had always known it, their voices raised in a great, sorrowful, joyful chorus the like of which would never be heard again on that shore.

Among the wordless chorus as the boats floated away, the elves sang the names of the departed, sending their names to the stars as their bodies went to sea. When the water lapped Davos’ hips he halted, to spare the boy beside him deeper water, and finally, the press of wood released from his hand as the boat continued its path away from Alqualondë. The tears ran in fluent rivulets down Davos’s unfinished-looking face, but still he sang. He sang Ramyanér’s name, and when Finnbarr’s voice beside him offered the names of his parents, he sang them too. At last the song reached its crescendo and now far out to sea, the cries of the swans joined it. The stars seemed to brighten, and a faint roaring underscored the song. All together at a gesture from Ulmo, the boats began to sink. The song descended slowly, and by the time the last bow slipped beneath the waves, it was a whisper of voices. They fell away one by one as the stars dimmed to their ordinary brightness, and the ordinary sounds lapping of the surf on the shore resumed. Last of all, the voice of Davos Seaworth fell silent.

Beneath the surface of the water, he squeezed Finnbarr’s hand.



(song adapted from The Hills of Longdendale by Ammon Wrigley)
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Meeting the Moles – Semi-Private RP with @Tharmáras
Part 3 – Another side to the Story


Ribedir Calaerion, Herald of Lond Col, Belfalas
amongst the Slaves of Tol Sangwa, 3014 TA

Their prison stood just short enough of tall that they must stoop, no doubt a design of the slavers to train them how to bow proud heads low. One week in and some of their number were already showcasing hunched stature, sore necks, and that was the least of it. All wore heavy shackles at the wrists, meant as much to exhaust efforts at fighting or escape, much less drown them if they ever reached the sea. The Umbarians removed these only during times the slaves were set toward hard labour. Under fierce eyes with fast whips. And then always a shackle set about an ankle each of them, strung the slaves all in a line together, so that running was a laughable notion.

It would have been especially laughable for he to try and run, of them all. For early on Ribedir had earned himself a smart kick to the ground with an accompanying stamp upon his knee, once he was already laid low. In defence of his Lord, there was no regret, not even when the throbbing kept him awake or the state of it concerned him. There would certainly be no running for the Herald for some time now, nor a hope of swimming. Still his mind was keen. The weights about his wrists he vowed should make him stronger every day that he grew more accustomed to them. But for all that he could reach the roof of their cage easily, he could not force it. The lattice of strong iron had been fashioned with one entrance only, serving also as it’s only exit. And that, at it’s front, was secured by a lock which the young man’s fingers were still numbed and bruised from seeking to manipulate. A warm band of rain had passed over the isle earlier that morn, and still drops of it’s legacy fell from the trees down through that cruel metallic net, slipping easily between the bars to both taunt and torment the slaves with discomfort and envy in equal measure. Dribbles ran down the backs, the faces, the everywhere just frequently enough to keep the inhabitants from comfort. With no blankets and their warmest clothes removed, their skin was no sooner dried here, than it was wet again, and the undergarments their captors had kept them in, for sheer amusement’s sake, were no comfort at all. Grimed and slick with mud.

Meanwhile, the Corsairs had usurped the cottages which had been purposefully built for guests to the starguild. Ribedir had gazed out more than once to spy on the distant lanterns and recall such accommodating lodgings. The Umbarians who squatted there now might be sleeping, or distracted, but there was no way to know for sure. And the thought of it might have kept him awake, if he had not already been so, from the pain. All in all, Ribedir had had enough.

His Lord, Edhelmir Azrubel, had closed eyes on their unhappy situation, likely out of sheer exhaustion. For days they had been set to the felling of trees, the sawing of branches so that the timber should be prepared for fuelling an incessant fire and/or the maintaining of ships. The Umbarians had not been shy in speaking of their plans. The slaves would not even answer back any more. Not since .. The telling swell which distorted the shape of the nobleman’s cheek was now changed in colour further from the bruising there the day before. Edhelmir wore it without complaint, but still it’s existence burned deep in his herald’s blood. It should never have come to pass.

Yesterday their toil had been to drag the twelve-strong stone statues clear out of the former star observatory. Hammers had been lined up, mattocks, chisels, .. and yet the slaves were not dragged out to finish off the effigies. That one was down to the Elves, a group of eight young males, who’d cried out so defiantly against the proposed desecration of the celestial tributes. The overseer had witnessed both the peril in pushing this plan, and also the joy of power he and his folk gained from seeing the pious immortals writhe against their restraints in rebuke. Clearly they feared the wrath of the Valar far more than any retribution from the slavers. It was all in vain regardless. The Umbarians had taken it upon themselves to defile the ancient ornaments, demonstrating no concern for any consequence.


You’ll see now,Edhelmir had mentioned, sitting up against the backdrop of the womens’ wails and the Elves outcry. “All know what occurred the last time that Men showed such contempt for the Valar.

The Valar have not shown any care for the cruelty done to their acolytes thus far,” the younger man was less concerned with sanctity, given the week he’d had. Their predicament and prospects risked his own fall from faith. “Perhaps the issue of their own, personal, eminence will move them more so.Ribedir sighed. Ignoring the lecture his lord embarked upon, from habit, as though the herald were but an ignorant child rather than a cynic born of subjugation. He wished he could retain Edhelmir’s unwavering belief that all things happened for some reason. It was what had brought them to visit at the starguild at all, before they had become all too aware of it’s ruin. The squatting slavers were besides themselves in joy as they broke down the vestiges of all that their captives held dear. This just the latest, though perhaps for some the greatest insult.

You shall see,Edhelmir laid his head back, closing the grey of hiss eyes.

At least perhaps they shall tire from their revelry, and give us some chance later to subdue them, when we are released for .. clean up.

That was as far as the younger Gondorian could put his hope in, for they had been made aware that they should soon now be responsible for clearing away every single grain of rock spilt from the anarchy, after. With their tongues, if they did not cease crying out in protest at it.



A hiss from the Elves drew Ribedir’s attention though, soon after, as did the recognition that there were no more calls out in anger any more. There were only whispers spent in Sindarin. A language still a custom to frequent oneself with, in the climes of the Gondorian’s homeland. The Umbarians were too caught up in their excitement to notice or care for a good while, for they too had turned toward some new thing drawing all attention.

There are Elves come,Ribedir leant a hand upon Edhelmir’s shoulder, to rouse him. “Out there, they are Elves come !” Even the lord, wearied of all address, turned in his seat, and beheld it too.

I see but a pair,” the Lord warned the youth to not grow too excited prematurely. There were after all already Elves in the cage next to them. “And one of those a child,Edhelmir’s observation dwindled in volume as did his interest. An Elf with a girlchild .. the Lord could not watch what he felt sure would happen next. He closed his eyes anew and wished he also might have closed his ears, for surely soon would come the screams and shrill cries of that little girl child.

But there came no screams. The Umbarian overseer had gone over and engaged in conversation with the unexpected pair. And Ribedir drew up as far as he could, gasping from the protest his hurt limb exuded, in his haste.

Gwaurnaroth” hissed one of the captive Elves in disgust and disappointment, before they as a one turned from their intrigue to a more disgruntled huddle about their small pen.

Dirt rats ?” the young man supposed his raw interpretation of a term he had not heard before. Some insult surely, but the context still confused. “Who are they ? What is happening ?” he dared aloud to ask. The Overseer seemed almost subject to the latest Elf arrival, which was a thing quite alien from how he had behaved towards the Elves already in his ‘care’. If anything they had tended to suffer worse than the mortals had, perhaps because they seemed the more surly. There had been no explanation given for this, nor why the immortals were not released even for work duty. They were locked in fetters hand and foot, and left to stew in their own filth and misery without reprieve.

Moles,” one of these unhappy number took the time to explain to Ribedir, seeking that the young man comprehended their tongue, which he held to. “You are learned, yes ? You have heard of the House of Mole ? The Fall of Ondolinde ?

Gondolin,” the Gondorian exclaimed before he could halt his shock. “But surely they were all .. wiped out. I read that ..

They were scattered. Though came out in due time, as do all pestilent insects crawl out from beneath their rocks. You travel all the way to this island to look up at the skies, and you never think to learn who lurks in the next isle along ?” the Elf laughed without amusement. His bright eyes bored into the young herald with extreme judgement. “Tol Noldare. The survivors fled there. To be apart from the world that never would forgive their treachery.


But they can not ally with Umbar ! They are .. well, Elves !Ribedir still struggled to marry the concept with his understanding of their kind.

A Mole will deal with and do whatever it takes to get what he wants,” the startled herald was schooled. “He may turn on these Corsairs as swift as he would turn on us, as swift as he would turn on his own brother if it suited him.” The silence which pursued this claim inspired want for evidence. “You watch,” the captive Elf urged Ribedir. “They shall buy your folk to treat with afterwards unkindly, for the entertainment of vengeance against the Mortal Tuor, since he murdered their lord years ago. They have despised your kind since that day. And as for we .. they shall not even purchase us, but leave us here. What sort of Elf can you imagine would do such a thing ? Save for their kind.


The young man only accepted he had sunk down in the mud beneath him, as it began to cake to his thighs, a cold dread that reached to his bones.

We have seen it happen four times already, since we were brought here,” one of the Elf’s comrades leant strength to the story. The other men and women about him had begun to mark the passage of the Overseer and these two Mole Elves toward them now. The entire caged collection fell to a telling hush, and then the Mortals were dragged from their ‘quarters’. The captive Elves were, just as was foretold, abandoned to their fate. Ribedir had surely seen the male Elf (Hatholdir) give eyes toward them, yet he did not press for their release. The men and women however, he claimed in entirety. And the latest intel offered to these slaves of their new pending owner filled the air with new shrieks of despair and horror. Edhelmir’s hand found his friend, and held him stand tall.

This is the salvation we were waiting on ?” the herald threw back in a hush. “They’re worse than the ..” he began and was cut off.


Hatholdir gave words to them, naming them as his, and outlining his rules, his expectations, and his formidable decree. That he was taking them from slavery and from the Umbarians, but he would never let them leave the new home they must embrace as their own. Ribedir furrowed his brow and glared deep at this latest, clutching – seemingly for balance - at his Lord’s arm to see him cease conversing so calmly with the Mole. Marched to the means of new transportation, each slave was released of chains, by Hatholdir himself, setting himself up as their liberator, even as they set foot upon the deck of that Elf’s ship, set to where he would retain them. The herald alone held ground and refused to mutely step up as all had done before him, as though a lamb to the slaughter. Some of the crew came to their King’s aid and wrested the surly youth below deck with all the rest of his peers, and the new owner of such a cargo calmly pocketed the key. There were offers made to the young man by some of the Moles and even by his friends, that this must simply be some measure to dissuade him from trying to leap overboard. For surely in this state, he would be dragged down to his death. His leg and the painful urgency of their path toward the ship, .. did not improve his mood or help matters of course.

And neither, having endured so much already, did Ribedir of Belfalas. At least he had known what to expect of the Corsairs. Edhelmir continued to assume that there was some reason this was all occurring, but his young herald was not convinced that was any comfort. The goals of the Moles of Tol Noldare, he could only guess at, for he did not believe this Hatholdir as far as he might wish to throw him. And history as well as rumour was not kind to their reputation.
Last edited by Ercassie on Sun Sep 19, 2021 11:07 am, edited 2 times 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.

Balrog
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The Swan Haven, YT 1495
The Nyxborn
(Private RP)

When the fighting broke out, the real fighting, Felmenar was near the middle of the host, marching within sight of his cousin, Finrod. The clang of steel on steel set his teeth on edge, his blood surged and seethed. Even at this distance, he could hear the hue and cry, the call to arms, the screams of death and dying. He was the first to draw his sword of those around him. The blade shone under the starlight, its edge catching a gleam of the stars. He had forged it in imitation of Fëanor’s fell creations, an unadorned, slender blade devoid of runic or bejeweled finery; the blade was a sign of adoration. It was a killing weapon, sleek and violent. The grip, made to a hand-and-a-half length, was wrapped about with supple leather, dyed black and crimson in an alternating pattern; the cross guard was a plain horizontal bar that slowly twisted and tapered toward the edges; the pommel was a simple polished steel ball. The blade was longer than those of the Fëanorians, owing to Felmenar’s great height, yet even still he was able to wield the blade with one hand.

He moved as swift as an eagle, dashing through the slower members of his host, eager for the call of the steel inferno. His eyes gleamed bright and yellow as the lust for battle filled him. Nothing like this had ever happened within his memory, born within the safe confines of Valinor. He constantly strained against the edict that elves stay within the sacred lands of Aman. He chaffed to return to the lands of his forefathers, the wild, untamed lands of east. He had heard tale upon tale of the deeds done in the days of the Great Journey. He longed to be a part of such a tale. His desire to fight and to win glory was so great that he easily fell under the sway of the great smith’s fiery words. Had Finrod not stayed him with wise, rational counsel, he would have taken flight before even Fëanor and his sons to track down the Black Enemy and his unlight spewing co-conspirator. Wild was his wrath, a fire that burned within him so strongly that his eyes had changed to reflect it. He’d been born with the emerald green eyes of his mother but as he grew in height and ferocity, they changed to a vibrant, iridescent yellow. Excitement flooded through him, his muscles, corded and sinewy, coiled like a serpent ready to strike. The enemy was unknown to him, as far back in the host of the departing Eldar as he was, but even from this distance, the sounds of battle, of deadly steel dances, called to his soul.

He heard his cousin call out to him, try to slow him down, to stop him from heedlessly diving into the fray but it was no good. The sounds of battle were a siren’s song to Felmenar, one-time student of Tulkas. His mind was razor focused. There was nothing that would turn him aside now. The closer he came to the conflagration, the more confused he became. Something was wrong here. He could see no enemies, no fell spirits or foul beings touched by darkness. There were only elves, brethren. Yet the fighting was no less fierce than had the battle been against the slithering, slobbering hordes. The tall ellon knew something was amiss. He looked to a hill, saw the standard of Fëanor and his sons flapping in the wind. His blood surged and he pushed forward. Felmenar did not understand the reasons the fighting had broken out, perhaps there was some malevolent spell of the Black Enemy at work here, perhaps the Falmari had been entranced into evil or had otherwise been turned as a stumbling block to the great purpose of the march, but he had no time to sit and debate the matter with himself. The consequences must be sorted out later. For now, he would have to fight.

And fight he did.

Hours and hours of practice had turned to years and years. The martial arts had become second nature to Felmenar, yet all the competitions and ordeals he had entered into had never had the air of deadly seriousness. The contests had all been blunted, shorn of truth. Yet no longer would he be bound by rules and moralities. War had come, and the ellon had never felt so alive! He bounded into the fray and the most heated point, his blade was like a falling star. Spears and tridents, the makeshift weapons of the Falmari, stood no chance against him, wreathed in battle fury as he was. Each time he felt his blade slice through flesh, there was a sense of pleasure, putrid and vile though it may have seemed with retrospect and hind knowledge. His heart was aflame with desire. His voice rose wordless in a great cry of ecstasy. He was no longer Felmenar, student of practice, bound by limitations, he was Felmenar, Unbound. Nothing could stand before him now.

And nothing did.

Even when pressed by three or four Falmari at a time, he parried their spears, rushed them, pinned them against the walls and ended them. Within an hour, his silvery blade was coated with thick red. It still gleamed and shimmered in the starlight. The blade was hungry, alive with the need to drink the life of hotblooded creatures. It was more than an extension of his arm, the nameless blade was a part of him, an extension of his emotions and feelings and thoughts as much as his senses. As he fought, cutting down his opponents, he swore in the silent void of his mind he could hear a new voice calling to him from the blade. Had he any time to sit and philosophize about the sensation, surely eh would have come up with some horrible reasoning, a touch of madness, battle-folly, or perhaps sensory deception, but for now he allowed that voice to become a part of him. He integrated it into his being. That voice joined the choir of voices his moods and sensations.

The battle thinned as he reached the far end of the harbor. Though the various shouts and commands he’d heard, Felmenar discovered it was the boats they needed, that they had been denied. He understood the wrath of Fëanor and his sons. Had the hot blooded elf been alongside the great smith, he would have been the first to draw blade. Whether by belligerent stubbornness or bewitchment, the Falmari had chosen to allow the Black Enemy to escape and now hindered the pursuit of justice. In the midst fighting, Felmenar had to remind himself that these were not the savage creatures of the enemy and thusly those slain at the end of his blade would deserve pity in the end.

“Halt!” The voice was high and clear, but there was trepidation in it, a quavering nervousness.

Slowly, Felmenar turned to face the voice. His white hair fluttering in a breeze that blow off the waters. His yellow eyes sparkled with bloodlust. “Halt? Where then should I go? Ought I to join you in your obfuscation of justice? Ought I cower as injustices and horrid crimes are perpetrated within my sight? Ought I crumble and refuse the most basic measures of hospitality?” he grinned savagely, wiping a smear of blood across his chin. “Nay, I will not halt for the likes you.”

The Falmari, nearly a foot shorter, hefted a wicked sharp trident and aimed it at Felmenar’s chest. “I do not want to fight you, but I will if I must.”

“Then you must,” the Ñoldo spat, raising his sword.

The Falmari was fast, his strikes with the trident were lightning, testing Felmenar’s defenses. He was good, the ellon had to admit. He was losing ground in this fight, the strikes and jabs were coming too quickly for him to be able to launch his own attack. His arms felt sluggish in comparison to those of his opponent. They dueled their way to a dock, already slick with blood. In the distance, he could hear the screams of a woman, telling someone to stay in the water, to hide. He spared a fraction of a glance, saw a fishing trawler surrounded by the light of angry torches and glittering swords. Why go after such a poor target? It would be useless for their plight. The energy of his comrades would be better spent on boarding and securing the larger swan vessels.

But now was not the time to be preoccupied with the larger strategy. Now he need to deal with this Falmari. Finally, a stroke of the trident went wide as the elf slipped on the blood at the feet. Felmenar took the opportunity to finally begin his attack. He struck once, twice, thrice, four times, five times. Each strike found him gaining ground. He could not breach the defenses of the Falmari but he was driving him back. They were nearly at the end of the dock now. The sounds of the tide mixed with the sounds of battle, a glorious cacophony. The Ñoldo felt energized, finding a second wind. Sidestepping a strike from the trident, he used the flat of the blade to knock the weapon aside and move within its reach. With his free hand, he grappled with the Falmari, twisting his wrist and yanked the polearm away from his assailant. Using the momentum, Felmenar tossed the trident away, letting it fly into the ocean with an insignificant plop. He grabbed the Falmari by the breastplate he wore, pulled him in and under his arm, grounded his stance, then yanked the man’s torso back while holding his neck still. There was a snap and a gurgle. The body slumped to the ground. Felmenar knelt beside him. The elf’s eyes were still open, gasping for breath.

“I told you I wouldn’t halt. Why didn’t you listen to me? Why couldn’t you have just stood aside? Why couldn’t you have aided me? Are we not brothers after a fashion?” He wiped the blood from his blade on the dying man’s sleeve, then rolled him over, letting his body fall into the sea.

He stood up, satisfied but angry. The group that had been attacking the fishing trawler were fleeing, likely finding better, more suitable ships to commandeer. This section of the harbor was quiet now. The fighting had left the buildings mostly untouched. An angry thought came into his mind: burn it all down, but he managed to stop himself, reasoning that a fire would take too long to kindle and there was more work to be done. Finrod would have entered the fray by now, and he needed to be beside his cousin. He took one last look at the body flooding face down in the water, shook his head, and raced back into the heart of the uproar.

By the time he made it back to the press, the resistance of the Falmari had been broken. There was blood everywhere. More blood that he’d though possible. A part of him was horrified to see so much death, so much violence, but the better part of him looked on the scene of carnage and thought it good. It was not the fault the Ñoldor that their allies and kin had forsaken them, that they’d been forced to fight and take what they were owed, what they needed in the pursuit of justice. The sounds of screaming could be heard on all sides, hundreds of voices, some crying out in pain, some crying out in victory. Surely there was no victor hear today. The Black Enemy had won this battle by the seeds of indecision and stubbornness. This, too, would have to be redressed in the wars to come. He sheathed his sword and walked through street soaked in blood, passed the groans and shudders of dying men in the streets.

The foe was not one of his choosing, but his heart was full. Felmenar’s first taste of battle had been a rich one, the days to come would be a veritable feast. Despite the exhaustion he felt creeping around the edges of his consciousness, he felt alive. In the midst of death he felt more alive and invigorated than he had ever felt before. He unsheathed his blade and looked at it in the light of the stars. He watched the light as it waivered and shimmered, saw each ripple of steel as it had been folded and folded and folded a thousand times. It was beautiful. “You ought to have a name now, I suppose.” The blade seemed to darken, drinking in the light of the stars and the fires as they began. Its form shimmered as if it had been made of mists. “Lómëhina.” He said, sheathing the silent blade once more.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Rembina
Alqualondë, YT 1495
(Private with Moriel)

The funerary service was beautiful. That much Finnbarr could not deny. Davos’ eulogy was eloquence and lyrical, his voice was strong, Finnbarr didn’t understand how he could be so strong right now. All the young Falmari wanted to do was hide in his room on his parent’s boat. But, of course he couldn’t do that. The tiny vessel was still in the harbor, one of the few that hadn’t been taken, but it now felt as alien and unfamiliar as the other end of the world. A place of terror and unknown. Maybe he’d return to it someday, maybe. The idea of dying wasn’t exactly unknown to Finnbarr, he’d known all his short life that death was something that could always be lurking around the corner. But he thought his parents were invincible. He thought the citizens of Alqualondë were invincible. Death wasn’t really a thing here, not so close to the Valar. It never crossed his mind that he’d be attending a funeral. Reality was a sobering, an uncomfortably tight-fitting shirt and breeches. He wanted to squirm and fidget. There was so little movement here. After spending so much time on the water, constantly moving and shifting with the tides, standing still felt as unnatural as a funeral.

This was wrong. This was all wrong! They shouldn’t be doing this! He and Davos shouldn’t be together! Davos should be in his big fancy house, hosting all the important people of the city, his friends. Finnbarr should be learning how to gut and clean a fish. This was all wrong! No! NO! He began to shake and tremble. This wasn’t supposed to be. His world was all wrong. He wanted it to back to normal. He wanted shut his eyes as tightly as he could and open them to find his parents laughing and calling him over to them, he wanted to see Davos’ friend wake up and demand a feast be served in his honor. He opened his eyes though, red rimmed with tears that had begun to fall without him realizing it, and found the scene just as he’d left it. He hated it. He hated this stupid funeral. It was bad and wrong. They shouldn’t be having a funeral at all! They should be celebrating and singing, playing and working. This funeral was wrong. He hated that he was here, hated that Davos was here. Hated that his parents and Davos’ friend weren’t here. He clenched his jaw so hard he heard something crack and a white shock of pain exploded. He wanted to cry and scream and run away.

He looked at Davos though, and that stopped him. If the ancient ellon could stand and face his grief with such composure and grace, then so would Finnbarr. He owed him that much. Every impulse told him to escape, but he didn’t. He didn’t know if he was doing a good thing by staying and observing the funeral, but he knew it was his only recourse. He needed to be brave. He hadn’t been brave the night of the attack and look what happened. He had to be brave, else his cowardice could spell doom for Davos, and he would not allow that.

He squeezed the ancient one’s hand, felt something like strength being transferred between them. He felt safer, not completely, but he believed he could do this. He stepped forward, cleared his throat and began to sing his own song.


Fare you well upon your journey,
To the bright lands far away,
Where beside the peaceful rivers,
You may linger any day.
In the forests warm at noontide.
See the flowers bloom in the glades,
Meet the friends who’ve gone before you,
To the calm of quiet shades.
There you’ll wait, O my loved ones,
Never knowing want or care,
And when I have seen my seasons,
We will walk together there.*


-- * -- * -- Some Time Later -- * -- * --

Down and down and down he went. The light of the stars quickly faded, obscured by the fathomless depths of the water. Finnbarr opened his eyes under waves, but it was nearly too dark to see anything. He was in a different world now, a world of darkness, of shadows, and infinite obscurity. But it was not an alien world. Not anymore. The more he dove, the more he swam, the more water felt like his home. In the last three years he spent more time below the surface of the waves than above them. His time as charge to Davos had been relatively carefree, but they hadn’t been filled with as much activity or responsibility. Tutors and lessons only lasted so long until Finnbarr was bored and looking for a way to get back in the water. It was all he wanted to do. From the moment he realized he’d lost the carven image of the otter Davos had given to him all that time ago, he’d been obsessed with finding it again and getting it back. He’d lost it on that terrible night, the night the entire world changed. The stars shined with less ferocity and brilliance, the land was colder and harsher. The only place Finnbarr felt safe was in the water. The great salt sea was the only place he felt he belonged. All of the tutors told him that it was a phase and he’d grow out of it, that he’d learn that there was more to life that diving and swimming, but what did they know? Davos never discouraged him. And for that, Finnbarr loved him. He’d never love Davos as a parent, he’d never love anyone like that, but Davos had rescued him that night in a dozen different ways and that earned him a special kind of love and affection, a kind of loyalty that those Ñoldor could never understand.

His raged burned in him. There were no clear answers or (in Finnbarr’s mind) justice for what had happened. They’d sailed away, leaving his home a smoking ruin, as if it had been their right to do so. But they were gone now, absconded with the life work of so many people. He had nothing to direct his rage at, except the sea. The sea understood his rage, accepted it, allowed him to channel that rage into something productive. He lost count of how many times he’d dived down to the bottom of the bay and shouted as loud as he could, releasing a torrent of bubbles. He didn’t want to be comforted in any other way, had no idea how to be comforted in any other way. His miniscule bouts of rage brought a hammerhead shark to him once, investigating the disturbance and hoping for food. Finnbarr hadn’t been afraid, he’d swam with the shark as far as he could until he nearly lost sight of the lands to the west. He remembered looking out to the east and promised himself he’d go there one day, and he’d make things right.

Today though, he was focused on the sea bottom rather than the mysterious lands from campfire tales. He was going to find the otter today. He knew it. He’d been searching for years, but never come close. Today was going to be different. The older he got, the wider his net had to be. The only real lessons Finnbarr listened to were the ones about the sea, about currents and tides, about sailing. The tides might have carried the little figurine out far beyond where he’d dropped it. The only question was how far out. He knew it was not a question of if, but when. He’d never been surer of anything in his short life before. He was going to find that figurine today or he was going to drown in the attempt.

Set with that grim determination, he plunged below, using his hands to search the sandy, rocky sea floor when his eyes failed him. He knew this terrain like he knew the stars. He’d never seen it, but he didn’t need eyes to see. He was home down here, as at home as he’d ever be. Down here, with the weight of the water pressing down on him, he felt free of the troubles of the world. He felt as though he might be okay. He needed the sea and the sea welcomed him with cold, green arms.

He let out a breath of air, bubbles exploded around him, crawling up his face until they shot upward, rising to meet their own doom. He was nearly at the edge of the sand now. The reef would be coming up soon. He’d cut himself a hundred times already on the reef, but each cut gave him a lesson and a piece of the puzzle. He greeted it now like an old friend, a wild and potentially dangerous friend, but a friend nonetheless.

What do you have for me today? Did you catch the little marble figurine? Do you know where it went?

Tenderly, he ran his finger over the sharp stones of the reef. His fingers were calloused from his underwater adventures as much as his sailing lessons. He could barely feel the little knicks and scrapes now.

Then his finger touched something sooth and round.

He let out another burst of bubbles. He opened his eyes for all the good it did him. The water stung and his vision was still completely black. But he knew. He knew he’d found it. He’d finally found it! Finnbarr pulled on the smooth stone. It was stuck. He pulled harder, bracing himself with his free hand against the reef. His could feel the stone cutting into him the more he pulled, but he would not be denied. Not now. He could feel his lungs start to spasm. He was running out of time. He tried to remain calm, knowing that panicking would not lead him to the results he needed, but the urgency his lungs were sending to his brain kept pulling his attention away from his task. Just. A. Little. More. He pulled harder, but the figurine was firmly stuck. He could feel his anger raising, mixing with his panic. He had not search for so long, so deep, and so far to be denied now. He shouted, spilling the last bit of air in his lungs. He grabbed the otter with both hands and used his unshod feet as leverage. Something finally gave. The coral broke free, snapped, and suddenly he was careening up and away. The otter nearly slipped from his hand as he swam upward. He grabbed it again and held it tight to his chest with one hand, holding onto it as if it contained all that he valued in the world (which it very well might have). The starts twinkled into existence again, one by one. He broke the surface of the water, leaping fully into the air as he gasped for precious breath. Air filled his lungs again and he began to weep.

“DAVOS! DAVOS! I FOUND IT DAVOS! I FOUND THE OTTER!”

(Text originally from Pearls of Lutra)
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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Silver and Blue
Cuiviénen


He woke to the feel of coolness under his body, and in a few blinks he caught sight of something far more fair than the stars overhead. She lay facing him her eyes still shut in slumber a smile on her face. Her hair was dark and spilled over her face as she breathed evenly and he was content to lay still and watch her. His grey eyes glimmering in the twinkling light of the stars but as much as he wanted to look at them he did not want miss those eyes opening for the first time.

He did not have to wait long she began to stir and she gave a yawn and her eyes slipped open and they were were bright and beautiful, and she smiled at him and he felt as if his heart would burst with joy just seeing that smile. He reached out and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face and she put her hand slender and soft on his the smile still on her face. Time felt like it stood still and all they could hear was each others breath and the soft
rustling of wind that kissed their skin, and.... He frowned not sure what that sound was she wasn't either clearly and the two of them turned to see others standing nearby and they blinked shocked and stood slowly carefully holding each other gently curious about these others, looking around them more had awoken as well, and then one spoke and his voice was fair and kind and they travelled on.

As they walked they beheld the beauty of the world held in shadows and darkness lit by the beautiful glittering gems far above, and they learned swiftly their first word - elen, and then many more until they had name for each other Hiswa and Helwa.

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Silver and Blue
Cuiviénen and the lands around it


Hiswa and Helwa learned many words and helped create some here they also found joy in wandering in the forests around the water until their numbers grew further and further and they had the joy of teaching their new kindred words as they a had been taught. Often they played in the water and among the foliage, Hiswa learned to craft with his hands helping to build houses among the trees themselves, the one he built first for Helwa was small but beautiful crafted of wood and earth and plants grew over it entirely so that one might not see where it was unless one knew. Helwa and many others learned to weave and sew and they lived in utter bliss for many years, watching as those around them had children.

However not all was well, for dark things moved in the deep shadows about the lake and eventually the elves began to move away from Cuivienen and eventually they never returned. While they spoke quietly of this to each other, the still enjoyed finding new plants and animals in the darkness though most slumbered in the darkness compared to how they had grown in the light of the lamps that the elves had never known. They decided though many of their kin had children something felt ill to them, or perhaps they were not yet ready to care for a young soul.

Instead they invested their time in the trees and plants grew still but their growth was slow Hiswa and Helwa both caught sight of shadows on occasion and would retreat to the safety of their home and the many elves that still dwelt there. They were among the first to see The Rider, and they knew not who he was and at first they feared him. They begged their Lord to be wary having seen him circling many times, not knowing the difference between him and the other shadows that had begun to haunt them the further they strayed from the water. Eventually though all of the Lords went with this Rider who was far fairer than the shadows and did his best to sooth the nerves of many of the elves. Hiswa and Helwa though stayed wary and not entirely convinced.

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(Continued from The Forsaken Inn)

Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)
@Revered Grandmother



The ground looked far too close to him, for some reason. Head throbbing, with a strange buzzing in his ears, Gladhron tried to turn his gaze away, and found that his head did not want to turn. After waiting a moment, the buzzing gradually faded from his ears, and he began trying to pull himself back slightly from the close-up view of the forest floor. His head felt far too heavy. Then, he realized that the ground didn't just look close; it WAS close. Right in his face, in fact. He was lying sprawled on the ground, partly on his side. How'd he get there? He didn't remember lying down there. Groaning, he made an effort and rolled himself onto his back. The effort left him feeling a little queasy, and the world spun faster around him. The trees towering overhead looked like they'd never stop circling, and might just come crashing down on him. The young man closed his eyes tight, trying to shut out the dizzying sensation.

The horse nearby nuzzled his head with a soft noise that almost sounded like concern. Gladhron waved a hand vaguely in her direction, trying to push her away, but the horse would not be swayed. She nudged his shoulder and neck and face until he finally opened his eyes again, head throbbing. "No, Gaeroch." He squinted up at her in confusion. That wasn't Gaeroch. He lay for a moment, trying to work out why his brother's horse, Mael, was there, instead of his own horse. The smaller, dappled gray horse put her ears back, almost as if she had been offended by being called by the wrong name, and snorted softly before butting her muzzle against his side.

Gladhron put an arm up to try and block out the light, trying to remember what had been so important to take him from the comforts of a cozy room with a comfortable, soft bed. As soon as his arm rested on his bandaged forehead, the weight of it brought on a sharper pain to the immediate area, and he gasped softly before letting his arm just drop to the ground, resting on the leaves just over his head. His forehead felt damp, and he tried to make sense of it. Was he sweating? He didn't feel all that hot. Actually, it seemed that his arm, where it had rested on his head, had a damp spot as well. This didn't quite add up to him at the moment and trying to figure it out seemed to make the headache worse, so he stopped thinking about it.

Mael, after looking down at the wounded young man for a long moment, apparently decided he was not going to wake up, and so wandered a short ways off to nibble at some grass. The injured ranger remained where he was, oblivious to the passing of time, wishing the world would stop spinning so he could get up and carry on with his important task, which he could not quite recall. Something about a girl, wasn't it?
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:46 am, edited 3 times in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
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Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

She'd heard the hoof beats and had laid down hiding behind a tree root, these lands were dangerous after all for lone travellers especially against those that were mounted on horse. She blinked hearing a thud and the hoof beats stop. She looked around warily wondering if perhaps there was someone else in these woods with ill intentions. She stayed down listening for foot steps going to claim the horse, or loot the corpse but none came. and she peaked her head up slowly towards the horse and watched silently from where she lay just in case they had seen her and were waiting for her to move. She could be very very patient.

No one emerged though, and the horse for their part began nudging and prodding its fallen a rider and her dark brown eyes narrowed as she watched calmly until the man stirred. He was not dead. Could have fooled her she thought with how long it took him to come round. He flailed his arm about and the horse formerly concerned with him seemed to be willing to go and eat grass. She stood up slowly wrapping her cloak around her tightly and covering the lower half of her face deftly with the scarf that rested around her neck for such occasions and slipped forward slowly her hands out speaking to the horse since the horse seemed to have more senses about them than the man did. She looked over the man from near his feet, figuring him getting up quickly was probably not terribly likely when she saw that his head was bandaged and bleeding, fairly profusely. The formerly white bandage was now dirty from the forest floor and brightly stained with blood. He was riding wounded he was a fool Umoya thought with a snort looking him over.

"'Ello. Are ye dead?" She asked finally "Or jus' plannin' ta be bloodin' on de ground fer fun?" She said her Haradrim accent clear despite using the common speech as she leaned over to try to figure out just how badly wounded he was. He was less of a threat to her at the moment he had to know the area fairly well if he was willing to ride out so badly wounded perhaps... Perhaps she could get information from him on the surrounding area for that though she'd probably need to gain a bit of trust from him, she did have a little food and she had some medicines she still had from Harad they were foreign here but they were strong and could probably help him well enough if he'd let her.

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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


Mael, having a distrust for strangers, had fled a few paces away when the unknown woman came close. The mare watched from a safe distance away, wary of the unfamiliar human. After a few moments, when the woman didn't try to come close again, she nibbled on another patch of grass. This one had some clover growing with it, and the horse contentedly munched on that while keeping one eye on the humans, ready to flee if the stranger got too close.


Just as Gladhron's jumbled thoughts began trying to focus on the girl, trying to remember what his goal had been and who this girl was that seemed so important, he heard a girl speaking. Was that her? No, the voice was wrong. Further confused, he cracked his eyes open to see an unfamiliar face swirling above him. Wait, was it one, two, or three women standing there? He honestly couldn't be sure, and the light behind her was painful to his brain, so he closed his eyes again. "I'm...trying very hard..not to be dead.." He answered with some effort. He spoke quieter than he realized, barely above a mumble, a bit weak. Still, he followed up the words with an attempt at a smile which fell away soon after. It was hard to maintain a smile while one's head was throbbing so hard.

"Please..help..get my..horse," He made an effort to prop up on one elbow, only to sink back onto the carpet of leaves under him, groaning in pain. "Have to..find her..." Moving had not been a good idea. Trying to sit up had been an even worse one, and now the nausea was back and he feared to move at all. "Who..who are you?" He mumbled, struggling to stay conscious, though he felt like he might easily slip into unconsciousness if he didn't fight it. Was that a good thing, or bad thing? He really didn't know, and sleep actually seemed very welcome right now, but if he slept, then he might not do whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. Finding the girl, that was it. Find the girl.. but which girl was it?
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

She looked the man up and down as he mumbled something turning her ear towards him and rolling her eyes as he smiled at her. Men. Everything was better with a smile, she was certain he'd said something about trying not to die. "Mmmmhm." She said shaking her head to the side. Men how did they end up in charge of things? Clearly they were all fools, just like her father was. "You look like you need medicine not your horse you silly fool." As he attempted to get up onto his elbow.

She looked at the horse, who had looked at her moved away and then decided to eat. No she'd dealt with horses in Rohan. There was a reason she was on foot. "I no be gettin' yer rage camel for ye." She said finally and squatted down beside him near his head, knowing now that he was in absolutely no shape to defend himself from what she could see. "Ye be lookin like a Mumakil stomped on your head and crooshed it like a coconut ye fool, ye gonna even remember me name if I give it?" She said reaching out and touching his face with her delicate dark fingers that once upon a time would have been dyed red with henna, there was no henna here so they were paler than she was use to though there were a few black marks upon them tattooed permanently for protection and warding old superstitions as it were.

She moved to flick the tip of his nose a flick. "Nah ye donbe sleeping with a head would like that pretty boy." Hoping the sting from her fingernail would be enough to bring him back to the land of the mostly awake if he didn't move out of the way of the flick. "Come a'by let's get ye off yer back and find out what in the desert snakes trousers ye be doin out 'ere like dis." She said and moved to offer him a hand up wondering if young men here were as prideful as they were in the far south...

Getting help from a woman in Harad would be laughable if anyone found out. Granted, in these woods she doubted there would be anyone to find out at all.

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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


The woman spoke strangely, with words Gladhron didn't know and didn't exactly understand. He had no idea what a rage camel might be, and didn't want to try and make sense of it, nor the other odd things she said. For a moment it seemed he was on the verge of slipping off into a nice, comfortable sleep, but then he returned to wakefulness as she flicked his nose. She seemed against letting him sleep. If it weren't for the fact he remembered there was something important he needed to do, he would have protested. Surely, sleep would help him recover, but he couldn't sleep yet. She needed his help, maybe. It nagged at him, trying to recall who it was that needed help.

The strange woman was holding out a hand, and he took a moment to brace himself for what he figured would come once he'd stood up. His first attempt at grabbing her hand failed, as he missed her hand entirely, due to seeing more than one blurry hand held out to him. Once he finally had hold of her hand, and let her pull him upright, he wished he had remained on the ground. The world spun more wildly than before, and he closed his eyes tightly. A memory flashed into his mind. Playing with his baby sister, when she was a young child. He'd had hold of both her wrists, and was spinning around and around while she laughed, enjoying the feeling of flying around and around, until he was too dizzy to continue and they collapsed onto a pile of autumn leaves, laughing while they waited for the dizziness to subside.

It didn't subside for him now, though. Gladhron sagged against the woman who had helped him up, a miserable moan escaping from his throat as his head throbbed worse than before. It was his sister he was looking for, wasn't it? "Gw..thiel.." Her name slipped out before he realized he's spoken it. Struggling to bring his focus back to the present, he frowned. No, it wasn't her. She was gone, he doubted he'd ever see her again, despite what Gwestion believed. She was gone, forever. It was another girl he was looking for, now. Blinking, Gladhron mumbled an apology once he realized he was leaning on the woman who was trying to help him. He tried to find something else to lean on, and his hand found a nearby tree, letting it take his weight instead. "I.. I have to find her..have to save her from the spiders." That wasn't right either, was it? "No..not spiders..." He looked quite confused as he tried to sort out all these confusing facts, and ended up sliding down to sit at the base of the tree. His stomach was not pleased with all of this, and he struggled to keep focused, or as focused as he could manage right now.

"Please," He looked at the woman, trying to force his vision to cooperate and show him only one of her, unless there really were more than one, but he doubted it, now. "I need to find.. a friend, she's in danger... I think." He wasn't entirely sure about anything right now, if he were honest with himself, but he knew that there was a girl in danger and he needed to find her, even if he couldn't remember the rest of the details. "I'm..a ranger, I need to find her, before it's..too late." He made an effort to speak more clearly, to trying to sound like he was better now. "Please, help me to my horse?"
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

The man took an attempt to grab her hand and failed, the second attempt she helped and caught his hand realizing he couldn't see straight to save his life. She pulled him up initially thinking to just get him sitting but he surged to his feet leaving her needing to catch him. It was good that she was fast she put herself in the way of his body and steadied him he was taller than her - notably so as she came up only to his shoulder and he was as heavy as a newborn mumakil and about as good on his feet as he leaned on her. He muttered about spiders and saving her. Some name she didn't know. The poor fool she held onto him tightly with one arm it was wrapped about him and dug through a pouch at her hip where she kept her most valuable items - medicines and roots and tinctures from back home - old medicines as he swayed back to being more awake or at least he was trying to fool himself that he was as he leaned against a tree. She kept an arm wrapped around him looking up at him unimpressed.

"Ye don't even be knowin if this friend of yers be in danger." She said calmly as he swayed back and forth worse than she'd ever seen anyone. Here deft fingers finally found the vial and she pulled it out. She needed information and honestly he was so far gone that she'd actually need to help him a bit in order to get information from him and as he admitted to being a ranger she indeed knew she could very well get more information from him. "Dis is be kew leaf tingure." She said calmly and put the vial up near his face "It gone help ye with yer spinnin head. Gone clear it up some." She worked to get him leaning against the tree so that she could help administer the medicine in the tiny vial. "It be bitter an nasty but it gone help." She said softly ignoring the fact he wanted back to his horse. She held the tiny vial against the palm of her hand and tugged on the stopper with her finger and thumb popping it off and putting it to his lips. "Once de world stop doin de spins we gone look at cleaning dat head of yours no wooman wants done be saved by a bloody headed fool." She said as he slid his way back down so that he was seated now against the tree.

She did of course have some idea of what he was talking about a woman had crossed paths with her and she hadn't been in trouble then but there were others in these woods she'd seen them herself and there were a few less of them now because they'd tried to rob her spider though, that one she didn't know about. She might look small and helpless but she could cut the belly out of a man before he realized she even had a knife if need be.

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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


The woman did make a valid point there, that he didn't know that his friend was in danger. But still, there was the ever-present nagging in his mind that he must find her before she did run into danger. If only he could remember the finer details, but those refused to return to his confused mind. The tree on which he leaned was sturdy and strong, and while all the others continued to spin and sway, this one seemed solid enough. Gladhron tried to see what the stuff was that she had held up to him, telling him it was a cure. A cure would be wonderful. He did not like this constant dizziness, mixed with nausea and disorientation. The stranger put the little vial up to his lips for him to drink. Gladhron hesitated briefly. Somewhere in his mind he heard his brother's voice, warning him against accepting a so-called cure from a stranger. Gwestion. The memory of his brother returned to mind, seeing him lying unconscious in a room, back at the inn, badly wounded. The girl had something to do with that, he remembered, and something to do with helping Gwestion.

This stuff could be poison, for all he knew. But why would she wanted to poison him? And the sooner he was cured of this horrible dizziness, the sooner he could think straight, which would lead to getting help for Gwestion and in rescuing the girl, and so he took a swallow, only to cough and splutter at the taste the woman had warned him about. Had he taken enough? He hoped so. Though he would grudgingly accept more if it was necessary; anything to make the world stop spinning like this. Continuing to let the tree support him, Gladhron waited for the dizziness to begin to fade. And waited. Then began to wonder how true her claim had been, that it would clear his head up. Then, finally, he did begin to notice that things weren't spinning quite so badly. He had no idea how long it had actually taken, for time seemed to be passing quite strangely for him since he got this wound. "I feel a bit better, now," He declared with much relief. His vision was almost normal, he only saw now a slight double of the woman, rather than going from distinct triple to double to triple again. "You have my sincerest thanks, ma'am."
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

She stood waiting for the tinture to start taking effect he'd drunk half of it which should be enough to combat the world spinning which is why she guessed he was leaning so heavily on the tree still. Around them birds and insects were in chorus and there was the contented sound of munching as the horse behind her enjoyed grass and clover. "A bit betta is good, but dere donbe no cure fer stoopid." She said looking at him shaking her head as he finally managed to speak clearly letting her know the tinture had taken effect. "An I can admeet, I do be wannin sometin in return though." She said with a smile watching his eyes as he looked at her in relief. That was probably terrifying, after all how can one say no to someone that has helped already? It is a dangerous thing to do. "Was 'open dat ye could tell me more about de rangers was are dey?" She asked after all she was new in this land and finding out about what a Ranger was since this was her first experience with one of them. How dangerous were they? This one... This one was not maybe if he was less of a fool he would be but someone that goes running off on horseback while as injured as he was when he was in a safe place. Easy to deal with she though.

"I be travellin dese lands fer de first time, are all de Rangers as stoopid as ye gone ride off with a head wound and done land on eet agin or do most of dem have more den two grains o sand bouncing about in der 'ead that 'ave to hit to get a smart thought?" She was rather confident of herself for the moment after all she'd helped him, legitimately and it wasn't like she was asking something as an enemy. For all he knew right now at least, she was an ally and probably wanted to know if the rangers would be friendly to her. It was a round about way of asking if she should view them as friend or foe but she had no doubt that. She'd been here long enough now that she was certain this fool was traveling alone, which meant hopefully she'd be able to get more information from him before she decided just what to do with the fool.

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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


Gladhron was a little surprised when she, without any hesitation, informed him that she did actually want something in return. He hadn't quite expected that, but offered a smile. "Of course, how can I repay you?" He asked, struggling to keep his manners intact, despite how his head still hurt. The dizziness had subsided enough that he felt he could function almost normally, but the stuff hadn't taken away the throbbing in his head. As she explained that she wanted to know more about rangers, he nearly laughed at what a simple 'price' she wanted in return. It was such an easy thing to tell about! He paused, though, with a small frown, as she asked if they were all as stupid as he. In fact, he recalled, she had called him a fool many times now, and seemed intent on insulting him. He tried not to let it bother him too much, but couldn't help protesting, "I'm not stupid." At least he could speak now, without his thoughts getting jumbled and his head trying to split open. "I'll admit, it wasn't the wisest idea to try riding with my head wounded as it is, but sometimes, one has little choice in such matters." He explained. "I had to go after the girl, in the hope that perhaps I might find her before danger does."

He went to rest a hand on the hilt of his sword, an action mostly to reassure himself that he was prepared to defend the helpless girl he had mentioned, but his hand found nothing there at his hip. A moment of bafflement followed, then he froze, trying to keep his expression neutral. Of all the stupid, idiotic things to have done! How could he have forgotten to bring his sword!? He couldn't believe it! With some amount of inward horror, the young man realized that, in all the confusion, with his head all mixed up and unable to stop spinning... when he had set out to rescue Bel, he'd forgotten to grab it. The strangest thing was, he didn't even remember taking it off to begin with. Nor his bracers, or other armor...which he suddenly realized were also missing. Had he been robbed? It dawned on him at that moment that he was not only weaponless, but he had no armor, either.

In that brief moment of realization, Gladhron's eyes widened only slightly as he felt only air where his sword ought to have been. Then, hoping that the motion had gone unnoticed, or that it had been overlooked as him merely reaching for something to steady himself, he dropped his hand down against the tree on which he leaned, closing his eyes as if he were feeling dizzy. How tremendously embarrassing. And Gwestion, he vowed, would not be hearing about this. Ever. Fortunately, he had met with a friend who was helping him, rather than a foe who might have slain him.

Before the woman could call him foolish or stupid again, Gladhron cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly, and spoke again, trying to explain further while also trying to cover up his sudden revelation that he had brought along no weapons, "My...my brother and I were attacked by orcs, some days past. He was injured far worse than myself. I managed to get us to a safe place, but the girl.." he paused, trying again to think of her name. "The girl..." It was the same as something else, wasn't it? An item, something musical, perhaps? He frowned, then suddenly, it came to him. "Bel! That's her name, Bel." It was a tremendous relief to him that he'd finally remembered her name. It had bothered him that he couldn't, before, and he had worried he may have some memory loss, but it had returned to him, thankfully. "She was supposed to wait until I could ride with her to fetch a healer. I warned her how dangerous the road is, but she went alone... and my brother would never forgive me if I let anything happen to her." He paused, adding with a small smile, "I believe he cares more for her than he'll admit... and she is clearly sweet on him.

"There are far too many dangers lurking, for a lady to be traveling alone. Those orcs, for instance; we killed most of them, but others fled, and got away. They could be nearby, or there may be bandits, or other deadly things, and Bel knows nothing of fighting." He frowned. "So you see, I couldn't stay there, knowing she could be in terrible danger." None of this, of course, answered her question, but Gladhron felt better in explaining his reasons for what he knew had been a less-than-wise action. The truly foolish thing he had done, of course, was in forgetting his sword, but with any luck, this woman would not find out or notice anything about that.
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

She looked at him her chin tilted down and her eyes narrowing as he spoke and did not answer her question. Instead arguing with her that he was not stupid. She watched the hand movement and recognized it, the men of Harad did it often to intimidate women, rest their hand on their swords, but he had none. In fact she wondered very much if he had any weapons at all.

"I should slap yer mout fer lian." She said pointing her finger at him. "Me modder would have slapped me teet out of me gums fer a lie like that. Ne'r mind ye didno answer de question." She waved her hands up, "You proteck dis Bell, ding a ling a ling - wit what? Ye've got a manhood big enough ta crush these orcs I'm Haradi I 'ave seen orc many times, one needs a sword for that or a steek ye don even 'ave a steek in a forest of steeks.." She crossed her arms and glared at him "Yer horse has more wits den you. Ye fin any soul but me yed be dead and yer brodder be less an idiot to look afta as well as dis Bel. She seem as smart as yebee." She started looking through her medicine pouch. "Ye be givin me a 'eadache with the stoopid dribblin out ya gums." She muttered several thing in haradrim (Like I wouldn't notice you are half naked and without a sword, what sort of man leaves to protect his brothers woman without a sword. Gods the woman would be better off dead than with this fool. Gods protect me, they are so stupid here how are they the power in Middle-earth they can't even keep track of their swords or armor) She found a vial of ground herbs and tipped a bit out on her finger and licked it a tingle on her tongue made it far easier. She put the little vial away as well as the one she'd used on him already.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Now.." She said opening her dark brown eyes and looking at him. "Befer I question wastin me herbs on yer empty head ye wanna tell me about de rangers and redeem yourself?"

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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


Gladhron put his hand up to his head, which still hurt tremendously. He was having a hard time following along with everything this woman was saying, and she still used strange words, and most seemed to be insults to him, his brother, and even to Bel, which he found rather irritating. It annoyed him further that she had so quickly picked up on the fact he had no weapon or armor. He still couldn't understand how it happened. He'd had his sword after the battle. He'd had it when he arrived at the inn, and he knew he'd had his armor then, too, because it had been a bit uncomfortable when he was lying down to sleep. At the moment, though, he had other things to think about, and tried to focus on that, instead.

Had he not been so lacking in blood at the moment, he might have blushed at the one question. Awkwardly, he tried to form a response to her, but she was ranting in...Haradrim? He didn't know the language, and merely stared in confusion until she had finished, then slowly shook his head. "Of course I have a sword," He tried to give a convincing smile, trying to think quickly through his confusion. "It..it's on my horse." He didn't know if that were actually true, but since his horse wasn't actually here, he couldn't find out for certain. No need for her to know that though. He thought he'd had it when he got to the inn, but as confused as he was, he may have just as easily dropped it somewhere between fighting the orcs(for he knew he had it then!) and arriving at the inn.

"And, anyway, rangers are, of course, taught to fight without weapons..." He seemed to recall something Gwestion had said to him recently, something about losing one's sword ought not render one incapable of fighting still. Though he wasn't sure where he had gotten that from, it was sound advice. He decided to drop the subject, trying to remember what she had asked initially. "You asked what are rangers, didn't you?" He was starting to lose track of all the questions and things, but that seemed like what he had been going to answer, before he got sidetracked. "We safeguard the realm against enemies... bandits, orcs and the like. We try to make it safe for folk to travel on the road, though we're not always successful...as you can see." He motioned toward his bandaged forehead. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what else you wanted to know."
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

Well at least he answered her, she supposed. She let out a sigh and put her hands on her hips. "Yer manhood is no sword, and donbe thinkin your horses be eeder.." She said, not sure if it was a mare or a stallion or a gelding, not that it mattered. "I have been here long enough and seen yer horse back when ye be on yer back like a new bride mumblin about spiders." She said shaking her head. "Yer know how ta figh den without a sword." She clicked her tongue a bit impressed with that, "well ye odder rangers maybe. I am not so sure on you, ye like lian." She said with a laugh.

Granted, she could tell he was a bit annoyed at her calling him a fool and insulting him, but he was insulting her intelligence with his lies, and she was really, really, wanting to put a blade in his belly for being so rude. Maybe slice of the tip of his nose; let him be shamed to the whole world he would. Given his penchant for lying, he'd probably say it was bitten off by a Dragon or something like that. "So ye be safeguardin' de realm. Are der not enough Rangers to do dis? Is not noble to do?" She figured that protecting the realm, whatever realm this was, would be something people would be proud of doing and would want to do. After all, in Harad many, many men went to war to protect it from the West and make sure that their way of life and their women and the homes were safe. The West was a strange place indeed; the more information on these realm protectors she could get, the better. "Do dey 'ave places where travelers can be safe fer de night?"

Yes, those seemed like reasonable questions, she thought as she tried to get as much information as she possibly could from this silly man.
Last edited by Fuin Elda on Sun Sep 05, 2021 4:07 am, edited 1 time in total.

Steward of Gondor
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Joined: Wed Sep 01, 2021 10:12 pm
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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


Gladhron couldn't help cringing a bit at her crudeness, and tried to ignore it. He shook his head, slowly to keep from making it start spinning again. It felt like it was threatening to do so, and he didn't want that to return. "No, I'm not lying," He tried to explain. "That isn't my horse.." That probably didn't sound very good on his behalf, and he tried to further explain, "It's my brother's... I was..a little confused, when I left." That was an understatement, of course... and he couldn't actually quite recall why he had Mael instead of Gaeroch.

"Alas, that is part of the problem; there are too few of us," He answered in agreement. "In fact, my brother and I have, thus far, only met one other ranger in the years we've been doing this. There are others, but they are scarce... And it seems the bandits and the orcs are constantly growing in number. We do what we can, but..." He shrugged. Trying to think through this headache was becoming increasingly more difficult, but he hadn't forgotten that he still had not found Bel. "Safe places? There are a few. There's an inn just a short dist-" He paused, realizing he was about to point her in the direction of the inn, without knowing what direction he was even facing. He looked around a bit blankly. The realization that he was completely lost right now suddenly hit him, and he wasn't sure how that had happened. "I...I just came from there. Where's the road?" He looked around in further confusion as it dawned on him at last that he was nowhere near a road, or at least, he couldn't see a road anywhere nearby.
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

"Dongo messin up yer face at me, watched ye lan on yer face long enough ago dat 'orse be yer 'orse ye riding belong to yer brodder or not it yers righ now." She said shaking her head honestly she had seen the Inn with the fire coming from its run down chimney, honestly she'd thought it was likely filled to the brim with bandits which while she was an outlaw in this land as it were even if she'd not done anything yet... She had every intention of making the fight in the east easier for her kin, and if getting rid of a few more rangers was how she could do that then so be it. She knew where the Inn was even if he clearly didn't have a clue where he was. She signed. How much information could she really get from a lost ranger? Not a terrible lot. She was pretty certain that she'd gotten all she could from him at this point as he tried to decide which way the Inn was. There was another ranger there wounded perhaps she should slip back and dispatch them as well.

No that was a terrible idea there were other people in the Inn here at least with this fool she was alone, nobody would know it was her for all they knew it could be bandits that stripped him of his goods and left him dead in the woods if anyone ever found them. The road was a long ways off at this point. "De road? Dere is no road anywhere near here I do begettin de suspicion dat you be more dan a little confused when ye left." Her hand which had been near the medicine pouch at her hip slipped a bit further back as he looked around in confusion towards her dagger.

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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


Having been sitting there for some time without too much dizziness, Gladhron decided that it was high time he returned to his mission. He might even be able to sit a horse, he thought. Either way, he was far better now than when he left the inn, and Bel was still out there somewhere. Suppose she had run into bandits, or...perhaps even the remnant of those orcs. He vaguely remembered that some had gotten away when the battle turned against them, and he would hate to think of the girl running into them. As much as he would love to sit here and rest, he must get up and return to his mission. He had to get back to the road, wherever that was.

Gladhron struggled up to his feet, holding onto the tree for support. The dizziness started to return but he tried to force it away, with little success. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful to you," He told the woman, figuring her to be merely a foreigner trying to settle in a new area. "I'm not..exactly myself, you might say." He offered a weak smile. "And I really should be going... though I thank you for all you've done to help me." He could get to Mael, without help. He was sure of it. So long as the horse stood still, and there were enough trees between him and her, he could make it to the mare's side and into the saddle... and hopefully he wouldn't be overcome with dizziness again.

"If you have any other questions, regarding anything," He suggested, "perhaps I can give you answers to those?" He couldn't leave her to wander these unfamiliar lands alone, for she may end up in the same sort of danger he worried Bel would fall into, he thought with concern. "I need to find the young lady, but I would welcome some company, if you would care to accompany me?" He thought that might benefit them both... after all, he needed to find the road before he could find Bel, for she would surely be on it. Perhaps this woman knew the way to the road, and could help him get back on track. And for her part, he could try and give her answers to any other questions she may have about this land, as it was sure to be rather confusing and unfamiliar to someone from wherever she hailed. And of course, he believed he could offer protection to the woman who seemed to be lost in these lands which must be strange to her. Likely, she was unaware of how dangerous it was here.

Unable to think of any reason why a lady would turn down such an offer, Gladhron started working his way toward Mael, trying to walk without holding onto anything. He needed to push through this, he told himself. "Once I get my bearings, I should be able to find the road again," He spoke, partly to reassure himself but also trying to sound more as if he wasn't quite so lost as reality proved him to be. "Unless, of course, you happen to know the way?" He added with a hopeful smile, turning partly to look back at her.
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

This man was useless already she could tell that as he struggled to stand and get to his horse, she watched him glad that he was heading towards the horse she didn't want the beast to her back when she took care of this fool just in case it was as well trained as some of the horses that were in Rohan. Those horses could be mean but then he had said this wasn't his horse so perhaps it wouldn't care.

She gave a nod as he suggested that once he got his bearings he'd find the road as he offered to travel with her. That wasn't going to be good she figured, no she'd get rid of him here out in the middle of the woods, where there would be little chance of anyone finding his bones and if they did she would be long gone. She pulled the blade as he passed her she was focused on where she was going to strike, with no armor she didn't have to worry about hitting anything except his ribs so she would aim just below them.

"Aye I know where de road is." She said her thick accent falling away no longer needing to seem like a helpless foreigner that needed help with that she struck just as he started to turn.

Steward of Gondor
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Joined: Wed Sep 01, 2021 10:12 pm
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Gladhron
Somewhere in the woods between Forsaken Inn and vaguely the direction of Bree. Rather far from the road.
(Suffering from a serious concussion)


Gladhron caught the flash of movement with the corner of his eye as he turned; a threatening gesture. Before his confused mind had a chance to process and understand what was happening, his well-practiced muscles had reacted on their own. He leaped(or attempted to) backward, out of the way of the knife, while his face registered bafflement. His feet stumbled a bit in the evasive action, and left him trying to find footing that did not leave him reeling. He found his back landing against a tree, his eyes widening in shock as he stared at her. The horse, startled by this sudden motion nearby, trotted a few paces away before looking back to see what these strange humans were doing.

"Lady! Wha-what are you doing?" Gladhron didn't understand this. Had he hallucinated her trying to stab him? He frowned, his eyes focusing on the two knives she held in her hand. No, one knife. He blinked, struggling to make his vision focus as the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him again. "Please," Gladhron had absolutely no idea what was going on here, or why she had drawn any sort of weapon. "I mean you no harm..." Was she upset over something? He had tried answering her questions. He'd even offered to answer more. She couldn't possibly be angry at him. She did seem convinced he was lying about something, but that was no reason to kill a man. This made no sense at all. "I only..want to find the road," He assured her, still extremely puzzled, trying to convince this odd woman that he was no threat. "As I said, I must find the young lady.." Surely, there was some misunderstanding here, but he wasn't sure what it might be.
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 9:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

@Rillewen

"What does it look like you bumbling fool?" She said closing in on him again as he stumbled. He was honestly was an idiot looking at her like he didn't know why she was going to kill him. "You stumble on a snake and question why it bites." She rolled her eyes as she spun the knife in her hand making it so that it was harder to track the blade down along her arm a wicked grin on her face as she lunged again knowing full well this fool had no weapon to defend with and was too dizzy to be able to move fast.

"You think everyone is just out to help." She mocked him a cut going for his abdomen, as he tried to explain he was just trying to find a young lady and the road. "I have no intentions of letting one of your kind back to the road the fewer of you there are left breathing the better." She hissed her colourful clothing swirling about her like liquid as she moved in tones of brown and yellow and green cut with red, like the blood she had every intention of spilling from this fools veins.

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