Into the West ~ Mithlond - Free RP

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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Warrior of Imladris
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Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 10:54 am
In Eriador, Imladris was the chief dwelling of the High Elves; but at the Grey Havens of Lindon there abode also a remnant of the people of Gil-galad the Elvenking. At times they would wander into the lands of Eriador, but for the most part they dwelt near the shores of the sea, building and tending the elven-ships wherein those of the Firstborn who grew weary of the world set sail into the uttermost West, Círdan the Shipwright was lord of the Havens and mighty among the Wise.
~ Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age, The Silmarillion
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Círdan the Shipwright by kimberly80 on deviantart
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"... as for me, my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores, guarding the Havens until the last ship sails." -Círdan
~ Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age, The Silmarillion

Upon the shores of the Gulf of Lhûn the Elves built their havens, and named them Mithlond; and there they held many ships, for the harbourage was good. From the Grey Havens the Eldar ever and anon set sail, fleeing from the darkness of the days of Earth; for by the mercy of the Valar the Firstborn could still follow the Straight Road and return, if they would, to their kindred in Eressëa and Valinor beyond the encircling seas.
~ Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age, The Silmarillion
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Mayhap you require a ship to the Undying Lands, or wish to learn the craft from the shipwrights. Perhaps you are visiting family or saying goodbye. You might have been drawn here and are simply come to answer the sea-longing in your heart.

Whatever your tale, whenever your tale, you can tell it here.
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Free RP for all races
The Wood-elves lingered in the twilight of our Sun and Moon, but loved best the stars.

Black Númenórean
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Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
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Accord
the recent past

(originally written in four parts)

Gulls wheeled and called above the Gulf of Lhûn, crying plaintively for no real reason, except perhaps that if one of the fishermen below felt particularly sorry for them, they might throw a fish head to a swooping bird. Their cries echoed faintly in the ears of Tavari Mordagnir, who stood at the end of Mithlond’s main wharves, gazing across the water at Forlindon, and the Ered Luin in the distance. Here, at the narrow eastern end of the gulf, they did not seem so far away, but she remembered when the gulf had not been there, and the land of Ossiriand had stretched unbroken into the north, and the great river Lhûn had be unknown and unimportant. Still, the golden-haired nís though, tilting back her head, nostrils flaring slightly as she inhaled deeply of the salt breeze, things change. Fists on hips, she reopened her eyes, and took a last look at the expanse.

After staring at it for so long, the familiar stirrings of wanderlust had begun in her feet and her mind- but now was not the time to go jaunting all over Forlindon, much as she might like to. Tavari had been dispatched to Mithlond by her brother Aigronding, Tar-Taidron of the Halcyon Guard, with an urgent message to Girion Coruben; she had accomplished her task, and now it was time to be heading back to Imladris. Not heading home, though. That phrase did not come readily to Tavari’s mind, even after the length of time –years, now- that she had abode in the vale. She had lived in many places, longer, and none of them had been home either. Tavari shook her head, thrusting these musty ruminations aside, and smiled slightly to herself as she turned away from the water. For now, anyway, it was close enough.

She strolled slowly back up the wharf, past the various docks. This particular section did not house the main fishing fleet (these vessels tended to congregate together- probably something to do with containing the mess and smell of their cargo), but what looked like more recreational vessels. Although Tavari glanced about now and then, she paid no particular mind to any one ship, or to the ships at all. Though her pace was leisurely, it was purposeful; clearly she was not here for a pleasure cruise. “Mordagnir!” The sudden shout caused Tavari’s head to swivel about in surprise. What she saw upon doing so surprised her yet more- from the rail of the nearest ship an elf was hailing her, his shirtless torso broadly muscular and, she could see even from shore, as scarred as his angular face. His silver hair was as roughly plaited as she remembered, but the broad grin was not something Tavari had had the opportunity to see before upon the face of Davos Seaworth.

“Seaworth!” she exclaimed in response, turning fully to face him, even as he vaulted the rail of his vessel and used a foot swiftly set upon it to bound down onto the gangplank. Davos tripped swiftly down the ribbed ramp until he was on a level with Tavari and extended his arm, still grinning. She clasped it and returned his smile, though without much enthusiasm, and quickly let go. “Welcome to Mithlond!” he greeted her broadly, “Are you here for long?” Tavari shook her head. “Actually, I am just on my way out. My brother sent me here, and I’ve done what he asked, so I’m off for Imladris at first light.” Davos’ grin took on a smirkish cast. “Running errands for Aigronding? Couldn’t he find something more useful for you to do?” Tavari’s gaze, which had previously been cautiously cordial, turned flinty at this. “Perhaps, but considering how highly I believe he values me, he must have thought this errand of sufficient importance to send me, rendering it not an insult but a duty.”

Tavari turned away, already regretting the sharpness of her words, and had gone no more than a few strides before she was halted. “Mordagnir, wait! Tavari!” A large, rough hand closed around her upper arm, and she jerked it away, spinning to face Seaworth again. His expression had softened, and he raised his hands in a placating manner. “Forgive me, I meant no offense.” Tavari’s lips pressed together thinly. She felt quite silly, but the resentment still bubbled in her gut, and she said nothing. For a moment Davos also said nothing, and then his head tilted slightly to one side, a considering look creeping onto his face. “Let me make it up to you. Come for a sail, it’s the best way to see the countryside, and there’s nothing like the open ocean on a day like today.” He gestured at the periwinkle sky- a color, he noticed now, that precisely matched the hue of this nís’s eyes- where puffy white clouds scudded slowly across the face of the sun. “Actually, I meant to ask you after that mission with the guards, but you and the rest of those vale-elves scurried off so quick I never got the chance.”

Abruptly, Tavari shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I- do not sail. I haven’t since-“ The words stuck in her throat and again she turned away; it was as though there was some unknown pressure around her throat which halted them, but no- she knew what the pressure was, and its callouses had but a moment ago gripped her arm. “Since when?” Again Davos halted her, though this time it was with his voice, and again Tavari whipped around. “You know very well since when, Seaworth!” she hissed. There was venom in her voice, but desolation in her eyes, and their fire seemed to have dimmed. “Never?” he asked quietly. There was no anger or irritation at her attitude in the ancient’s voice, only a calm disbelief. “Never.” The words came from Tavari in a short, stilted manner. “River boats, rafts, canoes, even a barge once or twice- but a ship at sea? Never. No.” Seaworth’s level grey-green gaze was not pitying, nor really anything else she could determine, but beneath it Tavari began to feel like a child, and looked away.

“Perhaps it’s time you did.” Davos shrugged slightly, watching the discomfited nís. “A great deal of time has passed. And the sea, she knows all about the passage of time. And about loss, and anger- but also about joy, serenity, and forgiveness. She might be better for you than you think.” For all his rakish and at times unsavory reputation, there was a wisdom to the ancient mariner, and he knew when no to confront, and when to push. The kindness in his voice was almost unbearable. Tavari glanced back at him, and Davos smiled. During the sojourn with the Lindon Guard, she had dealt with him as little as possible. He did not seem to be attached to their Guard, and a few inquiries had informed her that was correct- they had also informed her of various popular opinions and rumors, both complementary and otherwise. But she had noticed his comradeship with the irascible Eärmana and the respect with which the Lindon elves had treated him- and now, in the scarred, tanned salt-roughened face of this unknown quantity from her past, there was some irresistible compulsion. Davos extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Tavari reached out, and took it.


*****


No sooner had Tavari set her hand in his, than Davos spun about with a whoop, racing back down the dock, his fingers firmly clasped about her wrist, pulling her along behind. Despite herself, she had laughed as they scrambled up the gangplank, and that irrepressible grin flashed out again over Seaworth’s shoulder. He had put her to work at once- it was a smallish ship, designed to be fully operational by one skilled man, but he seemed to delight in instructing her what to do, and waved farewell to no one in particular as he cast off the last of the lines. The ship eased away from the dock with nary a creak and scarcely a ripple, as Davos vaulted over a bulkhead and seized hold of the tiller. Though Tavari’s unskilled eyes were not to know it, the ship was a double-masted ballyhou schooner, which in a different configuration might be known as a sloop-of-war- but this was Davos’ vessel of pleasure, and no weapon marred her clean-lined deck. She was big enough to tackle blue water, but small enough to hug coastlines with stealth, and particularly adept at maneuvering upwind. But all Tavari could see was that it was a sleek little vessel, cutting through the water at surprising speed as they left the harbour under Davos’ direction.

The wind was behind them, but the stirring of air generated by their passage whipped Tavari’s wealth of wheaten hair back from her face, and the tang of the sea stung at her airways as a near-imperceptible mist arose from the prow of the ship as it cut through the swells. Nefore she knew it, they were out upon the open water, in one direction the rich green shore of Forlindon, and in the other an endless, fathomless blue. They had begun to turn smoothly and easily towards the Forlindon coast, but Tavari crossed the deck as though in a dream, and took hold of the port rail. The ship shifted and rolled strangely beneath her feet and in the pit of her stomach there was a feeling rising up somewhere between fear and wonder, an unfamiliar sensation that grew to flood the corners of the nís’ body. But it did not take hold of her heart, for her eyes were fixed on the West, and her heart lifted. Though all she could see was the far-off horizon, disappearing beyond the water, she knew that somewhere, out there, beyond the waters lay the indomitable Pelóri, and beyond they, the fields of Aman. Here in the brilliant sunshine, it was difficult to remember the gale and rage that had pummeled the white ships forth from that place. Rather, she remembered white walls and crystal-white stairs; glittering streets and the lancing golden light that lit them up like wildfire- and the silver-splintered gleam beneath which the city shone as a star at night.

Davos watched her carefully from his position at the tiller. There was a distance about the girl- he shook his head ruefully at himself; it had been a long time since Tavari Mordagnir was a girl, and yet word still sometimes sprang to mind. In any case, he had anticipated the distance that came over her, and her was glad to see that, though her expression was passive from what he could see, there was a lift to the chin and the corners of the eyes; a tension released from the shoulders, that made him think he had done the right thing. But it would not do to let her ponder too long just yet, and with a shout he was putting her to work again. Davos taught Tavari how to steer the sloop, and was genuinely impressed with how quickly she picked up the knack of it- she hadn’t been lying when she said she had traveled on river boats and rafts, and it was mostly a matter of adapting and extrapolating those skills upwards. True, she was no mariner yet, but Davos felt confident that given a month of concentrated effort, he could turn her into a decent enough sailor. He told her as much and she laughed, a full-throated laugh, and soon they were standing at the starboard rail together, as Davos pointed out the features of the Forlindon coast from the sea, the Ered Luin bulking large in the background.

It was some time later, when they had turned away from Forlindon and headed out onto the sea, that Davos approached Tavari. She had taken up a seat on the bow of the sloop, legs dangling over the edge on either side of the bowsprit, much as he had seen many a child do over the years- and, to be fair, much as he had often enough done so himself. She had been there for quite a while, and Davos now lashed the tiller in place, and strolled forward to join her. He halted just to the rear of the nís, hands in pockets, and she spoke to him.
But when she did so, it was not in the Sindarin with which they had previously conversed, but Quenya; not even the Quenya now spoken by scholars and in ceremonies, but that which had been spoken in the Aman of her birth. It was a deliberate choice, for languages and their speakers evolved together- but the corruption of her mother-tongue had taken place over many millennia, and at the hands of those who did not speak it in daily life. “How did you come to Endórë, Davos?”

The ancient mariner exhaled slowly and settled back against the rail. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the cobwebs shaking from his brain as he replied. Davos too had spoken this tongue for many years- aye, and its two ancestors as well- and harking forth the smooth syllables up from the darkness of countless days felt familiar and comfortable, like greeting an old friend after long absence. “I grew weary, rebuilding at Alqualondë. I yearned for new sights and wide open spaces, and to escape the endless mourning and lingering enmities of that shore. One day- or night, as it turned out, the moon arose, and I ached to follow him.” “Tilion,” Tavari broke in; she did not move but to raise her eyes to the sky slightly. “I rode with him in Oromë’s host.” Davos nodded. But there was nothing more forthcoming, and so he went one. “I had been crafting a ship, and hurried to put the finishing touches on it, and on Tilion’s second voyage across the sky, I set sail beneath his light. Ulmo was not pleased with me, and I am ashamed to say that when I was caught up in a storm, I cursed him for it. That was how I came by these,” with two fingers he tapped the ragged scars on either side of his face, and Tavari glanced up to see what he gestured at. “I was nearly lost in that storm, and the ravaged rigging of my ship nearly killed me besides- and alone at sea there was little I could do to help myself. But the day after that storm died away, the most glorious thing happened.”

Davos slipped down to sit beside Tavari, sliding his legs easily over the edge to perch upon the rail. “Arien in her vessel blazed across the sky and became the sun. As I lay on my back on the deck of my ship, bleeding and swearing and cursing my fortune, I thought the spreading of that golden light was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I patched up myself and my ship, and arrived to the shores of Ossiriand through the Bay of Balar, mostly in one piece. It’s not a route I would recommend for most,” he concluded with a chuckle, “but it served me well enough.”



*****


At sea the call of an albatross was both ungentle and comforting, the harsh double-bray signaling the arrival of that enormous bird which flew on silent wings, endlessly above the white-capped wavelets. Tavari looked up at the sound, and the bird’s head tilted, its black eye making benevolent contact with her bright pale blue, before returning to gaze ahead, wings locked, indifferent to the pair of elves below. Davos chuckled, unstartled by the noise, and shook his head. “He’s been following us for the past half hour,” he said, nodding to indicate the bird, though his eyes remained as forward as its, “and only just decided to announce his presence.” Unwilling to admit that the ancient mariner had heard the albatross when she had not, Tavari concluded that he must have some prenatural connection to the seabird that allowed him to sense it in the air. “I have heard many things of this sort of bird,” she musied, leaning back to pull a leg into her chest, arms wrapped around it, allowing her chin to hook over the knee as she watched the bird fly. “Legends, tales- rumours, no doubt. I have little experience of them.” The sun had begun to descend some time ago, and now its flaming night-rays blazed on the bar horizon, lighting up wisps of cloud with incandescent gold, and thrusting shafts of crimson-pale pink into the albatross’s ruffled neck-feathers, outlining its wings as though the fires of Fëanor’s forge itself had made them.

“Aah,” Davos replied, nodding again, but more deliberately. “Yes. There are many such stories in the world. My favorite is the idea that each albatross embodies the soul of a lost sailor.” He paused, and again he chuckled, this time ruefully. “In truth I cannot tell you where the idea came from- whether it was from men, or elves, or dwarves, or even hobbits! Perhaps from more than one source it came. Who knows? Little matter, in any case.” Now The Nelya too allowed his scarred face to tilt upward, and behold the silent stillness of the bird, held aloft by the fingers of night itself drawing on. “It is an odd and pleasant thing to think of, is it not? That the fëa of a mariner claimed by Ulmo might, perhaps, plead with the Lord of Waters to stay and serve his fellows as guide and guardian? And with his hröa destroyed, that he might be permitted to evade the Halls of Waiting, and patrol the seas in the form of this watchful thing?” His hand lifted to gesture at the albatross, and again it called, the throaty resonance of its voice seeming to vibrate the timbers upon which they sat. Davos’ hand lowered as he continued, still looking up. “And what of men, and the others who may have been lost at sea? No one knows what becomes of them- what Halls may wait for them. Perhaps all those creatures that seem to guard and protect us, or know more than they ought, are the embodiment of a soul made wiser by its body’s passing. But!” He laughed, a full laugh this time, to match the bird’s call, “I grow fanciful!”

He glanced back down to Tavari, and his inscrutable features startled. Her periwinkle eyes were wide, and though in them seemed to stand a thin film of unshed tears, the expression on her face was that of a child, caught up in the rapture of the most compelling story. She had turned round from the bowsprit to face Davos as he had spoken, the chin rising from her knee so that she now sat upright with the West at her back as they sailed, and the sun’s dying hands lighting her up from behind with all the glory of midsummer. Both of their breaths had stopped, but for different reasons, and involuntarily Davos reached out to her, one calloused hand stretching forth until its fingertips came in contact with the loosened strands of her hair. “Laurelin,” he uttered, captivated, and in his minds eye he could see the great golden tree, flourishing in the last of her light before Telperion overcame her- and Tavari, dancing beneath her boughs with Nessa, though he had never beheld such a sight in life. And then the spell was broken,
as Tavari made a noise of amusement through her nose and shook her head, causing the rapture to collapse from her head and Davos to withdraw his hand, as she slid her own over her cheekbone and behind her ear, to tame some of the errant strands.

“Quasillaurë they call me, in our Guard.” She laughed, and Davos snorted. “Golden feathers! Couldn’t they do better than that?” Tavari shook her head slowly. “Be fair to them- it was a name given me on account of an orc who called- calls, I suppose- me Goldfeathers. I crippled his hand before he could take my brother’s head, and we’ve run into one another since then. The guards heard him and it seems decided to turn things around! And the name seems to have rather caught on, so I have embraced it. It may not replace the name I lost, but I won’t turn it away. Besides,” she continued, even as Davos decided to let that cryptic comment pass. Tavari didn’t even seem to notice she had made it. “Being second in command to my little brother, I will take their admiration with welcome.” By now the gold in the sky had faded, replaced by deepening scarlet at the far-away line where water met sky. Tavari shifted around to return to her position at the bowsprit, legs dangling on either side, hands pressed flat onto the damp wood between them. Her body angled forward slightly as her eyes searched the horizon with an unconscious yearning. Davos arose and moved up next to her in the narrow space at the bow of his sloop, one hand curled around a thick rope as he, too, gazed into the West. Silence deep as the water below settled upon them as they watched the sun settle ever lower, and the weight of darkness seemed to bear upon them from the East, tinged with the day’s earlier melancholy. It seemed to Tavari that as the sun disappeared, so did her vision of the Pelóri; the fields of Aman, and the crystal-shimmer of Tirion at twilight.

“I can never go home, Davos.”

It was almost a whisper; a confession, the words that escaped her lips before she could think to stop them. He looked down at her, but Tavari was looking ahead still, into the West now blanketed with night. She said no more, and there was nothing he could say that would change what she felt. For the second time, though cautiously now, he stretched out a hand to her, and this time it came gently to rest on her head, the heel resting softly on the rear of its crown, palm and fingers engulfing the side, one tip accidentally glancing the point of her ear, the soft expanse of her wheaten hair catching against the roughness of his skin. Davos had not known what to expect, but to both their surprise, Tavari’s body shifted towards him until her head and shoulder leaned into his leg; a solid bulwark of- strength? comfort? understanding? She did not know. Slowly his hand stroked her hair as he too watched the West. At length, he spoke.

“We were soldiers, once... and young.”


“I do not think you were ever young, Seaworth!” Tavari’s laugh was thinner than before, but the silver had crept back into her voice as she sat upright and looked up at Davos. “Oh no?!” the Nelya exclaimed, setting fists to his hips in false affront. The stars above gave extra gleam to the silver of his hair, and shone bright in the grey of his eyes. Night had come, and the stars were Davos’ companions. “Let me tell you a thing or two, young lady!” The ancient mariner nudged her with his knee and she removed her leg from his side of the bowsprit. He slung both his legs into the vacated space, and they sat, squeezed together in the narrow opening, as Davos planted one hand behind him and threw his head back, using the other to gesture at the sky. “When I was young, these bright stars you see now were but little hatchlings! Varda Tintallë had only just collected Telperion’s light and set them aglow when I was young! The small dimmer ones have been there for ages untold of course, but the bright ones- those were young with me. ‘Ele!’ my parents cried when they saw them, and song sprang to their lips in praise of the stars! Why, when I was young, some days we did naught but sing of them- to them, to each other of them! And we called ourselves quendi because of it, now that was a thing that happened when I was young. Before the sun or- before the moon!” His hand, which had been waving wildly in the passion of his recollections, now paused, pointing at the bold, bright moon as it came into view.

As though pulled up by strings, Tavari came to her feet and stepped out onto the bowsprit, one hand just touching a rope. “Tilion!” she cried, “Órenya lina lé-cenien! (my heart sings to see you, Q) Elfaron!” The moon was huge and low in the sky this far from land and, as many times in the ages that had passed since he ascended to the sky in his vessel, Tavari imagined she could feel Tilion smiling upon her, as he had done when they had hunted the vast plains of Aman together so long ago, in the Huntsman’s company. Her heart swelled and she tossed back her head to gaze at the stars, through which endless field Tilion hunted now, among the shining lights of Elentari, ever in pursuit of Arien’s day-ship. Though she had so often viewed this vast expanse in the deeps of night on land, the starry sky at sea seemed overwhelming in its beauty and mystery. “Ele.” Tavari breathed, starshine drowning her eyes. A hand on her shoulder made her jump, and she spun to see Davos. He had followed her out onto the bowsprit as her feet had mindlessly taken her forward, and they stood now above the whispering water, untouched by line or safety. For a third time, Davos put out his hand. This time, Tavari answered it with hers, and allowed herself to be led back onto the ship, climbing down from the bowsprit and prow with her hand firmly in his. Only when they had reached the level plane of the deck did Davos release her- but not before raising her hand to his face, and bestowing a single rough kiss on the back of her knuckles.

“We have had a long day, Mordagnir. Let us retire, and in the morning we’ll see what you remember of the sailing lessons I’ve taught you today! Come, you take my cabin- this won’t be the first night I’ve slept on a deck beneath the stars. I’ll dice with Ossë for fair weather, and with any luck we’ll return to shore before anyone realizes we’ve gone.”

*****


When dawn broke, it was dazzling. Sun soared up from the Eastern horizon, raking away the trackless black-and-blue night to reveal the pinkest morning beyond. The sea turned to glittering gold and silver, and warmth crept back into the air, a freshening breeze bellying out the sails of the little sloop as it bore two passengers back towards Mithlond. Davos had been up for an hour already, perched atop the mainmast yard, watching the sun as it drifted into wakefulness. He had not slept long or deeply, but nonetheless felt refreshed as the sunlight eddied into place of the stars, like breeze gently brushing away cloud. The scent of salt caressed his scarred and weathered face, a lover’s fingers’ feather-touch, and he inhaled deeply of it, stretching his arms wide and throwing back his head, a deep shudder running through the ancient mariner’s body as he arched his back and tilted his face towards the sun. As an uncoiled spring, Davos leapt from the position in which he had crouched to his feet, heedless of the precarious width of the yard or the distance to the deck below, calloused bare feet seizing purchase upon the wood of his masterwork. Again he threw wide his arms, exhaling a deep sigh on sound from the pit of his stomach. The ship lurched slightly and he stumbled, catching onto the mast for support. With quick suspicion he eyed the waters below, and the wavelets twinkled just a bit too innocently. Davos threw his head back with a great shout of laughter. “Ossë!” he guffawed and, inflating his lungs, began to sing in a rough and raucous, deeply schooled voice as he set to work unfurling the sail.

“He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Shot o’er the seething harbour-bar,
And reach’d the ship and caught the rope,
And whistled to the morning star.

And while he whistled long and loud
He heard a fierce sea-spirit cry,
“O boy, tho' thou are young and proud,
I see the place where thou wilt lie.

“The sands and yeasty surges mix
In caves about the dreary bay,
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,
And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.”

“Fool,” he answer’d , “death is sure
To those that stay and those that roam,
But I will nevermore endure
To sit with empty hands at home.”


When Tavari awoke, it was into a pool of drool. Her face was pressed resolutely into the pillow of Davos’s spacious bunk, which took up the vast majority of his cabin. It seemed that when Seaworth was afloat, he preferred sprawling comfort to moving space and useful (or useless) objects. Bright golden light pierced her eyes from the small window whose curtain she had neglected to draw and she groaned, contemplating turning over and pulling the pillow over her head. Instead, the realization of where she was filtered back into her consciousness and she kicked away the covers into which she had become entangled, swinging her feet over the side of the bunk to contact the oddly warm planks of the floor. She stood and turned to face the bunk. Contemplating it briefly, she decided against any attempt to bring the covers into order, but did flip the damp pillow over and shove it into a corner. Turning back into the room at large, she made her way to where a small looking-glass was fixed to the wall- no risk of flying shards there. Squinting slightly in the light, she ran her fingers through her hair, bringing it back into a semblance of order above the long plait which bound it back. Leaving shoes at bay for the moment, her hand found the latch of the door, and she stepped out onto the deck, even as her ears became aware of the full-throated singing from without. Davos was of the Nelyar, she recalled, and his people had been born to song. Tavari remained, leaning against the doorframe, watching him at work. Seaworth was a master of his trade, and the speed with which he worked as the song rose untutored but perfect from his lips astounded her. The last verse he sang as he swung onto a rope and slipped with ease to the deck. When the last word had died, her voice lifted, strident but pure, to take up where his had left.

“My mother clings about my neck,
My brothers crying, ‘Stay for shame;’
My father raves of death and wreck,-
They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

“O help me! save I take my part
Of danger on the roaring sea,
A devil rises in my heart,
Far worse than any death to me.”


Davos crossed the boards towards the nís as she sang, a quizzical but pleased expression tilting his face, a questioning cock to his head. “Curious!” he exclaimed as she finished, pushing herself away from the door to greet him. “That you should know verses to that song I do not, considering it is mine.” It was Tavari’s turn to look surprised. “Yours? I learned it many ages ago, with no knowledge of the author. And after a time, added a few lines of my own.” She laughed softly through her nose, features turning rueful as she looked at him with a smile. “I suppose I can only hope you approve.” Davos nodded, returning the smile with just a touch of gravity. “Aye, you have captured the spirit well. And stroked an old sailor’s ego! I had no idea this little ditty had traveled so widely.” The smile was full now, his grey eyes crinkled, and Tavari’s silvery laugh rang out in full. “It has traveled as widely as I since I came upon it! But worry not- I’ve not sung it often, so I doubt another has laid claim to it or altered it unduly.” She stepped to the nearby rail and, much as Davos had shortly before, tilted back her head and inhaled deeply of the salt air, arching her back and stretching her shoulders. When her eyes open, their periwinkle depths searched the trackless waters beyond. “Where exactly are we, Seaworth?” He grinned, and clapped her on the shoulder. “Let me show you how we find out!”

That day was spent in alternate periods of furious activity, as Davos thought of task after skill to teach his impromptu apprentice, and those of languorous rest, during which they traded songs and sang common ones together, coming after a few rough starts to a harmonious blending of their voices. A school of porpoises joined them once as the little craft skimmed along with unrivalled speed in a freshening wind, and danced about the bow chortling. Tavari and Davos threw bits of the fish they had been eating down to the creatures, who shrilled their thanks. Distance flew away beneath their keel and the Lindon coast came back into view. In what seemed a second compared to the previous day’s travel, they drew near to the shore, Mithlond’s graceful skyline rising against the hills beyond as the sunset began to darken their horizon. A low, throaty call sounded, and both elves looked up to see an albatross, hovering above them. Davos lifted a brow at it, and if it had one, he was sure the bird would have returned the gesture. Whether or not it was the same bird as before could hardly be proved, but seemed quite likely.
Tavari looked away from the albatross and turned her face back towards land, where the harbor’s piers had come faintly into view. Davos was scurrying about the ship making adjustments, but Tavari remained still, the cooling breeze riffling stray tendrils of her hair as she watched the shore grow closer and closer. In no time at all, the sloop nudged gently into its berth, and Davos deftly cast the lines down.

“Lady Mordagnir!”

The voice cut through the peaceful evening, and by the time Tavari had recognized it, Davos was already groaning in despair. They both looked down to see Girion Coruben dashing along the dock towards them. “Coruben!” Tavari called in surprise, “What ails you?” she asked, for he looked distressed about something. Girion came to a halt below her, talking over the noise as Davos ran out his gangplank for them to disembark. “Your brother has sent word, you were due back in Imladris over a day ago. I scoured the city, and finally found someone who had seen you departing with this lout.” His perturbed gaze settled on Davos, who shrugged and gave his friend an ambivalent look. Tavari shook her head, but when she spoke her voice was not derisive. “Send my brother’s dove back to him with word I am on my way!” Girion nodded and trotted away. “I shall have to make haste back to Imladris now, and it is all your fault.” She turned to Davos, brows lifted. “But, I shan’t hold it against you. Much.” Davos laughed and raised his arm to clap her shoulder, but instead, Tavari threw her arms about his neck. Davos’s arm closed about her waist, and he returned the pressure of her grip for a long moment. When Tavari stepped back, her look was wistful. “Thank you for this, Seaworth.” There was little the ancient could do but bow his head, press his hand to his heart, and reply, “Rávnissë.” Tavari’s grin flashed out again, and with a wave, she disappeared down the plank and into the drawing night.


((Song: The Sailor Boy by Alfred Lord Tennyson, changes mine))
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Rich, pale light flooded the land east of Forlindon. Nearer the flow of that country’s nameless river, the landscape was gentler: rolling hills and lush swards, interrupted only briefly by stands of trees. But the closer one drew to the Ered Luin, the more frequent and thicker grew the woods, and the more tempestuous the land, as though the roots of the mountains thrust out and abroad, feeling for new surfaces to ensnare and transform into rocky peaks. That nameless river was all that remained of the once mighty Gelion, and the bristling pines that girded the feet of the mountains were all that remained of the land which had taken its name from the river: Thargelion. Thargelion. The ghost of the word could scarcely have counted as a whisper as it passed the lips of a figure that did not belong, perched away up in the highest branches of a towering pine. The golden-haired nís was washed out in the whitish light, face and hair ghostly against the dark of her surroundings, and the former lingered upon a vaguely melancholy expression. Tavari Mordagnir raised an arm in salute to the moon as it hovered overhead. “Hello, old friend,” she murmured, echoing her greeting of ages past, when she had again sojourned alone to this place. But since then, much had changed. Thargelion was no more. This land that had once been in the east of the world they had known now lingered near its western shore, and the pine in which she perched had grown from seed to ancient in the time that had passed since she had visited this place.

Aigronding had been concerned over her desire to come here, and to go alone into the northern mountains. He had at first protested over her safety, but she knew this was not the real reason, and when pressed he admitted his fear: that she would choose not to return. Her early wanderings had always been a source of insecurity to her little brother, and her exile had wounded him deeply. “Maltahtar,” she had said, her voice soft with care, “I tell you now that I am leaving, and I tell you now that I am coming back. This is a thing I must do, if I am to move on with my life. I have spent too many years along in the wild to be laid low by a jaunt to the Ered Luin, and my heart demands I return to you. I love you, háno; never forget that I love you, wherever I may be.” She had pulled him to her then, and imagined that she could still feel the echo of his embrace. Gellam had offered to accompany her, but she had refused the Fool gently. He had not questioned her deeply when she said she must go alone, and their farewell had been short: the Fool hated goodbyes. In Mithlond, on her way around the Gulf of Lhûn, Davos too had volunteered to go: but he, most quickly of all, acquiesced when she declined. The ancient mariner had completed more than one pilgrimage of his own, and said only that if she required diversion on her return, to look him up for a sail.

So it was that Tavari had come alone to this treetop, with the light of Tilion’s vessel paling her eyes. But she had lingered too long, and the light threatened to entrap her there, forever bound to gaze in hope and longing. With a final glance to the errant moon, the nís began her descent. Needles and slender branches caught at her garments as she swung, shimmied, and dropped delicately through them upon their larger bretheren, the knobby bark of the pine offering sure purchase for her hands. Its scent surrounded her, as though the tree itself exhaled in rhythm with Tavari, welcoming her back to the home of its ancestors. When she emerged at least from the thick low branches and dropped silently to the needle-strewn ground below, there was no one to greet her. Ñaltanáro had borne her to Mithlond, but she had left the golden stallion in Davos’s care. It was a mark of how swiftly and deeply she had come to trust the ancient mariner, both that she would do such a thing, and that her mistrustful eastern mount would allow it: Ñaltnáro had little patience or temper for anyone not his mistress, but with her assurances and a day spent acquainting the two with each other, he had put his muzzle into Seaworth’s hand to receive his reward, stood quietly as the Nelya lifted each of his feet and, after a farewell caress, allowed Davos to lead him to his stable. It pained Tavari to leave the stallion behind, but the last leg of the journey was to be made on foot, and he would see only the best of care with Seaworth. She had told him she couldn’t promise Ñaltanáro mightn’t leave him with a few bruises to remember him by, but the ancient mariner had merely laughed and said he could use a few more scars, anyway.

A renewed vigor surged through Tavari’s limbs as the earth beneath her feet began to slope sharply downwards, and her pace quickened; the land had retained its shape, even if the trees were different. And yet, it had not: at the bottom of the valley where a small river once had run, was now only a ravine, the bridge that had been its only crossing long disintegrated beneath the flames of the Deceiver. She had pushed thoughts of the fire-drake from her mind when gazing across the altered landscape, bereft of Rerir’s mighty peak, but now Tavari’s mind was full of the noise of Glaurung’s fire, the scorching heat on her skin, the ravenous umber tongues of fire that had ripped through the northern landscape, devouring tree and shrub and elf and man alike. The great conflict of the War of Wrath had destroyed so much of the world she once had known, stretching even here to what had been the far peaceful east. Now at the foot of what had once been Rerir, the bulwark of Thargelion’s strength, all had changed. The mountain was a shadow of what it once had been. None of the criss-crossings between trees which had marked the dwellings of those who preferred to live aloft remained, all had been destroyed in flame. None of the dwellings which ad been hewed into the mountainside remained, all had been crumbled with the mountainside. Tavari had not known how she would react to what she would see here, and her mind was oddly blank. Changed as it all was, still she knew exactly where to go.

At length, she ascended the western slope to that place where once a great stone shelf had jutted out from the mountain, supporting the great manse of the capitol’s fortress. Tavari had expected the shelf to be obliterated, but unbelievably, it remained: not in its entirey, for fire and the passage of boulder and earth had taken their toll, but the monumental oaks which had supported it in the elder days had not been cowed. They had been burned by dragonfire, beaten by stones and blasted with wind, but their cores had been sung into being before elvenkind, and within their trunks they endured, supporting the stone that had supported a kingdom. The manse had not been so lucky, and where once the nís had turned up her face too look at its smooth walls and the balcony that was her goal, she saw now only rubble. And above, the crumbling hulk that had once led to Rerir’s peak. What was the old rhyme? This thing all things devours… The shelf was beneath her feet now, and, gazing down, a glimmer caught Tavari’s eye. “Helevorn,” she breathed, and the starlight seemed to gleam brighter on the water below. The remains of the once great lake still lingered below, though the destruction of Rerir had largely filled it in. Without conscious thought, her feet had brought her to the edge of the shelf, and she remembered racing down the mountain through the trees in the blazing summer, her laughter mingling with the shouts of her companions and the thrumming of cloven hooves as the deer of the mountain leapt about her, before breaking from the trees at lake’s edge to fling herself into the pristine water, the little city by the lake smiling down upon it.

Slowly Tavari rotated on the spot, tearing her eyes away from the lake to face the ruins of her home. Close as anything had been to home after Aman, had been Thargelion and this manse. There was little now to resemble the grand building it once had been: the tiers of the house had been carved back into the hill and built up to meet the trees; bold, imposing, but not unfriendly, and still part of the hill: a bulwark to protect, not a parasite to invade. Now it was fallen, crumbled, and obscured by slides of land and the ravages of fire and war and time. Still the breath caught in Tavari’s throat, for here and there a pillar or post, the echo of a shape she had known, and the hint of a whisper of song in her mind brought for the past and enraptured her. It was a strange, delicate sort of pain. The kind of pain that crawls into the ribcage and hides beneath the breath, over which the breather has no control: the kind of pain that would set her free. The dull ache in the nís’s chest pulled closed her periwinkle eyes, and before them a grey gaze hovered, dark and alive. Know that I loved you. That I belonged to you. And that I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Tavari did not know hold long she stood, riveted in place, but when she came to herself again, it was to an unexpected sound. A muffled sort of thump, breaking the quiet of the uninhabited night. Or, uninhabited, she had thought. Leaping into alertness, the nís darted into the shadows of the nearest tumbled column, soundlessly drawing the sword from over her right shoulder. Even after so long parted the blade was so much a part of her that she had scarcely noticed it on her travels, and now with the grip firmly in her hand, its perfectly balanced length called out to her to do battle. A thread of moonlight glinted off the device of Fëanor stamped upon the ricasso, and his name etched below in his runes. Her left hand fell to hover near the hilt of the dirk Glamor upon her left hip, and Arasoron’s voice too called: caution, onórë. The sound had continued intermittently, sometimes dull, sometimes sharp, a thud or a thunk, or a clack that did not sound like any animal Tavari knew. Slowly she moved out of her shadow and into another, creepying through the mossy ruins, over knolls and boulders, following the sound as it grew louder and more distinct. Then she clambered over a fallen wall, and a clearing in the ruins presented itself. There in the clearing was a figure: bent and stooped, though through age or deformity, she could not tell. It faced away from her and was wrapped in a shapeless, tattered black cloak. From beneath the cloak protruded a long walking stick, which the figure rapped against the base of a crumbling column, the sources of the strange noises. Tavari stepped into the clearing, the sword in a low guard before her, eyes fixed on the figure.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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L'appel du Vide
Southern Harlindon, TA 1
(Private RP)

“He’s gone, Finnbarr. His life was snuffed out,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that. A stone from somewhere high on the Dark Tower. Crushed his skull. I barely had time to say goodbye.” His words were choked with sobs and sighs. The spray of the sea mingled with the tears as they fell down Númenyramion’s cheeks. They stung but he could barely feel them.

The waves roared around them. The two elves stood on the beach, watching as the sun set far beyond the waves. Brilliant lights, purple and pink, gold and red mingled under the clouded sky. They remained silent for some time, watching the waves move back and forth, the tide bringing all sorts of creatures into the small lagoon. The salt smell had been a comfort to Númenyraumion in the past. It offered peace and security. It offered adventure and companionship. Now, he was not sure what to make of it. He had survived the sinking of Númenor, had seen the fury and rage of the Valar. He had lived when so many had died. Some had deserved it, foul with lies, darkness, and greed, but there were so many on the great island that had been caught unawares, simple folk peddling wares, chasing after missing goats, readying the fields for threshing. None of them deserved to die the way they did. They were all swept away, caught between a vicious mortal king and the inhuman, nearly alien gods he angered.

“I’m sorry,” Finnbarr’s voice was rough and phlegmy. “I know that those words are meaningless, but I am. I know that pain you’re holding onto. It feels like it’s the only thing holding you together. You want to feel that pain, that rage, that deep sense of loneliness because you think it’s all you have left. But it’s not. It’s not Númenyraumion.”

“What do I have left Finnbarr? My home is gone, my family have long since left me to fend for myself, the one person I loved is dead. What do I have left?” His words had more bite than he had meant. Across the sandy beach, he could see his companion, stocky, sunburned, heavily muscled with the sides of his head shaved. His forearms were covered in tattoos, tengwar script that wrapped around him like vines. He looked like a Dwarf. But Finnbarr Galedeep was no Dwarf, he was a Teler, like Númenyraumion.

“You have all of this.” Finnbarr’s hand waved out to the sea, then he turned and face the mountains in the east. “and all this as well.”

“It’s all empty to me. Everything is ash.”

“Now you’re just being sullen,” chided Finnbarr. “We Elves are not meant to mope.”

Númenyraumion barked a humorless laugh. “Elves are not meant to mope? By the powers, Finnbarr that’s all we do! Our history is littered with figures that moped and sulked and threw fits.”

“And where did those fits lead them? What of the sons of Fëanor? What of Fingolfin? What of –”

“Do not say her name!” Númenyraumion’s temper suddenly flared up. He had been sitting on the beach, cross-legged but he was up in an instant. His rage verily throwing him up in the sky. He was not tall, considered average in all measurements of height and weight, but he towered over Finnbarr in that moment. His fists were clenched at his side, and his teeth were grinding. So great was his anger that the power of speak was lost to him. In a flash, his fists began to strike out at the burly elf, but he was too slow. Finnbarr was lightning quick and dodged the hasty blows from the younger elf, deflecting them and pushing away Númenyraumion’s arms and dipping within his reach.

“I’m sorry everyone you knew is gone!” Finnbarr grabbed Númenyraumion and held his head, staring unflinchingly into the elf’s mismatched eyes. “I am broken for you. I knew that feeling once. I lost everything and everyone I ever loved and ever knew in the space of a few moments. I had no idea it was coming. I know the rage in your heart. I know the despair.”

Tears flowed down the ellon’s face freely now, his body wracked with sobs. “When does it stop? When does it go away?” His voice was cracked and broken, barely rising above a whisper.

“It never does, there are something, some experiences so burned within us that we can never truly escape it. We have to find a way to make it a part of us so that it cannot break us.”

Númenyraumion stepped away, throwing Finnbarr’s hands down. He turned back to the sea. He raised his hands over his head and began to sing. Power began emanated from his from, waves and waves of sound slammed into the sand, throwing it back. He sang louder, lowering the octave of his voice until he nearly passed out of hearing. His voice blasted a crater in the little cove. Finnbarr tried to run to stop him but the sound was too great. Númenyraumion’s voice, which had so often filled houses with melody and light, was now a force of destruction. His wordless tune buffeted the sea, throwing the waves back again and again until the seabed was exposed. His voice went from a basso profundo into a tenor and the music began slashing wildly at the air, at the sea, at the beach, the trees, and beyond. Finnbarr could do nothing. He watched dumbly as the young elf destroyed the cove, turning the once quiet sanctuary into a waste.

Finally, his voice died, replaced by sobs.

“Did that make you feel better?” Finnbarr stood beside him and put a hand tentatively on his shoulder.

“No, I just wanted to know what it felt like to destroy something. I wanted to know what it was that the Valar felt that day.”

“And… what did they feel?” Finnbarr’s voice as slow with caution.

“They felt powerful.”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sun Jan 17, 2021 5:34 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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Elenion Sunquele
(Private with Moriel)
Traitor. Oath-breaker. Kinslayer. Traitor…

The wind tugged heavily at the elf’s dilapidated cloak, whipping it violently about his legs as the entity once known as Lantaelen, the Fallen-Star gazed upon the ruins of his once glorious home and realm. A count of nearly two and a half million times had the Sun risen and sank since those faded memories had once been reality and indeed like a faded wrath, he clung to the places that he had once been so fond and protective of in the ancient days of glory. At times he felt as if it had never been real, perhaps a dream or induced nightmare because of his crimes, a taunting from the Powers that were, a punishment they inflicted upon those who believed they could control their own destiny. But then he would come upon a familiar ridge or hill and look out and feel all too readily the memory of ancient sunlight or the heat of dragon fire as it swept clean the lands of his people and kin. No, it had been all too real. And though it be millennia past, the heavy pain lingered in his body and spirit like a black rooted poison. Perhaps it could be made to withdraw by the thought of glorious battlements and banners in the breeze, but like a weed it would ever take root again and spread its foul growth. An endless cycle of misery and despair. But this was his fate and he readily accepted it.

Traitor. Oath-breaker. Kinslayer.

The wind carried these words, ever at his back, inescapable like the rays of the Sun or Moon. His cloak did not protect him. Perhaps it had once been a bright, glorious crimson, a symbol of his allegiance and token of the sacrifices he had made with his own blood and tears. Over time, through endless rain, hail, snow, and mud, it had faded and lost its colour, becoming a dull pink, then a rotten brown, and finally reduced to uneven, muddied black tatters with rips and holes. Yet he kept it, representative perhaps in a visual manner of the state of his spirit and mind. His clothing was no better, a tunic wrapped with half-measured attempts at mending and patching, with trousers that were more individual pieces of fabric wrapped about his legs, tucked into boots that had long lost their soles to his endless trekking. Going bare-footed among the grass and forests had once been an object of enjoyment. Now it only served to remind him of his blisters and pain, endless stabbing into his feet as if to say begone, foul beast, you shall have no rest here. For he was indeed such; traitor, oath-breaker, kinslayer. He had failed his liege. He had failed his people. He had failed himself.

Traitor, for having turned against his people. Oath-breaker, for having spilled his own people’s blood, where his mandate should have been all their protection. Kinslayer, for he readily slayed elves much akin to himself, fair and immortal, though he was no longer so. His hair was ragged and disheveled. The light in his once brilliant indigo orbs now faded. His limbs were slender with starvation, as were his torso and ribs. No weapon did he bear, but a staff of rowan he carried, with cherry-vines wrapped about it, every so often bearing fruits in which to extend his torment, half caught between starvation and fullness, but never satisfied in any true definition of the word. But rather than seeking a cure to his despair, he stayed here. In what had once been Thargelion, the last patch of his Lord’s realms and home. Across the water lay the barren peak of Himling, inaccessible to him, yet like a beacon ever drawing him near, keeping him close, teasing him with these memories of glory.

Faces he recalled. Names he had forgotten. He had them too, once upon a time. What were they? His mother called him one thing, his father another, his friends and the rest of elvenkind a third. What was it again? Hecildo the wind seemed to whisper as it whipped at him. You are outcast. Forgotten. No one wants you. He had done deeds fit only for the Dark Powers, yet neither among them or the Light he had once served had no need of him. This was his fate, to wander forever between the ruins of his home, until some fate finally befell him. It was just.

The loneliness bit the worst. Even though to an elf there was never truly any quiet, it did not serve to alleviate his despair. The leaves in the trees rustled, season after season. Even in winter the wind could sing such songs. But there was no joy in it. It had been long since he had seen any others, though they had not seen him. When he first came here, having awoken after a tremendous head injury, he found the land had changed greatly. Where once there had only been elves, now there were men and dwarves as well. They journeyed to and fro and he espied them afar, though never challenging their progress. Sometimes the rumour of evil carried with the wind and birds, though never lasting, and soon too he forgot the tongue of birds which he once knew so well. Then came the short period where the ships of men could be seen in abundance, always traversing off the coasts, no doubt not knowing that beneath the water was once the grounds where great armies gathered, marched, and gave battle. Once dragons crawled over these lands. Once orcs prowled in impossible numbers. Once beings of radiant energy and light liberated it from such. But all forgotten, like him.

Then the deep silence came and very few now came to these lands. A thousand years or more, Hecildo had lost count. A new Age came and went, twice, and yet he knew nothing of such passages of time. For him, he was frozen in place, a living statue from another time, forever trapped in the despair he felt after the tribulations at the Haven. There had been many of his ilk before then. When he had awoken, there had been none. He knew they were all gone from this world. It was just him. It was just…

Footsteps. Someone was near. Someone was coming! It sprang up in his mind, alerting him as if all the powers of evil were bearing down on him. Someone was here! Who would dare come to these grass covered stones? Dwarves seeking riches no doubt, surveying mountains. Or a party of elves on some pilgrimage of nostalgia. Did they know what lay beneath the grass? He knew. The butt of his staff discovered it more than not, from the soft thud of grass to the duller thump when it found stone truly lay beneath. They did not know! And so, they did not belong here. This was his lair of remorse and regret. They had no place here. Go back to where it is sunny and happy and leave me be! And yet, some other fatalistic part of him decided against it. He did not truly care. Let them intrude on his consciousness. Misery after all loved the company of others.

But fear also ruled him. He had not spoken to another since the Havens. His own mouth felt dry and his own voice would seem a strange thing to him, as if another inhabited his mind and spoke for him. Alas, it was very much his old voice, which once commanded companies of determined elves that fought back the Night. Perhaps though, this stranger would pass, lost or merely traveling. He found he did not even have to conceal himself in this vast, wild place. Between the thick foliage and the lolling lowlands at the foot of the Blue Mountains, it was easy for two to come within a league or two of one another and still not make contact. They would pass and he would remain, as ever it had been. They were most likely lost. But he was not. His staff showed him the way. He thumped it, feeling the stone, and recalling that perhaps this had once been a villa, or a gatehouse, or the base of a battlement. Once the great fortress and abode of Caranthir.

The sounds of footfalls did not fade however. Indeed it grew louder, until the forgotten elf feared that Orome himself had come upon him, to finally inflict his true punishment. Hah, did he think these long years of loneliness and bitterness was his true fate? The Valar were akin to the Dark, they must not have mercy as Morgoth did not. He cared not. He tapped the butt of his staff again to a seemingly indistinguishable patch of grass. The sound was the same but elven ears could differentiate. There was stone work under here, not the endless garden of dirt and rock that underlay everything. He was near to what had once been the market square of the settlement. Once there had been many voices here, elves, men, dwarves, all trading and bartering. He stood a moment and attempted to recall the colour of fruit or the hues of fabric or the sparkle of dwarven gems. None of it came to him.

But something else did. He could smell it. And it left him with a snarl of disgust. It was too…clean! Pure. There was another elf here. A she-elf, he judged, by the heaviness of her footfalls. Slowly, he turned, still possessing some military elegance as he spun on his heel and stopped his feet side by side, gazing with contempt upon the newcomer. He had been found! Seen, for the first time in many long centuries. There was no shame in his own experience. This was who he was. But he felt disdain when he saw the other…for they were no different. Traitor. Oath-breaker. Kinslayer.

Last time he saw her, a town had been on fire. And men and women who looked just like them lay dying or dead. Some by his sword.

He recognized the face. Perhaps the name too, though he refused out of pride to mention or think of it. The same punishment he felt due unto himself he now readily assigned to this individual. It was all a pathetic mask for shame and guilt. His eyes then espied the sword in hand and…a wolfish smirk grew on his lips, though they wavered, for the muscles had lost their endurance in conducting even such a simple gesture as smiling. He was so weak, of limb and body. That sword could easily finish him off. Perhaps…though it went against all his mother once taught him about the One above…perhaps he should seek out this finish.

He was not at all afraid of the armed individual. Last time he had seen her was indeed when a town was on fire…in the exact same posture. On the other side. And yet he could admit that she too had a claim on this place. But that claim was forfeit when she made her choice at the Havens.

“Still afraid.” He suddenly cackled, voice pitching in uneven frequency but it took just a moment to regain full knowledge of this skill of speaking. He was not asking if she was. He was stating it. Why else come with a naked blade? “It should not surprise me that you should draw a sword in this place, where you once pretended to loiter as a friend. Come then, and silence me, as you did to the truth and your own oath. None shall ever know about it, except He who awaits in the Halls of the Dead. For that is why you have come, is it not?” He asked in a coy tone, his smirk falling as the muscles in his cheeks finally gave way. Smiling was too arduous a task, even to mock. So what hope did he have in a fight? She looked healthy. How dare she. To live so comfortably after her deeds? Truly wicked.

Elves lived in memory. That explained why he could not escape his past. It also showed why it seemed like he had just seen her yesterday or the day before, though in truth it be more than sixty-five hundred years ago. “To finish what you failed to do, so long ago. If I had known you dared to come back, I would have prepared a welcoming party.” He stated, struggling to flash her that wolfish grin again. But it was a lie. His hand on his staff gripped tighter, turning white knuckle, and that took another great deal of energy from his already meagre reserves of strength. He had nothing to prove though. The truth spoke for itself. And she had betrayed them all.

His grip on the staff failed after a brief heartbeat. Anger did not even fuel him as much. ”You have a lot of nerve for coming here. Explain yourself.” He demanded, feeling his bones ache as he strove to stand more rigid and tall, like the figure of authority he had once been. Brannon uin Himring yes, that’s what he had been, and now he shall honor that title by dealing with this foe.
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Black Númenórean
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(Private with Lantaelen)

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It turned with a sinuous grace, the unknown figure whose stave had knocked against the stones, and pale violet eyes raised to meet hers, cast into contemptuous relief by the light of the moon. Again Tavari’s breath froze- not with emotion this time, but shock. He was a wasted ruin of what he once had been; withered, stooped, and so thin he might have fluttered apart on the wind that stirred the pines, the stick that supported him as thick as his arm and the leg that she knew must buckle beneath him gave lie to the powerful warrior he had been: Lieutenant of Himring, friend and confidant to Maedhros. Lantaelen.The name, and the blur of image, noise, and pain came to her as though no time had passed. Beneath her tunic, the long-healed scar in Tavari’s side seemed to throb. A relic of the assault on the Havens of Sirion, the blade that had given her the wound had missed anything vital, leaving her only with a long scoring of puckered flesh. His blade. She had believed him dead, slain by the very sword in her hand, yet here he stood: a husk, his eyes sunken and dull, his body twisted. When last she had seen him he had been whole, if maimed, dragging himself in her wake madly.

You.

It was somewhere between a whisper and hiss, the voice that escaped Tavari’s lips, his expression causing a counter in her own, the flickers of anger that preceded fury trickling into the corners of her mouth, the lines of her eyes as they narrowed, and the hardness of their depths. When he spoke, his voice crackled in her ears. “Still afraid,” he said, without question. His face attempted to mock her as his words did, rasping and grating; accusing, tempting. The anger seethed in her guts like bile, competing with the lurch of shock at his appearance, not quite dissipated, and the barest edge of pity. He was pathetic. She did not sheath her sword, but made no move towards him. Turmoil stirred inside her. It might be the kindest thing, to put this wretched creature out of his clear misery. Wretched creature. The phrase echoed in her mind. Once, Makalaurë had called her thus, and stayed the hand of this wretched creature’s king, from taking her life. What could be gained, he had said, from spilling more Eldarin blood? Thrice already a Kinslayer, Tavari too stayed her blade. She had, truly, felt fear many times in her long life, but now was not one of them.

“My sword is unneeded here, for time it seems is about to finish its work upon you,” she replied, her vowels made sharp and acid, “You are near as much a ghost as the rest of this place. And yet not a ghost- a poltergeist.” Her lip curled, the anger rising as he dared question why she had come here, she, of all people! She, who in a world unmarred by oaths and jewels and the insouciance of fate might have been queen of this place, in peace and happiness forever. These were thoughts she had not had in Ages, but for one lapse with her brother, and they pulsed hotly within her, radiating beneath her skin, and her silver voice was terrible when she spoke again. “You have come to my hall unbidden. There is no place for you here. I came here,” even in her anger she felt for some reason compelled to explain herself to this shade, “to see what remained, and to put the past behind me for good and all. To say goodbye. But evidently I am not to be allowed this luxury.” Tavari’s eyes were flint now, and her voice the striking blade. “I am come to the house of my King, and I find it infested.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Elenion Sunquele
(Private with Moriel)
This is a ghost. I have completely gone mad. This is a ghost. I…am a ghost.

This must be the madness of fading, the long transition finally complete. Of all the toil and suffering he endured, had Lantaelen truly perished into the nether world just like that? No scream, no cry, not even a whimper. Just…silence. And now memory and reality had blended in to one another. Where was the summons of Mandos? Was he forbidden, doomed to wander Middle-Earth some more, in further solitude? But no, he was not dead, nor was his fëa separated from his hröa. This was real. Very real. Tavari the Traitor was indeed here, in front of him, as solid and real as the rocks and trees that overgrew this ancient abode of his friends and comrades. Friends and comrades whom she betrayed.

~~~
Last time he saw her, a town had been on fire.

The Havens burned, and rightly so. They had the Silmaril! The jewel long sought after, for which many woes and wanton death had been caused. Finally, there would be vindication. But the nerve of these fools, daring to oppose the birthright of Princes, mocking their claim, and forcing the hand of the remaining Household of Feanor. They were a pitiful remnant of their former glory. Titles were meaningless. The colour of their cloaks and proud sigils had long faded. The light in their eyes was wicked. And their minds set to a singular goal; the recovery of the jewel at all cost. At any cost. And those who stood in their way were no better than the orcs of the foul Dark Lord in the North, who laughed and lavished in such news of friend against friend. But to Lantaelen, there were no friends here. Only thieves.

And traitors. When confronted with the reality of the assault, what was left of the host of the Sons of Feanor was divided, for many renounced their old allegiances and went over to the defenders, perhaps thinking that one last stand in defence of such misguided goodness might wash away their other transgressions. Lantaelen thought such to be false. Even if they struck down the Dark Lord himself, the Valar would never forgive them. Their only chance was to strike a new realm and a new home, with the Silmaril as their foundation. Only then would they have peace. But these fools, they seemed to deny them even that. All worked against them. There would only be death.

Nothing to go back to, Lantaelen and the others only could go forward, however desperate or hopeless it might be, whether against orcs…or against their own kind.

That was where he saw her last. Betrayer. Oath-breaker. She had renounced them. The net was drawing fast, every corner and nook searched by the Feanorians, until at last only the Haven’s stronghold remained. Surely the jewel was kept within. The Princes had gone ahead. It was left to Lantaelen and what few others remained to hold the flanks. He knew not the numbers or capabilities of those left. Some had fought valiantly, the veterans of many fallen Realms. Others were desperate, their first encounter with violence, and they were given no mercy or quarter by the battle hardened kinslayers. His blade was soaked with blood no different than his own. It mattered not. They must succeed. He saw Tavari the Traitor, he called her name in challenge, and raising his blade high above his head in a two-handed style, he came against her with all the fury and might he had left to him.

The fires of the Balrog’s whips which once lacerated him cruelly did not seem to match the heat of anger he had against her. Their blades clashed, even as the tides did so endlessly against the beach, which they continued to do endlessly even to the present day. Where once they had been allies, there was nothing but contempt. Anger clouded him. How could she? Droplets of blood flung off his blade in the crashing momentum, while he bared his teeth like some vicious predator of the wilds, snarling as she parried the blow, and yet responded swiftly and agilely on the counter offensive. He was bigger, stronger, but she had speed and an elegance afforded to her by a clarity of mind no doubt. There was nothing to say. The steel did the talking for them and its reward would be the taste of blood. Steel clashed, and Morgoth laughed, and Lantaelen pressed on, for he had to win no matter what.

He was winning. Her blade narrowly missed him, though even in his reckless fury he might not even have felt the bite. But he countered, and slashed her, and in that moment, as cruel as any orc, he took a sadistic glee in seeing her wounded. She deserved it. He had her now and the finishing blow would be ripe with satisfaction. His Lord would be pleased to hear of such a renowned traitor sent to Mandos. Look at her, scrambling away! He might have laughed, wicked and evil. He was indeed half an orc that day. Pride blinded him. His sword twirled above his head, caught in his two handed grip, for all his might would be put into the next and final blow. But his overconfidence was his downfall. She was quick, a snake pouncing from tall grass, and his eyes went wide when he realized his own ruin was at hand.

She was close, very close, and he was too caught in his momentum to turn or prevent it. They collided, and she cut him, deep, upon his leg. Strength left it and he buckled, collapsing under his own weight and bulk that he could no longer support. Lantaelen cried out, both in frustration, in fury, and in wounded fright. He fell, onto his knees, and could not rise again, even as he used his sword as a crutch to push up. Blood left him and so too did consciousness, as his body was dangerously depleted of the life essence needed. Lantaelen toppled, onto his back, wincing and shivering as blood dripped down along his bare flesh, within his armour and garments. He could not even move to defend himself as she kicked his blade away and spitting blood on the ground, he raised his head and glared at her, awaiting his death stroke.

It never came.

She turned and left him in his agony and humiliation. He had lost. He had failed. Worst of all, he was alone.

Pride was the source of shame. He did not know it then. It blinded him and fueled his fury. He did not see the mercy afforded to him. “Traitor!” He roared at her back. “You are faithless! I curse you, traitor! May the Void take you for this treachery! Traitor!” He roared on and on, even when she was gone, even when the sounds of battle and violence departed, even when…the sad rains fell. The waves crashed on. Darkness overcame him. He too thought he died then.


~~~

But he had not. He recovered. Borne to safety by what few comrades were left, but they could not mend or look after him in the tribulations that followed. A feverish nightmare came over him. The ground shook. Fissures tore gaps in the surface. Mountains fell. Waters changed their course. A continent sunk under the waves. Then…there was peace. His wounds mended. Alone and forgotten, forsaken and outlawed, Lantaelen knew not where his friends and allies had gone. Rumour came of fire and water being the end of the House of Feanor. Whoever else there was, they had gone too. It was only him. And now…there was only him and the traitor.

Afraid. No, it wasn’t she who was, it was him. He was afraid. And in him there was a forlorn hope, that perhaps she had come here, to finally finish what she had failed to do. She spared him death in battle? No, she had instead condemned him to millennia of self-torture and degradation by his own thoughts. Yes, he had been an orc that day, and in the time following that, he had come to understand he had deserved that fate. He still did. He had fallen and death should have been his rightful punishment. He wanted it now. He wanted to be free of the pain of memory and the fear of his judgement. But she stayed her blade, as if to deny him again, and that enraged Lantaelen more than ever.

If time could indeed kill, it was a poor proponent of that deadly art. “Your Hall?” Lantaelen mocked, in old Quenya, ignoring the label that he might be the infestation here. “My apologies,” he continued in a dry tone, “but you must be mistaken, for this was once the hall of a friend and comrade, a servant of the noble Princes of the House of Feanor. What I see is none of that. You said your farewell, when you turned against us. Your luxury was to use your sword to speak those words. You renounced all claim to any of this. You are only a thief. A thrice-cursed thief. Well there is nothing for you to despoil any more with your faithlessness. If I had my blade, I would revenge my liege of this stain on His memory.”

A wolfish smirk came over his lips, though they quivered, as the muscles to even do such a simple gesture as smiling had long since eroded in his body. “Perhaps I will soon see the Lord Carnistir and hear such agreement from the lips of the wronged and betrayed himself.” If that did not provoke her to finish what she failed to complete…
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(Private with Lantaelen)

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Thief. Thrice-cursed. Faithless. The words hit her like gobs of spit, hot and acrid, burning holes through the veil of her cold defenses, through the screen of pity that stood between her and the destruction of the hateful wretch before her. The venom of Ungoliant could not have scorched her more than his words, and she hated him. Hate rose as bile in her throat as she listened, the purity of his speech tainted by the contents of his thought. This was no hate like that of one born in the light of the sun, from either of them; no, both Tavari and Lantaelen had come into being in the light of the Trees, and from that perfect peace had spawned the passion that drove them both, and the hate that had caused their destruction. The hate of an ancient festered and grew like slow moss in the dark of twilight, and could flare into a tempest of fire at the right spark; sparks struck now in Tavari’s gut, and her face contorted into a vulpine mockery of itself. If he knew, if he only knew… and yet, he knew more than most, more than any who now lived but one, and still he dared! Perhaps he now sought what he had evaded all those years ago, death at her hands. The only reward she sought was a reconciliation with the deepest parts of herself long kept at bay, long hidden and nearly forgotten by all but she. Yet upon finally gathering the will to seek it, instead she found him. Was this some punishment, sent by Oromë to repay his wayward acolyte for her sins against the Valar? Was it Fëanor, mocking her from the Halls of Mandos? Or was it Carnistir himself, telling her reconciliation was never to be- had he somehow commanded the shade of his brother’s lieutenant to haunt this place against her arrival, and finish what he had started? If only his words were as insubstantial as his wasted body. Faithless. Faithless. Faithless! This word echoed in Tavari’s mind and struck her like a palm, a stinging blow that swept her back, far and away, to the last time she had seen this forsaken nér.

The acrid stench of burned flesh and blood filled Tavari’s nostrils; filth and decay and fire and death, tinged with the salt of the sea. The Havens had fallen, ravaged beneath the fury of Maitimo’s command, but the Silmaril had not. Elwing had fled with it into the sea and none knew yet what had become of her or the precious jewel. Screams of rage and fear and pain still echoed about the city, the roaring of flames, and the thunderous calamity of feet. The sword in her hand was streaked with blood, and her body was covered in the metallic fluid, dirt, sweat, and grime. Weariness threatened both limbs and mind, but the day was not yet at an end. Even as the sun began her descent below the horizon, staining the ashen sky with blood orange shards, a roar whipped her body round, and if there had been words in it, she did not comprehend them, beyond her name. The sword leapt to readiness in her hand even before she saw him: the scar roping his face identified him even through his crusting of battle, and the deep amethyst of his eyes shone with rage. Tavari bared her teeth in a grimace of fury as she came to guard. Maitimo had not faced her blade this day, but his Lieutenant would stand in his place: Lantaelen had come upon her alone, and their reckoning was nigh. The seconds before the rising tide of his coming stretched out into eternity, and it seemed as though those eyes had haunted the threads of her life, from the streets of Tirion to the halls of Fëanor and the shores of Endorë; to Himring and the Gap and even unto the secret paths of Thargelion he had come, polite and distant, dogging her footsteps, one pace behind, one circle of acquaintances below, integral but insignificant, part of the machine and the cogs of fate that had led them to this moment. And she hated him. The wave crested and they crashed together upon the shore of Balar’s bay, steel ringing unnaturally loud in her ears as she deflected his wild overhand cut.

That cut had been meant to split her open from the crown of her skull to as deep as his strength could carry his blade through bone and muscle and sinew into her body, an attack of pure rage and the energy behind it spun him round as her blade met his in a great sweeping parry. She too spun, in the opposite direction, following the impetus of her blade’s path into a tight volte, recovering fractionally faster. She lunged, thrusting at his flank, but the keen point of her sword met only fabric, for his evasion was just quick enough. Leaping forward, Tavari pressed home her attack in silence, grim determination in the set of her face. She would not bandy words with her enemy as some were wont to do. The sword’s only purpose was to kill; this sword was as much a part of her as the hands that gripped it, and so its purpose was her own. He was nothing but another cursèd sack of flesh in need of puncturing. It did not matter that they once had fought side by side. It did not matter that she had welcomed him into her hall, now lost. It did not even matter that she hated him. All that mattered was that he die. When battles are recounted in later days, the tellers of tales always describe them at far too much length, but this conflict needed no embellishment. They fought on that wharf with an endurance only Amanyar could muster, well matched in their duel, the power of the Lieutenant of Himring and the ferocity and subtlety of the Rávnissë. But even the best grow weary with the cruelty of a physical form, and in response to a flankward thrust, Tavari did not twist away quite fast enough. The point of his sword scorched her with fingers of pain as it parted the leather of her jerkin, the cloth of her tunic, and finally the flesh of her side beneath. Reflexes had spared her mortal injury, but flesh and muscle parted, and blood oozed swiftly from the long gash that now scored the nís from hip to ribs, wrapping around the side of her body.

Tavari floundered, stumbling away from him with all the speed she could summon, clapping her left hand to her right side where the stain rapidly spread, even as she stepped back to turn round, sword hand upraised. He was panting, curtains of his dark hair all but hiding his face, but she could see the light of triumph in his eyes. That was his mistake. Pain lanced through Tavari’s brain, but her senses were clear as he hurtled towards her, pressing his advantage, raising his sword overhead to finish the battle how he had begun it. Her hand left her side and even as the blood soaked fingers wrapped about her sword’s grip, she hurled herself forward, beneath his guard, the razor edge of her blade passing between his legs to connect high on the inside of his leg. Had he moved, in that last fraction of an instant? But no: flesh gave way beneath her blade, and blood spurted to cover both elves as they tumbled to the ground. Their mingled cries of pain joined the Havens’ din. Tavari forced herself away, rolling apart from the tangle of Lantaelen’s limbs, and scrambled to her feet. He remained upon the ground, as did his sword, and she staggered towards him. She kicked his blade, removing it from his reach, and staggered back again, covering him with her blade. But there was no need. Lantaelen lay upon the ground, his leg useless, unable to rise. He was not yet dead, but it would not be long. The Rávnissë took a firmer grip upon her sword and made as if to near him again, but a voice upon the stinking air caused her to pause. Arasoron called her name, running from above, having witnessed the end of the altercation. She made instead for her brother, and her last sight of Lantaelen as she glanced over her shoulder was of his crazed eyes, cursing her, madly attempting to drag his mangled body after her through the churned ground of their final confrontation.


“Perhaps I will soon see the Lord Carnistir and hear such agreement from the lips of the wronged and betrayed himself.”

When Tavari’s sword moved in a blinding arc it cleaved not flesh but wood, battering the staff out from his hands, and as it flew into the shadows her sword followed, clattering and singing against the stones as she released it. She seized the front of Lantaelen’s pathetic garments even as his body sagged, hoisting him upright and, with a wordless cry of fury, slammed his back against the nearest wall. “Traitor, am I?!” she snarled, her eyes nearly matching his for madness, “Traitor, you say? I too swore an oath beneath the stars, you creeping wastrel, and I too was bound by the doom of Fëanor’s wretched jewels. You wish to talk of treachery? He betrayed us all! If I am a thief,” her fists clenched tighter as she spoke, pulling him away from the wall, and with a tight, explosive movement, she thrust him back against it again, “tell me what I have stolen, but my own life! You wish to see Carnistir?” Tavari stepped back, releasing her hold on Lantaelen, and her support of his crippled body. “I will not deliver you to him. Whether he lingers in the Halls of Awaiting, or walks in Aman, you will not reach him by way of me.” She looked down upon him, rage and hate still simmering within her. It was almost a pain, the way the sensations of those emotions filled every corner of her body, tingling from scalp to fingertips, like an unsatisfiable itch. “You are not worth the stain of blood on my hands.” The itch began to recede, slowly, like water pulling away from the shore. Was it simply the tide, taking its natural outward course? Or was it precedent to a massive wave of destruction?

“You are nothing. Nothing, but sticks of bone and wasted time. You have no power here, as never you did. Of all those I have wronged and betrayed in my life, none of them are you, and you will not take the memory of this place from me, nor scorn the lives of either of our kings with your faithless falsehoods.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Elenion Sunquele
(Private with Moriel)

How did he not know how wicked he had become? Like an orc. How could any true elf ever take pleasure and delight in causing such pain and mischief to another, to a kinswoman, and one-time battle comrade? He acted out of spite and sheer hatred, not considering the consequences of his action, yet indulging it all the same, because it felt…familiar. It was who Lantaelen had become. An evil, wicked elf, because he had no other choice due to his decisions in life, because of his blind loyalty to a lost cause, and his eagerness to prove that loyalty by fighting his own kin. He deserved to fade, to lose the fibre of life that held his fëa, and leave it wander these hills and forests, dehoused, and formless, forever a spirit of malice. And deep down, regret. But he knew there would never be redemption or atonement for what he did.

He relished in the look and demeanor of fury that pervaded Tavari’s form. He knew that comment would sting most. And perhaps it might hasten that process long set in motion over the past millennia. Do it. End him. And shed him of all the angst and vain regret that he carried. Leave him as Nothing.

It was enviable the fire and decisiveness with which she moved, which Lantaelen had long ago lost to time and diminishment. He barely saw the stroke of her blade, so fast that it was, as it severed his staff. The sudden burden of his meagre weight upon his weak legs nearly sent him sprawling down onto his knees in an humiliating form, something he swore he would never do before the merciless Valar who awaited him across the sea if he ever answered their summons. But before her? Both enviable…and yet infuriating. He refused, but found his cause aided by none other than the wench herself as she seized the front of his garment, causing it to rip and tear from the strain due to its own fragility, though her grip maintained his weakened form in an upright state. She wouldn’t even let him fall to embarrassment without some sort of treachery. How dare her.

What power though she must have gained in her treachery. Or truly had he fallen so far? He was thrust back against the wall, where he crashed, and was pinned there. She spat his accusations back at him and despite all the force and fury she portrayed, Lantaelen still managed a smirk. Yes, her anger was great, and in anger, as he well knew, brash and reckless things often occurred. He looked up at her, not in the slightest convinced by her own claim that she suffered the same as he. But the talk of Lord Fëanor being the one who betrayed them was nonsense. He liberated the Noldor, from the limiting shackles of the Valar, who would have them as footpads and lapdogs. Never!

He was again pulled forward, and then slammed back. If this was to bring his mind to any sort of realization, it wasn’t working. It only bedazzled and disorientated him, but his smirk never left his lips. So very close now.

But…she denied it. His eyes met hers with sudden fury. She would deny him even that? His one chance for release and she chose, what she must have assumed, to be the moral high ground. Such foolishness is what led to her betrayal of their once shared cause. Yes, he should have anticipated this. She was a poor and terrible instrument of this scheme of his. How it all fell apart in mere seconds. Staggering, on shaky feet, he used both his hands upon the wall to slowly raise and steady himself, leaning back against it, as if the simple act of standing was beyond all limits of his capability now. Before, he had been mighty of arms and stamina. Now he panted low, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow.

All that she said about him…was right. He thought it all himself in his long exile here. It stung more to hear it from the lips of someone, anyone. But truly, had he ever expected otherwise? “Faithless?” He repeated her final comment. “Perhaps. But not baseless. You are a traitor. You always will be. You fought against us, against the command of Matimo, and now spit on the name of his father, who was once your King. Even if my memory of the past is skewed, all the proof I need of this accusation has been presented before me in this very moment. You cannot escape it. You forfeit any and all right to this place. Every step you take, every breath of air in this place, it is all a violation.”

He spat to the side and was not surprised to see the hue of blood. Had she damaged him so severely? Only but a little and the deed might be done. “You always were a coward. First you betrayed us, now you won’t even carry out the orders of your new masters. I am anathema to your kind, so why let me linger and persist? Go on, Tavari. Do your duty to your new liege, whoever they might be, and do not shy away at the sight of blood. What little is left in me would hardly cause a stain anyways.” He goaded her with a morbid grin.

“Bound by the Doom of the wretched jewels you claim? Yet here you stand, hale and with power as you so claim. How is it that you walked away so unscathed? Perhaps it is indeed because your heart was never truly for our cause. Faithless, as I said, and shall stand beside that claim, until I cannot no longer. You do not want your memory of this place tarnished by me? Well then, you’ll have to remove me, for otherwise I shall not leave, for this is land I’ve bled and fought for, alongside those who walked and breathed their last here, whom you have turned your back on when you crossed blades with me and the others.” Lantaelen concluded, implying that she was perhaps faking her allegiance to the Fëanorian cause all along. I had power once. And you are wrong, for you did betray me, for we crossed blades, and before then…you had been counted among my friends.

If that did not provoke her to a mindless rage to slay him there and then, Lantaelen had little else. And being so close, he could not abide the thought of more endless wandering in this abysmal place, forever without hope. Elves lived long, and the process of fading, of which he knew nothing except its possibility, was just short of eternity by all accounts.
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The itch was returning, and she did not want to look at him any longer. As he spoke she turned sharply on her heel and strode past him, to the moldering remnants of a stone wall, a gap in the ruins overlooking the hillside below. His voice went on and on, picking over the threads of the frayed tapestry that was their history. More than was needed to scathe, to remind, to insult. He was goading her- why? Tavari’s fist slammed against the wall, sending a shower of rock and earth crumbles down, and a spiraling crack up from the point of impact. She stood, hunch-shouldered, silhouetted by the pale light from above, staring blindly down at the trees. Do as he asks, kill him now, does he not deserve it? Ghosts were everywhere in this place, and Herugon’s voice snarled at her from the shadows. Always a blunt instrument, the Champion of Thargelion. Hate receded as quickly as it had come, leaving Tavari feeling hollow and sick inside. The warlike nís had been ever wrothful when passion and violence collided, as only those Eldar born before the sun could be- but the wrath of the first age of this world had cost so much so dear, and the hate spawned from that time cut so deep, that its revival now gave her not strength, but despair. All through her long exile, she had struggled and fought with her hate and rage, guilt and self loathing. Though she was far from resolved about everything that had occurred in her long life, Tavari had come to temper her youth’s fury with deep understanding and time. Yet here it was again, and its taste was foul in her mouth. Her throat burned both from the hatred and the sound that had ripped through it as she struck Lantaelen’s staff from his hands.

The moon lingered, seeming not to have moved since she ascended this place. His light glittered on the waters below, and her eyes were drawn there, bringing her eyes back into focus: new voices joined the one that had invaded her mind, nearly as long gone and not forgotten, these were of joy and love. Summer days here spent in bliss, a haven amidst the wrathful days. No, Tavari replied silently to the shade of the nér she once had called friend, Not this time. A soft rustle caught her ears, and her periwinkle eyes flicked to its source: a short ways below, a deer had emerged from the brushy trees that had reclaimed the hillside: the pines of Thargelion, reborn from fire. It was a stag. Beneath spreading antlers, enormous eyes limpid in the moon, which burnished his tawny coat to a golden shimmer. The white lining of his ears shone bright as he stood, gazing at the nís above. Some things were too perfect to be coincidental. Why? she asked silently again, this time more mystified than accusatory. The stag gave no answer, merely looking back at her with quiet intent.

“I have no liege,” Tavari growled, less with animosity than because it was the only sound her voice seemed to be able to produce upon inception at this moment. “Because of the command of Maitimo. His command, his curse, turned my wanderings from choice to exile. After Doriath, I sought him out- did he or the Ambarussi ever tell you? No, I suspect none of them ever spoke my name again. Makalaurë would have been too reticent. I sought him out and confessed my crime. That I, in defense of Dior who I was pledged to protect, I killed Carnistir in those caves. My love,” she turned from the stag to face Lantaelen again, pulling from beneath the neckline of her tunic a narrow chain which rattled faintly as the two rings strung upon it bumped together. Silver-bright, they glittered in the moonlight, one small and slender; the other, larger, with a broad flat face. “My betrothed,” she tucked the chain away again, “My King. Once he was dead there remained only Maitimo to claim this last title and I threw myself on his judgement. You think I am a traitor? Your hatred for me pales in comparison to his, and his is nothing to what I felt for myself.”

Her eyes flicked to her sword where it lay across the stones, then back to Lantaelen. “Makalaurë stayed Maitimo’s hand, though I was ready to accept death if that was what my king decreed. I expected it. It was what I wanted. Much as it is what you want now. A chance meeting, and a chance to gain mastery over your own suicide. Maitimo would not grant me that mercy. Instead he cast me out, with the command to never again take a king, or a home. He named me Gwaedhcerepen, one who makes oaths, in the tongue of Singollo, and sent me away.” Tavari fell silent, staring at the wasted wreck of another nér she had once called friend, somehow come here, at this time, to this place. She glanced over her shoulder, and the stag had gone. “No,” she spoke the word aloud this time, quiet and deafening. Tavari strode across the clearing in the ruins in which they stood, to where her sword and his staff lay. As she spoke, she loosed her baldric, spinning it around her torso, and sheathed her sword, before returning it to its habitual position on her back and tightening it again. “Your death will not come by my hand, Lantaelen. I would not pollute this place with further death, even did I desire to take your life. If fate decreed this was your time to die, it would not have led you here. It would not have led you to me.” Things she could neither fully understand nor explain where happening within the nís, and yet she knew what she must say.

“I am not Maitimo.” When Tavari looked again upon Lantaelen, it was with sadness and pity both, but also resolve. Saying goodbye, perhaps, would not be as simple as she had thought, though she had never expected it to be easy. “Your hröa yet lives, and your fëa has not yet departed this place. If you desired to take a ship, to Mithlond you would have gone. Well do I understand not leave-taking Endórë. Well do I understand the peacelessness of exile.” She lifted his staff from the ground, its wood cool and hard in her hand. There was a gouge where her sword had struck it, but it seemed to be structurally intact. Certainly strong enough to support his withered frame a little longer. Taking a deep breath, Tavari crossed the space between them, to where he slumped against the wall. When she reached out to him this time, it was not with her blade, but her hand.

“Come with me to Imladris.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Captain of Tower
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Elenion Sunquele
(Private with Moriel)

Was it his place to be indignant on behalf of others? He had given all he had for those whom Tavari rejected now. And they neither had word nor opportunity of deed to refute her foul claims that they had somehow betrayed her. No, it was up to Lantaelen alone now, last among the old guard, as he saw himself. He would not fade with a whimper or a weak cry but ensure his revenge burned a fiery hole in the minds of those who might know of it. He would stand on his feet, give no quarter as to the perceived truths and realities that he knew, and fall with courage as so many before him had done, both his lieges and his subordinates. He was ready now. He felt their hands and cries from the netherworld summoning him. All Tavari had to do was…

A witness had come. But he paid the beast little mind, as they had done the same to him for many long years. He was no threat to them. What symbol or omen it might present was lost upon him. He had only one singular goal in mind; to end his misery and complete his fading from this realm of the living. Because accountability for his deeds would only end at the same outcome. There is no atonement. None have judgement that could succor him from this fate. Not unless the spirits of those slain wrongly by his hands should forgive him, which could never be, would he ever have innocence again. There was no hope for him. How would it even begin to show itself?

Yet this elleth restrained. She would not act, even as he insulted and ridiculed her in the most heinous ways. Even this orc-work was becoming tiresome. Another mode of failure. She was right though. They never told him that Tavari came back. But why should they? Traitors do not deserve the luxury of being discussed among the faithful. His brow narrowed when she confessed that it was her who had slain Lord Carnistir and had he the strength, he might have lashed out in vengeance. He made a most disgusted noise when she declared him her love in the next sentence. Is that how one expresses it, with a knife in the back, and to send him to a doomed imprisonment in the halls of Mandos?

That’s how Lantaelen knew there was no hope. Their cause had fallen. And the victors would bury their truth. Morgoth after all was the kin of the Valar. Why shouldn’t they be as cruel?

He raised his chin when she flashed him the joint rings. All he saw was a happy fantasy, a wedding he would have been merry and blissful at, one which she shattered by her own hand for the lies of their enemies. Because their liege erred once or twice. How fickle was her loyalties. “I…don’t believe you,” He hissed under his breath, refusing to look at the rings, to believe her narrative, that she carried such guilt, and yet remained so hale and unbent, as he was. Or maybe she knew something that he didn’t, some spell or trick of healing or…

But if what she said was true, and that Lord Maitimo had indeed spared on her, on the advice and wisdom of Lord Makalaurë, was it his place to contest the will and judgement of his liege? She might be lying about the entire story, but he saw no motive as to why. To trick him, when she already held all the cards of advantage in a physical bout? Or was she cruelly mocking him, making him think she had been given a pass on her guilt, when it had not been? Gwaedhcerepen, the one who makes oaths…and breaks them he thought to add in his mind. How fitting.

She went to fetch her sword. His heart began to race. Was this it? This was the moment? But no, she merely sheathed it, and he was denied reunion with his friends in Mandos. He snorted disdainfully at her refusal to give him that wish. But his outward experience of contempt was no longer matched by the thoughts of his mind and heart. He could sense no lie in her. She had indeed confessed the things in her heart and some elven clarity that lingered in his rotted mind could see that. Her truth shone like a beacon, while his was only a draining abyss, hardly able to meet it. His anger and fury at the world and their shared elven kind hardly felt so heated as it once was. The world had passed them by and that chapter was hardly known to a few left in Middle-Earth. Is that why he wished to die? Because he did not belong? Because the vast world without was too large and changed for him to contemplate? He would have to learn everything…anew.

And coming from the heights and splendour he once knew…

Then she said something most strange, extending her hand, his staff in her other hand. Come with me…to Imladris.

There was a brief vision of a gorgeous valley, a rich home nestled high above, and a vision of an elf standing tall and proud. With Lantaelen’s eyes set in his face. It was a vision of what that place offered, a little piece of home, brought over into Middle-Earth. Imadris, a name he heard only in rumour among the grass and stones, but knew next to very little about it. His eyes lingered on her hand, then up to her face, his brow knitted in thought. One half wished to continue in his misery, feeling sated only by extending it to another. But another half, a new side, wanted to leave it all behind. And become the paragon of virtue he once was.

”And what…will I find in Imladris?” He asked of her doubtfully. He did not insult or sneer at her anymore. That would get him nowhere, as it was now evident. A small burden of guilt and remorse was starting to plague him as well. He should not have said to those things to Tavari. He should never have spoken like that, to anyone, even if he were to meet the Dark Lord in chains and be given the chance for rectification. That was not who he used to be. ”Nothing I would not find in Mithlond, if they were not to drive me away with spear and arrow, wretched as I am. Why should those in Imladris take me on? Surely they share the same stories, the same ethos, that they were right…and all that I stood for was wrong.”

”And if you took me there…what, you would vouch for me? Become my protector, to ward off the accusers and fault-pointers? You, little Tavari, would do that?” Lantaelen did ask sarcastically, a half-smirk springing on his lips. But then he shook his head. He could never, honorably, accept that. ”And why would you do this kindness for me? You wish to drag me through the mud first before sending me staggering back to my exile, from wherever Imladris is?” He found it hard to believe there might be respite for him anywhere. No comfort, no lodging, no healing. It was…simply too good a notion to ever be considered true. As sweet as the lies of the enemy, which be honey glazed poison all the same.

And walk in hunched over and leaning on a staff, the once great Lantaelen, the Lieutenant of Himring, now a sea-washed rock in the midst of an ocean that drowned the world he had known. They would laugh and mock him, surely.

Without warning, he smacked her hand away and shook his head. Not to reject her offer but to reject the notion that he needed a crutch, whether a walking stick…or her protection. But it was merely pride. Renewed pride. ”Get rid of that staff. I will hovel there on my own feet or not at all. Are you prepared to suffer that, weak as I am?” He asked her, trying to take a step forward, planting his foot down, and then feeling his entire leg shake from the frail weakness that had been injected in it over the long centuries. One hand still propped against the wall behind him. His first step…towards what future, he knew not, but no longer would he linger here and do nothing.
Berio i refn-en-alph len

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L'appel du Vide
Southern Harlindon, TA 1
(Private RP)

Hours passed, the tides came in and washed away the scars of what Númenyraumion had done to the beach. It looked ugly though, the sand had been striped away, stones split open and trees ripped asunder. He had not lied the Finnbarr when he told him that he felt powerful when he did it. But that was only part of it. It felt good to expel his emotions in such a way, a violent rendition the concerto playing in his heart; but once he saw the devastation he had wrought the feeling of power and control faded. In a mere few minutes, the elation and gratification he had felt turned to ash in his stomach. He wanted to vomit. Finnbarr let him be. Part of the nimir was angry that the falmari didn’t have the solution to his problems, that he didn’t impart some sage wisdom brought down from the years before the sun and moon that could help him. But he knew better, deep down. From all the stories Finnbarr had told him over the years under the starry skies, it was more likely that Finnbarr needed the ability to control his emotions more so than he. He could hear the tattooed elf singing “Rhûnic Ladies” as the tide moved in. Númenyraumion slumped against a tree. He’d walked away from the devastation at the beach and drifted through the trees, aimless as a leaf. The air was cool, blowing in from the west over the seas. The air smelled like home. He choked back a cry and kicked the tree. The world was mocking him in his grief. All he wanted to do was to go home, to feel a sense of peace and familiarity. But he had no idea where home was anymore. Home was gone, lost under the waves. He had no home. Despite the cheerful letters that he wrote to Izzy, he was miserable in Lindon. Everyone there looked at him with pity in their eyes, they felt sorry for him. He didn’t want pity; he didn’t want sympathy. He wanted his family. He wanted his mother, his father, his sister. But they were all gone. Tyelpelfindis had given herself up, Imrazôr had taken Izzy and gone south, to shadowy Umbar, and Izzy herself had stopped writing him letters in return. No matter how many he sent to her, no matter how much he yearned for a comforting letter from his little sister telling him everything would be okay because she believed it would be so. Anárion too, his broken face had been so seared into Númenyraumion’s mind that he had yet to get a restful sleep since that wretched moment, but dreams were now the only place he would ever see his beloved sun. Everyone he’d ever loved was gone, except for Finnbarr, the only person left to connect him to anything. He was a rudderless ship with a broken mast. He was taking on water and about to capsize. He could feel it.

He let loose a cry and kicked the tree trunk as he leaned against it. The sounds of cracking and splintering wood filled his ear as he felt the ancient thing shift and begin to slide backward. He cursed and backed away from the tree. The trunk was blackened and scorched, as if it has been burned from the inside out. He covered his mouth. His throat was raw and scratchy, like he’d swallowed a piece of meat straight from the pan and it burned all the way down. He looked up at the sky. The sun was out, rising high above the circles of the world. Clouds were nowhere to be seen. There was nothing but blue everywhere he looked, from the sky to the sea. How could the world just keep turning? How could it not at least stop and acknowledge his heartbreak? It wasn’t fair! There was too much beauty in the world, and it was showing off, mocking him with it. He clenched his fists together then sunk to the base of the burned-out tree. His chest hurt. It was more than emotional pain, Númenyraumion felt a tightness in his chest, a pain that radiated from his chest and into the tips of his fingers and toes. He slumped further, curling into a ball and laying on the ground. Maybe the world would just pass him by if he did his best to ignore it. He hummed tunelessly, trying to create a bubble around him. His voice, however, kept faltering as his tears choked him.

Lying there like that is no place for my beloved Storm.”

Númenyraumion started awake. He’d drifted off, sleep overtook him and he unwillingly relinquished his anguished consciousness. He looked at the figure sitting beside him, ethereal, half real.

“Is that you, or am I tormenting myself?”

Anárion smiled sadly and brushed a ghostly hand across the nimir’s cheek. “Would that I could answer that question.”

Númenyraumion sat up, still curled in a ball, and leaned against the apparition’s lap. “I can’t do this…”

Yes you can, my storm. You are stronger than that.”

“No, I’m not,” the nimir said in a whimper. “I wish it had been me.”

Anárion’s shade laughed, but not unkindly. “You wish it was me wallowing in heartrending pain whilst you flitted about the Halls of Mandos?” Ghostly fingers combed through Númenyraumion’s hair, he breathed a sigh.

“I... no, of course not,” the poet was at a loss for words.

I’m sorry I left you, my love.”

“You didn’t leave, you were taken, stolen.” Númenyraumion wiped a tear from sliding down his cheek.

Have you spoken to Beleguriel?” the question felt like a hammer against stained glass.

“No,” he finally said, searching for a voice that suddenly left him. “I…” he sat up and looked away from the shade of the man he loved, unable to even met the eyes of the apparition. “What could I say to her?” He blinked and looked back at the specter but there was naught but empty air. He gulped down a hard lump in his throat and sighed.

Why are you sad Numey?”

It was Izzy, or at least Izzy as he wanted to remember her. She was young, her eyes bright and shining. The faces of her mother and father sculpted into a beautiful replica of both. “Little one…” he had no energy to say anything else. His heart was empty and his head hurt. It pounded and pounded and pounded, each throb felt like it was going to rupture his skull. He tried to look at his little sister, look at her with his mismatched eyes, but he failed. He couldn’t bare it.

Numey! Everything is going to be okay, isn’t it?”

He choked, coughed, and finally retched. His own psyche had turned on him and was delighting in torturing him. All he wanted was to go home. Go home. Home. The sky, still bright and blue above him, looked ashen and drab from his perspective. The sun was a ball of cold energy, a light that illuminated nothing. “Little one…” but she was gone too as soon as he looked back. He was alone. He was empty. He was nothing. He wiped the corner of his mouth, winced and tried to stand up. His legs were unstable, he stumbled, tried to break his fall against the tree but the husk finally collapsed, and he was buried in ash and tree bark. He cursed, loudly. When he looked up, there were signs of a blast, like that from a furnace, that radiated out from him. He looked at the scene, dumbfounded. He looked from the ground to his hands and back to the ground. He blinked, trying to clear the image from his mind. But it remained. He began to hum. There was no tune at first, just a wandering, aimless melody, but eventually he began to form a tune. The trees grew in thick. Verdancy expanded outward and upward. The land he devastated in his blind grief regrew. He could feel his energy leaving him as he sang, his will to live, his will to continue. Nothing remained within him by the time he finished. He looked back at the beach. Finnbarr was still there, but he’d brought out the fishing lines they had intended to use to catch dinner that night. Númenyraumion could not stomach the thought of food.

Instead, he looked up toward the cliffs. They were tall, towering above the beach, a vast wall of white stone tipped with green. He trudged onward and upward. Each step he took he felt both heavier and lighter. His body seemed less and less corporeal. The ties that were holding him, tethering him to the broken shell of the earth were fading. A butterfly, its wings a wild blue, landed on his shoulder then seemed to stumble and falter. A decade ago, he would have smiled and composed a sonnet for the little creature and told Izzy in a letter. Now, he could barely summon the will to look at it. His mismatched eyes were clouded and ashen, unfocused. He brushed the creatures aside and trudge upward. The way up the cliffs was steep, cutbacks had been carved into the stone hundreds of years ago, but the steps were slick and treacherous. Númenyraumion went on heedlessly. His feet slipped and skittered but he did not slow. He barely even knew what he was doing. His eyes looked ever to the cliff side or into the great blue skiey vastness. He unpinned his cloak, one made for him by his mother. She had woven it to keep him warm on the nights he refused to come inside, insistent on watching the stars whirl overhead. It fell and wafted down to the ground, disappearing in amidst the alpine greenery. He stopped and watched it, feeling nothing at all. He sighed heavily. His body, though seemingly filtering in and out of the world, felt stone heavy, his arms and hand felt leaden. He unbuckled the sword belt from his waist, the sword that he had finally used to defend the fallen body of Anárion. It clanged cacophonously and tumbled down the cliff face. He thought letting it go would make him feel something, anything. But there was nothing. The emptiness inside him simply expanded, sucking at his memories, dragging them in a tar pit and suffocating them. He didn’t care. What good could these memories bring him? He ripped his shirt off his frame and tore it apart at the seams. The ragged fabric lingered then blew away, a gust of wind taking it up and over the lip of the cliff then out to sea. He was tired. Each step he took upwards, now far above the beach, was more difficult than the last. He was not even sure why he bothered trying to climb to the top. Not when this height would work just as well. He was at least three times the height of the tallest trees below now. Fall from here would…

He trudged upward. The wind picked up and buffeted him, trying to push him backwards. He forced himself onward. He slipped and landed hard against the stone, breaking loose a shower of pebbles and jagged pieces. He looked over the edge, stood up to his full height and wavered over the edge. His eyes, lifeless and dead, looked over the sky and into the nothingness between him and the ground. He could hear something calling him. How easy would it be to just fall, to let go, to dive. He wavered, his body rocking back and forth, his center of balance shifting and wobbling like a child’s top. Another gust of wind pushed him back. He slipped again and landed hard on his backside. The only sound he could make was a surprised grunt, a short exhalation of air. No words, no song, no sound. He stood back up, his limbs feeling heavier and heavier. He was almost at the top. Almost to the top. The voice, the call, told him to carry on until he was finally there, finally at the top. He was out of breath, his lungs burned but he didn’t feel a thing. His lips were dry and cracked, the edges of his mouth tasted like blood. He spat a red blob over the side and it dropped down in the beach below. His muscles burned, ached, begged him to stop, or to turn back. But there was no turning back. Not now, not anymore. He was almost there, almost done. Almost done. He wanted to be done so badly. His mind screamed to be done, to be finished. He had no more tears left, no more words, no more music. He simply did not care anymore. His rage was spent, and it afforded him nothing but shame and guilt. His sadness was hollow and soundless. He just wanted to be done.

Finally, he was at the top. The wind had died. The entire place was soundless. If he could have, he would have smiled. This emptiness was what he craved. He closed his eyes and flung his hands out to either side. He was weightless, his body floated on a sea of black indifference, a placid gulf of nothing. He lost sensation in his limbs as his mind curled in on itself, desperate to be free of the fleshy prison. He opened his eyes, but everything was blurry, he saw nothing but vague shapes of blue and white. He looked back down toward the beach. Finnbarr was not there. Where had he gone? Númenyraumion didn’t care about the answer to that. Didn’t care about anything. He stepped another foot closer to the edge. Turf and stone tumbled into the open air and vanished. He inched closer, his arms outstretched.

Numey? Numey what are you doing?”

My Storm, please… please don’t.”

He didn’t hear them, the wind picked up, pushing him back. He hung, suspended in the air as he leaned over the edge.

He just wanted to go home.

Laergalad! What are you doing?” Finnbarr’s frantic voice sounded far, far away.

He took a step into midair.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Ships in the Night
The Safe Harbor
(Private with Moriel)

The Safe Harbor. It was adequately named, if nothing else. What had once been a three-story lighthouse overlooking a busy harbor was reduced to a singular monument of times gone by. The lighthouse still stood, tall and proud and crowned with a brightly burning beacon, but now it presided over a stretch of water that had fallen into decay and disuse. Activity in this quarter of the city had fallen off over the last few hundred years, most of the commerce moving toward the Grey Havens and the shipyards there. Still, there was activity enough to justify the lighthouse’s lonely vigil. It stood tall on a rocky gray cape of land jutting from the mainland into the sea. During rough seasons, waves blasted the walkways, beating against the stone with merciless fury. Yet the lighthouse always remained, a great monument, a silent watcher. A causeway, carved from the ancient stone itself, provided a safe, sure walkway from the mainland to the steps of the lighthouse. The sea tonight, though, was becalmed, and the tide was moving out. The winds were gentle and cool, smelling of brine and sea life.

The usefulness of the lighthouse in its original form had died, its function no longer necessary as the lighthouses of the Grey Havens provided much brighter and more potent light, but that did not stop the proprietor of the lighthouse. Cútaþar, a nér whose time stretched back to the end of the Great Journey, knew that it was time for him to evolve once more. He turned the lighthouse and its natural beauty and ambience into a restaurant. The finest, most exclusive restaurant in all of Lindon (in all the world if you asked him after a glass or two of fine Old Dorwninion). He went into business with an old friend, Davos Seaworth, one of the few elves still around that was older than Cútaþar and consummate businessman. It was he that funded the project that built the quay in the harbor that now bore his name “Davos’ Wharf” upon which the lighthouse was situated.

The beige and white bricks of the lighthouse were almost as ancient as the country of Lindon itself, quarried and carved by Dwarves from their nearby underground fastnesses. The structure was blocky and more geometric than the normal elven design, but it was stronger and sturdier, not a single brick had needed replacing in the two thousand years it stood vigil. This nameless lighthouse stood against assaults from the sea itself, from icy winds of the frozen north, and the slow decay of time itself. It was a bastion of stability. Stepping into the lighthouse was akin to stepping into a completely different world. Where the outside was rough stone and salt encrusted wood, the interior was soft, smooth, and rounded. The floors were polished marble, delicately carved and embroidered. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting wonderous events like the flowering of the Two Trees and the landing of the Númenóreans in their fleet to aid in the wars against the enemy. Where there was no tapestry, huge canvases detailing maritime scenes, ships and sea creatures, filled the space, all of different eras and styles.

The structure of the lighthouse itself was such that the settings were small and intimate, each floor contained only enough room for two or three parties to be seated with maximum space devoted to privacy. All the windows faced the west and used a series of mirrors to light the chambers within. At night, though, small iron candelabras wrought to look like whales, kraken, or leviathan provided the minimal lighting. The tables, and indeed all the wood on the interior, were carved from the wood of old ships, reclaimed and restored by arts that Cútaþar vowed to take to his grave. The location of the kitchens, which were no doubt vast, were nowhere to be seen. Indeed, both Davos and Cútaþar remained coy as to where the kitchens were and how the food was prepared. The food though, was always fresh, caught just within the harbor (and butchered at the fish market downwind of the lighthouse) or grown within a day’s ride. The menu, therefore, shifted and changed daily, never remaining stagnant or ordinary. It was here that Davos’ excelled, using his business acumen to procure the best, freshest, and most unique ingredients. Only the best for the Safe Harbor. Music, too, was a staple at The Safe Harbor, with a wide variety of bards and troubadours make their way through the vaunted walls of the lighthouse. The musician on this particular night was a master of the hurdy gurdy, a Sinda with a flair for the dramatic. Each floor was set with a small stage and the acoustics were thus that even seated at the opposite end of the lighthouse, the sounds were crisp and vibrant.

On this particular night, there was no one in the lighthouse, save for the wait staff and the kitchen attendants. Finnbarr Galedeep had seen to that. The bearded elf spoke to Davos, his father, and rented the entire restaurant for the evening. He was not quite sure what to expect from this evening, it had been at least a century since he’d been on what Men would call a date, and the events surrounding this “date” were so random and serendipitous that he felt the need to create an environment that he could have at least a semblance of control over. The masque had been a wild affair (he’d woken up the next morning with a roaring hangover), but it had been a productive one. He’d finally reunited with his old friend Tavari and put old deeds to sleep, he’d won the dancing competition he’d held with his father, and Laergalad had been so overexcited by the end of the event that he could barely speak except to say that his sister was, in fact, alive. Finnbarr himself had managed to capture the attention of a woman who might have been the tallest elf he’d ever seen (supposedly there had been a few in Gondolin that were taller but that was in an entirely different world). She was beautiful, he could tell that even with mask obscuring her features. Those burning blue eyes. He expected the encounter to be a random one, like two ships passing in the night, but then he received a letter from her just yesterday. Lo and behold! She wanted to meet with him and have that dinner he’d bragged about (a line he’d given more than a few times in his long life). Excited by the prospect, Finnbarr set to work organizing. Sadly, in his attempt to be clever, he’d neglected to give the time for the date itself (the pun with the Wellerman had been worth it though), so he ended up renting the lighthouse not just for the evening, but for the entire day. Were his nerves getting to him? Was he, gasp, getting rusty? His father better not hear of that or he’d never stop laughing. He sat on a bench overlooking the tide pools and waited. And waited. He didn’t mind waiting, thankfully. He watched the Pearl Queen as it sat in the harbor. He’d placed his ship, one the men of Pelargir would call a first-rate frigate, just so that it would be backlit as the sun set or as the moon rose. He had to pull out all the stops after all. He’d even gone to a tailor, his second trip to one in the same week (a record for Finnbarr) to find an outfit for the evening. He decided, ultimately, to create a variation of the ceremonial uniform he’d worn at the masque, but in a much more relaxed state. Instead of a coat, he wore a sable vest over a white shirt with crimson embroidered sea otters (he wasn’t about to stop using that motif), a matching silk neckerchief, beret, and a thick woolen kilt to finish off the look. He’d spent at least half an hour combing and braiding his beard, normally the processes of taming the beast was a matter of comb and oil, but this was no ordinary occasion. In the end, he decided to go with a scent of lavender, amber, sandalwood, and jasmine.

The day was stretching into evening now, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, ripples of gold and orange fluttered across the sky. The water practically burst with ambient light. Finnbarr inhaled the pungent sea salt air. He felt jitters and nerves he hadn’t felt in so long he nearly forgot what the feeling of anticipation was like. He laughed at himself. “Look at you, you old otter, you’re acting like a nervous pup.” He hadn’t been this excited since, when he had he been this excited? Saererys? He laughed again, this time with less humor. “fifteen hundred years gone, and you still can’t let her go. There a lot of things you need to let go of, old otter, if you’re going to survive the world.” He tapped out a rhythm on the railing, feeling fidgety, then finally went inside. Vingilótë would no doubt know exactly where to find him. He sat down at the table, a waiter appeared with a bottle of white wine and poured him a glass before silently vanishing into the hidden passages of the lighthouse. He took a sip and leaned back in his chair. “Time to let go and move on…” he murmured.
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Ships in the Night
The Safe Harbor
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Evening, of course, was the time for such an occasion.

Galedeep had not specified a time when he made his invitation, though he had rather cleverly made the location known, and so Moriel had taken it upon herself to decide when to arrive. This had also allowed her sufficient time to see to her attire, for it wouldn’t do to turn up in the same gown she had worn to the masque, but neither did she feel it appropriate to arrive in her habitual traveling garb, and demonstrate more of that side of herself to him yet. Yet. Was she intending to see him again? Perhaps. It was a deviation from her usual course of action to seek out any she had danced with after such a fête, to stay in the city longer than necessary, and indeed to interact with more of its people than those upon the dance floor. It was her wont to appear and disappear like a phantom from the festival halls, leaving only the impression of herself- and at times broken hearts- in her wake. That was part of the amusement of it all for Moriel, but with the advent of her unexpected reunion at the masquerade, things had changed. She now found herself inclined to stay- for how long she did not know but, she had reasoned, long enough to make bold on the Galedeep’s flirtatious promise, having left him seemingly stunned.

The Galedeep, who she had met by chance in a dance, just as she had subsequently re-met her foster-brother, long since thought dead. And then, Númenyraumion mentioning the name Finnbarr, which struck some distant chord in her memory; then, when she made the most casual of inquiries into the identity of the Galedeep, discovering that his name was in fact Finnbarr Galedeep. The coincidence was too great to be true- in fact Moriel was sure it was no coincidence. She had found him interesting from the start, the burly, otter-masked nér bedecked with mummer’s bells, and now she was compelled to investigate him. Why did she know his name, and from where? He had some connection to Númenyraumion, that was obvious, but what was his relevance to her? She could not remember him, beyond, perhaps, some vague, time-clouded, distant and hazy images that must have been from her youngest days. There were things from those times she could remember with perfect clarity, but not Finnbarr Galedeep. With this provocation in hand, there had been no reason not to write the letter.

And so Moriel arrived at the Safe Harbor as the sun was setting- behind, she noted, an artfully placed ship. She smiled. She, too, had taken care in her preparations for the evening: the gown had been transformed by the lightning work of (and heft payment to) a seamstress of unsurpassed skill. Where its sleeves of gold had belled out at the elbow they now ceased in neat cuffs; the neckline remained, clinging to Moriel’s shoulders and the swell of her bosom; its fitted torso of brightest white still threaded with glimmering silver. At the hip the dress flowed still into flaring elegance, but no longer trained upon the ground; rather, it hovered above it, whispering about her ankles in swishing fullness, and revealing the soft black boots beneath. Her face was bare, and her hair, which had been half bound-up at the masque, now fell free in heavy coal-black waves to her waist. Her feet were silent as she approached the entrance to the Safe Harbor and when she stepped inside, it was into a beam of the setting sun’s mirror-reflected light. She called, softly, a hint of mischief in her voice,

“I was told to ask for the Otterman.”
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Ships in the Night
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(Private with Moriel)

The Falmari had begun to doze, the pure phrenetic, frenzied activity of the early part of the day juxtaposed against phlegmatic pace of the evening. They had made these seats far, far too comfortable. Finnbarr knew that, if given half a chance, he’d curl up and sleep here. There was a greater than even chance that he would not have been the first to have that thought. He was drifting between visions of a green stormy sea with waves cresting white and foamy over the horizon and the interior of the Safe Harbor with all it’s richly designed tapestries. Something stirred behind him, the sound of a door closing. It took a moment for him to fully come back to reality, for him to realize what that sound meant. In deft twirl, he stood and turned to face the doorway. When he stopped the world kept spinning. The floor of the world felt like it was listing to the left, the suddenly shifted and began listing to the right, odd sparkles of light flashed before his eyes and drank away the light. In the moment of confusion, that moment right after someone wakes from a light sleep when dreams and reality haven’t quite sorted themselves out, he saw her, caught in the sunbeam. Who was she? His mind instantly recalled the War of Wrath, when beings clad in naught but air and light and color swept through fields leaving destruction in their wake. She was tall, wreathed in blazing, molten silver. Her form flickered and wavered like mist as she stepped through threshold and into the lighthouse. There was a tickle at the back of his mind. He ought to know this woman. There was something in her eyes that was more than passing familiar. He should know who this woman was. Then she spoke, the sound waves crashing as it came to one under the water, light but with impossible depths, natural musicality, and barely contained strength.

I was told to ask for the Otterman.

Finnbarr instantly recovered himself. Vingilótë had revealed herself in full glory. He was nearly at a loss for words. Nearly. He swept off his beret with his left hand, swung it around to his right shoulder and bowed with dramatic fancy, crossing his left leg out front and bending low at the waist. “You’ve found him, my lady. Though, I think I would be remiss if I did not warn you to turn back now for your own safety. I’ve heard tales of the old seadog. He’s a rake with a devious smile and a propensity for songs.” He displayed said devious smile and winked. “However, should you choose to risk your reputation with such a rogue, then he has prepared a place on the second floor, the best way to watch the sun as it sets beyond the waves.”

He stood back up again, placed the beret back on his head and offered the lady his arm. The world stopped spinning for a moment as his dreamworld faded and the real world, full of color and sound and fury, reasserted itself. The sounds of the sea, roaring and infinite, filled his ears, just out of the corner of the window Finnbarr could see the outline of an exaltation of larks as they dipped to the surface of the sea in search of food. Golden red light streamed in, bouncing of half a dozen mirrors. Finnbarr himself was half wreathed in the light as he stepped forward.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the hurdy gurdy player disappear behind the hidden stairs, making her way to the stage of the second floor. “Tell me, my lady. What should I call you this evening? Are you still Vingilótë? Or have you adopted a new guise for the evening? Shall we chose new identities for ourselves this fine evening, or shall we bear all and reveal our truths for the waves and the setting sun?”

Finnbarr smiled inwardly. He hadn’t lost all his charm and charisma it seemed. Outside the waves crashed against the seawall with perfect symphonic timing. A cool breeze caught the last of sea bedecked water and blew the strong scent of the sea into the lighthouse. The nér inhaled the sweet smell of home.
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Ships in the Night
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She returned his flamboyant bow with an equally formal curtsy, stepping one foot back and bending at the knees until the rear very nearly touched the ground, while her spine remained upright, left arm extending delicately at her side while the left curved in elegantly, and curling up nearly to her heart. It mirrored the left as she arose, then reached out to take the proffered arm. How long since she had offered that perfect dancer's curtsy? Yet her bones knew it as if it were yesterday her mother had taught her. He made quite a sight, the kilted Galedeep, and with his neatly braided beard he looked as if he might fit in among the dwarves that abode in Lindon country. But elf-kind he was, and no doubt of a certain age, to have acquired such a beard- yet there was an air of youth about him as professed his own rakishness and stepped forward to share in her light of the setting sun.

“Why,” Moriel replied lightly, halting her hand’s progress to let it hover just above his arm, “what reputation have I to worry about risking? For all you know, you might be concerned over your reputation, to be seen with me.” She too breathed deep of the salt-tinged air as the waves crashed against the seawall. Many years she often spent between coastal journeys or excursions to sea, and the twinge of home never lessened. It was never the same as it once had been, but scent was a powerful memory, and she was a child of the sea air. “I know many guises, Finnbarr Galedeep,” her smile deepened, and show allowed her hand to drop to his arm, her fingers gliding up the inside of his elbow to rest upon his forearm as she spoke, “and I think there are too many truths to be revealed even to the waves for one evening. But as I have the advantage of you, I shall give you my name: I am called Moriel.” She followed the motion of her hand to step forward and to his side, so they stood nearly as close as they had in their dance.

“Shall we proceed to the second floor, then, of this fine establishment you seem to have reserved entirely for us? Such extravagance.”
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Ships in the Night
The Safe Harbor
(Private with Moriel)

Moriel,” Finnbarr tested the name out loud, getting his mouth around the gentle, slightly sinister, name. “It fits you, I think.” A wave crashed outside, disrupting his thoughts as he looked at her eyes. There was something, something almost familiar in them. He’d been alive for more than seven thousand years now though, and he’d seen at least twice as many pairs of eyes in that time.

He shook his head and recomposed his smile. Whatever stray thought meandered through his mind could be saved for later, that thread was not something he needed to worry about threading into a sail right now. He took Moriel’s hand with practiced tenderness and lead the way upstairs to the second floor. As they traversed the stairs, Finnbarr was able to look at his date in motes of evening sunlight. The more he looked at her, the more her eyes drew in his focus. There was something, something different about them that he couldn’t quite place. They were bright and shining, like they reflected the light of primordial stars. He squinted. She couldn’t be that old, could she? She’d be older than his atar. He only knew one elf older than Davos. The Falmari squinted again, trying to catch her eyes in the light again. Surely, she couldn’t be… no. He smiled to himself, he was being preposterous. Was he really that nervous about this date? It hadn’t been that long had it? Still, this Moriel was an enigma. The prospect was both entertaining and frightening. Those eyes though, he caught them again in the light as they rounded the stairs and entered the second floor proper, he recognized them. But where? When? All this mystery was going to ruin the date if he couldn’t start putting pieces together.

The views were best up on the second floor, just high enough to see the crash of the waves without having to worry about them (except during storm season when the restaurant was closed anyway) but not so high as on the third floor to miss them entirely. The air was cooler as well, the windows let in light breezes off the water. In winter there was a roaring fire in a central hearth, but it was still warm enough out that no fire had been lit in quite some time. The room was filled with red-golden light. Gulls circled and dove at the water a hundred paces off. A table had been elaborately prepared with the finest tablecloth, plateware, and silverware The Safe Harbor had to offer. Finnbarr rolled his eyes. He told them not to go overboard, but naturally Davos was not about to listen to that request. There were already glasses filled with bubbling, freshly poured champagne. He pulled out a seat for his date, then sat himself, finally taking a moment look over the whole thing.

“Well, I think we should lead off with a toast,” he said, clearing his throat. “To bad reputations, and to sticking those reputations into the faces of the nobility where they can’t avoid them!” He smirked. It was not often that he could indulge in his anti-nobility sentiment, even if just for humor’s sake. He took a sip and remembered why he hated champagne so much. The sweetness was almost overbearing, and the bubbles nearly went straight up his nose. Davos had better not have hidden the whisky. The hurdy-gurdy player was already in position, sitting on a stool and putting the fine tuning to her instrument.

“I know the owner of the property,” Finnbarr said with a wave pointing back downstairs. “And he owes me a few favors for things I’ve managed to find over the years for him.” He was not about to say ‘my father is part owner’ because that would ruin any sort of outsider reputation he had going (was that his imagination or did the hurdy gurdy player stifle a giggle?). “See that table?” he pointed to the only other table on the second floor. “That wood is a from a ship Cútaþar used to captain, ran into a coral reef and sunk off the coast. I managed to get his crew to safety before it went under and saved a few of the planks and beams. Sadly, I wasn't able to save the scrolls he had on board, but the story wouldn't be nearly as interesting if I managed the save the day entirely.”
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Ships in the Night
The Safe Harbor
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She went with him up the stairs, on his arm and under his gaze. Finnbarr kept glancing at her as they walked- not exactly trying to catch her eye, it seemed, but more like he was trying to get a better look at something. Moriel merely smiled and inclined her head slightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Beneath her fingers, the skin of his hand was warm and calloused, more like the hand of a Man than those of the many elves she had danced with at Círdan’s balls. She had noticed it too when she and Galedeep had clasped hands in their own dance: he had the hands of a sailor, the burly nér with the bells and the otter-guise, and such mariners were a rare breed in these days. They emerged onto the second floor into a riot of fiery sunset that lit up both the room and the crashing spray of the waves that reached with its most powerful drops to refract the rays of dying day. The sight nearly took Moriel’s breath away, and she had to credit Finnbarr his strategic choices. She often paused too little to appreciate the beauty around her, and such coastal sights were rare in her travels. Looking West across the ocean in such a spray of sunset caused a sudden lance to shoot through her chest. How long since she had felt homesickness for Anadûnê? Lingering on these shores and keeping renewed company with Númenyraumion was stirring long-displaced murmurations within her.

Moriel sank fluidly into the chair that Finnbarr pulled out for her, noting both the opulence of the place settings and the figure of the musician on her small stage across the room. She took up her foaming glass as her companion offered his toast. “I’ll drink to that,” she replied with a wink, and took a long sip of the bubbling-gold liquid. It slid sweetly down her throat and tickled her sinuses with its bubbles, a much more pleasant sensation for her than for Finnbarr, if the shadow of irritation that passed across his face were anything to judge by. Moriel was more accustomed to Osdolen’s signature Tubeng or the sour brews of roadside taverns than the rich wines she had drunk at the masquerade, and now this fanciful beverage, but she was not about to turn down an indulgence when it came along. She nodded along to his explanation of how he had come to rent the entire Safe Harbor for the night, and her browns lifted slightly as if impressed when he told of the rescue he had effected to salvage the wood of the floor’s only other table.

“Indeed, what’s a good story without a bit of peril, after all? No doubt Cútaþar was happy to trade bit of time for his salvation! But what of the other owner?” Though Moriel had never before patronized this fine place, she had on more than one occasion of her business in Mithlond found herself of an evening in Davos’s other establishment, a den of iniquity where gambling, drink, and many manner of vices ran amuck. While she could hardly claim to be really acquainted with the ancient, she had crossed words enough with him and his associates to know of his ownership interest in the Safe Harbor. And there were other reasons she knew of him, but now was hardly the time or the place to discuss those. “Do you know Master Seaworth as well?”
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The sea was not calling her in the way that if often called her own to see. No something else called her here this day. She wasn't entirely certain why she was called, it wasn't a longing to cross the sea but almost as if there was something there that she needed to see. She came first to Mithlond and sat at the docks looking out at the sea. She knew Afarfins grave was somewhere out there, though she had never been to it ever. Not even when he'd been buried, that wasn't it though. She was certain of that. More than once Cirdan came and spoke with her, she had known him since the First Age and he rarely saw her in the harbour itself so when someone had reported the Grandmaster of the Rivendell Forge was on the docks he came to see why she was there.

Cirdan sat with her for a while as she sat on the end of the dock in silence for many hours. "You're not ready to pass to the West." He said finally looking at her she tipped her head to the side not looking at the older ellon. She let out a soft breath and leaned back.

"No I am not, I don't know if I ever will be." She said finally and the bearded elf looked at her his eyes narrowing slightly before looking at her.

"So you're planning on fading away as the ages pass?" This was a very serious thing to say, very few elves even dared to think of such a fate, and while Fuin was old by many about her she was still very young compared to him. To this she didn't answer with more than just a small shrug at first as she watched the waves and the clouds shifting.

"I hadn't thought of that, but likely I suppose."

"Do you know what you want to stay here?" He asked softly, and Fuin looked away and licked her lips.

"I don't think I can cross the sea." She said finally she could feel his eyes on her waiting for more she knew it and finally she looked at him. "I know Afarfin is across the sea, but it has been over six thousand years since I saw him. He's found someone else in Valinor I am sure." She said calmly.

"So you don't want to find him in the arms of someone else." Cirdan said slowly.

"No... I don't think I'd mind that." She said calmly with a slight frown. "I think that is what comforts me in my decision to not cross the sea, he deserves to be loved by someone." It was Cirdans turn to frown. That was something he had not expected as an an answer to his statement. He knew very few elves that would be okay with something like that happening.

"So why?"

This brought a shrug from her. "I don't know why something drew me here. Much like I often get pulled along into the wilds looking for something. I don't know what calls me to those wilds or here but something..." She trailed off her eyes going to the horizon.

"Your soul is seeking something." Cirdan stood and rested a hand upon her shoulder and smiled down at her. "I hope that whatever has drawn you here finds you, perhaps then you'll be willing to cross the sea, but if not, I will keep your plans to myself, I know that your friends would be sad at that thought and may try to stop you or stay longer than they should."

"Thank you Cirdan." Fuin said softly knowing full well that he spoke of Aigronding and others that looked for her and worried. "I am sure whatever has called me here will have me off in a few days."

"Stay as long as you need." With that the lord of the Grey Havens gave one more smile and pat on her shoulder and headed back off the harbour.
Last edited by Fuin Elda on Thu Sep 09, 2021 8:03 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Ships in the Night
The Safe Harbor

(Private with Moriel)

The hurdy gurdy (normally an instrument used for gaining attention) was quite remarkable for ambience. The music quickly faded from Finnbarr’s attention and nestled in the back of his mind to play point and counterpoint with the sounds of the ocean and winds outside. He could feel a slight chill in the air despite the warmth inside the Safe Harbor. The feeling put him more at ease. He was not on the deck of a ship, where he always felt the most comfortable, but he was no longer that raging bundle of giddy nerves and self-doubt. The overly sweet champagne’s flavor lingered on the back of his tongue, strawberries and peach. Again, he hoped Davos had not hidden away the whisky, he needed something dark and smoky.

“Do I know the other owner?” he repeated her question and briefly mulled over the absurdity of the question. Either she was very good at hiding information or she genuinely didn’t know Davos was his atar. He chuckled and took another sip of the champagne before answering, overburdening his tongue with sugary bubbles. “You could say that.” He paused, deciding whether or not to reveal the totality of his relationship with the old one. He smiled. “The Original Rake and I go quite a ways back. Our companionship stretches back to the Old Country.” He looked at her eyes again. Would Moriel know what he meant by “old country”? Depending on her actual age that could mean Westernesse or stretch back to Alqualondë, his old home. An unintentional wave of nostalgia hit him. Images of seafoam capped ships, the twinkling stars older than the seas on which he traversed, green trees nigh as tall as mountains. He remembered the terrible waves of that last day of Westernesse. They always came unbidden and unwelcomed. Momentarily, his face went grey

“The old sea rat and I have been through more adventures and scrapes than I can count,” he said coming back to the present. “There was this one, we were on my ship, an older iteration of the beauty you see out there, and we’d caught wind of a group of whalers operating near a group of islands called the White Bears. We found one ship and started chasing it away.” He laughed and rubbed his chin, the memory still vivid in his mind, despite the countless years between now and then. “We chased them for hours and hours and finally when we were about to catch them they ran into their fleet. We’d gone from the hunters to the hunted in the breadth of a single wave. If we’d done the smart thing and back down, I wouldn’t have ended up with this scar.” He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a long gash on the underside of his right forearm. “Took a harpoon meant for my surgeon. It was Davos’ presence that actually convinced the whalers they’d be better off running. Not only did he kill a dozen of them, but he’s also… well he’s rather well known and no one, not even those bastards want to be known as the men that killed Davos Seaworth.”

It occurred to him then, this very attractive woman knew Davos. Davos was well known for as less than conservative when it came to the company he kept. Noble or common, he tended to attract the more passionate and tempestuous. Could Moriel be… No. Finnbarr rubbed the braid in his beard. He wasn’t going to think about that whilst he on a date.

A young man, or who Finnbarr assumed was young, apparated almost out of midair holding a dark green bottle crusted with barnacles and bits of coral. Finnbarr whistled and grinned toothily. His earlier fears of Davos and Cútaþar withholding the good stuff back was washed away. “Compliments of the owners,” the lad said as he set two glasses on the table. He opened the bottle and immediately the air was filled with a wonderful piney, smoky aroma. “From their own private stock,” continued the waiter. “Distilled over two hundred years ago and aged in oak barrels that once held Old Dorwinion. The flavor is full bodied with sweet floral notes, vanilla, lemon, and marmalade.” He poured three fingers into each glass and held up each glass so that the golden-brown liquid caught and refracted the light, casting it back in a hundred different shades. As mysteriously as the lad appeared, he vanished, leaving the entire bottle on the table. Finnbarr’s eyes glittered wish mischief.

“We’re in luck tonight it seems.” He took the glass and held it to under his nose, inhaling the rich aroma. “I’ve only ever been able to get a bottle from their private stock once in all the time I’ve known either of them. Either they’re getting senile in their old age or they have better sense of humor than I could have imagined.” He took a sip and sighed. This really was the good stuff. The warmth spread through his bones. It felt good.

“So Moriel, I’ve told you a little, tell me something of your adventures, surely a woman of your prowess has a few tales to tell that can make nobles blush.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Ships in the Night
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(Private with Frost)

Though their personal definitions of what constituted the Old Country undoubtedly differed, Moriel nodded her understanding of his meaning. She allowed his moment of discomfort to pass- whatever had happened that he chose not to speak of had taken place too long ago to be relevant to her investigation. Undoubtedly there was a story to be had there, but not one to be pursued in this moment- though it did intrigue her. This Galedeep did not seem the type to let such an expression of distant despair often slip past his jovial façade. “The Original Rake!” she exclaimed in an echo of Finnbarr’s words, laughing, “An accolade that would surely stroke Master Seaworth’s ego. I can hardly claim to have fallen in with him- I doubt he would recognize me, or my name, in broad daylight. I have spent a small amount of time in his, shall we say, less glamorous establishment.” In a motion that was both perfectly natural under the heightened circumstances and calculated to distract him, Moriel reached out with admiring fingertips to stroke the ropy flesh of Finnbarr’s scar. “Better you than the surgeon,” she replied archly, “I doubt you as skilled with a needle.”

She withdrew at the materialization of a nér next to the table, his footsteps concealed by the hurdy gurdy’s astringent tones. It was not at all an instrument that Moriel disliked, but the sounds it produced were both unique and uncommon. She looked up to listen attentively to the nér presenting them with the bottle, and pursed her lips appreciatively, glancing down at it. “How could one refuse such a fine offering as this?” She replied, gesturing at the table before her. When the nér had set both glasses and bottle on the table and retreated, Moriel took up her glass, appreciating the heft of it, and held it just below her nose. The aroma of the liquid within burst into the air, and Moriel inhaled deeply.

“Lovely,” she murmured, and flicked her eyes back across the table to Finnbarr. “More to your taste, I presume?” She raised her glass, and considered for a moment. “To… to happenstance,” Moriel lifted her glass to him, then to her lips. The whisky struck her senses full-force, but not in an unpleasant way; it was a rich, complex, full-bodied liquor with centuries of labor behind it, and while it filled the sinuses and throat with its aromas and sensation, it did not punish them. She swallowed appreciatively, enjoying how both taste and feel lingered in her mouth after the liquid had gone. “Truly a masterwork,” she praised the drink, holding her glass by her fingertips from its bottom, watching its contents as they caught the light. “But, as to my adventures and tales, oh, I could tell you tales of farthest Rhûn, of the Sea of Núrnen, of the old kingdom of Arnor, of Anadûnê before she sank,” Moriel’s eyes darted back to Finnbarr and her lips curved up, “I could tell you tales of many nobles and others of... cultural significance. And of orcs, and wolves. So many stories,” she sighed with a hint of drama, and took another sip from her glass, “so little time.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Leave Her Johnny
TA 1087, 10 miles off the coast of Tol Fuin

(Private)

The work was hard and the voyage was long,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
The sea was high and the gales were strong.
And it's time for us to leave her!

The storm was bad. The sky was bruised with black and purple clouds, violent and angry from horizon to horizon. Lightning, bright as the noon sun, split open the air and blinded the sailors aboard the Pearl Queen. Thunder rolled so heavy and so deep that the sea itself looked as if it had been torn asunder. The winds roared like harpies and the sails of the ship tugged and pulled on the ropes, begging to be free and fly in the midst of the maelstrom. Orders were being shouted, oaths were being sworn, prayers were being muttered. It was hard to tell if anyone could hear anything over the booming thunder. Lightning girdled the massive ship, pinning it in like a bull about to stud. The ship rocked back and forth, as angry as the sea. The ship seemed, at times, to have a mind of its own, and it wanted to rage at the storm as much as her captain. Finnbarr has not seen so much rain since he had earned his surname. It came down, sheet upon sheet, frozen, biting, and virulent. The air around him smelled like burning metal, like something sweet and pungent. He watched as a bolt of lighting burst though the clouds and roared as it slammed into the ocean below. So much rain. The sky was emptying its coffers into this storm. He swore under his breath as he wrestled with the helm. The ship did not want to maintain her course, she wanted to steer into the heart of storm and shout her defiance.

Finnbarr could not begrudge her that desire, he too wanted to scream his defiance at the storm. The world was obscured all around the aged Falmar; standing from his position at the helm, he could barely see the end of his ship. The waves were so violent and so numerous it was hard to tell he was even on the sea. The ship bucked and shifted like a wild stallion in heat. Finnbarr was not afraid, but he was nervous. Below him he saw several of his crew skittering about like maddened ants on a log. They only appeared in the briefest of glimpses as bolt after bolt of lightning gave the world an eerie, ghostlike illumination before plunging them all back into the darkness.

This storm had come out of nowhere, a fast-moving wild beast intent on havoc and destruction. Finnbarr and the crew of the Pearl Queen had been caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tempest. The sky in the morning had been clear and cloudless; the air had been temperate and mild; the waters had been calm and serene, Finnbarr himself had swam with a pod of dolphins not an hour before the first black splotches appeared on the western horizon. The winds had swept up and before they could make it to Tol Fuin they were caught in a ferocious squall that threatened to capsize them at any moment. There was something alive, something hateful in that storm. He could not be certain, but every time he looked up at the clouds, he could swear there was a face, twisted with malice, looking down at him. He was not the only one to see it either. His first mate, a tall woman with jet black hair and dark blue eyes, was the first to say something. Astaninde was superstitious. All sailors were to one degree or another, even Finnbarr, but Astaninde could teach a masterclass in all the rituals and rites and stories of sailing. She had been a quartermaster with him for nearly three hundred years, the best he’d ever had. Despite her predisposition to see signs and portents in the sky, she made an excellent first mate. She was in the midst of tying down several of the crew with strong hempen rope when she saw it. Finnbarr thought she’d seen the Abhorred, for how loud she screamed. The sound, so shrill and emotive, actually beat out the wind and thunder for a moment. When he saw what she was screaming at, then making all sorts of warding gestures, he did not blame her. The rest of the crew nearby followed suit and made warding gestures, though by the time they did the face, or whatever it was, disappeared.

“Reduce the sails!” Finnbarr shouted, his voice barely peaking above the wind. “Run on bare poles, batten down the hatches, pump the bilges and prepare the ballast!” he heard his orders repeated half a dozen times as the word spread across the massive ship. They’d failed to outrun the storm and continuing to try and sail through it was a fool’s errand, and Finnbarr was no fool. He’d have to try and keep the ship at right angles to the wind and waves, this would cut the battering strength of the storm, but the noise would be horrendous. There was no easy way to victory with a beast of this magnitude.

“What’s that cap’n?” a frantic voice next to him caused him to break eye contact with the storm. It was the boatswain, Ferionn, he was pointing at some smudge on the horizon. Finnbarr squinted and brought up his spyglass, a brass thing wound about with red gold filigree.

“I don’t see anything,” he shouted as another bolt of lightning flashed overhead. Instinctively, both men ducked. The wave of thunder hit the ship and rattled the rigging.

“There sir! I saw something, just for a moment before that a wave came about. There!” the lithe elf darted to the rails and pointed. Finnbarr was next to him in a flash, eyes scanning the dark grey waves as they crashed about. Still nothing. He was about to give up when he saw something. Not much. Barely a blur, a smudge on the wine dark sea. “There! Sir, do you see it? There! Fifty degrees off the starboard hull. Maybe a mile or two out. What is it?”

Finnbarr sighed. He knew what it was instantly. It was another ship, and it was sinking. “Goddammit!” He slammed a meaty fist on the railing. “Bring us about and open the sails! Raise the anchors! How did we not see her before?”

Once again, the orders spread across the deck, able seaman racing to and fro in a wild, intricate dance of rope, sail, steel, and wood. Finnbarr watched with growing unease. Attempting a rescue was a difficult thing in the best of times, in the midst of a storm it was nigh impossible. The Pearl Queen would be lucky to get anywhere close enough to mount a rescue. It also bothered him that they’d not seen the ship before now. In the midst of a storm was one thing but being only a mile off they should have seen them before the storm hit. He cursed and darted back to the helm. He slid, grabbing the wheel just as he was about to fall. He caught himself and pulled himself up, he cursed again. “Come on then you devil’s twhit twoo!” he shouted to the black and purple clouds that menaced his ship. “If you think you can you take on the Pearl Queen with some water, wind, and lightning, you don’t bloody know who you’re messing with!” He roared wordless as he forced the wheel to obey his command. His back and shoulder muscles strained and stretched. There was an unseen battle of wills between Finnbarr and the storm, elf versus nature. He might have been small in comparison, a speck of dust passing through, but he was also Finnbarr Galedeep, Commander of the Waves, Kraken Whisperer, the Prince of the Deeps. No storm could make him blink. The crew fed on his defiance and soon burst into a vibrant, fast paced song, moving in near perfect unison. The massive first-rate ship turned slowly and inexorably against the wind. The winds and waves buffeted the ship, but she made headway, insolent and resilient.

Their progress was slow. Too slow. His fingers itched with anticipation. Slowly, slower than the rising of the sun, the ship came into view. “Ready the life rafts. Tell Amoneth to be prepared for casualties.” he shouted, keeping his emerald eyes on the ship ahead of them, he angled the ship again, tacking into the wind and putting the sinking vessel on the aft side of the Pearl Queen. On the deck, his sailors were readying the boats, a full dozen of them ready to take on survivors. “Astaninde! Take the helm!” He roared. His first mate appeared beside him, appearing out of the deluge and looking all the part of a drowned cat. She was smiling though, her grin was wide and feral, full of the energy he’d bestowed upon the crew. “Aye, cap’n. You taking charge of the boats?”

Finnbarr tossed his head back and laughed uproariously. “Something like that.” He leapt onto the railing and before anyone could say a word contrary (not that any of them would) he dove into the churning, roiling sea.

“Heave to!” Astaninde shouted, her voice carrying above the tumult. She grabbed the wheel with deft, agile hand steered the ship steady until it came to a halt. “Drop the anchors!”

Her orders were obeyed, and a song came from the crew, cutting through the sounds of wind and rain

Oh, a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
We’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Oh, a bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm
A bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm
A bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind

Come on and roll the old chariot along
We’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Oh, a night with the girls wouldn’t do us any harm
A night with the girls wouldn’t do us any harm
A night with the girls wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Oh, a damn good floggin' wouldn't do us any harm
A damn good floggin' wouldn't do us any harm
A damn good floggin' wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind

Oh, a nice fat cook wouldn't do us any harm
A nice fat cook wouldn't do us any harm
Aa nice fat cook wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Oh, a long spell in gaol wouldn't do us any harm
A long spell in gaol wouldn't do us any harm
A long spell in gaol wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind

Oh, a nice watch below wouldn't do us any harm
A nice watch below wouldn't do us any harm
A nice watch below wouldn't do us any harm
And we'll all hang on behind.

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind!

Oh, a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And a drop of Círdan’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm
And we’ll all hang on behind!

Come on and roll the old chariot along
Yes, we'll roll the old chariot along
And we’ll roll the old chariot along
And we'll all hang on behind!


Finnbarr was fast beneath the waves, faster than any other living elf. He was more at home under the water than he was above it. He moved as naturally and as fluidly as a whale that had lived in the seas their entire life. The water tonight was frigid and angry. The choppiness of the waves above him made his going slow. To compensate, he dove deeper. He could see sinking ship easily now, his vision in the great salt waters was just as good as it was above. There was a great crack down the center of the ship, the mast had been struck by lightning and the wind and waves had used the broken timber as a battering ram against the ship, tearing a hole in it. He could count a dozen bodies already floating in the water, trying to move upward against the current. The Falmar diver surfaced, inhaled a massive lungful of air and dove back down. The first person he came across was a man, sturdily built but limp, as Finnbarr pulled him up above the water, he gulped in a breath of air and begged the diver to find his wife who’d fallen overboard before him. Finnbarr passed him along to the life rafts then dove down again, searching for the man’s wife. He found her, or assumed it was her at least, in the same area of the sea as him, but she was several feet below the surface of the water. Finnbarr feared the worse as he approached, she seemed lifeless and adrift, yet as soon as he grabbed on to her, her body twisted moved, she fought him for a moment until she realized he was a rescuer, then went limp from exhaustion again. He hauled her up to her appreciative husband, then dove back into the inky depths again. He found three more, all grouped together and, once he’d gotten them all to hold hands and paddle toward the boats, made his way into the ship, swimming through the great rent in the side of the ship. By now there were other divers in the water, men and women he’d trained to free dive, to handle the rest of the people that had gone overboard and the life boats would be able to take them on. The interior of the ship was dark and cramp, jagged broken beam jutted out haphazardly, blocking his way. Still, he was able to make his way through the sunken half of the ship. The degree of difficulty was increased by the backward nature of the ship’s interior, it was not built anything like the ships he’d been on for thousands of years, it was not a cargo ship nor a scientific vessel nor a ship or war, it was a pleasure cruiser. If he had had time, he would have rolled his eyes and cursed them. Perhaps though, that was a bit too on the nose at the moment. He heartily disliked most cruise ships, undermanned, underprepared, and woefully inadequate should any wave more than three feet arise. Once, twice, three times he swam into a room that had been blocked off, wood beams collapsed. In a hallway, there were the bodies of a woman and what he could only surmise were her two children. They were all huddled together, blue and lifeless. His air was growing thin. He could search for one more room before he had to find a way out.

The room was lit with a fading orange light. There was still a pocket of air, and the light of a lamp inside. Finnbarr surfaced and gasped for breath. The room was in shambles, nearly everything had collapsed inward. The lamp was leaking oil and leaning precariously. He could feel his heart skip. This was going to be a very dangerous place to be in a few moments. He took a quick look around, his mind admittedly still on the leaking lamp. There was no way to reach it without having to crawl over precarious beams of wood. He couldn’t trust his weight to those beams, they were unstable, and the ship was sinking. He was able to leave when he saw her. She was small and slight of frame with blonde hair that was almost white. He would have missed her in his search if it wasn’t for a quiet moaning sound. She was trapped under one of the beams. With a quick, nervous glance at the lamp, he leapt under the water and made his way to her. She was injured, quite badly it seemed. Finnbarr was no shark, but even he could taste the blood in the water. The beam had pinned her down, it was pressing hard on her right leg. She was bleeding from there as well a head wound, likely caused after she’d been crushed by the beam.

“Hey, are you awake? My name is Finnbarr, I’m here to help.”

He received incoherent moaning as a response. She grimaced and rolled her head from side to side like she was in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. Frowning, Finnbarr examined the beam more closely. The angle was bad. Lifting it off her would be easier said than done. It was more than pining her to the wall, it had very nearly speared her there. If he were able to shift the beam out of the way, the pressure it was exerting on her body would release, which also meant the wound that had benefiting from the pressure would burst open again. She’d bleed out before he had a chance to save her. And there would be sharks here soon, real ones.

“What’s… who’s…” she was awake, if only just. Finnbarr was quick, darting to her side.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help.”

She looked at him with lavender eyes, wide with fear and mistrust. She tried to move, screaming in pain as she found the massive beam to which she was attached.

“Easy, easy,” he said raising his hands to show her he meant no harm. “My name is Finnbarr. What’s yours?”

She looked at him as if that was the stupidest question in the world, then something else passed over her face, something Finnbarr couldn’t recognize. “I’m…” she paused again, the same look passing over her face. “Saererys…?”

Finnbarr looked at her very concerned. Her answer was more of a question. That head wound…

“It’s good to meet you Saererys, the cruise ship you were on is sinking. I’m here to help. I have a ship nearby and an excellent surgeon, they’ll be able to –”

“Cruise ship? What are you talking about? What’s going on? Where… where…” her eyes closed, and her head dipped forward again.

Finnbarr’s frown deepened. That hit to the head and really done a number on her. Elves didn’t usually get disoriented like that. “Saererys? Saererys?” he called her name loudly but to no avail. She was out cold. He growled in frustration. She was not going to like what was to come, and he needed her awake so she could put pressure on the wound, assuming he was even able to lift the beam off her.

There was another problem. The water was rising, quickly. He had a minute at most before he would be forced to abandon the rescue attempt. The thought gnawed at him. He saw his parents’ faces. After five thousand years they had lost some of their prominent features, but he knew them. Verco and Delynna were there too, watching with concern on their pale faces. A heavy fist slammed into water. Finnbarr growled, took a deep breath, and disappeared beneath the salty, frothing water. The elf and the beam struggled against one another each one an immovable object, each an unstoppable force. He could almost feel his skin splitting from the effort. On any other day, in any other circumstances, Finnbarr would have had no chance against the beam, lodged and angled as it was, but on this day he would not be denied. It took much longer than he was willing to admit, but finally the massive piece of carpentry shifted, and he was able to yank it aside. But his victory was short lived. Just as he knew it would, red blossomed from the woman’s leg. He pulled off his shirt in a hurry and bound it around the wound as tight as he could.

Saererys?” he came up for air and tried to wake her. But she was still unconscious. He cursed. He was not going to lose her. He was not! He’d already lost a mother and her children; he was not going lose this woman too. He was not! He placed two fingers against her neck and prayed. There was the faintest trace of a pulse. His shoulders relaxed.

“I hope you don’t think this too forward of me,” he said with biting humor only he could hear and leaned in, placing his lips on hers and blowing a full breath of air into her lungs. “That should suffice until we’re able to get back to the surface.”

He took another deep breath of cold, icy air, took the woman Saererys in his arms, and dove beneath the water. She weighed almost nothing as he moved through the ship, the place that had nearly become their graves. His ears popped as he exited the ship. When he had entered, there was still part of the ship above water, now there was no part of the vessel not covered by at least ten feet of water. He swam hard, using only his legs. He could feel the pull of the undertow, the force of ship pulling him and the water above pushing down. He held Saererys tighter, let out his air in a shout of defiance and pushed until they broke the surface. She coughed as they did, spitting up a lungful of blood and salt water. She clung to him, but even as she did, he could see there was no recollection of her situation in her eyes. Something was very wrong.

He flagged down a life boat and they pull the pair aboard.

“How many were we able to save?” he said through gasps for air.

“A full three dozen cap’n. Not sure what the full complement was, but I’d say we got most of them.” The young man’s face looked proud, but tired, his brown hair was plastered to the side of his face, covering his left eye. Lightning still wreathed the angry sky. The storm was yet to abate.

“A few more than three dozen,” he said bitterly watching the spot where the ship had gone down. “Call everyone back; we’ve done what we can without putting the Pearl Queen in danger.”

The boy, Finnbarr couldn’t recall his name as the lighting kept changing and shadows screamed and exploded around them, looked crestfallen. “We did all we could sir.”

“I know you did, we all did. Not every rescue is going to be completely successful. It’s sucks, but it happens. Those we didn’t save will get to feast in Ulmo’s icy palace tonight. Don’t weep for them over overmuch.”

The young man nodded and put a horn to his lips. He blew three short blasts and one long one, signaling the rest of the ships to return.

Aboard the ship again, and out of the torrents of rain that continued to fall, Finnbarr watched Amoneth as they looked over Saererys. The rest of the survivors suffered minor scrapes and bruises, a few were concussed, and one had a broken arm, but Saererys was troubling. The surgeon had been able to stitch up her leg, removing several splinters that had remained lodged from the beam that had fallen on her, and was able to wrap her head wound, but she still had not woken up. Captain and Surgeon were both uneasy.

“What are her chances, would you guess old friend?”

Amoneth grimaced and shrugged. “I don’t know,” they said plainly. “There’s no way to tell until she wakes up, if she wakes up.”

Finnbarr closed his eyes and mumbled a short prayer to Ossë, the patron water spirit that had looked out for him his entire life (though the only one he’d yet to see). “Spare her, spare her. Enough have gone to your lord’s hall for one night.”

“Where am I?” the voice was soft and melodic, but scratchy and apprehensive. “What’s going on… Ow! What, what’s wrong with my leg? Where am I?”

Finnbarr opened his eyes as Saererys tried to sit up on the surgeon’s table. Both he and Amoneth kept her from trying to move. “It’s okay. You were on a ship that sank, but you’re safe. We are able to rescue you. You had a nasty run in with a beam, but you were able to get the best of it. You’re safe now though, everything is okay.”

She looked at him, narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What? What ship? What are you talking about?”

Amoneth’s brow furrowed. “Can you tell me your name, my lady?”

She looked confused and thought for a moment. “I’m, my name is Saererys.”

“And can you tell me where you’re from Lady Saererys?”

Again, she looked confused and thought for a moment, her expression growing panicked. “No… I, I can’t remember. What’s going on?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Lost and Found
TA 3011
Private

She waited until the sun was going down before she stood and frowned for a moment, catching sight of a mast slipping past the harbour entrance. Nobody else seemed to notice the mast, it wasn't an elven ship she could see that clearly though with Arien silhouetting the ship she couldn't see who it was sailing the ship that looked like it was perhaps Gondorian? She wasn't sure. She watched the mast it was so close to shore but it wasn't coming into the harbor for the night even though it was the smartest place to harbor for the night since they were so close shore.

She frowned and looked about nobody else seemed to have noticed the ship slipping by she was alone on the docks for the most part and those that were on the docks were busy working on securing their own ships for the night and not overly caring about what ships were sailing past the harbor the biggest interest was the ships coming into the harbor.

Fuin turned and slipped back to the shore and headed to the north slipping outside of Mithlond and pas the rocky outcropping that cut the elven harbor off from the sundering sea. The ship was still sailing and it was going faster than Fuin could move for the moment, but it seemed like it was trying to find a safe place to anchor and perhaps come ashore she could see people on the ships deck looking forward pointing. She looked at where they were pointing it was going to be a long hike and luckily Tilion would be near full which would make travelling easy. She went to reassure herself by checking her weapons and realized her sword and bow were not on her. She did have her daggers but that was it.

She cursed herself but she was far enough out of Mithlond now that she'd miss where the ship went if she didn't keep going if it decided where they had been pointing was not a safe place to make land fall. She jogged along slipping between rocks and tall trees that lined the shore until Arien fully set and all that was left was the red stain that spread long and low over the darkening waters that crashed beside Fuin constantly as she moved. She could see the small lantern lights of the ship ahead, it seemed to be stopped and it would be another hour at least before she made it to that ship and hopefully the camp of whoever was in the ship.
Last edited by Fuin Elda on Thu Sep 09, 2021 8:04 am, edited 1 time in total.

Balrog
Points: 5 867 
Posts: 3513
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
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Ships in the Night
The Safe Harbor

(Private with Moriel)

He snorted a laugh, imagining himself trying to sew up a wound (or sew up anything for that matter), it was not a pretty sight indeed. Sewing, needlework, or anything having to with thread had never been Finnbarr’s strong point. He was far more interested in knots and knots. “I daresay I’m as good with a needle as they are in a kitchen, and that is to say not very.” He took a sip of his whisky and savored the rich, smoky flavor before swallowing it.

“To happenstance,” he said, and drained the last of the whisky. He looked bemusedly at the empty glass before grabbing the bottle and refilling it. He was going to have another raging hangover, the price for such decedent whisky, but he was more than willing to pay that price tonight.

Again, as Moriel listed all the places she’d been, an impressive list to be sure, he tried to gauge her. There was something about her. He couldn’t tell if she was familiar to him or completely alien. Every time he’d decide he had no idea who she might actually be her eyes would catch the light in just such a way that made him question everything. Where had he seen similar eyes before? It was a worm in the back of his mind that was inevitably going to eat him alive before he figured it out. He’d met a lot of people in seven thousand years, after a certain amount of time facial features and all their seemingly infinite varieties began to blend together. Still, her eyes and the way she carried herself. There was something dangerous, if not at least noble in the way she moved. Even seated, Finnbarr could see the natural grace she possessed. It would have been easy to say “well she’s an elf, of course she’s graceful” but that would not be telling the whole truth of it, or at least what he suspected.

“So,” he said after a moment’s reflection (and still no closer to his answer), “you’ve been to Rhûn have you? Not a place I’d expect to see someone of such noble bearing. It’s a wild place, a feral landscape. I’ve had the privilege of sailing on the Sea of Rhûn more than once. There’s something very… primordial about it. It’s not Cuiviénen, but a little sibling might not be an inaccurate descriptor. And Anadûnê,” he let out a slow breath. “Aye, I remember her as well. She was the most beautiful, the most radiant of all emeralds in a sea of sapphire and aquamarine. The world will never see her like again. No matter what happens from now until the end of it all, I am sure of that.” He felt his eyes getting watery. Despite the terror of the last day there, Númenor had been the most vibrant, veridian places he’d seen. It was an awe-inspiring sight. His memories of her and the people she held to her bosom were fond yet twinged with regret and sorrow and worry. The worm, again, tugged at him. There was a connection there. Moriel and Númenor. He could not say for certain why, but he was still certain.

In the list of far off and exotic places, she listed one that would have given him pause and concern in any other circumstance. Núrnen. He was so caught up in memories of Rhûn and Númenor it very nearly, very nearly, slipped by him. His mouth went a bit dry. It was a test. He was sure of that though he did not doubt the truthfulness of her words. She’d seen that black sea, eh? And if this was a test, what might she be testing? Did she expect him to spit out his whisky (not likely, it was far too good) and say he didn’t believe her or demand an answer? It felt like a game of tennis, this evening. Along with her mention of orcs and wolves, she clearly was looking for a specific reaction. Horror? Disgust? Revilement? Curiosity? Interest? This enigmatic woman was growing more so by the minute. He’d come on this date to try and unravel her mystery. Only now, under the mask he found naught but more puzzles. He took a deep breath and… remained calm. Let her think he’d missed it or ignored it. It takes two people to play tennis and if that’s what she wanted, well Finnbarr was always game.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The sound of singing voices harsh and brash filled the air words slurred slightly as Fuin finally made it to where the ship had moored itself. Pirates. She had no doubt on this from the songs being sung and she was about to turn back no interest in stumbling into the middle of a drunken rabble of men - and women - she mentally corrected as she heard at least one womans voice in the crude chorus. She stopped in her tracks when she heard them laughing about having stolen from the bloody Mole and she had to hesitate. There was only one Mole she knew of. She wanted what they had done and she took a deep breath and headed back towards the camp slipping closer and closer.

She could see them through trees lit by the large dancing fire, and she stayed silently in the bush listening carefully to what they were saying. It would of course explain why they avoided the elven harbor if they had attacked an elven ship, how could they know where the Mole had friends? She had her dagger out of its scabbard in case they came towards her in case they were less than friendly to an elf spying on them - she would be if she caught them spying on her. For now they were not talking about the Mole any longer at least not that she could tell. She narrowed her eyes trying to figure out who was in charge, who was the Captain of this ship. She couldn't bloody well tell and it annoyed her though given how respectful the men were of the one woman who was easily the shortest among the entire group she had no doubt she was decently high ranked as she also wasn't flinging herself at anyone in particular and nobody was harassing her. She debated on if the woman was the Captain for that reason and decided she wasn't going to find out anything about what they'd done to the Mole or which Mole it was as there were quite a few of them.

She slipped the dagger away deciding she didn't want to come in looking like she was there for a fight, she could see swords on their hips so her daggers would only do her so much good.

"Suil" She called out before she emerged from the brush into the light of their fire. Her call had them all on their feet swords out. She held her hands out palms up showing that she didn't have weapons in hand though she did note which were the drunkest in case they decided to attack. She'd have to get the numbers far more even if she had any chance.

"Wheres the rest of ye?" Came the challenge and Fuin shook her head.

"Just me, I saw your ship and was curious - I'd never seen a ship skip the harbour."

"Comin' alone was a bad idea lassie." Said a tall man that was perhaps an inch taller than her with fiery red curly hair and dancing eyes that looked like they could be kind if they were not angry and accusing.

"I am safe enough I think." She said with a smile figuring how when everyone else nodded at his comment he was the Captain.

"Are ye? And what makes ye tink that?" His sword wasn't pointed at her like many of the others it was down.

"Because I'm curious about this Mole you attacked... I have - less than noble intentions" The way she said it made the man laugh.

"Aye - you've been here a bit then little spy."

"I'm pretty sure you're the only one of your crew that can use that term." Fuin said folding her arms which brought another laugh and the man walked up to her his sword still down and looked down at her without her backing down.

"Are ye wanting to be a pirate then?"

"No." She said calmly a strange shiver running down her spine as the man circled her like a wolf thinking he'd corned a lamb and failing to realize that he was face to face with a lion. He swung his sword and her hand was in the way a dagger in it and another pressing against his groin making his eyes go wide as he felt the prick of razor sharp steel he glanced down. "That's not a very nice way to greet someone that didn't threaten you at all." She said looking him in they eye and he tipped his head back.

"S'pose not." All the other pirates were tense waiting to see what would happen realizing that their Captains plan had not gone the way he had hoped. The two of them stood still several moments longer and Fuin withdrew the lower dagger.

"I suppose some rum and details on this Mole ship and what you did to them would be an adequate apology." To this the man snorted and laughed and lowered his sword.

"Ye've got bigger balls on ye than them Moles did for sure." He put his sword away which seemed to signal to the rest of the crew that they were going to leave this one alone he turned and motioned for her to join them at the fire. The woman narrowed her eyes at Fuin who smiled and sat down as the man offered her his own mug. The group watched as she drank few quick gulps and blinked a few times.

"That is strong rum." Which brought a bought of snort from the woman.

"What's yer name elf." She asked finally her dark eyes were narrow still looking over the elf who was sitting in the middle of a hornets nest as if she had not a care in the world.

"You may call me Fuin."

"What house to you come from?"

"I have no house that you would know I am the first born of it and the last alive of it." This brought a snort from the man she figured was the Captain.

"And I'm a bleeding flaming sea serpent."

"I wouldn't advertise that, I'm sure there are herbs to help that." Fuin quipped before she could stop herself. This brought a roar of laughter from the crew and the young young woman while the Captains face very quickly out paced his hair.

The young woman stood and headed over to her. "Mylien Silant - fugative of Gondor and First Mate of the Telpeloke."

"Silver Serpent. That explains the serpent part at least" Fuin said looking over the Captain and bringing another round of laughter at his expense, he was grumbling under his breath she was certain she caught one or two words but it was difficult over how hard the rest of his crew was laughing. The laughing had several return to singing and Fuin felt as if she was safe. At least for now.
Last edited by Fuin Elda on Thu Sep 09, 2021 8:06 am, edited 1 time in total.

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The pirates let her sit in amongst them and pressed a bottle into her hand, a sniff told her it was rum and she took a drink with the crew watching her. She could feel their eyes one her and she knew why. The rum was so spiced that it shocked her her she let out a little wheeze not because the alcohol was strong but because taste having shocked her. Apparently her reaction was satisfactory as they let out a cheer as she raised the bottle with a smile.

"Best rum I've had." She took another drink as Mylien settled beside her the woman at best came up to her chin and smiled at her, her features were dark compared to her crew mates, but she had freckles speckled across her nose and her eyes seemed to be hazel though it was hard to tell in the dancing firelight.

"So why are you here Fuin?" She asked drinking from her own bottle of rum and Fuin shrugged, "You didn't know we were harrassing a Mole ship when you came."

"I saw your ship passing the harbor, and was curious. I'd never seen a ship pass safe harbor before."

"You live in that harbour?" Mylien asked looking up at her the scent of spiced rum on her lips and Fuin had to stop herself they looked... soft and full. She didn't have nearly enough alcohol in her so she had no idea where that thought came from.

"No." It was an admonishment to herself but also blessedly answered Myliens question truthfully. She took a breath not noticing Ruindil watching the two of them closely from across the fire. "I tend to live in the Vale of Imladris, though I - I wander more than most elves do."

"So you don't have a home?"

"Well..." She paused as Mylien leaned against her obviously having had far more of the rum than Fuin had had. She was warm and gentle and Fuin could feel her start to sway backwards and put her arm out keeping her seated safely. "I have a manor I've been building, but it is mostly empty I don't live there often enough now to call it home."

"Where's that?" Mylien asked smiling up at her and Fuin felt trapped suddenly as the young woman reached up and brushed her finger on her cheek. She looked over at Ruindil who was still looking at them raptly, his eyes were on Myliens hand and then their eyes locked and Fuin had to wonder if she was in danger once more.

"It is near... Eryn Vorn?" This brought a frown from Mylien and from Ruindil as if they were trying to figure out where she lived. "The forested cliffs south of the Mouth of the Baranduin, the Brandywine?" This brought a nod. Water pirates knew water not forests and their names.

"So are you going to tell me about the Mole ship?"

"We robbed it and left it crashed on a reef." Ruindil said calmly Fuin nodded to this "Doesn't bother ye?"

"No the Moles... King, and I have differences of opinion on many things. Including I think about each others ability to breath. Though that may very well be just me. I don't think he knows I still draw breath, he will find out eventually though." She said calmly and took another long drink of rum.

"So yev no plans settin' elves a chasin' after us on der behalf?" Ruindil asked even as Mylien attempted to bury into Fuins side as Ruindil watched. Fuin for her part could feel her breath hitching as the womans hand ran up and down her back.

"No. Valar no. Not for any that follow the King of Dirt."

"King o' Dirt.... fittin' for a Mole. Glad to see yer wit stends ta more than me." Fuin blushed and her eyes went wide as suddenly she felt soft lips on the side of her neck. "She likes ya elf. Better 'er lips on yer neck than 'er dirk." Ruindil smirked. "I'd know."

"I-"

"It's a'right elf enjoy if ye want me wife's a pirate she takes what she wants as long as its willing."

"Wife?" Mylien nipped her and Fuin was fairly certain she was about to die as Ruindil stood up and strode around the fire and looked down at the two of them.

"Aye. Wife," He leaned down and took her chin in his hand, it was rough and strong yet gentle. "Yer safe, less ye 'hurt her, but ye can say no if ye want but I tink de blush on yer cheeks is fair payment fer me. Ye be an innocent young elf I tinks."
Last edited by Fuin Elda on Thu Sep 09, 2021 8:11 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Leave Her Johnny
One Week Later, the Valetudinarium Majorum of Mithlond

(Private)

Oh my poor old mother, she wrote to me.
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
She wrote me to come home from sea.
And it’s time for us to leave her!

Saererys?”

Saererys where…”

“Don’t touch that, you could…”

“… easy does it, ease up on the…”

There were a dozen voices, spread out, smooshed together, and blended until it was a mass of shouting, mumbling, and whispers so cacophonous that the universe itself felt like it was going to rip apart at the seams. There were dozens of images that passed before her, so fast that she had no hope of trying to retain them. They looked familiar, as familiar as a hazy blur could be familiar. Some of the images were hidden behind a thick veil of shadows. Everything was swirling vortex. There was nothing for her to hold onto. She was falling, falling, falling. Her stomach dropped and she thought she was going to throw up, but as soon as she reached the point of retching, the sensation stopped abruptly, so abruptly that she fell over on the soft, squishy earth under her feet. It was cold and it gave way far too easily, like there was something beneath it. There were sounds here, different sounds. No voices, nothing human or elven, even in the vaguest sense. The sound of animals maybe? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t remember what animals sounded like. There was a clicking noise, hollow and echoing across the vast… sky? She looked up and what she saw was not a sky, at least none that she’d ever seen. The clouds were red and orange, like they’d been set on fire, the sky was like a gaping mouth. It was wide, dark, and an oppressive stench, like a thousand open graves, suddenly fell on her. She gagged. She could taste it. Taste whatever horrid thing was filling the air. Something that could have been called a fog rolled in. But it was not a fog, there was no way this thing could be a fog. The cloud of miasmic iridescent colors was preceded by a heat, a heat that made her want to shrivel and die. There was something in that heat, in that fog that was not fog. She turned to run, but it was like she was running through frozen honey. She trudged and trudged and trudged and yet she made no progress. Desperately, she tried to push herself along with her arms, grabbing handfuls of earth and pulling herself forward as her legs struggled to make any progress. She could not escape the fog. The strange, unearthly colors followed her, swarmed her. She could not get out. Something above her in the sky, a face in the cloud like structures, looked at her and grinned.

The woman who knew she was Saererys awoke with a start. Her head was pounding, and her vision was blurry. She was laying on something soft. The room was dark. It smelled like lavender and honeysuckle. What were lavender and honeysuckle? She tried to get out of bed, but her legs were still sluggish and unresponsive, and she twisted herself up enough to fall in a clump on the floor. After gathering herself up, she went to the window and opened the shutters. Golden afternoon light streamed into the room. Her eyes stung as they adjusted to the sudden change in brightness. The view opened to the ocean, blue as a cornflower and bright as a sapphire. A wave of sea salt washed over her. It was clean, but earthy and natural, neither pleasant or unpleasant. She was not close to the ocean, however; from her best guess, she was several city blocks from the docks. How did she know that? She looked out again and found that she had no way of telling how far the docks were from where she was. She had no idea where the docks began, nor where exactly she was. She could hear gulls on the wind, their cries both raucous and unpleasant and melodic and soothing at the same time. There were other bird calls she couldn’t place. How had she been able to tell what the sound of a gull was? There were mounting questions in her mind. With every conceivable answer, there came a hundred more questions. Who was she? Who was Saererys? How did she know that that was her name? Why didn’t she know anything else about her? What color were her eyes? Where did she come from? Why did she know it was five city blocks from here to the docks? How did she even know where and what the docks were? Who had she been? What had been her profession? Who were the people in her dreams? What happened to her? Who was Saererys?

She dressed in a white robe she found hanging by the door. It didn’t fit her very well, but it was better than the bedclothes she had woken in. There was a silver wash basin in the corner of the room. She could see her reflection. She had nearly iridescent purple eyes that shimmered with silvery light at the edges of her irises. That answered one of her hundreds of questions. A slight tinge of a smile appeared on her lips. She liked her eyes. She always had. Her mother had said she caught a purple starling before she was born and… how did she remember that? She tried hard to recall the face of her mother, but she could get no further than outlines of a face. Even her voice was a mystery, the memories were of Saererys’ own voice, not that of her mother. Was it her that had said it to her child? There are far too many questions. She looked at her reflection in the mirror a bit longer. Her face was heart shaped; her eyes were large; her hair was golden blonde and fell passed her shoulders. She needed to wash it. How long had it been since she had been able to wash it? Almond oil. She would need some almond oil. She ran her fingers through her fine, wavy hair. Did she use almond oil?

She opened the door and peered down the hallway. Not a soul in sight in either direction. She could hear voices ringing from somewhere down the corridors, so she knew the place wasn’t abandoned. She drifted out. She thought she must look like a ghost out of some overly dramatic gothic novel. Was she the heroine, or the ghost of the ex wife doomed the roam the hallways of her husband’s manse until the end of time? She wanted to laugh, but the humor died in her throat. She might as well be a ghost. She had no identity, no sense of person, she was barely corporeal as it was. She was a loner, a drifter.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

She had been so focused on her own inner thoughts at the myriad pathways that she hadn’t noticed the woman in the white and blue robes come up behind her. She jumped and yelped, slamming her head into the side of the wall. “Black stars!” she cursed.

“Well you have a mouth on you and no mistake?” the woman said with a jovial, welcoming chuckle.

“I’m, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” she rubbed her forehead and winced. “I don’t normally curse. At least, at least I don’t think I do.”

“You needn’t think you offended me, believe me I’ve heard, and said, far worse than that.” Her laughter was lyrical. “But that doesn’t really help with my original question: what are you doing out of bed?”

“I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed,” the woman who knew she was Saererys said. “The door wasn’t locked so I assumed I was free to, to leave, or to, to, I don’t know.”

A well of frustration, anxiety, and apprehension began to bubble up and overflow within her. “I know my name, but that’s all I know. Well, that’s not true. I know how far it is to the docks, I know I can work an abacus, and that I like the color purple, but I don’t know why. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know anything. I have no memory of anything older than, than 10 minutes ago but I know what a gull sounds like as opposed to a pelican or an albatross. How do I know that? How do I know how to saddle and tack a horse, but I don’t know where I was born? Why can’t I remember? Why… who… when?” words began to sputter and fail. She slumped against the stone walls and began to sob, her purple eyes glistening. “What is wrong with me?”

The nurse caught her before she slumped all the way to the floor and gently but firmly pulled her back to a standing position. Saererys was at least half a foot shorter and disappeared into her robes. The nurse stroked her hair and mumbled wordlessly. They stood that way for some time, the nurse not daring to move, Saererys unable to break away.

“Why can’t I remember anything?”

“The mind is still a mystery, despite all that we’ve learned about it here. It could be tomorrow, or it might not,” the nurse said after a moment’s pause. “I wish I could tell you that everything was going to work out.”

“You could lie to me,” the shorter elf offered, still clinging.

“I could,” the nurse said matter-of-factly, but I am terrible liar. Ask the friends I play bruus with, I couldn’t bluff my way out of a wax seal.”

That brought a short burst of laughter from Saererys. “I’m Saererys. It’s all I know about myself.”

“Not the only thing,” retorted the nurse, “you know how to use an abacus, you can ride a horse, and your favorite color is purple. Things will come back to you, dearie. It might come as a flood; it might come as a never-ending trickle.”

“What if it doesn’t? What if I can’t remember?”

“Then I’ll help you.” The reply came quickly and resolutely. Saererys pulled away and looked at the nurse. There was no hint of misgivings or regrets. She saw confidence and assuredness in the eyes of the taller woman. Somehow, for some reason, that felt nice. She tried to smile but tears had sapped her energy. “Why? Don’t you have more important things to do? Why me?”

“Why not?” the other woman countered. “I have duties here, yes, I have important work and research to do. But who do you have?”

“I…” Saererys looked down.

“I’m not saying that to shame you, and I’m sorry if I did. I am in your corner because you need someone. I simply happened to come across you first. Any of the nurses or doctors would be willing to help you. I’d wager they all might try at some point or another.” She said that last sentence with a smirk and an eye roll. “It’s what we do here, Saererys. We help people.”

“How will I be able to pay for –”

“No,” the nurse cut her off, “none of that. You needn’t worry.”

“But –”

“No,” she said again, more firmly.

“Alright, fine.” Saererys rolled her eyes. “You never did tell me your name.”

The nurse chuckled. “Oh, so I didn’t. You can call me Rynvena.”

“Well, Rynvena is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Rynvena smirked and nodded. “Oh aye, there is. Let’s get some food in you first. I bet you can’t remember the last time you ate. Then, we’ll see how good you are with a charcoal pencil. I have some bodies that need dissecting, and someone’s got to do the artwork. Most of the students are too squeamish. What about you?”

“I think I can help with that,” Saererys grinned.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Leave Her Johnny
Several Weeks Later, the Grand Markets of Mithlond

(Private)

Beware these packet ships I say
Leave her Johnny, leave her
They’ll steal your stores and your soul away
And it’s time for us to leave her

The Pearl Queen was coming into harbor once more. They had only been gone a few weeks, a month at most, but it had felt to Finnbarr like they’d been gone a full year. He leapt from the port deck to the boardwalk before the great ship had come to a complete stop. He couldn’t quite put a finger on why he was so anxious to get on land, but as soon as he landed, he felt better. The sounds of the crowd mixed seamlessly with the ebb and flow of the waves. Gulls cried, swooping and hollering. Bells rang in a hundred corners of the city, tolling the quarter hour. He inhaled the smell of salt and civilization. It was a strange mixture, natural and created. He could smell the pine tar, the cotton of the sails, and the mix of a hundred or so different types of street cuisine. The sun was bright and high, the heat was just on the edge of sweltering, within his coat and tricorn hat, he could feel the humidity seeping into him, invading every pore. There was a light breeze though, blowing softly off the water, it smelled of seaweed, of the great kelp forests, of salt and brine, of a hundred different creatures all dashing to and fro. That smell was why he loved what he did. He wiped his brow preemptively. It came away slick with tiny droplets of sweat. Shielding his eyes, he looked up at the sun. “Couldn’t take it easy on me, eh? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you.” He muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes and took in a moment of solitude. He the dozens of sounds, smells, sights, textures, and tastes wash over him. Every time he came ashore it was the same. The environment aboard ship was so different, it astounded him, even after five thousand years.

Behind him, the ship slowed to a stop. She was a true leviathan, the Pearl Queen, a super dreadnaught, four decks high, a tonnage of over nine hundred tons, over two hundred feet in length, a twenty-foot depth of hold, and a beam of nearly sixty feet. On the seas, she was massive, a floating island housing a crew of four hundred and fifty souls. In the harbor though, she was a veritable behemoth. No other ships in harbor compared to her. She was not the faster, nor the most elegant of design but she was exactly what Finnbarr and his people needed. He was not of the caliber of shipwright Círdan, Lord of the Harbor, or of his father, Davos Seaworth, but he was still good. He knew what he and his crew would need and stopped at nothing to make sure the closest thing he had to a child would have everything she needed. In any other circumstances she would be considered a warship, the warship, but she was nothing of the kind. The Pearl Queen was a lady of natural philosophy and exploration. Finnbarr himself was a freediving marine biologist, more comfortable below the surface of the waves than he was walking the deck. His quarters were filed with diagrams, artistic renditions, undersea navigational charts, and samples from a dozen or more different marine species. Círdan might be the greatest ship builder and sailor in the history of the world, but Finnbarr considered himself the most knowledgeable of the sea herself. It was more than helpful that in the long days of his youth, he had been mentored by Ossë himself and the interests he had were nurtured and cultivated. The one caveat the great water maia had given him was that he continued the tradition of teaching and mentoring and to never stop learning. He opened his eyes and looked up at the swaying sails, heard the creak of the wood and the straining of the ropes. He’d kept that promise. He didn’t see Ossë as much these days, but he knew the old goat was watching and approved.

He saw Astaninde, his first mate, watching him with a sardonic eye from the prow, she was shouting orders with that particular brand of cursing and joviality. He waved; she returned his wave with a rather rude gesture with her middle finger. He guffawed. It was always like this when they returned to port. Even though both of them knew what was coming and why, they always completed their little ritual, it never heard to have a good luck routine. It hadn’t failed in more than a century, there was no need to tempt fate.

He saw the harbor master, a lithe brunette nís by the name of Issel with a sharp, official look and a thick ledger in hand, he was glad he was already off the ship. He had no issues with the rules and regulations of the harbor; in fact, the burly Falmar appreciated just how difficult the harbor master’s job really was, but none of that stopped him from hating the song and dance of the bureaucracy it all entailed. She was making a beeline toward him, her small frame moving as fast as a great white that’s smelled blood in the water. She was almost on him when he successfully dodged her, moving to the opposite side of the boardwalk.

“Astaninde is ready and waiting for ya,” he announced before she could produce her charcoal pencil and begin the bombardment of questions of what they had to declare, how long they’d be in port, and what type of business they planned on engaging in whilst in Mithlond. His bow was half sarcastic, half genial. He pointed to the planks being lowered from the Pearl Queen. “I gave her the captain’s mess so you two could take all the time you needed.” He gave her a wink. Her cheeks turned a glorious shade of red as she looked up at the ship. Astaninde gave her an exaggerated wave and wink. She blushed even more. “I’ll leave you to it then m’lady.”

He grinned, walking away without looking back. It was another ritual they performed every time in Mithlond. Thankfully, he only had a minor role here. Those two had been dancing around each other for the better part of a century. Finnbarr had heard a rumor from Amoneth that there was a wager going on to see how long it took before the pretense and subtext became actualized and they got married.

But Finnbarr was off and out of hearing range before Issel was on board. He skillfully and purposefully meandered through the great throngs of people that bombarded him at every turn. The Markets of Mithlond were a study in organic, organized chaos. Located in the great square mere yards from the harbor, there were no formal streets or byways or static buildings. Everything was organized and built up in the early hours before dawn, and all the carts, booths, kiosks, and shops were given some sort of phrenetic order. The layout would change daily, one could guarantee that no matter how well you thought you knew the Market, one would always find themselves in an area they’d never been and surrounded by shops they’d never heard of. It was, admittedly, an agoraphobe’s worst nightmare. However, there had never been any serious complaints, either from the buyers or the sellers and everyone was eager to keep things going smoothly.

Finnbarr could hear a dozen conversations at once, most between captains or boatswains haggling with suppliers and snake oil salesmen for the necessities aboard ship. Finnbarr, agent of chaos, son of Davos Seaworth, captain of the Pearl Queen, freediving extraordinaire, kraken whisperer, leviathan searcher, otterman, and mischievous scamp, normally stayed out of most of the conversations. He was in a chipper mood this afternoon though. He came on a Gondorian captain, a broad chested man looking askance at the Sinda man trying to convince him that buying his particular brand of fishnets and crab traps. Finnbarr had seen this weasel of a man a few times, a consummate seller, as unscrupulous and devious as they came. “Don’t let him fool you,” the Falmar interjected, putting a very unfriendly hand on the fishnet salesman’s shoulder. “His nets are about as useless as parchment. The only good thing he sells is his vodka. He throws that in within each purchase as a gesture of good will. Save your time, buy the vodka and kick him to curb.” To emphasize his point, Finnbarr reached into the crate next to the man and pulled out a glass bottle of crystal-clear liquid. He uncorked the bottle and took a long swig in a single fluid motion. “Bill me.” He said and moved off before he could hear any protests.

He laughed, deep and loud, as he moved through the crowds of people. The world was so different on land. He felt as if he was stepping into a dream every time he made port, here or Pelargir or any other port throughout Middle-Earth. His latest mission, tracking some of the migratory patterns of right whales, had not gone according to plan. The whales had been unpredictably playful and managed to elude and trick Finnbarr and his crew several times before they finally were able to figure out their pattern. The playful nature of the whales though, concerned Finnbarr. It was all well and good for them to play and interact with the Pearl Queen in that manner, but whalers were increasing in number every year, and their ships looked remarkably like Finnbarr’s. He had finally managed to get close enough to one to relay that message. His ability to communicate with sea life was a godsend (one thanked Ylmir every day for). Having communicated the message and observed the pod as much as he could before his supplies began to run low, he let them go. He was not even out of the water when he heard that mysterious and beautiful song. He could feel the song as much as he could hear it. Hopefully the message could be sent far and wide. The last few days of trip were spent chasing off suspected whaling ships, keeping them at bay whilst the whales made their way back out into the open oceans.

There was a roar to the Markets today, a frenzy of positivity. Finnbarr was able to match the pace and pitch of the rest of the market goers. If the docks were loud and chaotic, the Markets were a hundred times more so. There were a hundred voices and a dozen languages and just as many dialects. Sellers hawking jewelry, flowers, knick-knacks, clothing, or paintings, food services selling everything from freshly baked sourdough and turkey legs to pitaya liquor and venison jerky. Finnbarr bought a dozen lilies from a young looked elleth with a the most fragrant and colorful wagon he’d ever seen. He’d only meant to buy a half dozen but she was a persuasive negotiator, telling him that a half dozen lilies doesn’t send the same message as a dozen, and whatever message he was going to send with them would not be near as effective. Her flowers were more expensive too, something she was unapologetically proud of. “You get what you pay for,” she had said. Indeed, the lilies she gave him were some of the finest he’d ever seen. He gave her an extra gold mark and told her he’d be seeing her again. He stopped by another wagon, this one with a line wrapping around it twice to buy some crocodile stuffed spring rolls.

He was licking the savory juices off his fingers when he saw her. It was not a dramatic moment, there was no slow-motion realization, no beam of sunlight that highlighted her soft lavender eyes. In fact, Finnbarr almost missed her entirely. It was only the briefest of glimpses. She disappeared behind an oncoming crowd of people, ducking behind a kiosk and vanishing entirely. Saererys. He’d saved her from a sinking cruise ship a month ago and his thoughts had been on her the entire time. Had she recovered? Had her memories returned? How was she making do in the Valetudinarium Majorum? He had had barely enough time to drop her off with Rynvena before he was forced to go back out to sea, one of the only times in the last thousand years he would have rather stayed ashore. She was in good care, he told himself. There was no better healer than Rynvena. He looked at the space she’d occupied just a moment before, then looked at the flowers in his hands. They had been meant for a friend, today was his birthday and Finnbarr never missed a chance to go to his grave and ask for forgiveness again. Surely though, Verco would make an allowance this time. He had loved lilies, but if they were delivered a day late then that would not have been a problem. He could feel a knot for in his stomach. He laughed in disbelief. Was he really getting nervous? Finnbarr Galedeep, the elf that swims in the primordial waters? Davos and Cútaþar would never let him hear the end of it.


-- * -- * -- * --

There was so much to do today. She wasn’t sure she was going to have enough time to get everything on Rynvena’s list. The parchment she held was front and back, and her caretaker/employer impressed upon her the utter necessity that she get all of these supplies today. The pack she held on her shoulder was already starting to feel heavy. It was only half full. She sighed. The Market was a hive of random activity. The first time she’d been here she felt so overwhelmed she nearly blacked out. Rynvena was quick to get her out before a full-blown panic set it. She wasn’t sure why she’d nearly passed out either. She was certain that it was something to do with the memories she couldn’t quite get a hold of. But which of those fragments to try and find was like trying to find a very particular needle in a stack of all identical needles while blindfolded. It was terrifying. She kept a journal, a record of all the dreams and bits she remembered here and there. It looked like the scribblings of a crazy person. Random words, hastily done drawings, scribbles written in the blackest midnight hour. She was glad no one but her was ever going to read it.

She was only here today, running errands for the Valetudinarium Majorum because Rynvena was stuck teaching a batch of fresh faced students and knew there was no way she was going to be free in time. Saererys, too, felt like she was starting to climb the walls of the hospital. Her physical injuries had healed apace, her head wound being the last thing they were still concerned about. She woke up with blinding headaches on occasions, and then there was the memory loss. She was free to move about the facilities but until her memories began to return to her, all of the healers and surgeons agreed that it was safest for her to wait there. After a week, she considered trying to trick them into thinking she had, in fact, regained her memory. She had devised nearly a full story when suddenly the weight of what she would have to deal with hit her. Where was she going to go? Who was she going to see? What was she going to do? They were right. It was safer for her in the hospital. They gave her tasks to do, small duties, to occupy her time, and Rynvena utilized her and her art skills (which she was surprisingly good at) to fill a dozen scrolls with diagrams of organs in various states. Saererys had a strong stomach. Despite the smell and sight of dead and dismembered bodies she never lost her nerve. Another mystery from her fogy past.

Finally though, she was able to escape the confines of the marble halls and come down to the sand of the Markets. She was determined to endure them. The night she returned from her first attempt she told herself it was just a one time thing, a blip, an anomaly. The first hour she wandered around the chaotic lanes of the Markets she fought the butterflies in her stomach but eventually, as she discovered the method to the madness, her confidence grew. She haggled with herbsellers, food vendors, and craftsmen. The more she did, the lighter she felt. She felt truly useful for the first time in a month. She smiled. She liked smiling. She laughed. She loved laughing.

As she was about to cross off the last item on the front of the parchment, she saw someone she thought she’d seen before. He was tall, well, taller than her at least. He was built like a tree, with shoulders like boulders. He wore a beard, shaggy and unkempt but roguish looking. Where had she seen him before? Had he just been another face in the Market she’d seen a dozen times today? Someone from her past? She ducked behind a kiosk and then around a wagon to get a better look at him without him noticing her vigil. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it until…

She audibly gasped. He was from her past alright, her immediate past. His face was the first thing she actually remembered. What was his name again? Finnegan? No, Finn… Finnbarr! She felt proud that she remembered, even if it was such a minor thing to remember. She never asked about him while she was at the hospital. She wasn’t sure he was real, and there were far more important things going on in her life.

She found herself moving forward. Her feet and her body were moving of their own accord. For a moment she panicked, she wanted to grab the nearest pole and pull herself back. What was she doing? Her feet kept moving forward. Right toward him!

Her feet truly had plans of their own. She wasn’t able to stop herself until she crashed into him. Limbs, bags, and flowers flew in the air as her kinetic energy reached a sudden halt.

“Oh, oh my, oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going, I…”

“Oh no, no,” he said, almost as awkward as her. “I shouldn’t have been standing…” he trailed off as he looked at her. Was that recognition on his face? “Lady Saererys?”

She coughed to hide her sudden embarrassment. “I, uh, just Saererys will do. Something tells me I’m not much of a Lady.”

There was a roguish grin on his face and a twinkle in his green eyes. “Nonsense, being a Lady is more than just having a title.”

“You’re quite the flatterer.” She said, regaining her composure.

“A hazard of the life of a sailor and being the son of…” he trailed off suddenly with a dismissive wave of his hand. “How are you? I haven’t had a chance to visit the Valetudinarium since I made port. I only just arrived about half an hour ago…” he trailed off again into awkward silence.

She tried to repress a small smile. This giant of a man, bedecked in a captain’s coat, tricorn, and a beard to make a dwarf envious, was nervous! “I’m doing much better. Thanks to you and your ship, Captain.”

“Ah, so you remember me?” the question was not an attempt to flirt, it was phrased as a legitimate question.

“Well,” she paused, pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “I remember your face, I remember you talking to an elf, a surgeon I’m guessing, but the rest is hazy.”

He rubbed his beard, scratching at his chin. “That would be Amoneth, Ship’s Surgeon aboard the Pearl Queen. We, we found you on a cruise ship that was sinking. We managed rescue a good portion of the passengers and delivered them back to Lindon.”

“They told me how I got there,” she confirmed. “One of the head healers, Rynvena. She told me I was lucky to be alive given the circumstances. No one else aboard seemed to know who I was though, apparently I had come aboard alone and hadn’t begun to mingle and gossip with the rest of them…” this conversation was quickly derailing into awkward territory.

“So your memory…”

“Nothing,” she confirmed, answering the unasked question.

There was a long, heavy silence between them. The Market all around them was as noisy and boisterous as it could be, but within that bubble it felt suffocating. “Please,” she cleared her throat and tried not to grimace. “Allow me to invite you to The Eclipse. It’s a tearoom. Have you heard of it?”

She watched as his face quirked into a smile. “I have, though I can’t say I’ve ever been there.”

“What’s that smile for?” she asked before she could think better of it.

“Well,” he chuckled. “I was planning on asking you to the same place.”

They shared a laugh and some of the awkward tension was defused. “Well then I suppose that’s a yes?”

He laughed again. “I would love to, Lady Saererys. Tomorrow afternoon? You look like you have a hundred things to do.” He pointed to the list in her hand and the shoulder pack full of supplies.

“Tomorrow afternoon it is.” She smiled and curtseyed, feeling a bit foolish the instant she did.

Without warning he handed her the bouquet of lilies, her favorite (how did she know that?). “I was planning on giving you these at the hospital, but I think it’s appropriate to give them to you now. Saererys took the flowers reverently, cradling them in the crook of her elbow. “Thank you, I, I love lilies. I’m not sure how I know, but, I do.” She laughed softly. “Thank you Finnbarr. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Fri Oct 01, 2021 5:58 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Fuin could barely think, something that had not happened to her in ages, she couldn't even retort that she had been alive when Ruindil very first forefather had awoken under the sun. She wasn't sure that that would be appropriate and the pirate woman his wife was doing a good job of keeping her mind utterly blank.

Ruindil was staring down at her still and her mouth must have been open slightly because he bent down and got right in her face, "That look be too much. Mylien." He said and suddenly Fuin had a moment to think. "Take her to yer bunk before the rest of the crew decides ye need help with 'er."

"Aye AYE Cap'n" With that the woman was on her feet much faster than Fuin expected considering how much rum Fuin could smell on her, she must have polished off at least one of the rum bottles already on her own and was working on number two, and she had Fuin by the waist of her leggings pulling her up along with her bringing an absolute flush to the older elfs face and a chorus of howling laughter from the remainder of the pirate crew.

"'Member what I told ye lass!" Ruindil called after her with a laugh as she looked about the gathering perhaps for help perhaps for some escape. What had he told her? Better her lips than her dirk. Yes that was true, Fuin had to admit she didn't really want to fight the woman and if she did fight her she had no doubt that she would then have to fight the rest of the crew including her husband.

Husband, lords why was this woman taking her to her bunk... Fuins eyes went wide realizing what was about to happen and as Mylien, yes that was her name was about to rip off her own shirt Fuin reached out and stopped her bringing a look of confusion to her face and then a smile.

"Aye ye want ta unwrap the goods yerself love?" She leaned in and Fuin managed to keep her wits about her just long enough to not kiss the drunk woman. Osse and Ulmo and Uinen save her.

"You're drunk out of your mind." Fuin said softly and Mylien frowned.

"I've had only 'alf a bottle more than you."

"I'm an elf dear. There is very little alcohol that will get me as drunk as you are in as little as I've had."

"Ye've had half a bleeding bottle you can'tell me ye ain't drunk."

"I'm not Valar wish I was I'd not feel bad about crawling in...." She glanced over at the hammock that had been set up and wasn't sure how well that would work for the two of them but they'd have made it work she was certain. "with ye... you." She said motioning with her head. "I will sleep with you, but not with you this drunk, at least not like that."

The young woman looked like she was about to cry and honestly Fuin wondered if perhaps she was about to die for hurting the young womans feelings she had the biggest saddest puppy dog eyes that Fuin had ever seen and she couldn't help but reach out and draw the woman into a tight hug.

"Cuddles?" Came the soft request.

"I can do cuddles." Fuin said softly with a nod and suddenly she was being hugged back tightly enough that she was having a hard time breathing.

It took a bit of work with Fuin climbing into the hammock first her longer legs making it so that she could keep one leg on the ground and lift the tipsy much smaller woman up and into the hammock before joining her. It was a strange feeling they were squished together but not painfully so and Mylien for her part was nestled into her like a tick on a dog making happy little humming noises against Fuins throat until she finally fell asleep. Something Fuin wasn't entirely sure she could do, as she wasn't sure how Ruindil would take this.

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Ruindil slipped towards the area where Mylien had set up the hammock that they were going to be sharing and frowned. It was oddly quiet which was utterly unlike his wife. Honestly he should have noticed the quietness earlier but he'd been busy taking care of other matters.

Had the elf done something to his wife? His hand fell to his sword, which was, he realized backwards and on his right side being very very much useless for the moment. He slipped round the brush that his wife had tucked the hammock behind and in the dark could see the hammock was full, so the elf was still there and so was his wife... Fully dressed.

That had not been something he'd been expecting. In fact. It was the last thing he'd been expecting and he stood gaping for a moment like the elf lass had been about the fire thanks to Mylien when he realized that she was stroking Myliens hair and his wife was half purring in her sleep.

"Fredegar me." He muttered to himself and slipped forward the eyes of the elf locking on him as he came into view since she was pinned beneath his wife who was clinging tightly to her. "What in--"

"I don't want to sleep with her when she's this drunk I'd rather do it when she's sober."

"That so?" Ruindil leaned over and gave a smile. "So we'll have to wait for the second tide tomorrow then less we can convince you to come on our ship for a wee trip and a fun romp in the captains quarters the entire time." This suggestion brought a look of terror to Fuins face and he held out his hands not knowing what it was that scared her so much.

"Ye don't need ta elf, it was a suggestion not a demand ne'r seen someone go sail sheet white afore at the mention o bein' on a ship."

"Bad experience."

"No doubt love no doubt." He leaned over and paused realizing if she had taken care to not sleep with his wife, perhaps... "Can I kiss yer forehead?" She nodded and he planted a kiss on her forehead. "No doubt on the bad experience. If you're feeling brave we can try you on the ship if not we'll stay ashore another day and night, and tomorrow no rum for her or me." He said with a wink and gave her hair a stroke smoothing it out even as she looped Myliens curles around her fingers playing with it gently. He then took a few steps back and laid down on a blanket on the ground out of Fuins vision.

He thought the two of them were cute together and he'd never seen someone care about Mylien that way before like she was family and should be protected. He liked her even more already.

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Ruindil lay half awake listening to hear if the elf was going to run, he very much did not want to think ill of the elf but from what he knew of elves they were apt to slip away into the night never to be seen again. Eventually he did fall asleep, the elf having not moved and he hoped that Mylien being curled up on top of her would make it way harder for her to slip away into the night, well what was left of the night.

When he woke he glanced up at the hammock and was pleased to see that there were still two bodies in the hammock as there was no way Mylien had gotten that tall and lanky a smirk played on his face and he stretched only to discover his head hurt something fierce and he let out a small groan. He staggered up to his feet and went to find some water from a near by stream. He filled his waterskin and splashed the cold clear water on his face and sipped at it greedily. It felt so good for his throat and his head. He headed back through the camp, his men stirring their heads equally hurting as his he pointed them to the water knowing it would help a bit. They'd tried to keep up with the elf while they tried to get her drunk, however, that had absolutely not worked in their favour.

He found Mylien burying her face in the elfs chest groaning about how bright it was and the elf was sitting there gently patting the back of her head telling her she'd be alright and she looked relieved to see Ruindil holding out the waterskin. "We've got some water for you it'll help eventually." Fuin said softly. and Mylien groaned once more but lifted her head.

"I think I'm going to hurl."

"Not on me please." Fuin said softly and gently pushed her up and Ruindil wanted to laugh but that hurt too much instead he helped the elf lifting the likely still drunk first mate off of her and onto her feet so she could stumble off to a bush and vomit. A few moments later Fuin could hear the woman retching and motioned that Ruindil should give her the water. "I'm fine." This brought a look from Ruindil.

"Bloody elves. " With that he headed to make sure Mylien had a good amount of water while the elf slipped out of the hammock on her own.

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The pirate camp had woken up and after a grinding start Fuin noticed with water and a bit of food left over from the night before they had began gathering game and water to take onto the ship. Fuin watched them feeling like they were planning on traveling for a while and she was curious as to just where they were going when Mylien came and sat down next to her still looking fairly rough from her attempt to keep up to Fuin drinking, she had the remains of part of a fire roasted rabbit and a canteen and leaned against Fuin with a smile even though her her eyes were barely open from the hangover.

“So love.” She drawled leaning against the elf who didn't pull away at all this time instead she seemed to be enjoying the contact Ruindil noticed with a small smile that just tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You gonna join us on the ship?” The relaxed look of the elf disappeared and she tensed and the captain couldn't help but scowl, he'd hoped that with the light of day she'd be a bit calmer about going on the ship, or mention of a ship.

“We'll see.” Ruindil said looking at Fuin even as Myliens attention went to him thinking that it was him refusing to let her on the ship. “We gotta see if she be okay.” Fuin was confused as well but relieved that Ruindil seemed to be thinking of not letting her on the ship. He got got up and walked towards her and there was some fear in her eyes that made him angry. An elf that wouldn't go to sea, he'd not heard of it elves loved water from every story he'd ever heard, they had an entire land beyond the sea. “What 'appened?” He asked crouching down in front of her and she blinked shocked and glanced around Mylien looked at her sharply too though the first mate groaned having moved to quickly and her head spun from it a bit.

“Happened?” Fuin whispered looking at Ruindil who reached out and put his hand on her leg raising his eyebrows waiting for her to continue even as she stayed quiet for several minutes looking away. “It—I” She wasn't even sure how to tell them what happened it was so long ago it was asinine that she was still afraid of going on a ship.

“It's okay love, we won't judge ya.” Mylien said softly wrapping an arm around her realizing that Ruindil was trying to find out something from her that she had missed – something had happened to the elf on a ship.

Fuin for her part glanced between the two of them and picked at her thumbnail, this had been a bad idea she shouldn't have come here he should have stayed in the harbour, she'd even take a sword to her throat over this with no way to defend, she had a better chance of surviving that in one piece than reliving this.

“I... I was kept in-” She shook her head not knowing what to call it... “It was dark all the time, and cold and” She shook her head Mylien squeezed her tight having been kept in a brig on a ship before as a child when she'd stowed away on a navy ship. It had been scary but this didn't sound the same, this sounded worse. “I was tied to some pole and it was rough.”

“The pole?” Mylien asked confused.

“I guess but no the trip?”

Mylien and Ruindil looked at each other there was only one place they could think of like that.

“You were kept in the lower hold tied to the foremast?” Mylien asked and Fuin looked at her confused shaking her head.

“I don't know- I” Ruindil had been silent and reached out and took a hold of Fuins chin lifting it so that she was looking him in the eye even though she was trying to avoid his gaze.

“Yer nah at fault. Nah knowing wha a ship is called ain't no issue to us, ye ain't a sailor.”

“Did you stow away?” Mylien asked rubbing the elfs back, she shook her head even as Ruindil held her chin gently. The two pirates looking at each other.

“Someone took you on the ship and kept you tied up?” A tiny nod, she wished Arasron had left her in the reeds and let the sons of Feanor kill her.

“How long?” Ruindil asked and Mylien could tell how angry he was, he'd not like hearing about her time being locked in a brig as a child with the Admiral when she'd stowed away, but the thought of someone being taken on a ship and tied up against their will, that was enough to make the captain kill someone.

“I don't know. Weeks? Months?” Ruindil pulled his hand from her chin and looked at Mylien.

“Ye don't 'ave ta go on our ship. If ye did, ye'd never be in the 'old.” Ruindil said softly, moving from where he was to sit on the other side of her and wrapped an arm around her feeling her shaking. His mind was no longer on how badly his head was hurting or when they were going to leave. He wanted very much to take her with them to keep her safe, how she was brave enough to walk into a pirate camp told him she'd pushed what had happened to her so far back that she likely had never told anyone or admitted something had happened to her that had her so afraid.

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Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
She shipped it green and none went by
And it's time for us to leave her

Finnbarr had never been in a tearoom before. He’d visited a hundred or so raucous and rambunctious taverns, some seedy dives, and one or two feast halls in his time, but never a tearoom. He wasn’t prepared for the quiet ambience, the light music, or, as a matter of fact, the tea. Finnbarr was not a tea drinker. In the morning, he drank coffee or whatever happened to find its way into his mug. There was a stillness to this place that, while putting his mind at ease, made him feel very separate from everything. From the time he’d asked (well he was going to ask if she hadn’t beaten him to the punch) until now he’d been floating in a sea of unreality. His steps felt lighter and the air in his lungs felt sweeter. A smile had crept over his bearded features and threatened to permanently stain his roguish brood. It was a horrible inconvenience really. How was he supposed to deal with sailors and dockworkers and suppliers with a smile on his face? And yet, he couldn’t help but continue.

He arrived at The Eclipse early. Having never been to a tearoom before, he wanted to have at least a few moments to prepare himself before Saererys arrived. There was a lot riding on this date. He couldn’t say why the date felt so important, so momentous. There was stirring in his gut, a voice in the back of his head telling him that the seeds planted today would grow into a mighty tree. He wished the metaphor had been about the sea, then he would have felt more confident. Confidence was usually not his issue. He was more than confident in just about everything. Why then, when it came to Saererys, did he feel as though he’d lost all sense of direction? There was a magnetic draw to her, a strength of heart and mind that came through with her words and her smile.

He was seated by a large window with aromatic, purple vines growing in from the outside. The view was breathtaking. The Eclipse was on one of the four hills of Mithlond. While not as high as the hill that housed the “royals and nobility” of the city, the view of the crystal sapphire waters of the Gulf of Lhûn was priceless. The horizon felt like a thousand leagues away. The afternoon sun was a blazing ball of bright gold. The ship in port cast long, luxuriously dark shadows across the waters. From here, Finnbarr could swear he saw the silhouettes of whales and giant crabs. The smells were myriad. He could pick out cinnamon, peppermint, lemongrass, and hibiscus. There were a dozen or more scents that he couldn’t pick out that clung to every surface in of the tearoom, indeed the very air inside seemed to have a flavor to it. He brushed at his beard absently. He’d taken Astaninde’s advice and braided it. He was quite sure it looked ridiculous, but she’d admonished him for trying to go to a tearoom with a wild, unkempt beard. They met halfway, he interwove kelp with his hair, a technique he’d seen Ossë do half a thousand times and the half-mad water spirit had a wife nearly as lovely as Saererys so why not try it? As soon as he arrived at the doors of the tearoom as was seated, he knew he was going to have to go back to the ship and eat crow. A wild beard in this place would have gotten him laughed off the hill.

He could feel his stomach slowly work itself out of the knot it had worked itself into over the morning. Why had he been early again?

He was half lost in the view when she arrived. She had come early too. He’d only managed to beat her by a few minutes. The knot in his stomach immediately seized up again. He’d never seen someone so beautiful. She wore a blue dress that appeared as though the material had been shorn from the sky. Her honey-colored hair was wrapped up in a lattice braid. In her ears were a half dozen sparkling studs. Suddenly, wearing a kilt with tie, jacket, and sporran seemed to be underdressed. He’d hoped to impress her, but upon seeing her, he forgot that he was even wearing clothes.

She smiled at him, her bright eyes shimmering like diamonds. “Well, I thought I was going to get here early and prepare myself.” She laughed. Finnbarr leapt up from his seat like a panther and pulled out her chair.

A waitress came moments later and greeted them both with a smile. She presented them a plate of biscuits, half a dozen varieties. “One of the talents here at the Eclipse,” she said putting her hands behind her back and grinning like a Cheshire cat, “is the ability to provide the correct kind of tea for every guest with just a glance. You ma’am, will be having a cup of matcha tea, light and soothing with just enough flavor to open the sense.”

Saererys chuckled. “My favorite kind!”

The waitress grinned wider. “And you sir…” she looked at him hard, squinting as if she were trying to read something written on the back of his eyeballs. “… a black pepper and cinnamon tea with ginger and cloves.”

Finnbarr grinned sheepishly. “Spicy tea? Sounds adventurous.”


--- * --- * --- * ---

She hadn’t quite known what to expect from the date. If she were being honest with herself, she was shocked she’d even suggested it. Dating or whatever this was, did not seem like her. Something, some itch in the back of her brain said that she’d never done something like this before. Yet, if it was so out of character for her (despite her still discovering what that character was) then why had she done it without thinking? She very nearly talked herself out of going three times just that morning. Ostensibly, the only reason she’d decided on this was to thank him for saving her life. How does one thank someone for saving their life? Saererys had no idea. When she told Rynvena what had happened, the nurse had burst into a fit of laughter and refused to explain why. It wasn’t that Finnbarr was a bad person, she hadn’t felt at “off” feeling from him. He did seem to be a bit of a rake though, a cad with a devilish rogue smile.

Yet here she was. Having tea.

It felt surreal. It felt normal. The matcha tea tasted like home, a home she couldn’t quite recall. It spread warmth through her body and made her feel nostalgic for things she couldn’t remember.

“So tell me, Master Finnbarr. What is it you do exactly?”

He took a sip of the tea, looked out the window toward the sea, and looked back at her. “I… sail.”

That was quite possibly the most boring explanation anyone could have given anyone. He took another sip.

“Well, obvious more than that,” good, at least he was aware of how poor an answer that was, “I want to sound esoteric and poetic and mysterious, but words fail me when I look at the sea.” She smiled and sighed. “I sail, but I explore. I want to find creatures of the sea and protect them, to learn about them and see how they change the world. I learned from a very early age that I have much more in common with the whale, the crab, and the swordfish than I do with my fellow elves.”

She laughed. “You seem to get along with them well enough, none of the nurses at the Valetudinarium Majorum have bad word to say about you.”

He snorted. “They are under the mistaken belief that I’m some sort of hero.”

“Well,” she said with a tone more serious that she meant. “You’re a hero to me. I would have drowned if not for you.” She saw him open his mouth to protest and cut him off. “And don’t tell me ‘I just did what anyone else would have done’ because I think you and I both know that that’s a load of gull shire. Not everyone would have and you did. I can’t speak for anyone else who says you’re a hero or not, but to me, you are.”

He smirked; she rolled her eyes. “You have a remarkably quick wit.”

“I think it’s something I inherited from my mother.”

He gave her a serious look. “Something you remember? Or just a feeling?”

She shrugged. “A feeling. I keep trying to follow them but, I can’t quite grasp it.”

She expected him to say something along the lines of “be patient, it will come in time” or “I’m so sorry for you” but suddenly his eyes shifted to a look she hadn’t expected. “If you need help with anything, I am at your disposal Lady Saererys. Me and my ship will aid you in whatever way you deem fit.”

“For a man who claims to not be a hero, you keep doing things that people would consider heroic.”

He laughed. A few of the other patrons turned and looked askance at them before returning to their conversations. “Don’t go telling everyone now, I do have a reputation to maintain.”

“Why are you so eager to help me? Something tells me you aren’t the type to help a damsel in distress.”

“I would hardly call you a damsel in distress,” he countered.

She nodded, taking another sip of her matcha tea. “True enough. And that’s almost a clever evasion. Why are you so eager to help me?”

He sat back in his chair. “I’m not sure. I don’t feel like you need me to help you, you seem more than capable of that. I can’t quite explain it. There’s a glow about you, something that has nothing to do with light, that makes me want to be in your presence. I felt it when I saw you in the ship and again yesterday. Couldn’t quite tell what it was before, not even sure if glow is the right word.”

She was satisfied. Well, not really satisfied, but the answer made sense. Actually, as she thought on it, it didn’t. A glow? Something that made him want to be in her presence? The idea was oddly unsettling. She didn’t like being pursued.

“That bothers you?” he asked, concern written on his brow.

“A little,” she confessed. “I don’t like the idea of being pursued. Maybe something to do with my past?”

“Then I apologize. Maybe I’m just not putting things into words as well as I’d hoped. I’m about as good at poetry as I am drinking tea.” He laughed nervously and waved at his mouth. “That tea is a lot spicier than I was expecting.”

She laughed then, disarmingly. Whether he was ‘drawn’ to her, there was an easy charm about him. She felt relaxed for the first time in weeks, maybe longer.

“We really should do this again,” he said, “but maybe not with tea that will melt my tongue. Tell me, Lady Saererys, are you fan of the opera?”
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Fuin was still shaking, her whole body trembling even with the firm reassurances that she would not have to go on the ship Mylien understood the best out of the two of them, she'd been kept in the hold of a sinking ship once and it had taken her Captain then a lot of kindness and reassurance that her nightmares were just that nightmares. That she wouldn't be put in that position again, she'd been young then and the nightmares had lasted a very long time. He'd made her 'cabin boy' so that he could keep an eye on her, he'd kept Eliad as cabin boy as well, mostly because he did not want her sent into the hold alone to fetch food for the galley. It had been controversial to have both of them as a cabin boy, it had meant that they needed to share a portion of their take with her as well, until the Captain had told them they already had been she was their information source.

"You're okay. Ruindil go make sure the crew knows what's happening I'll take care of her." Mylien said softly and Ruindil nodded giving the elfs head a gentle pat/

"Jus' breath." He said and headed off, with how badly she'd reacted to the thought of being put back on a ship there was no way that they would be able to get her on the ship. They would be lucky if they could get her onto the small landing skiff that they had.

Once the men and Ruindil were off gathering supplies Mylien looked at her and decided that it would be best perhaps if she got her away from the ocean itself it might help her calm down a bit which was Myliens first goal, if she could get her calmed down perhaps she could bring her back to the camp.

"Come you know this area well right?" Mylien said softly taking her hand and pulling her up to her feet. "Show me were we can get some berries, or roots or something!" Fuin for her part blinked and let the much shorter woman drag her along for a moment before she realized that Mylien was pulling her away from the camp and the ocean. It took her a moment but then she started pointing out bushes and plants that were edible as she'd been asked to.

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Moriel reached out carefully for the bottle, and with a lift and twist of the wrist, refilled her own glass. It had been quite some time since she had indulged in this type of liquor, much less of this quality. Of course, there had been a great deal of very fine wine at the ball where she and Finnbarr had met, but that was a different game entirely. As much as her last words had been calculated, she could see him calculating as he replied, endeavoring to tease out her meaning. But his mariner’s mind jumped from the Sea of Rhûn to her second piece of bait: Anadûnê. Moriel took a deep swallow from her glass, watching the change that came over him, face and body, as he spoke the name of the sunken kingdom. His reaction made it clear that he, too, had spent time on that blessed isle, and remembered it wistfully. From whence did his fondness come? She took another sip, and saw the shine forming at the bottom of Finnbarr’s eyes. And ache echoed faintly within her, a reflexive pain she had not felt in centuries, the kind of ache that could only come from shared loss. Her companion had fallen silent, and Moriel pressed the glass to her lower lip thoughtfully.

“Anadûnê,” she breathed, allowing her eyes to close and open slowly, “A previous stone set in the silver sea was she.” After a scant moment’s further consideration, she decided: coming here at all had been a risk, so why not venture one futher? As she inhaled, she recalled a memory. “Being a sailor, I do not need to tell you of the wonders of Anadûnê’s waters and coasts, nor I imagine of her high cliffs. But perhaps you have not seen them from the heights of Sorontil,” As memories went, this was one that she had not allowed herself to dwell on in some time, but it was safe, though true, and so Moriel allowed it to fill her up. She set her glass down and her elbows on the table, lacing the fingers of both hands together, and allowed her chin to rest on them.

“Sorontil, the highest peak of Anadûnê, higher than Meneltarma and not bound by silence, rising to scrape the sky of the Forostar above her northern cliffs. I remember it clearly as it were yesterday, climbing its steeps sides in the company of its eagles. And from the summit on a clear day you could see all of Anadûnê; the land, and the sea, and the ships far below, where mariners such as yourself plied their trade. And the sunsets on Sorontil,” at last she broke her gaze from Finnbarr’s, turning to look out the window, as the sun’s descending rays cast a brilliant umber glow across her face, and the distant memory in her eyes, “more magnificent than any other sunset I have yet seen.” Moriel fell silent, and the glow passed, for the sun was setting swiftly. She turned back to her companion. “And you? What do you remember most of Anadûnê?”
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Ruindil watched as Mylien led the elf away from the ocean and into the brush. If it weren't for the fact the elf was kind enough to take care of Mylien the night before he would have been worried about her going off alone with someone that obviously knew how to fight decently. His wife was crafty as a fox and as tenacious as a badger but he had a feeling about that elf. Elves don't lock up other elves unless they are dangerous, and for her to have been locked up for so long that she couldn't tell how long it had been she had to know how to fight and kill and she had to be a risk to her own kind. That was some time ago now, perhaps she'd gotten over that urge but the stains of its memories seemed to haunt her.

The men for their part spent most of the after noon filling the water barrels with fresh water from the near by stream and rowing and loading them onto the main ship itself they also cut down a few trees and took those onboard as well in case they needed timber, green wood was better than no wood at all Ruindil always say you can make a poor mast out of a twisted board but you can't make one out of nothing. He kept glancing to the east where Mylien and the elf had disappeared to and wondering if he should send someone to check and see if they were alright but kept deciding against it. After a few trips back and forth he discovered a decent sized basket filled to the brim with dark berries something they'd eat in the next day or two and would be good for them, and it was a sign that Mylien and the elf were hard at work even if the elf would not be joining them.

He put it on the skiff to head out to the boat when the two came back to the camp their arms covered in dirt up to their elbows Mylien and the elf both had enough tubers that he was certain that the men would grow sick of them before they used them all up.

"Ye gone be havin' us eaten the finest elfin foods at this rate lass." He called and she just blinked and frowned a little before laughing.

"I assure you this is not the finest, but I don't think the finest elven foods would store well on your ship we do like our meat as well." Mylien for her part nodded.

"Ye should hear some of the food stuffs she's eaten! Make my mouth water!" She said with a laugh dumping her armload full of tubers into a crate and motioning for Fuin to do the same with hers in the crate beside it.

"Drat it all." Ruindil called shaking his head. "Now ye be teasin. Hardly fair." He muttered shaking his shaggy head. "Hardly fair at all."

"I'm the one that had to listen to her while she was explaining how to cook them and her favourite way of em." Mylien said picking up one of the tubers and tossing it hard at Ruindil striking him on the shoulder making him jump

"Osses toenails would ye quit throwing tings at me woman!" He yelled and handed off another crate to a crew member "Asides we've moved around some o the stores, more room so if ye got more food to add that'd be swell." He said picking the tuber up and tossing it back to her so she could put it in the crate itself. Between the two armfuls one crate was full and the other half so they would need to find a few more to finish the one crate. Ruindil massaged his arm watching their retreating backs. "Bloody arm on that one like a Ballista." He said and headed to get the skiff set to head back to the ship one more time with the last of their water barrels refilled and the two crates of food that the women had picked.

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Fuin let out a sigh the day was finished and the sun was beginning to set, and she wondered if Ruindil and the crew would stay now that in his own words it was nearly bursting the hull with the food she'd found them that they'd used to head further north away from the Prince. Fuin for her part took note of this and wondered at what they had done that the new Prince would be after them. She assumed they meant the Prince of Dol Amroth but what they could possibly have done to incite the Prince to chase them was beyond even Lindon. She sat down watching the skiff coming back towards them from the ship Mylien and a few other sailors were all that was left ashore.

"You know Cap'in Ruindil told all the crew that we were staying tonight." Mylien said softly as she watched the elf which caused her to blink. "I sort of wish you weren't afraid of the ship, I'd drag you along to cook for us no hesitation at all." She said with a chuckle. Fuin laughed as well "It's the one domestic thing I am good at." She said with a laugh. "Is it safe though if you're trying to keep away from the fleet of Dol Amroth?"

Mylien raised an eyebrow at that. "What makes you think we're avoiding the fleet of Dol Amroth?"

"Ruindil said you were getting away from the Prince. Dol Amroth is the only place that has a prince that you'd be wanting to avoid. I don't think you would know the Prince of Mirkwood and it would be his father you'd want to avoid. Thranduil is the hotheaded one of that family taking after his father." Fuin said with a smile.

"You're smart to put that together from him saying that much." Mylien said shaking her head. She should have figured the elf would pick up some sort of clue.

"Can I ask what you did? Or..." Fuin trailed off as Mylien glanced away, and Fuin gave a nod. "Or. It's alright I don't really need to know. After all what are the chances I'll see you two again if you're running North?" She said with a small smile "I should probably let you get on your ship and go no need to risk being found here because you stayed for an extra night just for me." Mylien looked at her her dark eyes wide.

"Now don't you dare!" Mylien dove for her and grabbed at Fuin and the elven woman reacted fast sending the two of them into a tumble on the ground fighting for dominance until Fuin landed on top straddling Myliens waist leaving the much smaller woman glaring up at Fuin who was holding onto her wrists. "I can't even tell you to get me dinner first you've helped me get dinner for weeks already." She said with her eyes narrowed and Fuin blinked in shock at the woman.

"Wait what?"

"I AM going to pin you and have my way with you elf, if it's the last thing I do tonight before the tide." Mylien shouted and bucked her hips trying to unseat the elven woman. Fuin for her part sat dumbfounded blinking not realizing the skiff had landed and Ruindil had come rushing off seeing the two of them fighting wondering if something had happened. He had snuck up behind the elf and had been about to draw his sword on her when Mylien had shouted and he couldn't stop himself from laughing which distracted Fuin enough that she turned just enough that Ruindil and Mylien together could drag her off the first mate.

"Ye said ye wanted 'er sober. Best enjoy me wee wildcat." Ruindil said with a smirk as Mylien lunged forwards and locked lips with Fuin for the first time. A few of the crew applauded and whooped at the sight and soon found themselves being run off by a very protective Captain.
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Fuin returned to Mithlond at a loss. She wasn't sure what to make of the last few days that she had spent away. Several of the guards of the harbor though set up a cry when they saw her, and she swallowed. She had disappeared and had left her weapons and soon she found herself being escorted to Cirdan who for his part hugged her tightly.

"You frightened me mellon." He said softly looking her over. Aside from a bit of dirt and some tangled hair she was not worse for wear though he could see tears in her eyes and some far off haunted look in her eyes that she'd lost something. The way she'd been speaking he'd thought she'd slipped herself into the water to drown and he'd prepared a note to send to Elrond about her loss something that would be heartbreaking to the Lord of Imladris he was sure. She was a fine healer, and the head of the elven smiths as well as a brave soldier. "Where did you go?"

"I..." She blinked glancing around as several other elves bustled about excited to see her, something she had not expected. "I saw a ship sail past and it looked strange so I followed it."

"A ship? You?" Cirdan looked at her strangely. Indeed he knew full well her fear of ships and where it stemmed from. He had seen her before she had been brought of the ship and it had enraged him. Getting her off of the Isle of Balar had been a feat in itself which had broken his heart when she realized she was going to have to go back on a ship.

"I didn't go on it, it's crew came ashore and I was curious why they wouldn't come into the harbor."

"Pirates or Corsairs." Cirdan said knowing full well there were only a few people that wouldn't take refuge in his harbor. Fuin nodded. "You didn't have your weapons."

"I had my wits."

"An even greater miracle of Ulmo you're not dead then. Most pirates have a foul temper when put up against wits like yours, and you've not the mind to bite your tongue." At this Fuin gave a laugh.

"I did think I was going to die more than once for my mouth."

"And yet you look sadder than when I left you on the docks rather than relieved." The bearded elf pressed knowing full well something further had to have happened than she had gotten.

"I was reminded of something I've been missing, and since I don't sail..." She trailed off and Cirdan tipped his chin up realizing what she was saying.

"You liked one of them?" His voice was soft and Fuin gave a small nod. "Well perhaps the next time you see their ship you should tell them they are, despite being pirates, welcome in my havens." Cirdan smiled and Fuin gave a small shrug.

"If I see them again."

"I'm sure you will." He took her hand and squeezed it. "Now come you need a bath and some clean cloths. You smell like a pirate." He said with a chuckle and led her on.
FIN
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