Lindon Masquerade | Spring Ball ~ Ended

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The Vixen

A playful smirk curled The Vixen’s lips. “This seems sage advice, and you have done well assessing my skill set.” She leaned into their newly-close embrace, letting her free hand lift a bit of deep blue fabric which trailed from his waist. “What treasures lie beneath the surface of these waves?” she mused, eyeing him hungrily. “I would be delighted to find out.”

The sudden appearance of The Blue Bear brought a renewed sparkle to her eyes. Ever the scout for interesting opportunity, his arrival marked for The Vixen a delightful addition to the mix - certainly not an intrusion - akin to adding spice to a dish to enhance existing flavors.

“Hello, darling,” she purred, once The Sundering Sea had skillfully spun her out to stand beside him. She gave her dance partner a curtsy and, with a wink, moved to stand betwixt the two, running a hand affectionately along The Blue Bear’s shoulder and down his arm. While The Sundering Sea spoke, she sensed the opportunity growing ever more expansive - or, at least, she hoped that would be the effect of the offered goods on the senses and the mind.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she replied with a smile, linking an arm with his delightfully strong one. “What do you think, love?” she asked The Blue Bear.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The Moonless Night, in the garden with The Moon His Ill Reminder

She'd approached The Moon His Ill Reminder in the ballroom on a whim, simply because their garb had been so similar. But as he answered her own query of what brought him joy, she realized that perhaps she'd found one of kindred spirit, despite the differences in their races and the very stark differences in their ages.

While carving and stitching required strength of different intensities, she could appreciate the fine, skilled control that would be just as essential when working with wood as it was with silk.

And as new as Elvish culture was to her, and its tongue, she did know of the Havens and their never-returning ships. Of the Elves slowly departing Middle-earth, never to return, and she wondered how many--or even if--more masquerades would grace this grand hall before it fell dark and silent forever. But that was too close to the melancholy thoughts of earlier, and after so much effort to direct their conversation to lighter things, she would not bring it up.

So she smiled and laughed softly, her breath catching just slightly at the twinkle in his eye, as The Moon His Ill Reminder noted that he'd mentioned not one but two things that brought him joy. He commented on her trade, and when he paused she was about to tell him further of it, but the air around him had turned just subtly earnest, and so she waited to see what more he had to say.

"I'd love to see more of your work, if you had the chance?" The Moon His Ill Reminder asked. "Some day in the future, I mean -- when we're not occupied here."

The Moonless Night hesitated here for a moment. She had not come to the Masquerade with the intention of making any true connections here. She'd meant to come and dance and see people's costumes and get an idea of what competition the other masters of her trade might offer her, in terms of skill. And to find out who she might like to learn from further, should she be afforded--or be able to create--the chance.

But the last time she'd felt any sort of similar connection with someone upon first meeting them, she'd run away and she'd come to regret that choice. And though it was not the same now and she suspected it never would be again--that the connection she'd run away from that time was something she'd never experience again--and she did not want to take that risk a second time. But she'd also been hurt now, many times over, and wanted to be certain of her choice.

"I will answer that in a moment," The Moonless Night spoke softly, turning her gaze back to the star-strewn heavens as she took a breath, willing the heartache and regret to leave her with her exhalation. "And comment on the other things you've said first, if you don't mind.

"For my craft, probably the simplest term for it is dressmaking. Tailoring is taking an already existing garment and tweaking it to fit a particular body or purpose a little better than it did before. In my case, I can either create a custom garment simply from something I think up myself or based on the specifications of a client. The ones I enjoy most, though, are the clients who let me work my craft with as few limitations as possible."

The Moonless Night smiled then, for she understood what The Moon His Ill Reminder meant about about ships being for sailing over and over again. "Just as for your ships, it would be a shame if the finest garments I've constructed were only worn once. Even if the second time it is worn is by another person than the one it was originally crafted for."

And so my own heart, she thought silently. I don't have to give it out to more than I wish to, or in the same manner each time. But I should not keep it locked away because of past hurts. That will only make it stagnant.

"Since you named two things that bring you joy," she spoke softly again, "I will give a second also. Touch. Companionship, though would that be a third? They are things I've been deprived of often in my life, though those are stories for later, should we forge a friendship between us. But recently I've learned, as much as I enjoy solitude, that I've come to crave those things as well."

The breeze picked up a little then, carrying both the scent of flowering fruit trees and a hint of salt from the sea over them, and she turned back to face The Moon His Ill Reminder.

"I would like to show you my work, and I would like to see yours as well," The Moonless Night smiled again. "If you're willing to take a chance of friendship, at least, with one who's had her heart broken almost a dozen times over in a different way each time. For I won't deny that at some point those wounds will surface, and not everyone is strong enough to bear it.

"And if you will take the risk, then I suppose the question is do you wish to know my name, my face, or both? Though I will ask that you reveal to me the same of which you ask of me," she said, a smile teasing at the corner of her mouth.

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The Moon His Ill Reminder, sitting with The Moonless Night @Taethowen

When The Moonless Night hesitated, The Moon His Ill Reminder felt a pang of guilt shoot through him. Perhaps he had overplayed things. Long ago, he had been better at this -- he had seen the ellons to whom he’d once been brother, dancing with a dozen partners, spinning through the night, pursuing, unburdened. They were young elves, though some were in age no less than he -- but still, they felt young. They were stained by the Sea, but not yet worn by it. And here he was, The Moonless Night, struggling to approach the unbridled joy he had once found in nights like this.

For a moment, his thoughts were drawn further back -- to revels, long ago, in woodlands now drowned. To Spring Masquerades like this one, hosted by Lord Cirdan perhaps -- or by King Singollo, even, beneath the nights of stars. If she had seen him dancing then, she would not hesitate. She would understand the joy which had been lost with the returning of their Cousins -- lost at the first rising of the moon. His intentions were pure, he only longed to live as he had once lived -- in communitas with those whose bones were buried now beneath the sundering seas.

I will answer that in a moment” she said, turning to gaze up at the stars. The Moon His Ill Reminder nodded. There was nothing else to do.

Dressmaking. Of course. And he had called her a tailor, or a seamstress. It took all The Moon His Ill Reminder’s restraint to avoid gritting his teeth. He was making a fool of himself, he knew -- he ought to have stayed with his ships.

But then -- her thought turned to his ships, and her words carried something more. “A shame if the finest garments I’ve constructed were only worn once.” she said. Perhaps she did understand, although he could not help but feel that there was something strange in the way she spoke of her custom. There were dressmakers in Lindon, too -- although most of those gathered here tonight could have named them better than he -- but something about the way she spoke, of restrictions and clients... It sounded almost metropolitan.

Dwarvish, he thought. Perhaps she is of Thranduil’s folk, of Mirkwood. They have more custom with the dwarves, and more trade passes through their hands. The mercantilism of the Noldor -- and some grey-elves too, come to remark on it -- had always baffled The Moon His Ill Reminder. Then again -- he was a child of the waves. Trade came through Lindon, as trade had come through Falas before it -- up and down the coast to the smaller havens, but The Moon His Ill Reminder had seldom had a part in any of that.

Since you named two things that bring you joy,The Moonless Night went on, and The Moon His Ill Reminder found himself drawn back into the moment. Touch. Companionship. Yes -- that he understood. He remembered Angveduil, Corchanor -- old compatriots, old revelers, whose bones now rest where only Ulmo may see them, and whose fea were gone as so many more were gone, far to the west

I understand what you mean.” he said softly -- but she did not hear him. She went on. A chance of friendship. Yes, a chance of friendship was perfect. A chance of friendship might put a little of the old spirit back in him. “Yes.” he said, finally. “Wounds will suffice. That is our curse, is it not? To recall old wounds which would slay the latecomers?” And then -- though the moment was still somber -- The Moon His Ill Reminder laughed, and his laugh was like it had been millenia on millenia ago, deep and rolling as the thunder over the sea. “A name, a face -- both? It is a hard question. On the one hand, in the interest of actually meeting again, a name would be useful. And yet a face has poetry to it, that a name and address do not.” His eyes twinkled as he looked first at her and then back and forth through the garden -- as though they were conspirators in some trick, as he and his brother had been when they were young. “A face will do, if we are to meet again. Shall we remove our masks together?” His hand drifted up to his own mask, awaiting an answer.
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The Blue Bear

The elf a little shorter than he was, but he filled the room in a way that The Blue Bear couldn’t. He must be old, the Númenórean thought, very old. He carried himself with the regal attitude of elves, the attitude that so many humans rankled against, but there was something more untamed, less buttoned up and proper about him. His bow was a mixture of snark and mocking. The Blue Bear snorted quietly and debated for a moment whether or not he should offer a snarky bow in return. Ultimately though, he simply gave him a respectful, but not too respectful, nod of the head. The Vixen interrupted anything snarky he was going to say (likely saving him from getting into a flyting with an elf that saw the sun rise for the first time. Even if this one wasn’t as dark as his mentor, he knew better than to smart off too much.

“Rogues?” The Blue Bear sounded shocked and mock offended as he put his arm around The Vixen’s waist, he turned to look at her, scandalized before he broke into a full laugh. “I daresay, if you are the greatest rogue in Lindon, then you have a good eye for folks after your own nature.”

His brow raised mischievously underneath the mask and an almost giddy grin slipped over his face. “Delightful substances you say?” He’d heard of the creative consumables crafted by the elves. While it was not something they often broadcast, The Blue Bear had known where to find descent dens and lounges. If this one was suggesting what The Blue Bear thought was being suggested, he and his partner were in for a very entertaining night. “And a stroll through the Gardens? Why, dear sir, I don’t think I could decline such beneficent offer. I do believe I’ve achieved just about all I could achieve at this fête; some more kaleidoscopic entertainment is most assuredly in order.”

His eyes swept across the room one last time, taking in all the dancers and revelers before taking the arm of the shark smiling elf. He felt a little something in his pocket that hadn’t been there when they arrived, but he was too interested in the variety of ‘delightful substances’ that were to be offered to concern himself too much, there was much too much fun yet to be had out in the Gardens! He licked his lips hungrily.


The Galedeep

“Your forgiveness means more than you know, Rávnissë. It is one less demon on my shoulders reminding me of all the ills I have done.” He fell quiet at the mention of her brother. He had heard what happened. Heard about his death. He hadn’t been there. He should have been there. Had he not been on some banal sailing voyage he would have been there. For a moment, the Falmari seethed, turning his anger within. But what could he have done? What was one more soldier in that fight? Grandiose dreams of the difference one could make are not even worthy of the name dream. Delusion was more like it. He wouldn’t have been able to save Arasoron anymore than she had, and wishing that he had been able to was a dishonor to him and Tavari, what right did he have to mourn and feel that lose when it had driven her to madness and grief? None.

He cooled, his emerald green eyes losing their fire. He opened his mouth then closed it quickly. He was going to tell her that he had come, but he had come too late. He received the letter of the news and had made all haste inland, his first journey into the interior of Middle Earth, and had arrived after she had gone missing. What good would it do to tell her he’d searched lands he knew nothing about for weeks trying to find a trace of her? That he’d finally met her other brother hadn’t come to blows with him the way he had with Herugon all those years ago? That he cursed himself for arriving too late to offer what meager comfort he could? No, no that was not something that needed to be said. Not now at least.

Quickly, his mind was taken from that sad event to one even further back. The rings! A chill ran through the burly Falmari. He hadn’t seen those in more than seven thousand years, he assumed they’d been lost in all the tumult. He remembered when he saw them last, on the fingers of One Who Runs with Deers and on Morifinwë. Despite the chaos and disorder of that moment, he knew what it meant and had felt a true moment of happiness for his friend. His heart ached to see them again, believing that moment of happiness could never come ‘round again.

The Galedeep grabbed two flutes of champagne as the tray passed by and handed one to her. “He may never see our glory,” he said looking from his partner to the great westward facing window, where someday he might come back. “Raise a glass to memory, something they can never take away! No matter what they tell us. Let's have another round tonight! Raise a glass to the two of us and pray tomorrow there’ll be more for us. We'll tell the story of that night.” He looked up into her periwinkle eyes and drained the glass in one go. “Carnister, ein Thargelion.”

“Too many people want to tell Maitimo’s story,” he said with a hard edge of bitterness. “Not enough tell the tales of our king. If it’s just the two of us, then we will have to sing all the louder. Though that poor lad that you were amusing yourself with earlier,” The Galedeep looked out over the sea of colors and glass until he saw him, “he has a voice like they did in days gone by. There’s power in it.”

They swayed for a while, The Galedeep letting the dark memories of the past slowly melt back into the shadows of his mind until finally he was able to smile again without forcing it. “It’s never too late to go to the sea, my friend,” he responded with an impish grin. “If I was less well behaved, I’d steal you away right now and take you sailing by moonlight. I think though,” he looked over at the elf dressed as a sunflower dancing with The Fire of Motion, “you would be sorely missed, and I would find myself in trouble.”


The Fire of Motion

A lack of inhibitions? The prospect was both terrifying and alluring. The Fire of Motion had only had Old Dorwinion a few times in his life and never more than a single glass. The stuff had a legendary strength, one that could knock even an elf as old as him on his butt if he was not careful. He took a deep breath and chewed his lip as he thought. He glanced at One Who Runs With Deers then back at the proffered wine. Do it before you change your mind, he told himself. He grabbed the cup from The Sunflower and drank deeply. The flavors nearly overwhelmed him in their vibrance and exuberance as they did each time. His tongue forgot the taste after some time and when he tried it again, it was like first time all over again. He felt the familiar heady rush of endorphins, the light-headed giddiness, and the wonderful loss of inhibitions. He would need more than a single cup, though, if he was going to lose them altogether. A thought ran through his mind then, unbidden, spurned on by the powerful wine: What if he were to sing some of “The Storm and the Sun”? This certainly felt like a crowd for it. He swayed with giddy ease, his bicolored eyes drifting back and forth across the dance floor. It was a story he was meant to tell, a story he’d been keeping inside for over three thousand years no. He’d been working and perfecting this song for so long, yet not a living soul had ever heard it save the birds and beasts of the field. PerhapsThe Fire of Motion swayed more took another deep draught of the fruity liquid. It heavenly sweet. If I am going to sing it, I’m going to need more wine. He soon realized he hadn’t said a word to The Sunflower since he began drinking. “I’m sorry,” the grin had not left his lips and his eyes wandered a bit more of their own accord until The Sunflower pointed back to One Who Runs With Deers. “Oh him? Oh, that’s Finnbarr Galedeep." He blinked owlishly and peered at The Galedeep and One Who Runs with Deers, "Wait... do they know each other? He never told me he knew her. I've known him all my lif... I mean life and he never told me once about knowing the Lioness. Why? He could have... told me about knowing her. She's like...” he took another sip of the wine and grinned "Well I don't need to tell you what she's like!" He turned back and glared in the direction of the otter mask. "Finnbarr you old pirate! If I weren't so, so thirsty I'd have a word with you."


The Huntress with (@Ercassie)

Finally, The Huntress had a chance to stop and reflect. Even though she’d only danced with The Wolf so far this evening, everything was moving so fast she barely had a moment to herself and fully realize what she was doing. Maybe it was the elven champagne, maybe it was the atmosphere, but The Huntress felt lighter. There was a weight off her shoulders, off her back, that had been dragging her down as long as she remembered. When had this weight lifted? When The Wolf helped her flee Edoras and the suffocating militaristic life there? When she’d come to the masquerade and found herself in a world she never knew existed?

Part of the Rohir believed all of this was her imagination. The air was too bright and shimmering, the mood was too ethereal, and the other guests, she’d never seen something so extravagant and so wonderful. How could an evening like this be real? This was the kind of place that only existed in stories, in the books she’d manage to find and read. Her hands felt clammy. She had let her mind wander as she stood away from the madding crowd. She drifted, her mind jumping back and forth between images of riding her wild pony next to The Wolf’s massive steed, the two of them sparring around a campfire, of a badger and three little skunks playing with shadows in the evening’s light.

What?” She realized her momentary compatriot had answered her. “Sorry, my mind was wandering a bit. Hunter and hunted,” she repeated absently to herself, she was both, wasn’t she? She smiled behind her rabbit mask. “I think you are right. I feel like I am both prey and hunter here and half the time I don’t’ know which is which. It seems to change from one moment to the next. I’m,” she faltered, noticed the elf’s gaze at the ceramic arrows at her hip, and began to absent mindedly fiddle with the arrows, giving her hands something to do while her mind bounced back and forth between reality and whatever this night had become. “I’m not used to such pageantry. I don’t think I’ve seen so many people in one place before. A place like this opens up and rips away the old boundaries of my imagination. It gives me hope that I can find a place in the world, but the immensity,” she sighed involuntarily, “I’m scared of getting lost in it all.” After a moment of reflection, The Huntress realized she hadn’t introduced herself. “I’m sorry, I’m Wal--, I’m The Huntress, I suppose that name is rather obvious though.” She laughed in spite of herself. “Maybe…” she began to turn red, “perhaps I could ask you for a dance? Before the night is over?”


The Somberlain

She was tall, nearly as tall as he was, and she moved with lupine grace. Beneath the masque of the plague doctor he smiled. Her form was lithe and free. The Somberlain had never been one for dancing when he was and elf, he had had only a mind for fighting and crafting weapons of war. He had been so in Valinor and had been even more so in the first days of the Sun. His transformation had changed him in more ways than he could count. Yet, as they danced, as they moved with near perfect rhythm, he recognized the music playing. It was an older melody, one he hadn’t heard since the rising of the Sun. This was Círdan’s domain, and he liked the reminders of yesteryear. The Somberlain found himself enjoying the frivolity of the whole affair, in spite of himself. His partner, Vingilótë (even in the voice in his mind did not like saying the word), also seemed to be enjoying herself. She knew what he was, of that he had no doubt. There was a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but it was bereft of the fear that realization often brought. He was intrigued. Who was she that knew what he was yet felt no fear? Felt no need to alarm all the party goers? This woman was layered, layered in a way The Somberlain had seen in very few people. He remained silent, allowing the swift, lively movements do the speaking for him. He looked northward for a moment, considering, then returned his focus. He was going unravel the mystery of this woman.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Thu Dec 17, 2020 9:28 am, edited 1 time in total.
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The Moonless Night in the garden with The Moon His Ill Reminder @Androthelm

The Moonless Night couldn't help but bite at her lip a little nervously, though her smile did not fade, when The Moon His Ill Reminder spoke of recalling old wounds which would slay the latecomers. Did he truly not see what she was? Her heart pounded nervously as his laughter rolled around her, though it wasn't cruel laughter, and she found herself envious of joyous freedom.

The Moonless Night shifted on the bench, turning to be able to face The Moon His Ill Reminder without twisting her neck as he answered her final question. The look on his face, as he looked at her then around the garden to see if they were alone, reminded her of the looks she'd seen on her siblings' faces as they plotted some mischief that she would inevitably have to clean up after.

I still cannot believe that they are gone, she thought, but gently pushed the thought aside as The Moon His Ill Reminder finished speaking. She'd mourned for them long enough now that she knew the grief would never truly end. It would simply ebb and wane like the tides.

"A face will do, if we are to meet again. Shall we remove our masks together?"

The Moonless Night nodded her assent, reaching up to latch the fingers of her left hand around the swirls of silver filigree that made up her own mask, even as she reached up and back with her right hand to pull loose the bow on the ribbon which held it in place, tied at the back of her head beneath the brunette curls piled atop her head. She just barely softened her sharp inhale through her nose as a quick stab of pain made a protestation below her right shoulder blade. The injury was many months old, but the wound had been deep. The dancing earlier had likely aggravated it, but she hadn't noticed until now.

Then, the long strands of ribbon securing her mask fell loose against her shoulders, and she kept her gaze on The Moon His Ill Reminder as she slowly--carefully--lowered her right hand back to her side, then pulled the mask away from her face with her left hand.

She knew that Elven eyes were sharper than mortal ones, and so she didn't doubt that The Moon His Ill Reminder could see the brown-green hazel of her eyes, even in the shadowed moonlight, and the finest of wrinkles that she'd only recently begun to notice around the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was not old, but she was not exactly young anymore, either.

After a few moments of silence, The Moonless Night let out a soft laugh. "I hope that neither the poetry of my face nor my mortality are too disappointing."

Then she turned her perusal toward The Moon His Ill Reminder's appearance.


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The Moon His Ill Reminder, with The Moonless Night @Taethowen

The Moonless Night smiled -- she was already smiling, but she smiled differently at something he’d said -- the Moon His Ill Reminder hardly caught the shift before it was gone. Have I made a mistake after all? Indeed, he could not help but think that his companion seemed suddenly nervous, terribly nervous. If I could but see her face -- I was always better with faces.. But that was long ago.

But her nod -- if it was solemn, it was not cold, and The Moon His Ill Reminder reached for the long, dark ribbon which held his mask to the hood of his shadowy cloak even as she gripped her own mask. For a moment, he thought he was going to fumble -- the damnable cord had tightened, somehow, over the evening. He was not going to get it untied. He was going to make a fool of himself -- but, no, here it was. His long fingers freed the mask and his other hand flew up to catch the dark cloth. His hood would fall back on his shoulders, but his mask --

The Moon His Ill Reminder froze, as her mask came away. His hood came back on his shoulders, revealing a silvered mane which ran down to his shoulders. His nimble fingers paused -- and the mask slipped between them, fluttering gently to the ground at their feet.
The Moon His Ill Reminder recovered almost instantly, resisting the impulse to rise and retreat. His face -- which was long and narrow, with dark eyes and the beginning of a beard to mark him as old, old even among the followers of Cirdan -- flashed surprise and then was calm again, the light returning to his eyes.

Well,” he said, finally, taking in the face -- the brown eyes, the wrinkles which marked her folk. “A disappointment? Not at all. I cannot imagine anything more wonderfully poetic. But -- you’ll forgive me --” he bent, briefly, to gather his mask from the ground without rising from the bench. “It seems that I have been cruel, albeit unintentionally -- all my talk of wounds to slay the latecomers. I thought you -- a young elleth, unfamiliar with the great histories. But I was mistaken, I--” He was suddenly aware that he was talking too much, so he laughed again, a softer chuckle this time, and said: “Your poetry does not disappoint. I only wish now that I’d asked both your face and name. Unless you are to stay in Lindon long?
Last edited by Androthelm on Sat Dec 19, 2020 4:38 am, edited 1 time in total.
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The Moonless Night in the gardens with The Moon His Ill Reminder @Androthelm

If there was one thing The Moonless Night never thought she'd experience, it was making one of the Firstborn nervous. But as The Moon His Ill Reminder's hood fell back and his mask slipped from his grasp, she saw the surprise on his face, though it quickly vanished.

His silver hair fairly glowed in the moonlight, but she couldn't quite make out the color of his eyes in the darkness. The shadows playing across his features them seem almost sharp, since his face was long and narrow, but she waited patiently to hear his response as they watched each other.

The Moonless Night shook her head, smile softening, when The Moon His Ill Reminder finally did speak.

"If anything, I am flattered that you mistook me for one of the elves," she reassured him. "I did not take your words for cruelty, though I will admit I was baffled that you did not figure out I was human much sooner.

"As for my time in Lindon... while I cannot stay indefinitely, I could be convinced to extend my time here a little longer." The Moonless Night let her smile turn a little mischievous then, too. "I might even be convinced to give up my name as well."

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The Moon His Ill Reminder, sitting in the gardens with The Moonless Night @Taethowen

Flattering? I suppose -- Well, it might be flattering. Though to tell you the truth, I am not so sure that we are the luckier of the kindreds. Indeed, I thought you were -- well, it sounds foolish, and more than foolish I suppose it is almost half-true, but I thought you were a very young elf and I -- The Moon His Ill Reminder smiled, half joyful and half wistful “I was too caught up in my own musing -- the fears of the very old about the futures of the very young -- to realize what was right in front of my eyes. A young elf, indeed!” He laughed, and in his laughter he did not seem so very old. “I am glad, anyway, that you found me flattering and not foolish. Though you’ll forgive my surprise. There are not so many of the younger Children here, in Lindon.

He nodded slowly. Of course she could not stay -- she would have a home, somewhere else. A family, who would not last forever should she choose to linger here. But he smiled again, when she smiled. “You tempt me. Of course, tonight has been wonderful. I would love to meet again. And yet -- the poetry of the thing. We have given each other our faces, and my heart does not want to ruin the magic of the thing. Here -- a compromise. Why don’t we share something else? My work -- or my pleasure, rather -- often brings me to the sea, but when I am in Lindon, I have a home not far from the docks. I don’t anticipate leaving port for a few weeks yet -- perhaps you will call on me, before you depart to the east? Then we can talk and meet properly, under -- ” He glanced briefly upward, at the Stars, at the Moon -- “Fewer mythic limitations.
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The Moonless Night, in the gardens with The Moon His Ill Reminder @Androthelm

As The Moon His Ill Reminder spoke, she continued to watch him. "Though to tell you the truth, I am not so sure that we are the luckier of the kindreds... Though you’ll forgive my surprise. There are not so many of the younger Children here, in Lindon.”

"I can see both the advantages and drawbacks to each of our race's fates," The Moonless Night confessed. "I've had enough heartaches that to think of life going on endlessly seems an unbearable weight. But to have... time. Enough time to do anything I pleased, and to make sure I had no regrets... well, once again, that is too serious a topic for a night like this.

"As for your surprise though... there is nothing to forgive. This is a masquerade, after all. We are not supposed to be ourselves tonight."

The Moonless Night felt her face warm a little when The Moon His Ill Reminder said she tempted him, but she simply laughed softly in response, her hands fidgeted nervously as he continued speaking. "Here -- a compromise. Why don’t we share something else...perhaps you will call on me, before you depart to the east?"

"I would like that," The Moonless Night replied with a shy nod, but her voice took a mischievous turn again. "However, I've been here long enough to have wandered through Mithlond's streets and I know that 'a home not far from the docks' could be any number of houses. Do you propose that I should randomly knock on doors until I find the right one, or might I have a further clue to look for?"

The Moonless Night set her mask beside her on the bench, then, and held out her hand to The Moon His Ill Reminder. "Might I bother you for one more dance, before we part ways? As much as I am enjoying our conversation, if you wish to meet properly later, we should probably end it here before I find myself spilling all my secrets."

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The Moon His Ill Reminder, sitting in the Garden with The Moonless Night

...I've been here long enough to have wandered through Mithlond's streets and I know that 'a home not far from the docks' could be any number of houses...

The Moon His Ill Reminder laughed again, then paused to think before nodding his reply. “You are right. I have given you less than might be helpful, and there are many homes near many docks in Lindon. Some would say too many homes -- and some would say too many docks, but then, I won’t bore you with the politicking of the Eldar. It is long and rooted in old grudges and memories of times forgotten now by all besides. I knew a linguist, once, who changed the shape of his language to scorn a rival’s mother, and I knew a champion who would not escape a flood in boats crafted by a foreign hand. But they are both gone, and you and I -- we remain. I think you know what I mean.

After a moment of reflection, he went on.

There is a lesser pier, on the northward end of the city. Lord Cirdan’s swan-ships would never launch near there -- only ships like mine, which plow the seas seeking land they know not, not the land they remember. But there is a manse near that pier, and over the doorway is the shape of a great bird carved in birchwood -- not a swan, as you will see gracing the highest houses of Lindon, but a gull. It’s beak is open, crying west over the Sea.The Moon His Ill Reminder’s hands moved as he spoke, remembering the day when Corchanor had carved the bird and placed it above their hall. In Falas, where no gull now calls.You will find me there, for a little while.The Moon His Ill Reminder paused, thinking of older and older things -- and then stood, suddenly, his dark cloak billowing to reveal once again the vest inlaid with silver thread, the memory of stars.

But I, too, have given away more than I wished. Let us dance, then, as you suggest -- let us dance, in memory of moonless nights.” Replacing his mask and then offering an arm and a smile, The Moon His Ill Reminder swept back through the gardens, past quiet conversations, and into the dance.
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

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The Moonless Night with The Moon His Ill Reminder @Androthelm

The Moonless Night laughed softly. "The politics of the Eldar are fascinating, from my very finite perspective," she confessed. "But there is a certain sadness to eternal grudges that cannot be forgotten. Though the race of men is not faultless in that regard, either."

She had not expected the amount of detail that The Moon His Ill Reminder provided for his home, though, and her eyes might have displayed a moment of panic as she tried to pick out the most important bits of information to retain. North end of the city...a gull carved of birchwood over the doorway, crying west over the sea. Just remember that.

The Moonless Night hid an amused smile when The Moon His Ill Reminder stood, his cloak billowing and the silver threads of his vest gleaming in the moonlight. Why do I keep ending up around men with a flair for the dramatic? Or maybe it's most of them...

When he offered his arm, The Moonless Night quickly replaced her own mask, and savored the fresh air before they returned to the ballroom. It was a lively tune being played, and she found the contrast refreshing to the serious tone that their conversation had repeatedly turned to. The Moon His Ill Reminder was right. A masquerade was a place to rejoice, and though it took some determination on her part, she let the reminders of her heartaches that had shown up fade from her awareness as she glided across the floor in his arms.

When the music faded away, her eyes were sparkling and her face was flushed, breath heavy with exertion. She parted from The Moon His Ill Reminder with a curtsy. "I will call then, in a day or two," The Moonless Night promised, offering one last smile before she turned away from the dance floor.


The Moonless Night Seeking Out the Snowy Owl @Sil

She glanced around the open spaces of Lord Cirdan's manor again. There was one other she would like to pay respects to before she left. The Moonless Night had not intended to leave so early in the evening necessarily, though she knew it was well past midnight by now, but her shoulder was bothering her more than she'd anticipated, and it wouldn't be long before she could not hide the ache.

Ah, there he is, she laughed softly, bringing a hand to cover her mouth as she approached the Snowy Owl sprawled across a blue chair that almost matched her gown.

"I see you've been enjoying yourself since we parted," The Moonless Night remarked as the Snowy Owl sipped languidly at a cup of punch. "I'll be leaving soon, and had hoped to convince you to humor me with one more dance, but if you're not up to it, then I will simply thank you for your kind words earlier. I will not forget them."

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The Snowy Owl with the Moonless Night @Taethowen

He startled - sitting up suddenly, steadying his glass, and blinking in a very owlish way. Oh dear. He had embarrassed himself again.

“Oh... hello, my lady,” said the Snowy Owl, slightly groggily. He hadn’t nodded off there, had he? Surely not. He couldn’t have drunk that much. There was definitely something unusual about this punch. The Moonless Night’s masked face swam into view. She seemed to be smiling: whether out of amusement at the Owl’s disarray or at genuine pleasure at encountering him again, he really couldn’t say. He sat up properly, hoping he hadn’t spilt any punch down his white feathered doublet. That would stain most terribly.

“I hope you too have had a pleasant evening,” he managed, recovering himself and genteelly stifling a belch. Oh Valar, this was awkward. His belly was churning with all the shrimp he had eaten, but ignoring these warning signs the Owl rose valiantly to his feet to bend over the Moonless Night’s wrist. “The Snowy Owl would never want to disappoint such a fair maiden,” he ploughed on, a slight desperation brimming in his eyes as he let out an audible gurgle, “but I must beg you to be gentle...”
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The Moonless Night with the Snowy Owl

"I think that it would be best if you remained off the dance floor," the Moonless Night laughed softly, suddenly anxious as the Snowy Owl bowed before her with some... audible discomfort. "I think we would both be far more disappointed if either one of our costumes ended up on the sour end of your stomach."

Gently, the Moonless Night did her best to coax the Snowy Owl back into the chair.

"As much as I would love to dance with you again, what I really wanted to say was thank you. For your words earlier. I mostly came to the masquerade to observe, but instead I've found myself seen in a way that I rarely ever have been in my life, and by two of you no less." A soft, almost wistful, smile crossed her lips then, and she glanced back at the dance floor momentarily, but she couldn't spot The Moon His Ill Reminder right away, and so she turned her attention back to the Snowy Owl.

"It seems I'll be tarrying in Mithlond a bit longer. Perhaps our paths will cross again, but if they do not, I wanted you to know that I will not forget what you told me. Thank you."

With a slight curtsy, the Moonless Night stepped away. She let her gaze sweep over the ballroom one last time, engraving the extravagance of the night into her memory for she was uncertain if she would ever witness the like again, and quietly left.


((OOC @Sil - I was going to drag the Snowy Owl into a dance, but my to-do list for the next couple days exploded and I'm determined to stick to my Plaza-sabbatical-by-Christmas-Eve deadline, so instead I'll end this here. Thanks, dear!))

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OOC: (Cassie, I wanted to include the Lord of Unicorns / Blue Butterfly scene but the post is already so long. He will capture your daughter in my next post! <3 .)

In the gardens with @Ercassie, @Annúnfalas , and @Fuin Elda


"Estë the gentle, healer of hurts and of weariness, is his spouse.
Grey is her raiment; and rest is her gift. She walks not by day...
From the fountains of Irmo and Estë all those who dwell in Valinor draw refreshment."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: The Valaquenta - Of the Valar

"Estë the Pale is his [Irmo's] wife."
- Tolkien, from Morgoth's Ring:
The Later Quenta Silmarillion (I) - 1. Of the Valar

"You are lucky I was ready this time, you silly Statue," said the Queen of Starlight in the most quiet tone she could muster. She summoned the pale hand to her lips in a chaste manner. She had known the lone effigy for most of her life and cherished his friendship despite his deviant ways and the wicked company he kept.

"That is not one of our hounds, Statue," the King of Feathers disagreed, chuckling. "We have wolfhounds but no sheepdogs. Telkelion's daughter, Duchess Elmarya, has recently acquired one however." A gift from Fíllaniël. Once a ward of Telkelion, she had become a surogate older sister of Telkelion's only child.

"Dressing hounds seems like something the Phoenix's daughter would do," said the Queen of Starlight. It was easy to imagine the cute princess clothing even her cats in small pastel gowns. "Ah, here comes my niece! I'm surprised she looks this sullen at a masquerade..."

They saw the Gentle Lady, hurrying through a corridor of cedars with the Black Swan. She was complaining about the Phoenix having shot from their carriage to the ballroom instead of socializing first. The Black Swan insisted she needed to find the Lord of Unicorns who believed, against his own gut instinct, that the Phoenix would meet him in the holly grove; he needed to be dragged to the dancehall where his wife could be found. The stunning redhead took one cursory look at the trio yards away before vanishing past a row of trimmed hedges. She reappeared immediately, face first followed by her whole body, and stood akimbo. The Gentle Lady gawked at the Statue, oblivious of the Black Swan's laughter.

"Of all people you just had to choose Irmo!" whined the Gentle Lady, addressing the still Statue. "You could have been the Silver Snake! You are not the Dream Master. You are the Dream Crusher!" The Gentle Lady groaned more dramatically than was necessary then heaved a gusty sigh. She ran toward her aunt, uncle, and the offending Statue with her glorious titian hair streaming in her rush. "You are not my date," the Gentle Lady affirmed, forcing a smile for the sake of impressed passersby noticing how well paired the elleth and the Statue were. "You must kiss me anyway since we match each other. Be a good sport." The Gentle Lady glared at him when the Statue refused to accede. "I will rip off that mask and make you kiss me!" the small Elf woman hollered, an empty threat. When he still continued to rebel, she stamped her glass shoe.

"I AM YOUR QUEEN!" Shrilled the Gentle Lady. Feeling violent, needing to hit him with something (she learned from the best, he often lectured her about using anything at her disposal to fight with in the wilderness) in outrage, she ripped one of the poppies off his rod and slapped him across his mask with it until the delicate severed flower floated to the lush earth. "I'm not asking you to snog me, for Nienna's sake!" The Gentle Lady screamed in hysterical stridency, hurling the green stem at the labythrine motifs of his burnished mask. "A peck, man, a peck! It will be quick! We may never have this opportunity again!" She presented her cheek desperately to the small mouth hole of his mask, looking as if she might swoon any second for the benefit of spectators. Inevitably she threw up her hands in resignation, frustrated with his appalling show of resistance. The Gentle Lady shrieked at him like a harpy, so incensed was she by his dogged unwillingess to please her.

"Fine then, hmpf!" surrendered the Gentle Lady. "Smoke and Mirrors is here FOR YOU. I was nearly murdered giving her a makeover FOR ME-"

The Black Swan whispered to the Gentle Lady.

"FOR YOU!" The Gentle Lady corrected herself without a hitch. "I expect a report when the festivities are over. I hope one day you stop carrying the chains of the past to embrace the freedom of the future."

With a haughty expression, receiving a silver pitcher from the Black Swan, the Gentle Lady sashayed toward a drinking fountain in the near distance which her friend pointed to.

"Whoever could that be?" said the Queen of Starlight, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She nodded at the Emperor of Shadows being harassed by his blonde lover, the Woman Crowned With the Sun. The Lady of Flame and Mother of Pearl were in inexorable persuit, both of them looking irate. "Pardon me if I'm fairly certain you have mischief planned with one of your...black-clad friends," she accused the Statue with a reproving stare. She kneaded the Cloud with the Silver Lining between his shaggy ears to comfort herself and told him again that he was a good boy.

"Well, she is looking rather murderous," the King of Feathers muttered under his breath, watching the Lady of Flame.

We should perhaps venture closer to discover their identities." The Queen of Starlight skimmed her hands over the back fur of the Cloud With the Silver Lining. "When nature calls, one must answer." She knelt and whispered in the hound's ear, petting his fluffy side: "If you want fun, there is a dark walker for you to play with..."

*

"Who is that?" The Woman Crown With the Sun pressured the Emperor of Shadows for the umpteenth time.


He finally looked at the Mother of Pearl out of annoyance. He gave her the same fleeting expression of disdain before continuing his stride toward a solitary fountain spouting water out of a stone fish's mouth. "Some pathetic idiot who's a friend of my various enemies, I expect," drawled the Emperor of Shadows.

"Do you recognize her, the woman in black?" The Woman Crowned With the Sun looked back at the wrathful elleth with the red snarling lips. "She knows who you are somehow. She followed us out of the ballroom."

"Another nobody, I presume" the Emperor of Shadows replied scathingly, avoiding the revelation that he had contacted the Lady of Flame in the Unseen World. He cast a gimlet stare at his hellbent persurer before wresting his bright gaze from her burning hateful eyes. He clung tenaciously to his devil-may-care facade although he was terrified, wishing he brought Anguirel and a legion of Moles here to if peace collapsed. "We are leaving once I sate my thirst."

"You've ruined my night!" accused the Woman Crowned With the Sun. "You told me that wouldn't happen, dear."

"I said I'd give you a night to remember..." He shrugged, restraining an explosive cackle. The Emperor of Shadows thrived on discord.

"You're going to wish that I'd forget," she snapped coldly at him.

The heat of her tempestuous rage emanated powerfully enough to disturb her husband.

To make matters worse, a small Elven redhead with sultry green eyes and a head-turning beauty randomly appeared, emerging from an aisle of odorous pines with a catlike grace. The Elf-lady carried a silver pitcher in her regal stride toward the fountain. Alongside the woman in grey was a woman in black, an elleth likewise, who held a silver tray of flutes. Despite her foul mood, the Woman Crowned With the Sun lit up like one of Gandalf's fireworks at the sight of the Elf-girls, ascertaining who they were by height and the familiarity of both their eyes and carriage. They all squeed in unison; the Emperor of Shadows was rather certain that their high-pitched squeals of delight could have been heard far as the Lonely Mountain. The women blew each other a multitude of kisses then showered one other with a profuse deluge of compliments regarding their respective exquisiteness. They also bemoaned the all too swift flight of the Phoenix who they wished could have tarried just a little for this spectacular reunion.

When the Emperor of Shadows spoke, thanking them for for the beverage, the woman in the black swan mask nimbly sprang aside whilst keeping immaculate position of each vessel on her tray.

"I choose who can drink from my fountains," said the Estë Impersonator loftily, hand on one hip. She heard him speak and saw the reaction of the Black Swan; she knew who he was. "Rats aren't allowed," added the Gentle Lady with emphasis, belittling the Emperor of Shadows whose heraldic emblem of Aman she knew was a bat. She dimissed the Black Swan who needed to find the Lord of Unicorns and started serving drinks. "Hello, Girl on Fire!" said the Gentle Lady with too much ebullience. "Would you like some water?" she asked sweetly, pouring the contents of her pitcher into a new flute. She passed it to the Lady of Flame. "Perhaps you'd like one as well, Mother of Pearl?" the Gentle Lady offered her kindly. "I must find my partner!" she cried, "But first I want to make sure you both are happy with your refreshment. Oh, look! Here comes a sheepdog...."

The Emperor of Shadows stifled a low growl when the King of Feathers and the Queen of Starlight appeared. He heard the unmistakeable voice of the Gentle Lady; if she was who he thought then the King and Queen were relatives of hers. The Emperor of Shadows started to sweat visibly.

"You didn't happen to spit from Ulmo's balcony?" the King of Feathers acerbically stated, standing nearer to the Lady of Fire.

The Emperor of Shadows broad grin returned. He said nothing, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

The tensity between her The Emperor of Shadows, the Lady of Fire, and the King of Feathers mounted. The Gentle Lady slurped down her water in excitement, shifting her glance rapidly between the three Elves. The Woman Crowned With the Sun attempted to distract the livid Lady of Fire who plainly loathed the Emperor of Shadows. "I love your perfume!"

"As do I!" blurted the Gentle Lady and squeed in exaltation. "It's one of my solid perfumes, Piëmanaitë-"

"Blessed Berries!" said the Woman Crowned With the Sun and bounced in place, clapping her hands with a shrill squee that tormented her husband's eardrums.

"Mmhmmm," affirmed the Gentle Lady. "Luscious berries with a kiss of honeysuckle and alluring middle notes of golden amber," quoted the perfumist, twirling a red skein of her hair idly. She knew the extravagant descriptions of all her products by heart. The King of Feathers blinked, slowly riveting his attention on the Lady of Flame, with a subtle fond smile.


*

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The Seafarer's Son
The Balcony



"Mae govannen!" said the Seafarer's Son warmly, falling in step with the Gull. The Elf was strong as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength. His eyes were grey as a clear evening and in them was a light like the light of stars. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight and upon it was set a circlet of gold. He wore a damask belted tunic of peacock blue fastened by golden clasps and an olive draped cape. A mask of abalone pearl concealed hid identity yet Vilya, the famed gold and sapphire Ring of Power, revealed his true nature. He accommpanied the Gull upstairs amidst a throng of party-goers, escaping the notice of his beloved Nightingale speaking with the princely Silver Eagle. She had shown him her dress and mask before leaving Rivendell, unknowing that her father would attend.

The Seafarer's Son permitted the Nightingale to visit Ulmo's realm with Halcyon Guards of the Imladris Host. They travelled seperately, weeks apart. He loved his child; he did not want the Nightingale to assume he was monitoring her so she could enjoy herself. The Seafarer's Son knew the Nightingale missed her Lórien visits. She lived with him permanently in Imladris. The Misty Mountains were growing increasingly more dangerous to risk frequent travels between the valley and the woods of her grandmother. He did not want her to be a caged bird however; Eriador was perilous for journeying but less so than the harrowing routes between his abode and the Lady's.

"Ulmo, the Lord of Waters!" The Seafarer's son gaily hailed. The humble Half-Elf swept a deferential bow before the ruler of Lindon when he reached the balcony with the Gull. He smiled at the old bearded Elf and gripped his forearm in fellowship; they had been confidants for eons. They observed the tension in the garden below from their vantage point near the marble balustrade, looking upon the Emperor of Shadows and the Lady of Flame. "We must not this dispute spiral into violence. There will be chaos in your home which is by all rights the First Homely House." The Seafarer's Son's thick eyebrows beetled together. "We must extinguish the inferno, the Gull and you and I. Perhaps we can prevent a Fourth Kinslaying..." Elrond vacated the balcony with them and descended a carpeted grand stairway with the Lord and Earl of Lindon swift as they could without frightening any partygoers. This is the Third Age. In this era, Elvenkind must not succumb to revenge. We have a more evolved sensibility...or well we should."

*



Nielluin and Carnil, the Azure Bee and Crimsonstar
One Who Dreams Alone and the Gentle Lady


In the Garden

"Tinúviel...halted in wonder...and Beren came to her.
But as she looked on him, doom fell upon her, and she loved him..."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien

"A man is allowed to fall in love with
a redhead at least once in his life."

- Moriel, years ago, out of character


One Who Dreams Alone wandered through Círdan's garden. Eventually his aimless straying brought him to a clearing. It was encircled by lovely swaths of Forlindon wisteria and bordered with lavender flowers of night-blooming morning-glory. He happened upon an elvish couple dancing in a glade and paused, entranced. The woman wore a blue dress with straps of diamond. Its V-neck bodice was corseted at back and her tulle skirt sparkled in crystals glimmering with blue light of Nielluin, a constellation known as the Bee of Azure. Its showy translucent wings glinted in the lanternlight. It was the piercing flame of her eyes which marked her as a High Elf. Those brilliant blue orbs shone through the holes of her midnight-blue mask, one elaborately accented with with starry designs of mithril and silvery swirls of glitter. Rare blue garnets in braided white gold dangled from her pointed ears. Her auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders, decorated with star ornaments.

The Azure Bee danced slowly in a neverending spin with a High Elf of imposing stature. His great muscular arms handled her lissome body with a reverent tenderness. He wore breeches and a coat of burgundy floral brocade. His red leather boots were tooled in designs of gold sparks. His mask of black iron prominently featured a rayed star of red-gold, a device symbolizing Carnil which Varda prepared to signify the awakening of the Elves. Blue eyes gleamed luminously through its holes, loving yet sorrowful as was her own...

They ceased dancing when they noticed One Who Dreams Alone gazing at them. The couple said nothing but raised their palms in greeting. One Who Dreams Alone inclined his head respectfully in quiet. He saluted them hand over heart although he wanted to rub some warmth into his cold limb since he felt rather chilled all a sudden.

When the Elves wordlessly gestured, the One Who Dreams Alone looked toward the place they pointed. A white bridge arched over a pool where the moon and a sprinkling of stars were wondrously reflected. A small Elven woman hasted nimbly across its graceful span. The toes of Her Dwarven glass heels were exquisitely distinguished in elaborate forms of birds, wings outspread, in Hithaeglir adamant. She wore a pearl grey dress which complemented her smooth ivory skin and flattered her curvaceous figure. Her skirt was made of organza and her floral diamond sash belt was of grey satin. The sheer crystal embellished sleeves and a plunging sweetheart neckline strikingly distinguished her lace bodice. A chaplet of pink flowers, Ered Luin mountain laurel, crowned her flowing carmine waves. Idrasaith's vine-like chandelier earrings of pink morganite adorned her pointed ears peeping through her luxuriant red locks. That variety of uncommon beryl, an Elfstone treasured amongst the Eldar, lavishly decorated her choker. She halted abruptly when she saw him.

Within Círdan's seaside mansion the Hymn of Lórien gathered in mystic beauty. The Gentle Lady beckoned him forward with a nail of shimmering silver polish. She gave him a winsome smile and reached for the hands of the Mortal with her beaded fingerless gloves of grey lace. She brought him to a fountain which shot thirty fathoms in the air, glimmering magically in the moonlight and the silver radiance of lamps strung along the boughs in a ring of towering cypress. "What do you think of my dress?" asked the vivacious Elf-lady in her breathy voice, Common Speech flawless. The Gentle Lady posed, positioning her arms behind her fiery hair.

The old man he once had been would have said something roguish, something awfully crass, but he was a changed person. He stood awestruck as his namesake had been when he beheld Lúthien upon a green hill on the eve of spring. "Divine," he simply murmured, spellbound by her pale beauty and sublime presence.

She was speechless in wonder, permitting him to caress one ginger wisp. She took a hesitant step away from him an instant later. She balled up her beringed hands in mock frustration and pouted. "Irmo is here tonight but my husband was not feeling so amorous..."

She mouthed their mutual friend's name with an exasperated rolling of her cerulean eyes. She wanted to placate One Who Dreams Alone who stood rigidly in dismay. He expected her to marry an Elf in the time they had been apart though he wished it not. She earnestly assured him it would have been just a mere peck that she wanted just for the sake of their matching costumes. She banished the frivolous concern with a disdainful wave of her hand, badly wanting to change the subject. Airien flung her garnet hair back and queenly set her chin. "I've travelled a long way, Drifter. I'll be damned if I leave this place without a kiss so off with that silly mask!"

"Take mine, doll. I'll take yours."

She eased the cowl of One Who Dreams Alone from his hat and giggled, whirling the tricorn into the shadows of the garden. "That will teach you to stop visiting milliners with Astaro. Hmpf!" She took off the Belfalas volto mask, revealing a ruggedly handsome albeit stoical face. A man in his late twenties. Pomaded brown hair and soft hazel eyes.


Image


It had been a long time since Beren Camlost had a merrier countenance. He touched the Gentle Lady's wrist, kissing her hand, when she stroked his masculine unshaven jaw. He gave the Gentle Lady a wan smile when she teased him that the Phoenix liked to call Beren Scruff. He delicately rid the elleth of her mask and cupped Airien Mereniel's cheek. When Elven men walked briskly near them, they gave Beren jealous glowering scowls, offended a Mortal had robbed them of a fair Elf-maid.

Image



"Don't look at them, look at me," objected Airien, snatching his hand. His left arm joined the right around her hourglass waist as bidden. She let out a gasp of pleasure when he pulled her close. Beren whispered Airien's name, thrilled by the silken press of her. He kissed Airien's throat with an unbridled zeal. He lost himself in the amazing softness of her skin and Airien's feminine scent, blissfully enveloped in her sensuous fragrance of vanilla and myrrh and sandalwood. He deepened his kiss when her palm darted up the nape of his neck to grip his black hair, moaning. The music of pipes and horns, harps and organs, bells and chimes swelled in dreamy harmonious grandeur. She ended their embrace sooner than expected. "Uncle will be furious, Bear!" Airien worried mildly not because of what he did, she had welcomed the passion pouring out of him, but knowing the evidence would vanish gradually alarmed her. She was elated, deliriously so, but warily touched the faint reddened spot marking where his eager lips and rough stubble reveled.

"I apologize," he admitted truthfully, heart hammering. "It's been too long since our Rainy Night in the Ettindales." She nodded, trying to catch her breath, and swept stinging tears from her eyes. "When we came to Imladris after we rescued your uncle you told me to leave, to go back oversea." It wasn't an accusation. It was a reminder. She forestalled him from saying anymore, holding aloft a trembling hand when she glanced away painfully. She wanted him to stop, overwhelmed in the turbulence of her raging emotions, but he felt compelled to speak.

"What do you want?" He felt tired, defeated. He repeated this, more sharply than intended, when she didn't answer him. Beren grimaced when she lashed back in vicious return, claiming she didn't know. Airien faced away from Beren, holding herself. "This will keep happening," Beren observed in grim realization. "We keep living in the moment. Neither of us are willing to accept the consequences which come with having anything greater than...whatever this is..."

She wept in silence.

He thought of leaving her now in anger, not anger toward Airien but their hapless situation just like he had with Malvina and Nelladel. This chasm between her world and his was steadily widening as the years went by. This mess they were in, it was about destiny and distance. Maddening. Being committed to each other required many sacrifices from them both with lasting ramifications from Arda into Eternity. He felt himself falling although he was standing still. Choosing not to run away, Beren raising his strong arms for her to run into. They said nothing in despair, choosing to let the ethereal sweeping hymn to the Dreammaster's abode speak for their own seemingly unattainable desires. She fell into his kiss. He buried his fingers into her rich carnelian tresses as her arms circled his neck. Again he thought nothing of the entanglements but opened himself to the warmth of her love and she threw caution to the wind herself, ignoring the complications of her reckless venture with the Mortal she pined for.

"I will not say I am surprised," professed the Azure Bee, joyously joining hands with her husband. "She always fancied the men of Mankind rather than the men of Elvendom."

"He will be good to her," assured Crimsonstar. "He better or there will be Udûn to pay when I'm reborn." He somberly steered her away, leaving their daughter to her rhapsody in the cypress grove. "We must find the Cold Emerald."

"And the Dark Prince, melindo."

"I will not speak to him, melissë," swore Crimsonstar as he had for millennia.

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

High Lord of Imladris
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The Lady of Flames

Her rage was blinding her, she hadn't felt this sort of rage in, well, ages. Quite literally. And she'd spent a good long time locked away so she didn't commit a kinslaying then and she was about ready to commit one now. She caught the Woman Crowned with the Sun asking who people were and her lips closed from their snarl to a full lipped smirk, her eyes fixed on the throat of her intended victim. She would tear his throat out and his poisonous words with her bear hands even as he called her a nobody. Regret. That was an emotion he was going to learn tonight as she recognized his voice.

It had been so long since she had heard it and he had poisoned and twisted her and while she still was angry at Aigronding for doing what he did, Arasoron had been right killing him wouldn't bring Afarfin back, and Hatholdir had almost cost her her the only elves that she had been friends with after the death of her beloved. They were heading for a fountain and he glanced back at her and she could see that despite his boasts that she was a nobody, he felt... fear. Yes she was certain that was what she saw in those bright eyes. Those bright lying orbs that could fool so many others but not her. She had dealt with his lies and mostly broken free of them, now they could not hide from her and his voice made her speed her step until she was almost upon both the Emperor of Shadows and the Woman Crowned in the Sun.

The only thing that stopped her was the interruption of a read headed elleth with a pitcher, and she stopped in her track her hands tense, her mind recognizing that this was likely the child of someone close to Aigronding, and his wife, there were few that bore fiery red locks and she had to stop. Knowing full well she couldn't harm or kill Hatholdir here, too many people would see she realized her raging eyes finally taking in the surroundings about her. Far too many people indeed and with someone that Aigrondings wife was related to if she spoke... they would know her. Instead she stopped and smiled demurely, still looking at Hatholdir, wanting him to know fear more so than he already did. She reached out mentally, blocking any pleas from the cornered Mole King to allies that might be around, she would make sure no help was coming to his aid. Not this time.

She snorted slightly as the younger elleth spoke and realized who she was, knowing full well speaking in front of her, or openly threatening Hatholdir would get out with her about, she was not so sure on being called the Girl on Fire but could not help but chuckle as she called Hatholdir a rat. That was in Fuin's mind insulting to rats, she wasn't even sure she'd call him goblin drool and was rescued from having to speak by the appearance of Aigronding. She only knew that he had saved her because of his voice.

Lords of the Valar, she did not want to speak right now she'd be found out far to easily, especially with her friend right behind her.and she narrowed her eyes her attention still very much on Hatholdir and she noticed his brow was sweating, and she made sure to keep her mental projection keeping Hatholdirs mind in a very small bubble even if he didn't fully realize it since she was not touching his spirit, not yet anyways, however as The Woman crowned commented on her perfume she gave a small smile nodding graciously even if her eyes never left Hatholdir as she closed in the bubble that had kept him cut off from his friends and allies at this ball.

Mentally the bubble closed and in the unseen realm though she was still nodding and smiling and sipping at the refreshing water that she'd been given, her spirit grabbed Hatholdir hard, raking him mentally with blast after blast of disgust and hatred for his lies.

'Dirt digging beggar, who are you to call me nothing? You can't even reach your allies you're so weak.' Her voice raged like a hurricane in his head now though she was very carefully not to completely overwhelm him, make him drop like the fly he was before her wrath and fury. Years of training as a healer had made it so she knew full well the limits of what a person could take, and she had not patience for this man. 'Hatholdir, wretch of Gondolin, kinslayer and false friend.' She blasted him letting her spirit buffet him leaving him struggling to maintain his external composure as her eyes stayed fixed upon him she spoke no more but let his own spirit twist and struggle trying to escape her wrath. The chains he had seen before upon her were loosed and now he was at her mercy utterly until she let him go.

She figured he would prefer the shrill shrieks of his wife and Airien to what he was now enduring. Perhaps he would learn some manners now, as she smiled hearing The Woman Crowned with the Sun and the Gentle Lady discussing the perfume she was wearing. Rusca had chosen well all of this and her face was calm and serene her eyes sharp her lips upturned for there were very few that would be able to tell what she was doing, and even fewer that would be able to see it and confirm what it was she was doing with how serene her face was and how she was still responding though only in nods and smiles and the odd tip of her glass to words she found favourable.


Aule

The woman in black and stormed past him like a pyroclastic flow from a volcano vengeful and hot, consuming and not to be interrupted. He stayed out of her way though he did follow Mother of Pearl when she followed the Emperor of Shadow not knowing exactly what was going on. He was confused and intrigued at the gathering at the fountain though he hung back. not knowing the group that was there, at least he was not sure that he knew the group when he caught the voice of a friend.

Aigronding. He knew that voice anywhere, though he did not know the others and the woman in black (The Lady of Flames) did not speak something seemed so familiar about her as well though he could not place it. He crept towards them from the back unsure of what was going on or why she had stopped so suddenly, perhaps she really had been about to kill this other elf and she was just barely stopping herself. He had defended against kinslayings never taking part in them, but he wanted to stop this but did not know how. He stood at a loss, hoping that there would be some way to stop this from escalating further though how he would get Aigronding to believe that it was him, he was not sure. He stepped forward though he stayed silent waiting for a proper place to jump in as he could tell something was going ill with the Emperor of Shadows as the Mother of Pearl had called him.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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She of Smoke and Mirrors
in the Ballroom, with The Huntress
@David Bowie


The stranger had asked to hide, not to have her motives dissected. Yet for all the fair garb that they might hurl at her, She of Smoke and Mirrors was not one prone to acceptance without some consideration. Better forearmed than forlorn. Such habits were natural, survival, out in the world, but here ? Who knew if the usual rules would apply here. If there were indeed rules at all here, she was only certain that she knew them not.

As a compromise, she settled into the silence of observation. Turning from the reeling, spinning tapestry of frolics to peruse the Huntress, she was gifted insight. At least as to whom the Sinda stood beside. Much of what the woman said bred more questions than answers, save to conclude that her fellow was feeling as out of place here as was she. In the ballroom, in Lindon, in her own existence.

Huntress, then, it is,Smoke and Mirrors repeated the other’s alias, as one might mull over a sample of wine to judge it’s merit and a smile became evident, even upon thin lips. “Any given predator is prey to some other. Often the most deadly appear prey themselves to draw their bait. I am Smoke and Mirrors, for all that a name is worth,” the Elleth tucked her chin into her throat and extended one bare arm as an offering, her own name for the night. “Beyond the rumour and repute which mere words may gather like a stone rolled over moss.

She had lost all train of thought somewhere along that contemplation, and the further astoundment of having only drunk one glass of punch … So She of Smoke and Mirrors peered still from where she had stowed herself. Somewhere safe behind debating of the woman. Company a life-raft here, from the head-spinning scene that swam before them, vast and dauntless as the mighty sea. Toes dipped amidst the shallows of their conversation, a bold effort in exploring, where the shore was still in sight. But the possibility persisted, of how deep the unknown delved. And that if one cast away their anchor, step by tiny step, they might soon come deep, be caught and carried away from all they’d tethered their life to.

Silks and sounds, that’s all it is,” she concluded, most out of a want to rob strength back from the ballroom that engulfed her senses. “Although I’ll admit that I don’t completely understand it. Even having seen such things often before,” she confessed, “and supposed that they seemed strange only because I was outside of it all. Watching the world through a window, the wall pressed against my back, just waiting in the wings. It is all too easy to forget we are all, always a part of it. Perhaps the trick is to think not, but simply do. Or else do naught but think for always.

She was rambling. The woman too, had slipped for but a second, almost given more than she meant to away. A laugh. A blush. And the Sinda took a moment to process what she never had been asked before. Might be she had misheard.

It won’t hurt to ask,” she supposed, upon her great ignorance of the subject of dancing. The crowd before them might as well have been conducting some strange mating ritual which she had stumbled upon, and could not tear eyes from after. “Though if I give answer, it may lead to great lamentation” Leaning in, the Elleth was forced to explain. “I have never hitched my yoke to such perfected strains as the melodies here, and I am not accustomed to soft things. Not ever. Your feet may well prove the unhappy prey to my uncultured tread.



The Statue
In the Gardens, with .. all the group of arguing folk (and the sheepdog)
@Tharmáras, @Fuin Elda, @Annúnfalas,


A subtle compliance of his head informed the Queen of Starlight that the Statue was grateful for her discretion. Though somewhat dismissive of the couple’s exposition.

I can scarce name all your many children,“ he lied, idly rolling a hand upon it’s wrist to indicate an apparent disregard for that subject. “Do not expect me to recount your menagerie of pets also.” Eyes were rolled.

Though they were not responsible for the dog, the regal couple directed his query toward other, likely perpetrators. And he scoffed unashamedly to hear them name the ‘duchess’. For he had long since eschewed all nature of hierachy. Kings, lords, captains, they all died as easily and often as did all the rest. There was no point he saw in wasting time on niceties, and he would certainly not bow before any who flaunted their title before him. He had all but forgotten his own in all the long years since any had spoke it aloud.

Before the Statue might assume though who the ‘Phoenix’ was, the Queen of Starlight heralded her niece. They must likely have shared the secrets of their costumes beforehand, else he was quite at a loss how easily they knew each other in disguise. The confidence of the approaching redhead all but saw him lose his breath, until she and her brunette friend were close enough to note the drop in height. As soon as the Black Swan expressed an obsession with finding a ‘Unicorn’ within the grounds, she gave herself away by content rather than by the character of her voice. Still he said naught and allowed her to assume that she was unknown here. Having once revealed her truth openly before, he was wary of her patience now for honesty, and aware that she might not even yet forgiven him for it. As for the tiny figure, crowned by fire, for all that she had been named for ‘Varda’s niece, might have been some other redhead prone to temper tantrums. One from long ago.


She must have heard him speaking to the King of Feathers though for “You are not my date !” she announced, clearly more for the benefit of anyone passing who might have thought so, than for his own assumptions on the subject.

Lady, I am not your anything,” he informed her calmly, and might have gone so far to mention that in fact, she was no lady, least of all ‘his queen’ .. for there was only one ‘niece’ she could possibly be in truth. “Neither am I posing as the Vala Irmo,” he did seek to clarify though. “Rather a simple statue constructed in tribute to those who are not as we. It would be heretical, after all, to assume the guise of …” reflecting – belatedly – within quite whose exalted company he stood, an awkward cough sped the argument away. The ‘Gentle Lady’ had not even noticed of course, fussing now that he should set a kiss upon her, as though it were such a thing to pass between folk without due meaning.

I must respectfully decline. For so many countless .. reasons it would be improper and exhausting to list aloud .. ” he informed her, manners holding back none of the intent that hung about the fair words, foul meaning. Still she insisted, supposing very rightly so, that there might never come an opportunity for this again. “Do you promise ?” was all he offered her to that, and earned a spite in the face, from his own arsenal no less. Now that did raise the memory of a lady he’d once kissed. The only one ever. This was no more she though than this was a lady. Not by half.
Brandishing the staff at length, the Statue held his tiny antagonist at bay, preserving his space. She muttered more nonsense, about smoke and mirrors, the past, the future … he just rolled his eyes. Wondering if any of this made sense to his friends, and how much the fair little thing had drunk before she arrived.

But the Queen of Starlight had already observed that her retreating kin claimed a new victim. And, accused of ‘planning mischief’, he just had to retort “Whatever makes you think that it is any of it planned ?” and raise an eyebrow none of them could note, when he saw the ‘friend in black’ who had been referenced; an elf that the Statue would recognise from that all-knowing smirk, as surely as would the real Irmo know his brother, Mandos.


But any supposing of his own smile died on unseen lips. The King of Feathers was right for the Emperor of Shadows did look to be surrounded and ready to be smothered by the wrath of a tense crowd. He barely heard the ladies’ efforts to defuse the tension over a fond familiarity of the Woman Crowned with the Sun’s gentle tone. His brain was slow in keeping up with his feet but he took the way of shadows to skirt around the oblivious throng. The last time, after all, that he had charged recklessly in to assist a dear friend in dire peril of being harmed, it had ended .. not so very well. He was glad he could not see the expression of King of Feathers, at this almost reconstruction. Instead, shrunk into the vegetation and edged his passage toward the fountain, slow and subtle. The actual masked real, damaged, stone statue of Irmo was already at the fountain after all. Where else should he be but here ?

There was a fractured expectation on the air, like the unspoken approach of lightning, that the stoneless pretender neither understood nor liked one bit. With all those present, even the few of them he could properly identify, any could have been responsible. But taut voices and tension both abounding, like knives prickled his senses. He felt as though someone had flayed them all free of the superficiality of skin; it exposed feelings, thoughts, both ran alarmingly rampant and yet indistinguishable. Far too wild and too many at once for him to make sense of them. It was not aimed at him. He knew that much. He certainly would have known if it was. He merely felt as though stood in the middle of a wild stampede that had not even noticed him, and railed all around, oblivious, and focused .. elsewhere.


The Statue’s most notable reaction emerged when The King of Feathers asked about some spitting from the balcony. Then pale eyes were drawn there, partly to escape the anarchy erupting all about him. But the sight of the Blizzard stood upon that balcony, and gazing down now in the direction of their malcontent … his fingers tightened around the staff. For she was not stood there alone. A figure shrouded in shadow was close to hand. And his lips behind their pewter shield parted when he recalled why she’d suggested he come at all this eve. Maybe he was sickening for something. Personally he blamed the excesses of perfume that were fumigating the gardens tonight.

If any had observed his presence any amongst all the clamour of their gathered angst, they might wonder to have seen a seeming statue move through the bushes to stand by close enough to listen. Close enough to be at hand. Yet on investigating, they should only find the real statue of the Vala Irmo stood beside his fountain; solid stone and face covered by a same pewter mask, to veil the damage done by recent storm.




OOC :@Tharmáras, That is fine, thanks for the headsup. For the sake of not too long a post here, I will be putting my segments for The Blizzard and the Phoenix in a separate post as well)
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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The Lord of Unicorns
The Unicorn Prince
The Mousegirl
The Black Swan


OOC: I'll write next for Cassie again and Fuin.

In the Garden Before He Found his Phoenix


The intriguing appearance of a Elf child summoned him to the holly hedge, lured hither by her ecstatic waving. She was a small redheaded girl costumed as a blue butterfly. The creature her dress adorably imitated was a favorite of his daughter's, one she treasured in the form of a stuffed comfort toy she cuddled and slept with. He was jolted an instant before she leapt nimbly from the lofty perch, hearing the ebullient cry of her honeyed voice. It was easily recognizable.

The Lord of Unicorns ran toward the hedgerow. His great muscled arms launched out to snatch her from the air, rescuing the Blue Butterfly from the prickly bushes she would have fallen through. She was tiny, light as a feather. Smiling broadly, strong hands holding her slight waist with tender ease, the Lord of Unicorns spun himself in place to whirl the Blue Butterfly. Her tulle skirt caught the spring breeze wafting through the garden as did her silken veined wings of sable and powder blue; he hoped it made his little princess feel like she was flying.

"I want to see my Caramírië," the Lord of Unicorns told his butterfly, snuggling her on the gazebo's cushioned upholstered bench. He delicatedly removed her antennaed mask, revealing a joyous beautiful face which strongly resembled his wife's. "Perhaps your mother and I shouldn't have told you about Elwing since not all Elves can fly, tingilindënya ("My Twinkling Star," Quenya)," the Lord of Unicorns gently remonstrated her. "I must punish you somehow or you'll try that silly stunt again..." His solemn countenance dissolved in seconds, replaced by a lopsided grin. Cara suffered a long tickling barrage from her father in consequence for her reckless fall. When she was properly chastened, he dabbed Cara's slicked brow with a linen kerchief from his white tunic's gold lining. "You are up past your bedtime, my love," lamented the Lord of Unicorns, knowing what he had to do.

He softly cupped Cara's chin and told his daughter, in abject sorrow, that she needed to go home. He planted a kiss between Cara's auburn brows before cradling her to his chest. "Aunt Airien got you this dress and I am sure Girithniel made your crown braid, my darling, but your mother and father need to spend some time together alone....if he can find her." The Lord of Unicorns rocked Cara in his powerful yet tender embrace and nuzzled her titian hair nestled in a circlet of velvety indigo flowers. She was his youngest baby and, being the immaculate image of his beloved, she was and would always be the apple of his eye. "Do not worry, Nana ("Mommy," Sindarin) and Ada ("Daddy," Sindarin) will bring the ball to our house," he promised, wiping her big blue eyes and dimpled cheeks with compassionate strokes of his fingers. "You'll have your dance with Ada. You want that don't you?"

"Will Nana dance with me?"

He gestured at the sulking Unicorn Prince - Anarondo, his son, who was dressed and had been masked similarly to him but in a suit of blue and silver - to enter the gazebo. He enfolded him in his sheltering embrace and swore to Rondo that the Phoenix would save him a dance when she came home with Ada. "I suppose you are responsible for the children's shenanigans this evening?" The Lord of Unicorns archly asked their willowy sitter who stood aside, holding herself. Girithniel wore a mouse-like chryselephantine mask of gold and blackened ivory. Her pale yellow gown shimmered in glittering crystal beads. Girithniel's thick brown hair was unbound, richly tumbling over her bared shoulders. Crowning her locks was a chaplet of silver and gold elanor of Lothlórien.

"Th-The tw-twins b-begged m-me, L-Lord M-Mayor," Girithniel stuttered. Although she had no reason to fear him, especially considering his amused smile, Girithniel was afraid of everything. That's what usually happens to a person who was swallowed and spat out of a large sea creature. Well, if you weren't Hatholdir, of course.

"They whined stridently until you capitulated."

Girithniel blushed then bit her lip, bobbing her head in affirmation.

"You must return the children to our manor," said the Lord of Unicorns, giving his daughter to Girithniel to hold. "Let them stay awake so their mother and I can give them a fun-filled evening when we return. I don't know how long we'll be tonight." His dread of the situation was mounting though he appeared calm. He was hoping she would find him outside the palace instead. Now there was the dire risk of a man encountering his wife, a lively elleth of striking beauty, before he could be seen with her first.

"She will be searching for you inside," said the Black Swan, swinging the garden gate open, affirming what he worried. "I'll help you seek her out. I suggest we hasten quickly before someone acts too forward and you have to...get aggressive." She ended her sentence with low chilling laughter.

The Lord of Unicorns stifled a chuckle. "I have a reputation to protect," he drawled in reply. "I'm not the kinslaying kind of Elf-"

"Unless someone became flirty toward your wife."

Rondo must knew the meaning of forward, perhaps having learned of its context from One Who Dreams Alone, since the child's pale cheeks flushed Caranthir red. "If anyone is forward with Nana, you have to chuck that fleeging knave out of a window, Ada!" Rondo insisted with startling vehemence.

"Of course, my boy," assured the Lord of Unicorns, deciding not to do lecture him about language this time, and mussed his blonde hair. He accompanied Girithniel, the twins, and the Black Swan away from the garden.

"This is a romantic place."

The Lord of Unicorns looked back at the monument of the legendary lovers and the luxurious enclosure in the secluded holly grove. He smiled wanly at the Black Swan and nodded with a whimsical expression.

"I'm sorry she didn't meet you here," she commented with what seemed like earnesty which was rather surprising coming from her. "Perhaps sometime she'll oblige you at a sweet location of your choosing."

The Lord of Unicorns said nothing, just looked at her gratefully for hoping so, and wished his friend was right.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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The Grapevine
finishing her dance with The Wolf
@Moriel

The Grapevine smiled once again at her dance partner, who had been nothing short of cordial and well-mannered in the entire time they had spoken and swayed together on the dance floor. Her smile, however, was far more sentimental this time. The Wolf had reminded her of the great friendship her kind had once shared with his and the regrettable events that had severed it. She had marched alongside her brothers and sisters in arms in The Last Alliance and witnessed with her own eyes what Men and Elves working together could accomplish. Perhaps a dance between two individuals who had been strangers just moments before could never be enough to bridge centuries of division, but every small act of understanding and endearment could lead them all one step further to closing the gap between their races. The one she had adopted in her heart as a second father had taught her to hope in such a way.

“There is no need to apologize, noble Wolf,” she replied kindly, as the operatic ballad of the Elf singer ended in a prolonged and faint tonation. “I have lived over sixty-four lives of mortal men and have, unfortunately, failed to educate myself in the musical arts as much as I would have liked to by now. I too have been a soldier once before, and I understand the demands of service. Perhaps none of us, immortal or long-lived will ever feel that we have had enough time.The Grapevine released her arms slowly from around his neck, and before the musicians could strike up a new, more jovial tune, she reached for a ring around one of her gloved fingers and removed it. The Grapevine then deposited the emerald band with an amethyst stone set upon it in one of The Wolf’s broad hands. Finally, she closed his hand for him and looked into his blue eyes one last time. “A token, to remember me by,” she said, her serene voice dropping to a whisper, “I hope you and I will meet again. Until that time, farewell. May the Valar protect you wherever you tread.”

She raised the verdant skirts of her ballgown ever so slightly and curtsied as two other masked dancers passed in front of her, and when they had walked on by, so too had The Grapevine vanished from The Wolf’s sight.


*

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The Mother of Pearl, The Cloud With a Silver Lining, The Grapevine
Ulmo, Lord of Waters, and The Gull
confronting the Emperor of Shadows and speaking with everyone in The Gardens
@Tharmáras, @Ercassie, and @Fuin Elda

Have you ever heard a word so many times that it loses all meaning? Or been insulted repeatedly in such a way that it can no longer affect you? The Mother of Pearl had. Countless instances by her childhood governess and fellow shipwright; over the course of thousands of years, and spanning across almost four different Ages of the world. The one responsible for this hard-earned numbness was named Eärmana, known and rightfully so, among the Elves in Middle-earth as The Terror of Lindon.

“Pathetic idiot”. The Mother of Pearl mouthed the words inaudibly to herself with a certain degree of confusion, wondering what she had done exactly to deserve such contempt. True, she had done little to hide her distaste for the attire of the Emperor of Shadows, but it had not warranted such indignity.

The Mother of Pearl looked to her companion Aulë with a flat smile. “Not very polite is he?” she remarked with a slight shrug of her sun-kissed shoulders, “A shame that not every guest in attendance tonight can be as civilized as you Great Smith.” She patted his linked arm affectionately. “Surely he must know that my Elven hearing works just as well as yours. I am quite certain, however, that this dark-clad gentleman was counting on that.”

“Well then, shall we make these unorthodox introductions formal?” suggested The Mother of Pearl calmly, as she gently urged Aulë to join her in approaching the Emperor of Shadows and what appeared to be his other half, The Woman Crowned with the Sun. At least, judging from the way she scolded him.

...

The Cloud With a Silver Lining let out a despairing yelp, jumping several feet in the air. The stone tree had come to life! He had heard his emel speak of pointy hats with long tree sticks and their unnatural “magics” during his bedtime stories, but the sheepdog had never actually seen this sorcery for himself until tonight. Hurry strawberry-walker, we must run away! he barked urgently at The Queen of Starlight, prodding her with his muzzle. But she would not heed him.

After watching both two-legged walkers speak to The Statue in a welcoming manner, he placed a paw over his eyes. The Cloud With a Silver Lining whined in disappointment, folding his ears back in concern. Fools! He will put a “cursed” on you, he thought hopelessly. If the strawberry-walker would not listen, then he had no choice but to stay and guard her.

The Cloud With a Silver Lining remained at her side apprehensively, however, it wasn’t too long before more walkers appeared and eased the numerous worries of The Cloud With a Silver Lining. One two-legs seemed not very nice towards the other walkers though. And sensing that his new “bestest” friend, strawberry-walker, was not at all pleased to see the Emperor of Shadows, The Cloud With a Silver Lining leaped in front of her and assumed a threatening stance. Do not worry strawberry-walker, I will protect you, he barked, before bounding towards the bad walker.

...

As the distance between The Mother of Pearl, her companion Aulë, and the reunion taking place in the gardens diminished, she studied the Emperor of Shadows more carefully. There was something familiar about him that she could not quite make out. A memory, faint and lingering on the edge of other more instant recollection proved elusive to grasp until the Emperor of Shadows spoke again. Then, in a flash of thought, a torrent of vivid images burst like a stone dam in the recesses of her Elven mind.

The Queen Seashell in splinters… broken planks she had sawed with her own hands, rising and falling in the crest of distant waves… Narellin, devoured by a fish-dragon… the poor elleth… reuniting with Tharmáras on the piers of Eglarest… a tall, dark stranger standing alongside him…

The Mother of Pearl placed an ivory-colored glove to her mouth, her complexion now pale as the moonlight. There was so much she wanted to say at that moment, so much perhaps, that needed to be said, but all that the overwhelmed Mother of Pearl could manage was a disjoined and murmuring -

“Y-you… It is you?”

Steps away from the cluster that had now gathered in the gardens, the soft footsteps of The Mother of Pearl stilled. The fingers of her laced gloves began to twitch, and then - “Ah!” she exclaimed, a fierce and burning pain ran sharply across the faded scars on her wrists and back. The Mother of Pearl hunched over in agony, one arm still linked with the gentlemanly Aulë and the other wrapped around her own waist. She looked in torment toward The Lady of Flames, who was garbed in a soft black dress that had been studded with deep-red garnets. She seemed to focus on the Emperor of Shadows in intervals, yet even as she drank casually from a silver flute, The Mother of Pearl knew a non-physical assault was taking place.

She had been born in the Falas and therefore, could not see with her own eyes into the Unseen realm. However, after her long and agonizing years in the belly of an Angmarian torture chamber, The Mother of Pearl had developed a keen sensitivity to the otherworldly: good, evil, and all that resided in-between. Thanks to the sorcerer responsible.

“Enough of this,” said another, calling for an end to the unbecoming hostilities taking place in his own home. His voice was stern like the wind at sea and yet tranquil like a peaceful ocean. Ulmo, Lord of Waters had arrived at last. The Gull following behind him and another robed in an astonishing shade of blue, with a circlet of gold resting above his brow. The Seafarer’s Son.

The Lord of Waters approached The Lady of Flames calmly from behind, resting an aged hand on one of her shoulders gently. He leaned his painted beard close to her head and whispered soothingly, a polite request for her ears only. “I understand what has led you to do this, but I must ask you to release him,” uttered Ulmo, looking to the Emperor of Shadows and then once again at The Lady of Flames, empathy and disappointment weighing heavily in his voice, “Let anger not be your master. Now, let him go.” He returned his hand to himself, trusting The Lady of Flames to do the right thing and release her wrathful grip on the Emperor of Shadows.

“You have had quite the effect on our guests tonight.” Ulmo went on to say, sounding almost amused as he addressed the Emperor of Shadows, “I see nothing has changed about you in that respect.” He turned around to where The Mother of Pearl, who seemed to be recovering from another horrendous post-traumatic episode, attempted to steady herself with the aid of Aulë. “Arien will soon be upon us here in the coastland,” continued Ulmo, motioning for The Gull to lend The Mother of Pearl a hand, “However, allowing you to remain here is not up to me. For you see, while this masquerade is in fact taking place in my abode, it is not my ball.”

“Nor is it mine,” added The Gull, wrapping an arm across the exposed back of the suffering elleth. “No,” said The Mother of Pearl, catching her breath with a pained smile, “It is mine.” She shot a playful wink at The King of Feathers, who would no doubt enjoy what was about to happen next. “And this ‘pathetic idiot’ believes you have overstayed your welcome Emperor of Shadows,” she said, before beckoning for the sentinels posted at the entrance of the gardens to seize him, a bit let-down that her reunion with Hatholdir could not have been a more joyful one. Nevertheless, he had brought this upon himself. No one else was to blame. “You have made my guests feel unwanted and insulted the hostess who was kind to have invitations sent out to your island dwelling. I am afraid I must ask you to leave immediately, and since you cannot be trusted to exhibit decorum, these loyal men-at-arms will ensure that you are escorted from the property without delay.”

The Mother of Pearl gazed at The Woman Crowned with the Sun morosely. “I am sorry your time here was spoiled, and I understand if you wish to accompany your husband. I would ask, however, that you remain here and enjoy the pleasant gathering of old friends you have found. Nevertheless, I will respect your decision, as I hope you will understand mine. However, if you do not understand, I am afraid we shall simply have to agree to disagree.” The Mother of Pearl, feeling much better now than she had a moment before, would say no more than that. And as the sentinels grabbed the Emperor of Shadows from both of his arms, The Cloud With a Silver Lining launched his attack.

He had been stalking his prey steadily, zig-zagging across the various flower beds to avoid detection; and when The Cloud With a Silver Lining had crawled up to within range of the bad walker, he saw the shiny-walkers grab hold of him. It was at this moment that the sheepdog had chosen to propel himself.

The Cloud With a Silver Lining threw himself upon the Emperor of Shadows, barking with the ferocity of a feral and rabid wolf. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as his dark claws tore violently at layers of silk and satin. “Someone get that dog off of him!” someone shouted. “No, let him! That jerk had it coming!” shouted another. The Cloud With a Silver Lining felt a walker’s strong arms lift him up, but not wanting to leave things unfinished, the sheepdog freed himself and launched again at the bad walker. This time from behind.

The Cloud With a Silver Lining found the bad walker’s posterior and bit down hard on it. His canine teeth sunk deep into the cloth of the silver breeches, finding the fleshy pads they concealed. With an aggressive tugging, the sheepdog tore away the satin layers that covered up the bad walker’s hindquarters in their entirety. Before the third assault could begin, a dulcet voice called out to The Cloud With a Silver Lining. It was emel.

“My darling,” sang out The Grapevine, approaching with arms extended out for an embrace. The Cloud With a Silver Lining, quickly abandoning any further attempts to kill the bad walker, dropped the torn fabric before the feet of The Queen of Starlight. He wagged his tail proudly and panted. “Emel, have you met strawberry-walker?” he said in the animal-tongue, looking back at The Grapevine, “She is my new friend.” The Grapevine stroked her pet gently, looking at the Emperor of Shadows as members of the Lindon Guard forced him up and his shredded garments away, with a pointed, if somewhat misplaced - What did you do to him? frown.

“Caesar seems to have developed a special liking for you fair lady,” said The Grapevine, letting the matter with the Emperor of Shadows go and not asking anything about it. She extended a gloved hand to the beautiful Queen of Starlight in friendship, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Ulmo sighed deeply, shaking his head. He looked to The Seafarer’s Son with raised silver brows. “The ‘King’ of Tol Noldarë, escorted out like a common intruder? This should make my next meeting with Ambassador Rivalchon a very interesting one,” said the Lord of Waters thoughtfully, “Yes, very interesting indeed.”

There were few Elves the Lord of Lindon could ever consider as much an asset as a liability to the well-being of the Havens, but the sovereign of the Moles was one such Elf.


*

Note from your TR: For the last dance of the Lindon Masquerade I have given you roleplayers with female characters in attendance tonight, a chance to do a bit of god-modding. If you choose to take advantage of this opportunity. This is completely optional.

"...beneath Laurelin and raising sweet music with an instrument of the bow. There sang Amillo joyously to his playing... whose voice is the best of all voices, who knoweth all songs in all speeches..."
~ Rúmil, III: The Coming of the Valar and The Building of Valinor, The Book of Lost Tales I


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The Mother of Pearl, The Nightingale, The Grapevine, and ?
dancing one last time in The Ballroom

An hour had passed since the eventful situation in the gardens of Lord Círdan the Shipwright, and in the light of music and laughter, every trace left behind by the previous tensions and disagreements had melted away. The Mother of Pearl raised a goblet of wine to The Grapevine and The Nightingale in celebration of friendship and the start of spring. For this had always been the purpose of this masquerade, to celebrate the rebirth of everything that grew and crawled upon Middle-earth in a burst of color and song.

“Hear me, Lindon!” cried a voice with her hands raised, calling for the attention of every warm body gathered in the ballroom. “Dawn is upon you. Join me in welcoming ethuil with one last throng.” The voice belonged to Ómaquenelya, also known as The Voice of the Elves. She was an Elf singer of great renown if also obscured mystery. Some claimed she was a Maia of Amillo, who had taken the form of one of the Firstborn children to live among them. Others that she was the song of the Sundering Sea itself, given shape and left to dwell by the command of Vala Ulmo with those of the Havens. Whatever her story truly was, The Grapevine recognized the soprano instantly. She had sung the enchanted aria during her dance with The Wolf earlier that night.


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Ómaquenelya, who had garbed herself initially in funeral attire, now cast aside her black and sorrowful raiment to reveal a ballgown of bright spring colors. Layers of sheer, silk crepeline - rose, gold and orange descended from her collarbone, out from her narrow waist, and down the bouffant expanse of her skirts. Her shimmering ballgown was also adorned with stencils of butterflies made from unblemished silver and pined throughout her dress in innumerable quantities. Ómaquenelya then removed the dark, translucent veil that had concealed her face earlier, freeing cascades of curling hair, yellow as sunshine. They tumbled over her shoulders, down her back, and spilled onto the polished marble floor.

A mask carved from alabaster rested upon the upper portion of her face, beginning above her brow and ending above the first line of her red-painted lips that smiled now warmly at the attendants of the Lindon Masquerade. She stood before the grand fireplace of the ballroom, its flames subsiding now, nodding to a flutist behind her. Raising the instrument to his lips, the first musician began the final theme of the night. He was followed promptly by the others. The Mother of Pearl quickly identified the song, and putting her drink aside, she took The Grapevine and The Nightingale by the hand.

As they stepped onto the heart of the dance floor, The Mother of Pearl called to The Phoenix (@Ercassie), The Queen of Starlight (@Tharmáras), and One Who Runs With Deers (@Moriel), for them to join the trio in forming the ring of female dancers required for the promenade known as The Dance of the Fair Maids, insisting that The Huntress (@The King in Yellow) be part of it as well. She extended the same invitation to other nissi in attendance too.

When the circle had at last been formed, and the ladies had all clasped hands, Ómaquenelya began to sing the words that accompanied this concluding anthem:


Upon one spring morning, I carefully did stray
Down by the wharf of Brithombar, where I met a sailor gay
Conversing with a dess, who seemed to be in pain
Saying “Aerandir, when you go, I fear you will never return again”

The ring of females began to turn in a clockwise direction.


My heart is pierced by love
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing that can console me
But my noble sailor bold

Now the ring of nissi spun counter-clockwise.


His hair descends in ringlets, his eyes are black as coal
My happiness attend him wherever he may go
From Lammoth to Sirion, I will wander, weep and moan
All for my noble sailor, until he sails home

The Nightingale broke away from the others and came to the center of the ring. She balanced herself effortlessly on the toes of her right foot, raising her left leg up behind her, and gracefully pirouetted with her hands joined in an arch above her head. Curling in her left leg as she turned.


My heart is pierced by love
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing that can console me
But my noble sailor bold

The ring of ladies became undone, and now, as was the custom in The Dance of the Fair Maids, the same females that had clasped hands and turned together on the dance floor, would select whomsoever they desired for a brief and lively romp.


My name it is Limbess Nencalad, a merchant's daughter fair
And I have left my parents and ten thousand gold a year

The Mother of Pearl slipped both of her arms around the waist of The Seafarer’s Son (@Tharmáras) and spun him.


Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be
Who love a noble sailor that ploughs the raging se
a

The Grapevine tapped The Snowy Owl (@Sil) on the shoulder with a kindly grin before pulling him in for a quick twirl on the marble floor.


While up aloft in storm, from me his absence mourn
And firmly pray, arrive the day, he is never more to roam

The Nightingale skipped over to The Lord of Unicorns (@Tharmáras), offering her arm for him to take before tossing him in the air.


Yes, my heart is pierced by love
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing that can console me
But my noble sailor bold

~ Based on the lyrics of “My Jolly Sailor Bold” by John DeLuca, Dave Giuli, and Matt Sullivan ~

It was indeed a rollicking end to an otherwise opulent and formal masquerade, but its grand finale was still to come...


*

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The Sunflower in Bloom
fulfilling her plans in The Ballroom

It had taken all night to pull herself across the beam. Perhaps she might have finished sooner if she had not stopped to nap halfway. The Sunflower in Bloom could hardly be blamed though. Elven adolescents required vast amounts of sound sleep for proper development, this was an undisputed fact.

The Sunflower in Bloom grinned broadly, as the soft shade of her green eyes looked upon that which was marvelous - the grand chandelier, and sparkled with mischief. She positioned her bony hands and feet on the beam and bending her limbs slightly at an angle. The Sunflower in Bloom would need to propel herself with enough force to descend alongside the chandelier. After which, she would need to tuck her knees into her chest and roll forward. Extending just quickly enough to hook her legs over several crystal strands of the chandelier.

Tightening her lips and giving her backside a quick wiggle, The Sunflower in Bloom estimated the trajectory one last time. Believing that the guests in the ballroom, surely, could never have foreseen the last surprise of the night.

CRAAAASSSSHHHH!!!!!

The Sunflower in Bloom swung from the chandelier. She sent the flickering flames of a thousand burning candles moving like a pendulum over and across the vast sea of masked dancers, which, thanks to the superior craftsmanship of the Elves - did not fall. The Sunflower in Bloom allowed her stringy arms to swing freely, smiling even as her black onyx-jeweled cap fell from her head and the twist of her hair became undone. Attendants cheered at the sight, while others gasped and called out worriedly to the teenager who proceeded to sing -


They say that Lord Círdan was dense
When he traded Galdor for five cents

The Gull frowned behind his white mask. Not at all amused to be the subject of this verse.


Without the coins, he will be mad
If Galdor leaves him, he will be sad
Either pain is sure to be intense!

With her performance finished, The Sunflower in Bloom grabbed hold of the crystal strands that supported her weight and sent herself flying forwards. She tumbled in the air twice before landing upright on her feet.

“Ta-da!” The Sunflower in Bloom bowed to her audience repeatedly before her leaf-shaped ears picked up on the distant voices of several disgruntled servers. Oops. Time to go! she thought, turning to run away. Before she did, however, The Sunflower in Bloom caught a glimpse of another who had come to the masque in a similar disguise, in the theme of choice anyway. His costume was not fashioned like her own.

The Sunflower in Bloom gave him a two-finger salute. “You sir, have excellent taste,” she declared to The Sunflower (@Moriel), before sprinting in the direction of the gardens. “Long live Círdan! Long live Lindon!” she cried, swiping a bottle of Thranduil’s Select from a nearby table before she left. It had an interesting label, to say the least, painted with a portrait of the Elvenking himself reclined on a chaise lounge. His robes were opened to reveal an oiled and muscular chest, and he had a seductive look in his eyes.

What a fop, The Sunflower in Bloom chuckled to herself. Is he trying to sell wine or seduce some lonely Elf woman? Probably both, she thought.

The youthful laugh of The Sunflower in Bloom echoed in the ballroom as she escaped into the sunrise of the gardens outside. And for better or for worse, The Sunflower in Bloom had succeeded in making the spring Lindon Masquerade one to remember. Always.

Black Númenórean
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She raised her glass to his with a soft tink, and drank deeply of the bubbling liquid within. “Carnistir, ein Thargelion,” One Who Runs With Deers echoed The Galedeep’s toast, and her heart throbbed, both with sorrow and joy. How long had it been since she had heard someone else speak that name aloud? Not Caranthir, or even Morifinwë, or yet Moryo, but Carnistir. A whisper of Thargelion whirled around them as they drank together; to each other, to their king, and to days gone by. One Who Runs With Deers turned to look in the direction The Galedeep indicated, lowering her glass to see The Fire of Motion cutting a fine figure in the arms of The Sunflower. Her smile was broad and her eyes danced along with the pair of ellyn as she watched them, lowering her glass. “Yes,” she replied with a nod, “he displayed some of that talent on a mission we were recently dispatched on together- nothing monumental, but enough that The Sunflower sensed it, and mentioned it to me after. He, too, has a voice with power. A fitting gift for a bard and a Fool, eh?” She had looked back to The Galedeep as they discussed the well-matched pair of singers, but now glanced back at The Sunflower and his shimmering petaled cowl as her old friend spoke of taking her to sea. “Missed? Only if he didn’t manage to stow away!” she laughed and took The Galedeep by the hand, “besides, my Sunflower knows I go where the wind takes me. Come,” The Fire of Motion’s shout of Finnbarr, you old pirate! had reached her above the noise of the ball, and she tugged him with her as she whisked across the floor to where The Sunflower and The Fire of Motion now stood.

“My lady!” The Sunflower cried, and gave at outrageously leggy bow to One Who Runs With Deers as she drew near with The Galedeep, managing to snatch another goblet of wine off a passing tray as he did so. “I take it you know this pirate of old?” he quipped, quaffing the wine effortlessly, and depositing the goblet upon yet another passing tray. “Oh yes, of old, of an old so old you should compose an ode, Fool!” the antlered nís briefly pushed up her mask to give The Fire of Motion the benefit of her full face, winked at him, and tugged it back down. Before she could say anything to the flame-clad ellon however, a new song struck up from the musicians, and One Who Runs With Deers turned back to The Galedeep, who she was sure would also recognize this tune. “What was that about being well behaved, sailor bold?” she mocked, and beckoned to The Galedeep as she answered The Mother of Pearl’s call and joined the ring of níssi on the dance floor. She circled and swayed an spun among the rest as outside the ring the néri in attendance circled likewise (or milled, if they were jockeying for position before someone who had caught their eye), and when the circle broke she seized The Galedeep for the final rollicking turn about the dance floor.

The Sunflower, who had been whirling about the floor with the comely serving elleth with whom he had almost collided at the beginning of the night, offered his partner a deep bow as the song ended, and tossed a dusting of bright-gold petals plucked from his cowl over her head. Amidst the applause for the final group dance and Ómaquenelya’s performance, he had been about to turn to One Who Runs With Deers, when an ominous sound came from overhead. A creaking crash caused The Sunflower’s head to snap back and see- not some assailant, but a young elleth (The Sunflower in Bloom), having launched herself from somewhere onto the crystal chandelier, now swinging from it as she burst into song. The flash of adrenaline converted itself to delight as soon as it had come, and The Sunflower whooped and applauded, jumping up and down in encouragement of her verse, and his was the loudest cheer as she catapulted to the floor. “And you have a beautiful turn of phrase!” he returned her compliment with an elegant leg and a jingle of his bells, followed by uproarious laughter as she fled the scene- right on time, no doubt.


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”Perhaps none of us, immortal or long-lived will ever feel that we have had enough time.” Before The Wolf could respond to The Grapevine’s keen insight, she had loosed her arms from about his neck, and the dance was over. But she was not finished with him yet- the elleth removed a stunning gemstone ring from her finger and laid it in his hand. Again, before he could protest, she had closed his hand about it with her slender fingers. He wished that her hands were bare. As their eyes met again, he hoped that his thanks showed. It was not often that The Wolf was tongue tied, but there was something about this moment with The Grapevine that struck him, and it was not until she stepped back to curtsy that he found his voice. He too stepped back and as he gave her a deep bow, murmured, “May we meet again.” When The Wolf straightened, it was to find that the elleth had vanished into the crowd behind the passage of another pair of dancers. The Dúnadan looked down, uncurling his hand to stare at the ring. It was still slightly warm from the heat of her hand as he took it up delicately in two of his own fingers. Her hands were much smaller than his, but it looked as if it might just fit his smallest finger. And indeed, the emerald band slid smoothly onto the little finger of his right hand as if had been made for him. The Wolf smiled. Some things, no matter how small, were meant to be.

Another dance began, this one less stately, and he heard a voice calling out for various dancers to join the circle being formed by a group of níssi- and he heard The Huntress’s name called among them. The Wolf turned, hoping to see his young friend join in, but the crowd was too thick as dancers laughed and jostled for position. With characteristic grace, he slipped through the crowd until he had managed to work his way to the front of those surrounding the revolving ring of lady dancers. At last, as the ring turned, he caught sight of The Huntress- and immediately his brow crinkled with concern behind its mask. She looked much like a turtle trying to escape into its shell, shoulders tense and rising up towards her ears, face fighting to remain under control. Although as The Wolf had told The Grapevine he had never been able to devote as much study to music as he might like, he was well versed in the modes of country dances. Predicting where the last circle would end, he maneuvered his way to what he deemed the likely point of her trajectory. And indeed, when the circle broke apart and the women took up partners for a final frolic, he stood before The Huntress with his hand outstretched.

“Care for a final hunt?”


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There was a seduction in The Somberlain’s silence, the void that had replaced his declamation tugging at Vingilótë, seeking to draw her into his fell embrace. Her eyes danced, and issued their own alluring challenge as she accepted the call, allowing her body to drift close to that of her partner as they swirled about the floor. Though they were not of a kind- at least not any more- how fitting was it that fate had brough two creatures such as they together on a dance floor, and here of all places? In spite of (or perhaps in the face of) the danger inherent in The Somberlain, Vingilótë laughed, a rich, throaty sound, the sails in her hair fluttering behind as she spun beneath his arm. A radiant danger of her own filled the narrow space between them as she returned to frame, their energies like the two opposing poles of two magnets, a powerful reaction inspired by proximity, but which conflicted and fought to turn about to slam together. As they entered the final turn of the dance, Vingilótë arose onto her toes and leaned into The Somberlain, allowing the hand which had rested on his shoulder to slide up to the nape of his neck, where the wisps of hair seemed to move of their own accord, and her lips brushed the skin just below his mask as she spoke softly into his ear; similar to the farewell she had bidden The Galedeep, but with altogether more lupine intent. “It has been my pleasure, child of Secret Shadow.” Vingilótë receded, curtsied deeply, and turning into the crowd, was gone.

The final dance had begun, and The Mother of Pearl was calling for níssi to join the ring. Changing directions in every sense as easily as changing skins, Vingilótë skipped on slippered feet to join the circle, her laughter ringing out with the rest in brightness and light, like maidens at their first dance. Perhaps she would have the chance to meet with The Galedeep again after all? But as the circle broke at last, she caught sight of the otter-masked nér caught up with the antlered nís; The Sunflower on one side of them had taken the hand of a lovely dark-haired elleth and so, grinning, Vingilótë took the hand of an ellon clad in ribbons of flame(The Fire of Motion) who was on The Galedeep’s other side and without a partner. They whirled through the final energetic steps of the dance and when it ended, they stood on the far side of the circle, Vingilótë’s back to the balcony which led to the gardens. She released him and curtsied, laughing and applauding with the rest, and at last raised her cobalt eyes to meet her partner’s for the first time, to compliment him and ask his name of the evening. But the words died before they could pass her lips, which parted in shock, as they met his gaze and beheld a pair of mismatched eyes; eyes which she had known since her earliest days, and thought she would never behold again.



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A prize on each arm, The Sundering Sea threw out his chest. “Well now,” The Sundering Sea began as he strode confidently out onto the balcony with The Vixen and The Blue Bear, rounding the corner heading down the stairs into the relative darkness of the gardens, “You see, first one must dive deeply into the waters of the Gulf of Lhûn, to retrieve a particular type of mollusk that fends off its enemies with a deadly poison…” By the time he had regaled them with the process of harvesting, drying, and careful compounding, they had reached a secluded corner of the gardens where they were likely to remain untroubled. The Sundering Sea produced from somewhere on his person a small case made from the shells of said mollusk, and offered it to each of his companions in turn. The powder within, rubbed onto the gums was… quite illuminating. He might not have won the contest for most dance partners, but he was sure to rival The Galedeep at tomorrow’s tale-telling table.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
Arien
Points: 2 263 
Posts: 1843
Joined: Thu May 07, 2020 8:56 pm
The Snowy Owl

He had sunk back into his chair quite gratefully as the Moonless Night saluted him and drifted away. What a strange mortal. The Owl did so hope she found what she was looking for. Meanwhile, the Owl had found what he was looking for himself. His head sank lower into the deliciously plush cushions and a faint purring snore shortly began to emit from his beak.

... A little while later...

The goblet slipped from his lax fingers to the floor, clanging and rolling away merrily. The Owl sat up with a start, pressing his feathered sleeve to his brow.

His stomach rumbled ominously.

“Oh my,” he mumbled to himself as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Where had his drink gone? The night had flown - and so surely must he. He was parched. The drinks were over there, weren’t they?

But a hand caught his arm, and the Owl just caught sight of a laughing mouth beneath the disguise as the Grapevine whirled him into the dance again, quite against his will. He barely caught his feet as the room spun and so did the Owl. And so did his stomach - in the wrong direction.

As soon as she released him he apologised by way of waving his feathers and took a few steps forward. His head was throbbing; flashes of light were glittering - oh wait. Was the chandelier really rocking? Or was Snowy Owl just feeling sick?

Both.

Unceremoniously he doubled over and vomited a substantial heap of reeking shrimp canapé onto the gorgeous marble floor, sobbing slightly.
cave anserem
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Balrog
Points: 5 867 
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The Blue Bear

The Blue Bear listened with rapt, eager attention as the elf explained the nature and exacting details of the substance they were about to partake. Beneath the lacquered wooden mask, the wheels were turning in his head, scenarios in which he himself could find and take this substance for himself and use it to his advantage. That apparently the mollusks lived very deep beneath the waves did not deter him. He was a Númenórean after all, one of the few real ones left in this world, how hard could it be? His brain began running through scenarios, daydreaming his descent into the murky, inky depths, and found it completely unsatisfactory. Pulling himself out of his imaginations, The Blue Bear realized that it might not be so easy to get these drugs, and even if it was as simple as he had originally believed, why would he want to do it? There were easier ways of finding, creating, and cultivating illicit substances than diving into the abyss to search for a clam. He had contacts in Umbar, proprietors of opium dens, that could aid him with the ideas that were forming in his mind. He lazily looked back at the dance floor and smirked, his blue eyes dark and full of machinations and plots.

The nature of addiction was one he knew well. While not addicted to any one substance or feeling, The Blue Bear could be said to be addicted to the power and control he gained over people and the tyrannical, zealous path he took to gaining said power and control. He knew well the highs and exhilarations, the endless, compulsive drive for more and more. Most importantly though, he knew how to use manipulate it in others. People with less grand goals and dreams were easy to ensnare, almost too easy. That woman in Rohan had been child’s play. A soft smile here, a salacious whisper there, and she fell into him, it had been as if she wanted to be addicted.

The Blue Bear brought himself out of his reverie and took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the evening. This had been a fascinating night, most elves were death-defying banal and insufferable, but he had managed to find a few now that were not quite so bad. The Lady of Shadows, and her presence at this little soiree, were going to be an interesting mystery to solve. But that was going to be for later. Right now, he had some more immediate interests. “Shall we, my dear?” He whispered, his voice thick and gravelly.


The Galedeep

The soft clink of the glasses brought swirling colors and memories to his mind. Faces he had not seen in thousands of years; voices he had only dreamed of hearing. A cold, unpleasant shiver ran down his back. Nostalgia was the deathspell of the elves. He shook it off. Some things were better left in the past, even if they are full of light and life. There were demons in Thargelion that he did not wish to face, demons that still clung to him like barnacles. With a gentle cough, he forced himself back into the present. The lights and colors were similar but could never hope to match the majesty of his old home. Still, it was good to be here.

One Who Runs with Deers brought him back fully. Her assessment of Num… of The Fire of Motion, was very apt. His singing voice was nigh unparalleled. It had not been since the Elder Days that The Galedeep had seen such power. It was wild and untamed, but it was impressive. “The Sunflower too, eh?” A smile finally formed on his lips beneath the otter mask. “It seems the old gifts are being made again.” He took a moment to watch as his one-time foster son danced with The Sunflower, his steps not as precise or as strong as they ought to have been, his form was sloppy. For half a moment, The Galedeep thought something might be wrong with the lad, then he noticed the drink in his hand, and he bellowed with laughter. The Fire of Motion was not one for drinking and it seemed the immunity to that particular poison was not among his strengths.

Just then, The Sunflower and The Fire of Motion saw them and the young (in comparison to Finnbarr at least) bi-eyed lad half shouted, half slurred “Finnbarr, you old pirate!

One Who Runs with Deers then half dragged The Galedeep and once they stopped, she uttered the most horridly hilarious pun he ever heard her utter. He looked at her aghast but couldn’t hold back the sharp back of good-natured laughter that spilled out of him. “You’ve gotten cleverer in the intervening years as well as more beautiful, I see.” He chuckled again, the pun replaying itself in his mind. “I have heard of your talents, dear Sunflower, it seems your penchant for wordplay has infect my old friend, I believe the only cure is more.”

He was about to say something to The Fire of Motion, but in the intervening time, when apparently a great to do with all the women of the ball were being called for a grand display, the young Nimir had wandered off. Worry tingled his expression. He would not be the first to vomit at the masquerade (he’d heard the splatter rather than seen it) but there were still other dangers the boy could get himself into. Still, maybe it would be good for the lad to get some tolerance in him, the worst that could happen here was a tumble through the bushes and a hangover in the morning, and The Fire of Motion was in for one hell of a hangover.

But worrying about him was going to have to wait, it was time for a final dance with One Who Runs with Deers, and he was going to enjoy every last second of it!


The Fire of Motion

“I… think… I like this wine,” The Fire of Motion’s grin was large and lopsided. He had grabbed another passing goblet and downed the contents in a long, single draft. Why had he never taken to Old Dorwinion before? It was delightful. De-light-ful. He swayed with The Sunflower, his inhibitions and insecurities (and all that came with them) melted away as the lights all merged together and spun, spiraled, and flittered about his head. Even when he stopped moving, he could still feel himself shifting and tilting. Finnbarr and Tavari, he coughed, no they weren’t Finnbarr and Tavari, they were The Galedeep and One Who Runs with Deers. He grinned, Finnbarr’s name wasn’t even clever, Galedeep was just his patronym, he was the worst at hiding his identity. He and The Sunflower joined them and while the trio talked and joked and reminisced, The Fire of Motion began to wander about the ballroom aimlessly, making very certain to avoid the dancefloor, even in his severely inebriated he knew to stay away from any form of jovial motion.

He managed to find his way to an empty alcove, stealing another goblet of Old Dorwinion on the way. This glass he nursed slowly, watching the spinning and spiraling colors, fabrics, and lights. All the music and sound and excitement brought to his mind back to the Island, to home. Near the end, maybe a decade or two before she was slain by the Changing of the World, he had made his way to a masquerade much like this in the city of Rómenna. There was a smattering of elves there, but the bulk of the attendees were men of Númenor, tall, gallant, and full of life. The Fire of Motion had snuck into the ball, in those days he was much more prone to doing impudent and impish feats of daring and renown. That’s when he’d met the man that stole his heart, one of the princes of the Númenóreans, tall and proud, but gentle and kind. He wore a crane mask, and ever since that night, The Fire of Motion had made sure to inscribe a crane in all his writings. They danced, he swayed in his spot in the alcove as he remembered how they danced. It had been one of the greatest nights of his life, perhaps the greatest night of his life, the night the Saga of the Storm and the Sun began. They stole away from the ball, much to the annoyance of Anárion’s brother and father when they found he had absconded, and climbed the rotunda and watched the stars wheel about overhead. The night ended with a single kiss, but that kiss had held more power and promise than The Fire of Motion had thought possible.

In the midst of his musings, he hadn’t realized he wandered back out to the dance floor to The Galedeep, One Who Runs with Deers, and The Sunflower last position. Apparently, even though his mind was hundreds of miles and thousands of years away, he managed to find a partner and dance with enough skill that she didn’t stab him for the trouble.

But in a single instant he saw who it had been that he had been dancing with. All trances of drunkenness left him in an instant. No. This couldn’t be. She was dead. She had died three thousand years ago. How? How was she here? His little sister. She was not so little anymore. She was taller than him now, much taller. She looked like her mother. But it couldn’t be her. Could it? His mouth went dry and his stomach clenched.

Izzy?”


The Huntress

She was following as best she could, but either the wine or her inexperience with the grandiose, noble syntax of the elves (or both) made her feel like she was a child who had just mastered tying her shoes next to a master weaver. At least the elf did not seem to notice how lost The Huntress was quickly becoming. She had always heard that elves had a way of speaking that would run circles around the flowers, but she had never thought it could be so verbose! As embarrassed as she was to try and keep up, she was fascinated by her companion’s speech. Perhaps foolishly, she wanted to ask the elf a hundred questions, just to hear her speak, to listen to the way her voice maneuvered around the words and sounds and created poetry out of the simplest responses.

“It’s good to meet you,” she finally said as the elf revealed her pseudonym for the evening. “I think your name is quite fitting, She of Smoke and Mirrors, you are quite difficult to get a measure of, though that might be my own failings as a girl who will never get the smell of the farm out of her hair.”

She smiled under her half mask, still getting used to how tall the rabbit ear made her. They watched the dancing crowd for a bit, The Huntress was endlessly intrigued. Dancing was a perfunctory socializing technique and due to her many ostracizable qualities she had never really grasped it. The act of dancing itself was not too difficult to grasp, once the motions and rhythms were memorized. But the art of dancing, the powerplay of it all, never made sense to her. It was a thing that served no real purpose outside of a specific occasion, yet it was expected of all people to learn, understand, and perform a dozen different dances at the drop of a hat. It was oddest thing.

Her request for a dance, a question that had seemed to bubble up in her and flew out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. Graciously, however, She of Smoke and Mirrors gave the most flowery and eloquent ‘no’ The Huntress could have ever thought possible. Then, in a rush of sound and color, the young Rohir found herself swept up in a dance in which she had no idea what she was doing. She didn’t even have a chance to bid her elven friend goodbye before she was swallowed up in the movement. Her mind went blank as she moved along, trying to save her from the inevitable embarrassment she was sure was going to come. She felt her upper body lock up, her muscles tensed and refused to function properly. She was a turtle trying to escape the terror of the moment by hiding in her shell, but there was no shell she hide it and being out in front of everyone, she could not even manage to sneak behind one of the other dances. Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no, no, no, no. no, not like this, not like this, please no her thoughts were frantic and singularly focused on finding a way to escape, much like the rabbit mask she wore. She could feel her breaths begin to shorten, she placed a hand on her chest, trying to force her lungs to inhale despite the organs’ obstinate refusal.

The, out of the ether, came The Wolf to save her, very much against the norms of all fairy tales. The Huntress managed to catch her breath, despite a few tears streaking her cheeks, and even found herself able to laugh at his suggestion of a final hunt. “I think,” she said clinging to him like a little sister does to an older, stronger brother, “I think a final hunt would be nice. This has become much more exciting than I expected.”


The Somberlain

A final dance, spinning and twirling with expert reflexes, moving with the fluidity of water and the force of a gale wind, The Somberlain and Vingilótë put on a clinic on how to move with the music, putting to shame any competitors. The Somberlain found himself moving in ways that he thought he never would again. It was a nice feeling, but not one that he was overly attached to. As the music finished, he bowed with a flourish, his yellow eyes shining like brazen gold beneath his plague doctor’s mask. He licked his lips hungrily, feeling his canines stretch and lengthen into fangs. He looked once out the dancefloor and decided that, though he could easily kill everyone here without much of a fuss, it would not be worth the force he’d have exert. “It was my pleasure as well, she-wolf. I pray to the night that we may cross paths once again.”

He lost her in the crowd, focusing more on everyone else rather than her. There were faces he almost recognized here, hidden behind deer antlers, otter masks, and shark teeth, but none of them interested him enough to reveal himself. The mundanity of elven and mortal life was on full display, the decadence that seemed to have no end, the displays of wealth and craft that all the Children were subject to gawk at like goldfish. He sighed his disinterest. “Strange is the night where black stars rise, and strange moons circle through the skies; songs that the Hyades shall sing, where flap the tatters of the King.”*

Moving like a panther, The Somberlain left the ballroom and entered the gardens, stalking through the trees flowering bushes. He recognized the voices of those out here, though he had not heard the voice of Círdan, Lord of Lindon, in a very, very long time. Staying in the shadows, he listened to the conversations the aged elf was having with a little more interest than he might have shown a struggling pup, he sneered maliciously. When he found that there was nothing he use or take back to the Delgaran, he slipped into the shadows and vanished into the night.


OOC:(text taken from “Cassilda’s Song” from The King in Yellow by Robert W Chambers)
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Blizzard
Balcony

A chill had stole across the ballroom without flare or flamboyance, but with the same slow sensation that the frost thaws. The Blizzard did not stall nor sidestep for any that carelessly cavorted, yet somehow the seas parted their ways to allow her passage. Just one was fool enough to bow proudly before the albino, and offer his hand.

Now lady, how would you care to come dance with me ?” he chimed, fresh from a whirling reel with a smiling ‘Harlequin’. His bright eyes were glazed from the potency of flavoured punch but it’s anaesthetic coating would serve him well when she stopped short. He swallowed regret even before she bent to meet him and impress upon him,

You do not want to dance with me.

The words of The blizzard were inexplicably confident, that she somehow knew his own opinion better than what he might manage. A flurry of fingers escaped her anaemic palm to wave him off, as though swatting a fly. The awestruck Elf fell back, half indignant, half .. relieved .. and stunned only for a moment in wake of her departure, before plunging back into the far more agreeable crowd.

Witnessing a mass exodus from the balcony, The Blizzard swept empirically into that vacant eyrie, with an assumed air that it had been cleared for her sake. Descending into a seat, she clasped both hands before her, though above the table surface, inspecting the panoply of distant stars. She was almost instantly accosted by a willing server, whom she bade to “Surprise me,” and who duly fled her table with a mask of true terror, fearful to find disappointment from the Falmar upon his return.


Her back to the ballroom, she neglected the cause and commotion that had drawn most of the guests here at all. Her intentions had been otherwise, a plea made by a certain young friend, for the sake of a mutual .. someone. The Blizzard smiled in the privacy of thinking it would go unseen. She had done her part, she had got him here. And whether she had been forced to weave suspicions of assassins that might be shadowing her .. it had worked. For she knew of only one other cause that would draw him to an eve of dance, and that was the very reason that they were seeking to solve.

The silence that skulked in the wake of her mere thought of assassins .. and the very real threat .. conceived the strangest sensation. Extending a hand before her The Blizzard tested the air, fingers finding tremble in something unseen, that lingered. She withdrew her exploration swiftly, almost startling to see a second Elf stand close, complacently. She did not know know him, nor expect to, given the rules of the night. It was certainly not the same elf as had hastened forth to serve her earlier, however, and she could only assume that the first had sent another in his place, to see quite what had startled him.

It would not be the first time.



The Phoenix with Black Wind and the Lord of Unicorns
Ballroom (@Tharmáras)

She saw his approach reflected in the abandonment of that other Elf whom had stood so recently before her, felt the one attention wax as did the other seemingly wane. There she stood herself transfixed, in the very moment that regressing moon gave way to the arising sun. And as the golden glory of her husband warded off the very notion that obscuring clouds might rob her of his covetous reach, The Lord of Unicorns laid strong hands about her small waist. The valiant conqueror, making clear his claim so that all others should not dare think to contest it. His words streamed like honey to smother out all other sound from an intrusion, as she teased a try of glancing back, to behold how he had chosen to delight her on this eve. Tilting a look left, then right, each time denied a mere moment before confirmation, The Phoenix was manoeuvred in place as might the shape of spinning clay turn under an artist’s sure touch. Only at the last did he allow her to full twirl, to flounder then beneath the basking wonder of his chiselled jaw. That gentle smile. Those oceanic eyes. Her head closed in upon his silken shoulder, nestled upon burnished sheaves of his pomaded hair as though a puzzle piece designed to settle there.

Behold your Lord, my Firebird,” he bade her. And she did. Oh she did. There had been no doubt as to his bold identity, before she was ever reunited with his form. For keen sense of Elvish ears had heard his exchanges with other voices, other opinions. He had not sought for hers. He usurped her all and everything else though, a hardy bough to support her flamboyant blossom, as she was rendered from her feet and into the trust that he should never see her fall through his fingers.

Behold my unparalleled stallion,” a laugh from the lady declared that he had put as much effort into a disguise she’d know well, as indeed, she had for him. “Crowned ever so stately,” the flaming bird inclined her chin before his horned mask as he returned her upright. “What indeed is the appeal of bottled intoxication, in the face of liberated spirits born to soar ?

Their partnership of winged things was carried it would seem, upon new strains of enchanting melody, the world beyond banished unto it’s track of blurring revolutions in orbit about them. Moonlight fell as spotlight, splicing through the painted glass window of the grand ballroom, as they two cavorted, barely mindful that there were eyes to observe. Dancing was all that they might accomplish here where there were of course eyes to observe in truth. All else should have to await for after, elsewhere.

The telltale scent of her husband's favoured Vala lulled her to a drowsy almost dreamlike state, and the Phoenix’s face shone with a sainted satisfaction that she had given the garden a wide berth. The most likely thing to come atween her and her Unicorn, after all, was suited to frequenting far more clandestine quarters than she craved. And as far as the measures she had undertook to serve that silly stonehearted Elf toward a worthy distraction, it had not appeared to turn out half so well as she would have liked. There again, the night was not over yet, although the Masquerade would soon now be.
Last edited by Ercassie on Thu Feb 25, 2021 2:31 pm, edited 2 times in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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“Izzy?”

A ripple ran through Vingilótë as though she had been struck by an enormous mallet, a pummeling strike to her midsection that radiated through her every extremity and took her breath away. She could not breathe, her bosom heaving like that of the afflicted maiden in some romantic tale, though it was not for a lover she was pining. Her mind raced over blank fields of emptiness as her lips formed the syllables of his name in silence; though not all of them, only the two by which she had called him when a child- how long since she had thought that name, much less spoken it? It was too absurd now. At last the air allowed some sound to escape her. “You… you…” The vacuum which had pressed in upon her ears silencing all sounds of the ballroom was broken by a deafening crash as The Sunflower in Bloom made her appearance, and the spell was broken. Vingilótë seized the ellon’s hand and whirled under cover of the commotion, dashing for the balcony with him behind her. As they crossed its threshold, her eyes flicked to the side where at least one other (The Blizzard) stood, and she changed course. Releasing his hand, Vingilótë made for the stairs leading down into the garden, and darted down them with frightening speed for one so gowned, glimmering white and silver and gold in the fainter torchlight of the outdoors. Knowing he would follow, she darted through the hedges until she came to a corner where three met, forming a sheltered sort of chamber. Within it was a bench, no doubt placed there by the host or his gardener for those in search of seclusion, and a tiered fountain- just loud enough to conceal quiet conversation. Vingilótë halted next to the fountain and turned abruptly, the gown forming a swirl about her legs as she faced him. What she might have expected to feel in this moment Vingilótë did not know. She could not even remember the last time she had deliberately turned her thoughts to him, and now the every memory of millenia ago bombarded her like ice, and where she might have felt joy or relief, anger, betrayal, and fear arose.

“I thought you were dead. You stopped writing.” Vingilótë took hold of her mask and ripped it away, pulling loose the part of her hair which had been bound, and sending one silver sail fluttering to the ground. Her eyes blazed in the moonlight, and the furious, irrational words poured from her without permission. “You stopped writing, and I thought you were dead! How could you?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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In the Garden @Ercassie @Fuin Elda @Annúnfalas

"Oh, please!" The Queen of Starlight snorted derisive laughter, upset with the Statue for the umpteenth time. "Remembering four names of your friends' children shouldn't be difficult!" she remonstrated the Statue for his casual disregard of important matters. The auburn-haired Elf-lady brought many precious babes into this world. A greater share and strength of her being, both mind and body, she had given in the bearing of her children. She wanted this laborious endeavor to be recognized in the very least by her closest friends aware of the names bestowed to her son and three daughters.

"He cares about them, dear, but likes to pretend otherwise," the King of Feathers assured his furious wife. He took affectionate hold of his queen's sculpted bare shoulders, soothing her. The King of Feathers tossed his head back, laughing, when the Statue said, "Do you promise?" replying to the Gentle Lady who warned him the moment to kiss her would never come again. "There are times when I am even tickled by your rudeness, gwador," admitted the King of Feathers, chuckling; he was reputed to be the kindest Elf in Rivendell, one who did not condone much rudeness towards others.

He sighed when the Queen of Starlight accused the Statue of mischief. Of course, he advocated for their childhood friend. "We can't believe the Statue is partly responsible for the Emperor's roguery whenever something goes awry," he urged his wife. He supported the Statue too much, it was true, but the enduring bond between him & the King of Feathers was tested, refined by fire; no matter what he did, he could not condemn the Statue and excused his crimes. The King of Feather's was famed for being a generous redeemer, someone who forgave too much too often.

"They are seperated by a vast distance," he reasoned unashamedly relieved himself by this comforting knowledge. "How can they plot wicked schemes when they don't frequently meet?" The King of Feathers determined logically. "Be reasonable, sweetheart." The King of Feathers steadily gazed at the Statue with a sanctimonious countenance as if to remind him how grateful he should be.

Seconds later when the King of Feathers demanded if the Elf in black spat on him, he was viscerally convinced of his identity. By the sight of his devilish grin alone, the Elf-lord knew that the Emperor of Shadows was Hatholdir Nârroval.

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*
“Y-you… It is you?”

He recalled a memory of a sun-kissed elleth hurrying across an Eglarest pier, silvery hair catching the gleam of daybreak. She embraced Tharmáras, the mariner he rescued with Hrango and Herontortha. The sailor wept as she held him, telling her the ship they built had been destroyed and his lover dead. Hatholdir welcomed the hug she gave him in gratitude. Hatholdir remembered the moment in bittersweet recollection; it had been one of the few times someone had genuinely showed him some tenderness. She inevitably came to hate him though as did countless people. The sting of her rejection still angered Hatholdir. Neither of them had forgiven the other.

Annúnfalas. He knew her voice. "Oh, I was correct, you are a pathetic idiot," drawled the King of the Moles. He turned his attention to Aulë. Rumors about what happened to Annúnfalas spread quickly after she was rescued by Earenolwë, Eärmana, and their cohorts. By the time she left Adab Nestad and returned to Lindon, gossip circulated concerning her torment in Angbmar and the extent of her physical damage. "Did you find someone who loves despite your condition?" Hatholdir wondered casually with an innocent facade, glancing again at Aulë, and hoped his words deeply wounded Annúnfalas. She deserved it.

Hatholdir, growing disturbed by the Lady of Flame's demure smile, tried calling out to Erfaron, hoping his best friend attended the ball to find Ospiel to whom he given leave, but their telepathic osanwé connection was temporarily severed. He couldn't reach out to him. The longer her stare seemed fixated on Hatholdir, he feared the little Dark Elf was one of his surviving enemies or perhaps a relative of someone he destroyed and, worse, that she had unnatural abilities. His fear was dreadfully confirmed when the fabric of the Seen World dematerialized with alarming suddenness.

He stood on the cracked stony earth of a stormy barren plane in the Unseen World. Again looked up, beholding the whirling pillar. It diminished in size gradually until the swirling winds of the cyclonic force lessened its intensity, revealing the same female spirit he saw before. The lonesome soul turned toward him now, heavenly yet terrifying. Dark and beautiful. She hastened toward Hatholdir, gliding above ground with menacing speed. Hatholdir had nowhere to run in this mystical expanse but he fled from the being in vain and gasped when he was grappled by her unchained hands, feeling a shock tearing through the core of his very essence, and was himself now fettered.

- Dirt digging beggar -

Those words he heard, words Linda Lintalë once insulted him with, enraged Hatholdir. His strong discarnate limbs were bound in her vise-like grip so he could not strangle her as he had his first betrothed. He did not recognize the voice of this woman, shrieking and thunderous as a Belfalas hurricance, but the face of Melviriel shocked him. Her familiar visage he saw now within the tendirls of leaden smog enshrouding her spectral form. He wailed in mingled anger and denial. His victim has become his captor. Hatholdir could not struggle free of her tempestuous spirit wreathed in sable plumes of smoke. Raw hatred buffetted him, threatening his sanity....
*
The King of Feathers studied the bizarre spectacle of Hatholdir sweating and trembling. He made a sound, screaming in muffled distress. Aulë moved forward. The King of Feathers also took took a step; the Elf-lord stretched out his hand to forestall this stranger but not unkindly just as Ulmo addressed the Emperor of Statues, gesturing for him to pause still. Tension was mounting. The King of Feathers regretted his role in the affair.

He gazed at the balcony where Hatholdir had spat on him. He considered it may have been someone else although he had few enemies who despised him as strongly. Now another shadowy figure stood near the Blizzard of cold regal splendor.

"Someone poses an eminent threat to the Blizzard," the King of Feathers assumed, speculating the worse without investigation as usual, as he spoke with the Statue. His friend had regained his sanctuary amongst the bushes, being the loner that he was of course, and the King of Feathers returned there.

"Whatever you need to do, go quickly," advised Elrond's Herald but to his astonishment he received only silence. The King of Feathers blinked. He cleared his throat, folding his muscled arms which strained against his blue sleeves. He waited for a reply that never came. He tilted his head thoughtfully when several passing Elves laughed, amused by his idiocy.

"Darling, that is a real statue," said the laughing Queen of Starlight. She settled her beringed hands over her husband's broad shoulders, imitating the gentleness he showed her a short while ago..

"This statue looks just like the Statue," insisted the stubborn King of Feathers. "Perhaps if I struck it we will know for sure..."

"I would not do that, my love," cautioned his wife.

There was, of course, no stopping her determined husband. His mouth opened wide in a rictus of agonizing pain, holding his injured hand as he turned around to look at the Queen of Starlight. She restrained her giggles, kissing his chiseled jawline.

*
Hatholdir gasped, reeling against his wife who held him close to her bosom. She quietly pleaded with Hatholdir, begging that he wouldn't attack the Lady of Flame. He glared at Melvirel with his piercingly bright blue eyes, heaving ragged breaths as he tried his damndest not to throw himself violently at her. He envisioned it, bolting forward. Her throat caught between his crushing hands. "I only need to squeeze," he once whispered to Linda in the Alley of Roses one night in the time of the Bragollach, half a century before he killed her in the same place before the King of Feathers rescued his father's body and dragonfire consumed her mutilated corpse. He softly clasped the nape of Linda's neck with what seemed like a lover's touch with his sapphire eyes flaming, promising her death if she told a soul what the Moles hid in Anghabar for Maeglin. "I only need to sceam," Linda replied smilingly in that enchanting silky voice of hers, very much aware of the strolling Gondolindrim around them.

Melviriel wouldn't would scream. She would slay him. Right here and now.

She was supposed to have executed Aigronding at the Havens of Sirion. What had gone wrong that day? Didn't I convince her Aigronding would kill her lover? Curse the Mordagnirs!

Hatholdir's fantasy of destroying his erstwhile pawn collapsed; he was distracted by Ulmo who gave Annunfalas the right to order him out. The palace guards seized hold of him but his blue stare was cold and dark as the northern waters of the Lhûn. He shifted his malicious gaze from Annúnfalas to Melvirel, promising vengeance in dreadful silence. He could say nothing, valuing his commericial affairs with Lindon and Ulmo knew it; the Moles of Tol Noldarë had always been an asset to the Lord's realm. Hatholdir's grin widened subtly, a victorious brief twitch of his lips. He would not only raise his taxes on Mole goods but he would to speak with his Umbarian contacts; perhaps there would be an escalation in the battles between Corsairs and the Lindon Guard in the months to come. The Shipwright would pay for this embarrassment.

Annúnfalas welcomed the Woman Crowned With the Sun to remain at the dance.

"My wife comes with me," growled Hatholdir through his clenched teeth.

"She cand decide where she goes!" yelled the Gentle Lady. Her family had a sordid history with Hatholdir.

The Woman Crowned With the Sun closed her eyes a grave moment then proudly raised her chin. "I will see you at Girion Coruben's inn, dear," spoke his resolved spouse. She did not expect the Cloud With the Silver Lining to accost him however. The sheepdog would have been adorable were it not for his ferocious barrage. "Someone get that dog off of him!" yelled the Woman Crowned With the Sun in hysterical dismay. "No, let him! That jerk had it coming!" the Gentle Lady flatly refused, referring to Hatholdir by an informal Bree word for a contemptibly obnoxious person.

"Should I save him again?" The King of Feathers asked his wife in a sorrowful tone.

"Murdered by a fluffy sheepdog would be a too ignominious end for the Mole King, honey." With a resigned frown, she gave the King of Feathers her nodding permission. He tackled the Cloud With A Silver Lining and lifted him up. The raging hound managed to escape the High Elf's formidable grasp in his fell ire. He launched himself again at Hatholdir who was swearing vehmently about his fine torn clothes and lashed the Gondolin traitor from behind. Hatholdir roared "You fleeging fleabag!" in humiliation. The sheepdog ripped his ballroom breeches and black satin drawers. It was Grapevine's dulcet voice which summoned the sheepdog, rescuing Hatholdir from demeaning harm.

"Do not resist, King Hatholdir," spoke a one-eyed soldier with short dark hair and a genteel temperament. He wore plate and ringmail armor. His teal tabard was emblazoned with a white ocean wave and trimmed in thread-of-silver. Telkelion Hender, Prince of Lindon and leader of the coastal army, looked disappointed. He ordered the Lindon Guards to remove their hold upon him and asked several warriors to put away their weapons. "We will escort you out, friend." Telkelion lost his eye in Mordor. He would have been slain but Hatholdir's people joined the rescue party to besiege the Orc tower where Telkelion, Elves, and Men, had been tortured in the war of the Last Alliance. Telkelion owed Hatholdir a debt of gratitude but he honored this in his own way.

Hatholdir sneered at him. "If you are my friend then why are you allowing this?"

"My first duty is to Lindon. If I did not respect you, you will still be handled like a criminal. Besides I want to spare you disgrace. Your arse is showing, friend."

"An astoundingly beautiful arse!" cried the Woman Crowned With the Sun. Hatholdir grinned widely; yes, he had a good woman. Although multitudes spurned the diabolical king, the woman he married loved him despite the atrocities she knew and the vicious webs he weaved. Hatholdir locked gazes with Melvirel as he was marched away. "Watch your back," warned Hatholdir with a devilish smirk though the King knew he needed to watch his own.

The Shores of Mithlond

For @Ercassie

Hatholdir was eventually allowed to wander Mithlond's shore alone. Hatholdir was no longer smiling, despondent now. He came to the palace hoping to cause some mischief for his own entertainment but instead, he was the one victimized. If Ospiel and Erfaron were attending the Masquerade, he would not witness their first kiss. If Nariel was here, he lost another chance to win back their friendship which he tried to rekindle every visit. The evening was a waste. He roamed the rocky desolated coast, mumbling hostile plans to annhililate his enemies. Often he would look over his shoulder to see if that dratted hound was stalking him. He vowed to hunt the anima and feed the sheepdog's carcasse to Alagossel's terrorbird.
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Hatholdir followed the eerie, nocturnal calls of nesting Giant Petrels. He woodenly approached a white dune distinguished by sparse patches of long grass blown astir in the briny air. The great Hatholdir sat his astounding rump on the beach and sulked like a misfortunate child. The king grimaced. Hatholdir hated sand. It was coarse, and rough, and irritating, and it got everywhere including one's arse. Gads, he hoped Ospiel and Erfaron didn't see him like this, dressed in tattered finery with his rear exposed for all Middle-earth to behold. They would never stop joking on him about it even in his own illustrious presence.

Hatholdir sneered, slapping an inquisitive crab away from investigating his denuded backside and looked at the giant petrel nearby, devouring the innards of an eviscerated puffin. The huge seabird of Forlindon was scary-looking with its brown mottled hunch-backed appearance, surly demeanor, and large bloodstained beak. Giant Petrels were fearsomely predators, aggressive brutes prone to scavenging; Gondorian sailors called them stinkers and gluttons. Giant Petrels murdered all sorts of birds to eat, battering or drowning them to death before their feast. They followed boats in hopes of being fed offal or other kinds of refuse. Hatholdir respected them, naturally, since he was an opportunistic cutthroat himself. He whistled at the Giant Petrel emjoying its meal. The bird answered Hatholdir with a squeaky noise and strode toward him with its sturdy legs.

"Perhaps you'll provide me company while I wait for my wife."

The Giant Petrel grunted.

"Yes, I suppose she won't come." He took up a piece of driftwood and drew a heart in the sand with it then the runes of his name and The Woman Crowned With the Sun. "She'll want to have fun with the ruddy Phoenix and all her glamorous girlfriends," Hatholdir added scathingly then took his mask off. Hatholdir smiled when the cruel bird sat with him. It permitted the High Elf to stroke his plumage. It made a mournful descending sound, dear-dear-dear-dear-dear.

"Yes, it's been a terrible evening. I need to pass the time. Perhaps you'd enjoy hearing my life story? It a hapless tale but I need more commiserating friends." The Giant Petrel croaked in affirmation, reminding Hatholdir he was here as an unprejudiced listener. "I am fortunate to have an audience." Hatholdir turned his stoic gaze toward the seafoam coldly washing the shore of Lhûn Gulf. "When I was a child of Cuiviénen my father abused me and my mother was captured, later I discovered she was transformed into an Orc-"

The Giant Petrel's squawk was harsh and grating. No. It did not want to hear anymore; it was already disturbing. The bird returned to its meal. Hatholdir had no time to grieve the Giant Petrel's abandonment, agitated by a cold sensation sweeping over him... The frost of winter's heart returned to dethrone the reign of spring...

The Gatehouse, an hour later

"Let's go over the rules one last time," said the Badger's lover. The young Elven woman's long coppery hair was arranged in a Gondorian fishtail braid, popular among the folk of Dor-en-Ernil. Smoky carnelian eyeshadow vividly accentuated her sky-blue eyes. The Red Fox's vulpine mask of red and white gold complemented her sleeveless ballroom gown that made her look like a siren in carmine. Its sweetheart bodice sparkled with starlike diamonds, warmly illumined by the ruddy light of Carnil. Lace gloves adorned her lissome ivory arms, fingerless to display her glittering nails. Ruby chandelier earrings dangled from her elvish ears. Her floral-fruity scent, purchased from Airien's perfumery, was a fragrant fusion of Belfalas grapefruit and Lebennin nectarine with elegant middle notes of iris and jasmine.

"Don't hurt anyone. Don't kill anyone. Don't insult anyone's mother. Don't make sarcastic replies. Don't spike the punch. Don't steal anything from Círdan's Treasury. Don't ask Gellam for a dance-off I can't win. Don't purposefully look for Erfaron or Hatholdir. Don't argue legitimate history." The young Elven man listed his orders off by the fingers of his moleskin glove. His badger mask was built of white-gold and tardur, the lustrous black metal King Hatholdir devised. His breeches and frock coat, vest and shirt were of white and black brocade. His fashionable clothes fit the tall Elf's wiry frame tightly. His skin was shining white and his curly raven hair was slicked. "I normally adhere to these commands when we visit a Lindon ball."

"No, love," said the Red Fox dryly, "you don't."

They would have come to the palace earlier but the Red Fox spent too much time socializing. She did, of course, to avoid anxious thoughts of her significant other ruining the masquerade. Ultimately she decided to throw caution to the wind, said a Hail Varda, and took a rental carriage to Círdan's home.

An Elven guard young as themselves stopped them at the elaborately carved doors of the Gatehouse. "The Herald's daughter is known to us," he said, noticing her mask. She wore it every Masquerade. Her name meant "the Red Fox" so it was apt of her to resemble one, of course. "You are allowed to pass but the Mole is not."

"Would you like a lesson in upsetting a redhead?" she asked in a clipped foreboding voice. She pointed one of her sharp red nails toward the guard's angular face, causing him to take a frightened step back from the feisty Elf-girl.

"I assume a Mole did something awful so you're forbidding any you know from attending," guessed the Badger, remaining calm...for the moment. "Was this sanctioned by Lord Círdan?"

"Indeed it was," replied the guard with a disgusted sneer, perhaps a descendant of a Gondolin survivor.

"There could be Moles inside as we speak," said the shrugging Badger.

"None we know but your identity is infamous," answered the guard, shifting his scornful look at the Red Fox. It was no secret among the courts of Lindon or Imladris that the Herald's daughter was in a relationship with a betrayer's son. "I wouldn't be surprised if you are ready to kill someone tonight."

"Of course I am," acknowledged the Badger with sheer delight. The Red Fox groaned, pleading for him to shut his fleeging mouth. Although the guard had brandished his polearm, the Badger showed all the sheathed daggers hanged concealed within the silver lining of his frock coat. "I just want to be prepared for any Corsair attack."

"The naval ships of Forlond and Harlond will defend Mithlond against Umbarian aggression," spoke the proud guard.

"What about Shadow Dwarves or ruffians of the Greenway?" asked the Badger, still even-keeled.

"She can enter. You can wait."

"She dances only with me."

"She can dance with anyone else."

"I want to dance with him!" protested the Red Fox, stamping her ruby slipper, on the verge of tears.

The Badger felt his anger rising but knew that the Lindon Guard prison was where he'd spend the night if this argument came to blows. "You need to spring a trap or tunnel your way out of one," Astaro taught him. Erfaron suggested subterfuge when necessary. Edan advised the Badger that trickery often served as a means of victory rather than a direct assault. "Go inside, dear," he insisted.

She started to rebuke him but the Badger silenced her lips with a softly sustained press of his own. "Go inside. I will wait for you." The Badger stressed emphasis on the words inside and wait. She studied him intently but gave him an unhappy reluctant nod, hoping his plan would become apparent.

"I will linger in the garden."

Her eyes widened with understanding but she said nothing, nodding again but with a resolved tightening of her mouth.

"You better," threatened the seething guard but the Badger said nothing, striding into the courtyard along side the Red Fox. "I will visit the kitchen for some comfort food," she remarked fussily to the guard. The Badger restrained a triumphant smile. She seperated from her lover, rushing inside the palace like an inexorable comet. The Badger meanwhile said thank you with a sardonic timbre when the guard opened a garden gate. He entered the floral paradise that was Tham-en-Gaearon. The Elf walked down an iris path, looking back to be certain the guard returned to his post.

I'll go through the kitchen.
He met the Red Fox at the door which opened to the garden. She greeted him merrily, handing the Badger his very own skewer of caramel drizzled fruit and nuts, baked in honey and brown sugar. "I presume you've asked your father to vouch for my sterling behavior, sweetheart?" he asked, leaving the kitchen together.

She riveted his attention to the Seafarer's Son approaching the Mother of Pearl for a spin in the lively romp. Moments before he stood with Ulmo and the King of Feathers; the Lord of Lindon and the Herald of Imladris looked their way and gave them a nod of recognition. It was the latter who gladly smiled at them before being pulled into the The Dance of the Fair Maids by the Queen of Starlight.

The Badger was relieved, hooking arms with the Red Fox. Everything was going to be just fine.
Last edited by Eriol on Sun Jan 31, 2021 6:45 pm, edited 8 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

New Soul
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In the Ballroom with @Ercassie

At first the beauty of melodies and
of the interwoven words in elven-tongues,
even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as he began
to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions
of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened
out before him; and the firelit hall became like a golden mist above
seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world.

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

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

- from The Princess: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Lórien's hymn swelled in lavish otherworldly wonder. Joyous Elven singers entered the buoyant music, imitating the spirit choirs of Murmuran. "Forgive this late venture, my dear. I was a fool to tarry in the garden. I realize now how fortunate we are to be where our skulking friend won't dare to observe us." The Lord of Unicorns looked into the azure depths of her ocean eyes, similarly drenched in the same rhapsodic dreamlike trance, hardly aware they must leave the intimate reverie for their time was short.

"We mustn't rest yet, miruvor," he whispered to his slumbrous wife, words the Phoenix heard him say elsewhere most often. Hoping to perhaps quicken her pulse he brushed her coral lips with a gossamer stroke of his mouth, a caress like a gentle zephyr riffling the spring air. He eased the feathered boa off her smooth bare shoulders and entrusted it to a servant girl awed by his wife's grandeur, no doubt wishing she could be dressed as exquisitely.

"Fly with me, Firebird." The Lord of Unicorns whisked the Phoenix across the moonlit ballroom in constant lively motion, the couple enlivened by the fanciful harmony of cellos and lutes and organs. At sudden times he whirled the Phoenix with one strong arm wrapped about her small waist and spun his beloved above the polished floor. Hoisting her for those fleeting seconds, the Lord of Unicorns hoped as he had with Cara that the Phoenix felt like a bird, a darting nightingale of Lórien, before gilded shoes of climbing beribboned lace reunited with the gleaming surface.

They moved in immaculate fluidity, weaving amongst the party-goers like Irmo's singing sprites flitting amid towering cypress. The euphoric refrain slowed dramatically which impelled their graceful intricate movements to a brief rest near the grand hearth where they caught their breath at last.

"The swift Phoenix!" the Lord of Unicorns praised his wife through rich mellow laughter, tucking an errant wisp of titian hair behind her pointed elvish ear. She always followed his dynamic lead with marvellous élan whether it be at home or dancehalls afar. Flute and ocarina claimed the ethereal tune in melodious unity with tinkling chimes and bright ringing triangles struck in complex rapid rhythms.

The elvish minstrels forged a spellbinding vision with the Calaquendi chorus. The firelit ballroom was enmeshed in strange mists floating in shining tendrils between yews and pines exuding drowsy odors. The trees and surrounding mountains were hung over vast lakes where vespertine stars and scattered opals sparkled. Nightflowers blossomed in fumellar meadows, poppies glowing like embers in silver twilight.

"I did want to see you in the garden..." said the Lord of Unicorns and chuckled, humored by the cosmical irony. A butterfly fluttered toward the couple, reminding them where they truly were, in the palace of Lord Círdan. The splendid creature alighted on the proffered knuckle of the Lord of Unicorns. His fingertips skimmed against one sapphire-and-ebony wing, encouraging the Phoenix to do likewise.

"One came to visit us here in Mithlond, dear." A twitch and the butterfly flittered skyward. His hands roamed through a wonderful wealth of ginger hair, speaking of twin shenanigans. "I sent them home with Giri but I insisted they stay awake this once so we can bring the masquerade to them." He shook his head ruefully, blond locks spilling handsomely across his brow. "It would break their hearts otherwise. I allowed Giri to keep them costumned for us. We must leave early for the children's sake but don't fret my love!"

His eager fingers drifted like falling leaves from her garnet-strewn tresses to glide along the medallion gold thread of the back of her glittering bodice. "Once the babes are in bed, greater revelry awaits in the orange grove before dawn," promised the Lord of Unicorns in a low compelling voice. He took tender claim of ivory limbs entwined in cascading bangles of rosegold and leaned close. His warm lips savored her mouth's sweetness like a honeybee drawing the nectar from a crimson flower on a balmy summer day. They drowned in the throbbing air and sank under brilliant fiery light, returned to the clear reality of Círdan's house.

Maglor's idyllic theme Fields of Aman gaily started with the whimsical music of gold harps and violins, succoured with the penetrating resonance of lebethron oboes. The Lord of Unicorns summoned the Phoenix to his broad chest, one hand lingering around his wife's limber body as he sewed their opposite fingers together high. "May I have an hour's delight with the Baroness of Forlond?" The Lord of Unicorns gave the Phoenix a charming wink, already leading her through a fast circling sequence of sliding steps.

For a little while, the mantles of parenting and governance fell away. The world was solely theirs. He needed only to think of how dazzling her smile was tonight and muse how no other living thing he had ever seen was enrobed in beauty this sublime.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

High Lord of Imladris
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The Lady of Flame

She was going to strip his spirit down and flog him to within the brink of his sanity. She had no pity on this man that had tried his best to destroy her mind so many years ago. A hand fell on her shoulder and a whisper in her ear tried to persuade her to halt her assault on the man that had molested her so many years ago spiritually, and had pressed again earlier in the night. For an instant her rage dropped from Hatholdir and rounded towards Cirdan himself not recognizing the voice as she was so very intent on destroying Hatholdir who had dared to touch her in the unseen. Her vengeful spirit for an instant turned towards the ancient and powerful lord and was about to lash at him as well, only for her to recognize who it was in the last moment and she clamped down on her assault and her spirit once again was bound in the chains that she kept on herself so that she did not hurt those that she liked. Her eyes flashed angrily at the interruption as she turned towards Cirdan for a moment before tossing her head bad slightly showing her throat as if she was not afraid of Hatholdir at all, not knowing how he had threatened his wife before, daring him further as his wife stroked his bruised ego. She stared him down as he gasped glaring at her with his blue eyes her own blue eyes smoldering in rage that she'd not been allowed to further punish his intrusion against her spirit. That same calm smirk that had been on her face the entire time that she had been flaying him mentally was still on her face as she looked at him, around her others moved to remove Hatholdir, the smirk on her face set in it's place as she didn't break her gaze upon him, and barely managed to keep herself from laughing at his misfortune with the sheep dog taking a tear out of the Dirt Kings breaches.

Only after he was gone did she move to go, another whispering voice in her ear her eyes heavily lidded as she glanced back towards the person speaking. There were very few that would command her to do much, fewer still that she would heed without argument; this was one of them. She gave a small nod, still not breaking her silence to give hint to the masses that were about her as to who she was. She finished her glass of wine and headed back towards the house where she could have her carriage brought forth so she could at least leave in style. She glanced at those that had been behind her, that she had not noticed before, her eyes locked on another Valar dressed elf for a moment. She heard a soft whisper from him, perhaps more that she read his lips and she felt her breath catch in her throat her brow furrowed slightly. She had not been called that by anyone in ages. She did not recognize this ellon, his voice, his eyes she didn't overly hesitate in her step though her head did stay on the strange man confused by him for a moment before she slipped away into the ball room and then to the gatehouse and her carriage.

Aule

He felt the Mother of Pearl react to something he couldn't understand he was worried for her and he supported her as best as he could as they continued. He had the urge upon hearing the mans comment on the Mother of Pearl being a nobody and an idiot he wanted to strike him hard however he was not about to leave the Mother of Pearl on her own while she was struggling with something not realizing that the sweating and trembling and soft whimper from him told him that something was exacting a toll upon him, and it was a powerful one. The Lady of Flame was who he was watching he had expected her full well to strike the man and he was ready to jump and stop a kinslaying however the King of Feathers put a hand out keeping him from drawing any nearer, not realizing what she was doing until who he assumed were elven lords that outranked the lady in question stepped forward, one going to her first.

A moment later the Emperor of Shadows collapsed into the Woman Crowned in the Sun his anger at the Lady of Flame was almost as apparent as her own wrath towards him had been the difference was she seemed to show no fear of him. She stood proud and alone flanked by elven Lords that were not moving to help her or protect her. She had to be strong that they would not protect a lone woman from the cruel man that at least was no longer paying much attention to the woman at his side, at least until she was called by the Lord of Water to do as she would to the man, as the Hostess of the Masquerade and he was banished from it. The Lady of Flames stood calm and serene watching the entire events and he hoped that the Mother of Pearl was all right, he would have to ask if she was alright after everything had come to an end. He smiled at the sheep dog and it's reaction to the Emperor of Shadows when he noted that another elf stepped towards the Lady of Flames who had not yet moved yet he couldn't hear what was said but he caught the slight nod from her before she tipped her wine glass back emptying it and turning. She glanced towards him and he felt his heart in his throat.

"Mel?" He half whispered his eyes going wide, this was not what he had been expecting. He had not been expecting a formable woman that carried herself like a queen of the Noldo. He watcher her go, and she seemed to not recognize him, not that that should shock him, he did not look the way he had before. He made sure that the Mother of Pearl was in the good hands of the Gull quickly excusing himself apologizing for leaving her as she was recovering from whatever had struck her so harshly, realizing that very likely that something was happening in the Unseen. Was it Melviriel? It had only been once the Lord of Waters had spoken in the Lady of Flames ear that the Mother of Pearl seemed to begin recovering. She was a Nando as she called herself, how had she been in the Unseen? What had happened in the ages since he had died? He tried his best to follow her but having delayed as long as he had making sure the Mother of Pearl was alright had given her enough of a lead that he ran out of the Ballroom to the gate house as the Lady of Flame shut the door of her carriage and it pulled away.

He stood watching for a moment wondering where the Lady was going. He would have to speak to the Lord of Waters and, the Seafarers Son, find out what exactly Melviriel had done, as he was absolutely certain that it was her. He would never forget those eyes of hers, he knew it was her even if no one but them did, he hoped that they would understand why he was so interested in the Lady of Flames.

Balrog
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The Fire of Motion

He was still in a state of disbelief. This couldn’t be her. There was no way under the great blue sky that she was still alive. As much as his heart leapt for joy, it sank, souring his stomach. The wine gurgled unpleasantly. He followed her, raced behind her with all the strength of will he could muster in his wine soaked legs. She looked like she was gliding on clouds while he was trudging through syrup. Every part of him was slow to respond. His breath was uneven and ragged, and the verge of hyperventilation. His chest felt like an oliphant had stepped on it. What was going on? His mind raced, as much as a mind so laden with Old Dorwinion could. He remembered the exact moment that his heart had been shattered, in a manse in Umbar, three thousand years ago. How could it have been so long? The Fire of Motion was a completely different person back then, struck down and wounded by fate and circumstance, but still willing to trust hope. Now though…

She removed the mask as they reached a secluded balcony. His eyes were hazy and unfocused, but he fought through the haze. It was her. The girl he'd known had grown into a woman, a beautiful woman, taller than him by nearly a foot. Some small part of him in that moment smiled and laughed, but he was too overwhelmed to show it. Taking a cue from her, The Fire of Motion removed his mask as well. He hadn't changed much in the intervening millennia but it felt like a necessary thing to do, a requirement after all these years. His mismatched eyes were free from distraction now. Without the weight of the mask on his face, the nimir felt freer, more real. And the world around him, too, came into sharper focus. Reality hit him like a bull. Tears began to well up, a knot in his stomach threatened to rip him apart, and his throat felt like it was going to close up. Horror, joy, elation, sadness, confusion. He was feeling everything at once. It was too overwhelming, far too much. He wanted to scream.

Then she spoke. She spoke and he thought the sky would crack open, the way it had that horrid day so long ago. Númenyraumion’s tears began to fall. “No. No. No!” He cried desperately, rapidly moving through the space that existed between them, but not close enough to touch her. He was still to unsure for that. “IzzyInziladûn,” he corrected himself. She wasn’t Izzy anymore. She wasn’t the child he’d played hide and seek with all those years ago. She had grown, changed. He could sense something in her that had not been there before. “I… never stopped writing you. I wrote you at least once every season for years, even when you stopped replying. I never stopped. Not until,” he gulped, dredging up horrible memories. “I went to Umbar finally. With Finnbarr. We crossed all of Middle-Earth to get there. We… met your uncle.” He paused again, his tongue unwilling to say the words that he knew he needed to say. “He… he said, that, that you were dead. He said you were dead and that you got what you deserved.” Tears began to fall rapidly as the memories came back to him, awful and unbidden. He waved his hand at the air as if that would help stave off the pain. “I didn’t believe him but… but he showed me the casket he made. I… Izzy I’m, I’m so… so sorry.” For an elf that prided himself on always being able to find the right thing to say, the right melody, and the right rhythm, Númenyraumion could find nothing poetic, elegant, or thoughtful to say. His little sister was standing in front of him. Surely it was her. Surely. “He lied to me, and I believed him, Inziladûn, I’m so sorry. I should have looked harder. I should have tried more. I… I had just lost Anárion and I was too consumed with my own grief. Please… Izzy, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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He removed his mask and if she had harbored any doubts, they were erased. She had known from the moment she saw the unmistakable eyes, but now with his full face in view, Vingilótë was overwhelmed by how real he was, this spectre from her past. Even catching hold of his hand and pulling him along behind her had not fully convinced her in the way that his face did, distraught and wan in the moonlight. His tear and his voice spilled over; he rushed towards her and she took a step back. She was not ready to be that close to him.

“Izzy.”

Again he spoke the word, and it landed on her like something rotten. Only he had ever called her that, and in those days it had fit, the childishness of the names they had given each other a teasing delight, as though they really might have been siblings. But now? Never again. But when he spoke “Inziladûn,” there was an echo of her mother in his voice that made her pause. How long since someone had called her by that name? Longer still since one whom she had shared Anadûnê with had been alive to speak it. Or so she thought. With that name there came a rush of memory, not all of it good. But then the revelation came: he had never stopped. He had never stopped writing her. What did he mean she stopped replying? She had never not replied to one of his letters! But it was even as she put the pieces together that he brought up her uncle; how he and Finnbarr -the name struck some distant chord in her memory- had traveled to Umbar to find her. He had come to find her.

But when he mentioned the casket her uncle had made, Vingilótë laughed, a harsh and bitter sound. She threw her mask down and turned away from him, retreating behind the fountain, circling to its far side. It was only a small thing, to fit in this secluded hedge-corner, but it put another layer of distance between them. She could hear him clearly above its burbling waters, and see him from the corner of her eye. Guilt and remorse radiated from him, buffeting her in waves. Why was her chest tense and tight; why did her throat constrict and prickle, why did that space behind her eyes seem to burn? Why should her body betray her like this? Why should she have such a reaction to someone she had not seen in over three millennia, who had not known her as anything other than a child, who no longer knew who she was; whom she owed nothing, and thought of less? And yet, she did. Unbidden, and image came to her: in the bottom of the satchel she carried ranging, a small lump of alabaster transferred from bag to bag over the years, but ever-present. And a sensation: the smooth glide of the alabaster beneath her mindless fingertips, where over time she had nearly stroked the sea otter’s features away.


“Izzy.”

Again, and Vingilótë drew a deep and shuddering breath, tilting her chin back to stare up at the stars overhead. She exhaled as his voice fell silent, then breathed in, silently. And when she breathed out again, it was with words. “Batânthôr got what he deserved,” she said flatly. On her next breath, she turned to face him again, meeting his mismatched ones with her odd cobalt ones, all that remained of the nís who had mothered them both, her look less blazing now. “That is not my name,” she said with a slight lift of her brows, “It has been a long, long time since I was the girl you gave that name to. I will never be that person again.” She considered him steadily, though internally she was floundering. He was one of perhaps three living who had ever known her as Inziladûn, and yet fewer who had known the name Vanyamórë. Somewhere in a dusty ledger in Nyárener’s library that name was recorded neatly next to her father-name among the lists of refugees from Anadûnê. None of these were names which followed her abroad, and she had known a number of others since they fell into her past. But there was one which endured, and it was this she gave him, and spoke his at last.

“I am called Moriel now, Númenyraumion.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

High Lord of Imladris
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Aule
Finding The King of Feathers @Tharmáras

He was about to find Ulmo and the Seafarers Son when he had an idea, after all Melviriel hated the idea of being a lady so going to the elven High Lords probably would not help him much. After all it wasn't their duty to know where absolutely every elf was at all times. However he knew that she had been friends with Aigronding and Arasoron. Arasoron had even once upon a time thought of her as possibly his soul mate until Afarfin had met her if anyone would know where she was staying before and after the ball, then it would be the Mordagnirs. With that he spun about the carriage no longer in sight at all and headed back into the ball pushing through the grand ballroom faster than he probably should have but this was important.

He rounded into ballroom only to see the floor a swirl with women and men alike in some dance. "Last bloody thing I need." He normally would be all for joinging the dance and making friends, perhaps meeting old friends but for now he needed Aigronding and he knew whic" Ah one he was. He put his hand in and grabbed Aigrondings shoulder.

"I'm sorry I need the King of Feathers to help me find someone." He apologized profusely to the woman for a moment then turned to Aigronding. "I need your help Aigronding I need to find Melviriel something has happened, do you know where she is staying here in Lindon?" He held his hand up dismissing a young elleth that was coming to try to get one of dance, something he hadn't done in a very long time back when he was far more lordly and had been physically older than Aigronding a motion from his past one that he often used to dismiss fawning Noldo women that would bother him while he was off duty years before in Minas Tirith.

Balrog
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The Fire of Motion

Moriel? Moriel?

The word sounded like nails on a chalkboard. It was not the word itself. It was Sindarin, the same language as his won name. It was just… not hers. He didn’t like it. He hated it, in point of fact. There was nothing dark or black about his little sister. If the name was to signify her hair it was as unimaginative a name as “Oldtown” or “Benton-by-the-Water”. He mouthed the word and it felt noxious and oily, like eating fish eggs for the first time. His eyes darkened, the edges crinkling with concern as he looked to her to say something else, that he could still call her by her name, the name their father had given her, that she was still his sister. But his hopes were in vain. Her blue eyes were cold. Númenyraumion had seen that something like that look many, many years ago, in years so long vanished into the depths of the sea. His heart, which had been thumping like a forge bellows in his ears, dropped. The nimir felt nauseous. Elation, trepidation, fear, confusion, his mind was still racing, trying to determine whether any of this was real or some cruel trick of the Old Dorwinion.

Moriel?” he finally said at last. The word sounded completely natural coming from his lips, and he hated it. “When did you get that name?” He kept his face a mask, only the crinkling around his eyes betraying any of his emotions or feeling about her.

Batânthôr got what he deserved,” her voice was flat and emotionless, but the words she spoke echoed like a noon gong in his head. The callousness, the matter-of-factness, and the lack of concern in her statement alarmed him. What had happened to his little sister? What horrors and hardships had she endured? He clenched a fist, the turmoil of his anger finally manifesting. He had done been responsible for that. It was his fault. All his fault. What an utter coward he was, a selfish prick, an eldhúsfífl.

But she’s alive. She’s alive and she’s fine came a voice in his head. You aren’t in control of her journey any more than a stranger that she met on the road. She’s her own person. You can’t control what she does, for good or ill. Stop being so goddamned selfish.

He relaxed. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been hold and unclenched his fist. The fear and mistrust faded to the background, though didn’t go away altogether. There was a strange sensation in his gut, a light feeling, bubbly almost. Was this hope? It felt strange. It felt like he’d eaten something sickeningly sweet, a cupcake with far too much icing. The nimir wanted to spit. He wanted shout with elation.

His knees grew weak. Her declaration that she would never be the same girl she had been struck him like an arrow. He knew it was true, it as perfunctory, an axiom that no one could deny. He, himself would never be the same either. He’d been a young 1500 years old, naïve and wild. He would never be that young man again either. Still, the sound of a hammer on a coffin filled his mind, an iron bell, the sound of a cracking mast.

“I missed you,” he said. Númenyraumion sighed, unable to master anymore words. “I missed you so much.”

Númenyraumion couldn’t move. His knees were weak and his feet were nailed to the spot. His sister… Izzy or Moriel or whatever name she’d ever gone by, she was alive. His sister was alive. That’s all that mattered.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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“When did you get that name?”

“A long time ago.”

There was so much she wanted to tell him, and so much she hoped he would never find out. Why? She had only been thirty years old when her father had been killed and her foster-brother had stopped writing- or so she thought. Thirty years old, and still a child in so many ways, for the children of the Eldar aged more slowly than the Men amongst whom she had lived. She had been eighty-four when she left Umbar, longer without Númenyraumion’s presence and letters than with them. How old had she been when he had come in vain to find her? She had already been Moriel then. When she cared to turn her thoughts to it, she could still feel the innards of the Nelya who had given the name to her, quivering around her sword as he gasped it to the storm and to her rage, and see the hopeless longing in his ancient eyes. Another connection she had put firmly behind her, into a past that belonged to another person. Only the name remained, and a pair of matched blades, both of which had become part of her power, not bound to anyone but she. There was so much her- she could scarcely bring herself to think of him as her brother- had missed; so much that never would have happened if he had been there, the nasty, petulant corner of her added; and yet, she knew that none of it was his fault. She wanted to disappear into the night. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to vanish back into the wild, to never have come to this luxury and remembrance she now and then allowed herself, safe behind a mask. But now her face was bare, as was her heart.


“I missed you. I missed you so much.”

She cracked. Surely as a window shut too tight, a fissure spiraled through the glass that was her armor and it shattered. The defensive rigidity flooded out of her in a great wave and she quivered like a gusted leaf. Her eyes filled, but not so much that she could not see him, standing before her, real and whole and alive. She could see and feel some of the changes time had wrought on him, but in so many ways he was the same. Just the same, and in the back of her mind it seemed she could hear him distantly: calling out to her as she ran ahead of him on the heather of the Forostar, singing a nonsense song, whispering to her as they snuck out at night to sit beneath the stars, and promising, as she had bid him a tearful farewell in Mithlond all those years ago that he would always, always be there, and that he would see her again. Somehow, he had kept his promise. When at last she spoke again it was not in common Sindarin, nor yet Quenya, which she had known from birth and her mother had given him fluency, but in her true cradle-tongue; the language of her father’s people- their people, and their long-lost homeland. The peaks and valleys of Adûnâyê rolled from her lips as though not a day had passed since its island slipped beneath the waves.

“I missed you. Every day. I missed you so much, for so long. I can’t remember when I stopped. I missed you more than Sorontil, my brother, until I couldn’t miss you any more.”

She lifted her arm, and stretched out her hand.

“Anadûrohin.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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The Ballroom with @Fuin Elda

The King of Feathers and the Queen of Starlight
The Red Fox and The Badger


The King of Feathers recoiled from Aulë's bold grasp and gave him a searching look. The Queen of Feathers regarded him with a cool stare. She would have castigated the Elf severely for his unexpected trespass, having been in mid-dance with her husband, but she gasped in tandem with her spouse. The mere mention of Fuin Elda's ancient name, the one she was addressed by in the Years of the Trees and the First Age, was known to few Elves.

Their daughter, the Red Fox, came hastening over with her beau the Badger in tow, most likely wanting for a dance with each of the parents respectively. Laughter gushed from the Badger when Aulë dismissed the young Elf-lady with an imperious wave of his hand.

"Don't think for one second your costume intimidates me." She quirked her glistening red lips and laid one of her sharp glittering coral nails against his chest. "I am the daughter of Elrond's Herald. Step off, peasant!" The Badger chuckled when the Red Fox made a shooing motion.

The King of Feathers silenced the Red Fox with his grave glance, observing how suddenly serene his wife appeared.

She was staring at Aulë, her tightened lips softening into a delighted smile. For the Queen of Starlight, a High Elf of Aman who walked in both the Seen and Unseen Worlds, this reality vanished in the twinkling of an eye. Now she stood in a realm, neither good nor evil, reserved only for a powerful few. Her luminous spirit clad in shimmering raiment of brilliant hues beheld Aulë. She saw him standing tall and crowned. He was poised between great towering doors. He wore a purple robe and the light of his effulgent staff illumined the vast distance between them, banishing the murk clouding the dark threshold. A soul released from shadowy halls, eager to roam the Seen World he left behind....

"Afarfin have you sought us out?" The Queen of Starlight breathlessly asked before she pulled the stranger into her embrace in the ballroom of Círdan's Court.

The King of Feathers was speechless, drowning in a tumultous sea of emotion as scalding tears flooded his eyes. He couldn't find his voice but joined his wife, wrapping his strong arms about them both.

The Red Fox curiously lingered near her mother and father. They seemed to have reunited with a mysterious friend. She wanted to apologize to Aulë and anticipated knowing him in the years to come; her parents often introduced her to their ancient companions and distant kin. The Red Fox would have relished her position as spectator but the Badger entwined their hands together.

"We must dance," ordered the Badger but not unkindly.

The stubborn redhead desperately searched for any reason to stall for a few minutes longer. "Bring me sweets, melindo."

"You want to watch eavesdrop, melissë," the Badger dryly replied.

"I need to know who he is," insisted the Elf-girl.

"If they want you to know, you will be told." The Badger kissed her brow then guided the Red Fox away, one moleskin glove pressing tenderly against the small of her back.

Meanwhile the King of Feathers and the Queen of Starlight encouraged Afarfin to accompany them outside. In the torchlight of the courtyard, the couple revealed themselves to be Aigronding and Roina Mordagnir.

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"I don't know how long ago you returned to Middle-earth," said Aigronding, gripping Afarfin's forearm in fellowship, "but you are welcome at Linyamaril, Crystalpool, our home in Imladris. Your sword is there...and Arasoron's tomb." Aigronding closed his blue piercingly bright eyes, hesitant to speak of Fuin. Roina spoke for him.

"Melviriel assumed a different name to reflect the darkening of her fëa once you were gone," explained Roina delicately. "She is not the same elleth you knew in your previous life."

"He must see her regardless," said Aigronding with a decisive sharpness. "Time and Death have kept them apart. Now nothing will stand in their way." Aigronding seized hold of Afarfin's shoulder with a wan smile. "She may have rented a suite at Celonsend Inn owned by my Sindarin friend, Girion Coruben, in sight of Mithlond. Roina and I have a room there. We can take my carriage."

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

High Lord of Imladris
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Aule
Ballroom/Outside

He raised an eyebrow at the younger woman her finger on his chest at her words 'peasant' and a flick of her hand. He was about to tell her off and that he didn't have time to play with little children playing in a grown up sense when Aigronding gave a look and suddenly he found himself hugged tightly byt Roina and then Aigronding. He blinked, realizing that in fact this was his first time meeting some of his friends again, and hugged them back, feeling a few hot tears escape his own eyes realizing how good it was to see his old friends once more.

"I have sought you out, I need your help." He said as urgently has he dared, after all he did not know where Melviriel would run to anymore, the world here had changed so very much and he was not yet use to it. The three slipped outside and Afarfin nodded at the offer from Aigronding and grew somber he knew Arasoron had passed years ago, for he had seen his spirit in the halls but it was a stark reminder that his best friend was not here with him. He wanted to push the conversation back to Melviriel but was happy when Roina did so for him.

He was a bit taken aback by the description that Melviriels fea had darkened, what could diminish such a shining light he knew not she had always been blindingly bright to him, but he had seen her basically hunting an elf if her expression was any indication of her intentions. He pulled off his mask showing his face fully. and giving a nod, "I've already seen her at a glance if you think she is at the Celonsend Inn then we should go there swiftly, I feel something..." He paused not sure exactly how to word it. "Ill is at work tonight and if we could find and get to Mel as quickly as possible that would be best I think. I do not want to have finally found her only to have her slip away due to some dark forces the same night." He was grateful for the offer of the carriage. Hopefully they would find her and she would be alright.

Balrog
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He never thought he’d hear that name again, never thought he’d hear that tongue again. Adûnaic had been relegated to the dark corners of his mind, in empty, dusty music halls where he dared not visit. Once, it had been the sweetest, most lyrical tongue he’d ever spoken, but after the fall of his home and the destruction of his reality, that tongue became dangerous. More and more people on the mainland began to associate it with the evils perpetuated by the King’s Men, the rampant colonialism, or the racial superiority the once great Númenóreans portrayed as they turned from cultivation to domination. He could not blame them. His countrymen, by the end of the Second Age, had become a plague of hungry locusts. Even the Elendili, the Faithful, saw Middle-Earth as a fatted calf, theirs by right. The end of the world had done much to dissuade the survivors of that point of view. He’d stopped using the language of his adopted family and began to use the myriad other languages of the people he encountered. Soon, his Adunaic became rusty until he realized he had almost forgotten it. But hearing Izzy, no Moriel (a vein in his neck bulged slightly), speaking it, memory hit him, wave after wave. He could not tell if that feeling was good though. It was warm and inviting, but there was something predatory underneath it, a wolf stalking a deer in the summer snow. Númenyraumion couldn’t tell where that sensation was coming from, whether it was from his sister’s voice, or from the language she used.

“I mourned for you every day for centuries. Each day the sun would rise, and I would remember that you were gone, that ammê and attô were gone. I never felt so alone,” the sound of his own voice wrapping around those ancient Adûnaic words was like the resonance of a violin bow against dusty catgut strings. “I am so sorry I never looked harder for you. Forgive me, sister. I believed the lies of our uncle. I should have known the things he told me were poison.” Again he clenched his fists. It had been three thousand years since that confrontation, three thousand years since he heard his name delivered so mockingly, but it still stung as if it had just been said, a venom that long outlived the viper that bit him.

He took her hand, delicate but possessing a hidden, lupine strength. Electricity, born form anticipation, blasted through his arm and into his mind. He’d come here tonight because Finnbarr had dragged him to it, insisting that Númenyraumion meet and mingle with the highborn people, ironic given The Galedeep’s overarching opinion of wealthy aristocrats. Not even in his most fanciful, unbelievable dreams could he have imagined this. None of the hundreds of thousands of stories he’d heard and collected prepared him for this. “We’re alive… Iz- Moriel, we're alive!” he finally managed, and began to laugh uncontrollably, the complex series of emotions finally bubbling out of him. The nimir held onto his sister’s hand, squeezed it as he wiped a tear from his eye.

“When did you get so tall?” A hint of mischief, something buried within him as deep as his mother tongue. “You were barely the height of a dwarf that last time I saw you. Now you look like you might have to duck not to scrap you head on the cloud!”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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She of Smoke and Mirrors
Escaping the Ballroom

There must have come some point when the young woman beside her had departed, but She of Smoke and Mirrors had not marked it. Oblivious was not a word often attributed to the Sinda, but if her focus was elsewheres, then she was in fact acutely focused, elsewhere. Her gaze appraising the tumultuous carnival, it was some feat to keep eyes upon any one particular soul, not least of all attending still to smalltalk as an aside. And even stood so close, The Huntress had inevitably escaped the She-Elf’s intrigue. The She-Elf though assumed this had been the woman’s whole design. Else why cloister herself in a place to evade her best hopes of attention ? She of Smoke and Mirrors had forged a career out of blending in and here, though the 'Gentle Lady' had donned her in the most elaborate camouflage, the Sinda’s disdain for socialising clearly betrayed her desire to be left alone. There were folk who could not help but gravitate toward the hermit, almost in protest at this, alas; pressing their delight upon her as though some infectious need for conformity.

Indeed the roistery was encroaching ever more now, even grasping like a relentless tide for the farthest reaches of the chamber. Hands also were extended, like bones bursting from gravesides, and welcome smiles as some mass of bleeding sores, as a small tornado of fair maidens stole the centerstage. This Sinda eyed them and their invitation with the same trepidation she might gauge some vile, deadly beast. In truth, she would have preferred grappling with any such actual beast. And in a random observation, she paused to observe the rabbit-masked reveller, clearly caught within the arms of a wolfish consort. Seems her short-term acquaintance had welcomed the comforting inevitability of fate after all.

She of Smoke and Mirrors had no such want. And drawn to the swift flight of another, she pursued the abrupt and desperate departure of a Ship and a .. Bonfire ? as they made for the grand balcony. They diverted at the last minute, and rather than track their errant path further, her mind instead flew to what might have dissuaded them from their initial port of refuge. A glimpse of blinding white, as the decadent curtains billowed, like the first flash of dawn cracking open the scar of a brooding horizon, .. and the girl in grey smiled. She had not put thought to where The Blizzard might have sequestered herself for such a while. And now the very presence who had deterred those others, drew this gaudy little cloud toward her. As a lighthouse draws ships lost in the vastness of dark waters with perilous depths.




The Blizzard and One who Walks in Twilight
Balcony

He had taken the theme of the eve to extremes, veiling not only his face, but a vast portion of his entire head. The helm which enveloped thus, identity, was fluid metal, polished smooth as oil made firm, pitch black at first sight but setting off an eerie silver sheen when rinsed in candlelight. Like a streak of moonlight spearing through the mire of a cloudy night, long enough only to chase a searchlight of suggestion around obscure shapes. The turrets of a none-too-subtle crown, soaked in the same ink shade, stretched about the orbit of this headpiece, like a proud fence. Hair as lightless as the deepest abyss stole as though a silent waterfall to coat his high collar, and still this seemed to pale against the dark fathomless burn of his coal-dark eyes. For a time, The Blizzard was unaware if he even possessed means of sight, for he did not turn from her stare as most did. And for that time of wordless wonder, he stood aside where she sat, the dark aside the light. And then she rose.

Stirred perhaps to motion for the first time since his arrival, One who walks in Twilight raised the single glass of wine he boasted from the tray, which clattered to the grand floor, needless now. He did not offer the drink to the lady, nor did she expect now that it was meant for her. And yet it was as well. It was meant for her to observe him drink and to not taste. It was meant to delight his tastebuds with the first tingle of alcohol to touch his senses for the longest time. And the greater delight of her watching him enjoy it. Soundless.

Eventually, the delightful elixir consumed, he could hold back no more.

Surprised ?” he offered her, a tasteless substitute. But it took moments for the lady to recall she had bid the waiter ‘surprise her’ with a choice of something refreshing. “I am the One who Walks in Twilight,” he ventured, as though that were an explanation.

She was unmoved toward any visible response. Save to glance away, uninterested.

I must assign you a name then ?” Words it seemed, once woken, could not be withheld now. The Elf placed his emptied glass upon the balustrade, and did not care to meet the lady’s gaze, which she had assigned to the scene of sea beyond. “Solitary stalagmite,” he presumed, with a glance to her height, and milk-moon raiment. “What is it you wait for ?

In this moment,The Blizzard engaged, as each stood vigil to gaze beyond the gardens before them, at a thing neither could name. “a return to privacy,” she answered.


Relief should have found her then, to learn that his time in this place was short, and shorter still with every breath wasted. But it had been a time since he had embarked on conversation. And he simply could not help himself. “Privacy has been your own company since conception I think”.

Some disregard for others’ concerns has at times proven some blessing.

Of course, that is why you came here.


At that she turned, though threw no more return at his assumption or the insinuation, than to retain silence. Her weapon of choice. Her hands, pale as the distant stars, clasped for the cool stone which might ground her. His hands, wrapped in dark gloves, matched his tenebrous garb, and caught the same grand bannister, though he hung back as though to ward off the same precipice she leaned into, like a lone tree bent into an embrace by robust wind.


I might wonder why it is you came here,” she spoke to the night that hung, expectant spectator, to judge their miserly exchange. “You do not like such heights,” she awarded herself the arrogance of recognition. His scowl was nigh audible beneath the metallic cowl.

I can not deny this is the best seat in the house, for enjoying the show.” he allowed.

You came to see the show ?” she smiled.

I am the show,” he whispered. “It is just that nobody shall know until there is no me to be seen.


From her vantage point, the further outstretched at the promontory, The Blizzard observed her son approaching through the gardens, and trained her eyes upon him, even as her ears tracked the progress of the One who Walks in Twilight, as he escaped down the stone steps. The point where the Elf arriving met the one departing, they two stalled. In the very moment that far beyond, Hatholdir was dispersed by the lords who gave themselves away as well, alas, all for the sake of peace.




Enter The Statue
Joining those about the Balcony


The Statue and the One who Walks in Twilight caught heads inclined a time, as though words passed between they two
The Blizzard could but guess at. The forearm of one grasped the opposite forearm of it’s flawed reflection. And the mother saw from the slack of her son’s silhouette, how he smiled behind the mask only his own mother could know without seeing. She did not smile, nor frown. But her hands cold clutching at the balustrade, clenched hard, as though she might strangle that stone under her strength.

Then the dark clad stranger set off jauntily unto the garden. And she had no time to spy where he would go, for her son was before her now. They had departed from her home to attend this ball and there would be no fooling her, as to his identity. He did not even try. The Blizzard extended one hand and The Statue laid chaste lips of his metallic faceguard soft to it’s back, to prove he had not forgotten all the manners she had installed in him, in childhood, in Aman. He merely chose not to bother with them for the most part. This was not Aman and he was no longer a child. Still, she was still his mother.

I see no cause to prolong this predicament any longer,” the Elder declared, abruptly. “The two of you can find your way ?” she assumed, inviting The Statue to turn and find surprise, and also She of Smoke and Mirrors, stood there, where but curtains separated the great balcony from the grand assembly in the ballroom beyond. The Blizzard wordlessly appraised her son, and the lady who was as much one as he was a lord. “I take my leave” she mentioned, as if either of them would notice.

Without waiting to allow an answer, The Blizzard departed the balcony, and all that it had sought to endow her with on this night. She was not one with want to be overwhelmed, and preferred to take life in small doses. Much already had occurred that might rival the confrontations in the garden, at least for her private mind to manage. She left, and the two she had dismissed from her company were abandoned to their own curious company.



They stood, each stature fallen flaccid with some wonder, searching to unlock the secret behind the disguise. His hair was thick with cloying clay, and all identifiable features obscured. Save for that single silver ring which peered through the wraps of grey cloth that gloved his hands. She would know that ring anywhere. Her hair was wild as the wind, her bare arms exposing the lean shape of one used to a favour for archery. The Gentle Lady had fought tooth and claw to douse She of Smoke and Mirrors with perfume, but she had not reckoned with a desperate last minute leap into a rockpool. Though the hedonistic bouquet of the expensive perfume still lingered, The Statue could detect emanating of her also the scent of a crisp breeze, as caught in the flat of face when roosting on a clifftop, the aroma of the first crunching imprint in an iced ground, and when his eyes met hers, it recognised that nameless moment that seas break against the stony cliff.

Nyeni” he knew.

Nieninque” she returned in kind. “So,” she said. “That is your mother,

Did you come here to talk about my mother ?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. She had no need to see behind his mask to know it. She knew him, and the inflection of tone which oft accompanied the expression.

You know why I came,” she smiled, and leant in. “She is safe” came the whisper, a reassurance. If ambiguous to any who was not of them.

And he provides always the most compelling distraction for all others of regard,The Statue glanced back toward the garden, the subject of his sentence somewhat less dubious. Without further word, the taking of her hand supposed that she would be obliging, as did her decision not to break his hand. Together linked, they stumbled merrily down the steps with light and glancing tread, as a river trips down a slope. “It is time I was about my true cause for attending,” he sounded nigh remorseful as they concluded their brief interlude of amalgamation. And then she caught his sidelong glance, and knew the tease, and knew better.

You put thought to him, and I shall manage her.She of Smoke and Mirrors fell into her obligations as though they were the freedom from 'recreation' which had struck her so bewildered in this wonderland. A nod, affirmation, and then their chain of hands broke asunder in mid swing, and the two fell apart, tearing in opposite directions.


Each one glanced back to watch a short time after the other. Neither one at the same time as did the other. They would find each other again, on the other side. In the world where masks were not donned for amusement but necessity. Where none should ever know the unspoken truth.
Last edited by Ercassie on Mon Mar 01, 2021 12:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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The Blue Butterfly
In the Garden, with The Lord of Unicorns (@Tharmáras)


There had been no fear of falling, not when he was near. She dwelt yet in that most blessed existence where no harm had ever been endured, where her loved ones had ever been at hand. Where there ever had come strong arms to catch her when she might else have crashed and burned. As he whirled her, she flew indeed, on the airs of trust and absolute confidence that could come only from having been adored all her short life thus far.

I am not this Caramírië” she protested though, ducking her face away as her father sought to unmask his mischievous child. “I am the Blue Butterfly” she announced, importantly. “I flew !” she raised her tiny chin imperiously, as The Lord of Unicorns removed her vain attempt at disguise. “Caramírië can’t fly. Her father says so. But you saw me fly. You saw me ..” The answer was a barrage of hands seeking out soft places where he might incite her giggles, until finally the argument was lost amidst her laughter. And he decided it was time for her to retire.

Silly Unicorn, butterflies do not have beds,” she rolled her eyes. Cuddles and caressing from her parent robbed her of all will for protests. She would rather have promises.

You promise you shall not rest until you have danced with me,” the small girl dictated the vow he’d gifted her, her clear voice ringing out in a choir of shrill excitement that intermingled with her sibling’s. But as the Lord of Unicorns found the childrens’ guardian, and his disappointment, The Blue Butterfly flew from her perch upon his lap just as he sought to stand, and she clung to The Mouse’s leg, protectively.

It is not her fault. She can not help that we cried and cried and cried, just because we wanted to see you all dressed up !” the small girl sighed when she heard her father and the Black Swan bemoan her mother’s absence from the garden.

You look very pretty tonight,” the Blue Butterfly turned suddenly to note The Black Swan, conversing with her parent. “Did you get all dressed up so someone would dance with you as well ?” she wondered, innocently, gazing up unabashed at her father’s ex-girlfriend. Who had come to find him in what might just be the most romantic corner of the garden. Summoned by a blushing Mouse maid, ‘The Blue Butterfly’ then lost interest before the Black Swan could answer, and skipped off to seize her nanny by the hand, and hasten her towards home.
Last edited by Ercassie on Mon Mar 01, 2021 7:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

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The Black Swan
The Cold Emerald
The Azure Bee
Crimsonstar


In the Garden



"A lovely little butterflie must find a flower to rest, my darling!" The Lord of Unicorns called out to Cara who was the Mousemaid led away. He promised Cara that Ada would keep his promise before Girithniel vanished with the mischievous twins. He chuckled, observing the flustered Black Swan as they made their way into the ballroom. "Cara has an enchanting sense of humor, does she not?"

"One could believe you have a precocious child but I am quite familiar with "innocent" looks she gives me," awkwardly came the blushing guard's bitter reply. "She is not the saintly child you think she is, my friend. Cara knew what she was saying to me. It's no secret we courted each other in the Elder Days...and I have had no lover since."

"Cara does has her cheeky moments," the Lord of Unicorns, a proud and biased parent, was willing to admit albeit with some reluctance.

"I heard her grandmother, Fëapoldië, had her own cheeky moments as well," spoke the Black Swan with a dry sardonic tone.

The Lord of Unicorns faltered in his stride. "A mere coincidence!" he responded through nervous laughter. It was something he often said to his wife. The Phoneix shared her own observations with him concerning the twins' uncanny behavior and interests in comparison to those of her deceased parents.

"I think not," the Black Swan aptly dissented.

*


Image


When they were finished dancing, the Cold Emerald poured a cup of punch for them both. "I remember when my son made this pewter alloy in Gondolin when he built his own smithy," the Cold Emerald commented in a melancholy voice, speaking more to himself than to the Black Swan whose arm was hooked around his own. The Elves strolled into Círdan's garden. They stood near a small pool beneath night-blooming Red Flare lillies of Imloth Melui. The fragrant crimson and magenta flowers were suspended above the water's surface, accented by large bronze leaves and purple markings.

"Morgath combined tin with copper and antimony, bismuth and sometimes silver when he could find it to create the gray alloy. It had a practical application, you know, for decorative purposes in the city. Although he was despised those who did purchase his wares bought many pewter goods from Morgath. Plates, dishes, basins, utensils, teapots, and candlesticks.... Even Idrasaith found a purpose for his pewter in plating her cheaper jewelry. Later when Prince Maeglin reinstated Morgath he still used pewter in his smithcraft and Idrasaith, having access again to the plentiful veins of ore in the Echoriath, accented her gold and silver merchandise such as lockets with it."

"Hatholdir and Idrasaith introduced pewter to the Edain they traded with when Gondolin fell and to this day humans still widely forge with it, Elves too," remarked the Black Swan. She sipped her punch, studying the Cold Emerald's wistful expression. "You love him." It was a statement, not a question.

The Cold Emerald finished his punch before he responded in sorrowful musing, saying he was regretful.

"There was nothing you could have done differently at Cuiviénen," the Black Swan assured the Black Emerald, touching his damasked green sleeve. "You needed to protect your son."

"I could have chosen to support him when he came to me for help but instead I disowned him." Sighing, he cast his aside as she had done and continued walking with her, following the Blue Bee and Crimsonstar journeying ahead of them holding hands. "He will never forgive me but I am grateful that I have made amends with my daughter oversea. I must return to Elenillor and Sarnir now."

The Black Swan felt a coldness creeping up her spine, knowing what he was and the silent pair leading them. Her own heartbreak outweighed her fear, dragging her into a dark void of loneliness. "Please don't go!" The Black Swan begged him, binding him in her tight desperate embrace. She sobbed as he stroked her ebony hair. The Black Swan did not want to be orphaned again. "Take me with you."

"You cannot go where I must return." Hatholdir had told her terrible things about him but the hand of the Cold Emerald was gentle and she could feel his onyx tresses damp with his tears. "You will me see me again either in another or body or when the Jewels are broken before the rekindling of the Trees."

She demanded that he explain but the Cold Emerald shook his head ruefully. He asked the Black Swan to remove his mask. She complied but insisted that she unmask him as well. Ezelondo, pale and haggard and bearded, looked at her with haunted darkly geaming eyes. Beholding her face, his wan smile was soft and joyful. He allowed his granddaughter to caress the grey whiskers of his angular jaw.

"If I had not confronted my son in that flaming alley I could have escaped with Aigronding. Perhaps you and I could have travelled with Bar-en-Raen together, seeking wonders of the world. Maybe there would be a room at Cordof Calina awaiting me tonight but instead I am summoned back to sable and silver halls to dream of deeds I'd rather forget." He caressed her cheek. "You have your grandmother's eyes, Mauya."

"Ezelondo!" A strong voice rang out.

"I am coming, Belven!" he shouted at the smith in red-gold. He stood next to his wife on Amon Elenath. There, star-shaped flowers of Lorien grew rife amdist streams of sweet water.

"Do you hear Námo calling?"

"Aglarebeth, give me a moment for Nienna's sake!" hollered Ezelondo. He cradled the nape of Mauya's neck, asking her to make good choices. "That's all I ever wanted for my family."

Mauya squeezed her glistening eyes closed. She felt Ezelondo pressing something smooth into her hand and folding her own fingers over it. "It's a keepsake, love. I must leave you now. Namárië. I may see you on other side." He kissed her brow and fled from Mauya to join the parents of the Gentle Lady amongst the large gold and silver pimpernels. Mauya bit her lip, watching a lustrous green beam shine from an Elfstone he raised aloft. He quickly ventured down the southern slope with his friends. Mauya swiftly ascended the Hill of Stars with elvish grace and looked beyond the edge.

They were gone.

She uncurled her fingers and gasped, holding a glossy malachite swan. The green figurine had eyes of Alqualondë pearl.

She wept stinging tears. The Gentle Lady would be furious at the sight of her ruined makeup but Mauya worried not. She returned to the Masquerade. Mauya hoped the Phoenix wanted the Lord of Unicorns to take her home. Mauya would join them. Stormclouds were gathering, swollen with rain and flickering with fitful bursts of lightning. They needed the shelter of a carriage for the journey home.


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

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
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Though they had clasped hands in the dance mere moments before, this was different. It was as though she could feel his touch before his hand reached hers, and when it did a current ran through her, like waves upon the shore. His hand was warm and strong, and smaller than hers remembered. Strange, that her hand still remembered the feel of his, from the perspective of a child. But she was no longer a child, and looked down at him as he began to both laugh and weep, and as if sharing her thoughts made mention of her height with teasing voice. At this she too couldn’t help but laugh, and the sudden exhalation caused the unshed tears that had been lingering in her eyes to overflow, splashing onto her cheeks. Much as she had used her incongruous strength on The Galedeep earlier that evening, Moriel now pulled Númenyraumion to her and flung her arms about his neck. She clasped him to her in the tightest of embraces, the kind of embrace she had not felt since- well, there would be time enough, perhaps, to tell him when in the days to come. There were many unsaid things in that contact, things she did not yet have the words, presence, or will to speak. One of them was forgiveness, and another the reassurance that his words were true: they were alive, and they were here, together, after so long.

“A long time ago,” she repeated as they broke apart, but this time a smile crept across her face. “Between ammê and attô, how could you expect anything else? But tell me- I have travelled Lindon country and been in and out of Mithlond many times over the years. Have you been here all this time?"
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

New Soul
Points:
OOC @Goostradamus - Aww haha, poor Snowy Owl! Fíllaniël is going to have to make it up to him at one point.

Final Note From You TR: Words cannot express how impressed, delighted, and absolutely moved the posts in this thread have been. I honestly did not expect this ball RP to be such a hit or to display some of the best writing this Kingdom has seen over the past several months. I apologize if I have not allowed some of you to continue on as you might have liked, but I hope the announcements at the end of this epilogue will explain my motivations for concluding this thread.

Thank you all for attending the Lindon Masquerade!


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The Mad Fox, The Lavender, and The Nightingale
in the Ballroom hours later

“Oh no, we are too late!”

Midmorning light filtered through the wide glass panels of the windows in the ballroom as a pair of elaborately-dressed Elves raced into the manor of Lord Círdan the Shipwright. Cónduil of Imladris and his twin sister Chéruiel had arrived at the Lindon Masquerade, only the springtime celebration had already ended hours before.

Velvet curtains had been drawn back, the flame of every candle had been blown out, and the stiff fibers of hefty brooms were now being brushed across polished tiles.

"I knew I should not have let you steer the carriage," declared the grieving Lavender, tapping an orchid slipper on the marble floor with a resounding clink. "Well, think of it this way," grinned The Mad Fox behind his mask of pressed reddish fur, "you just learned a valuable lesson." He snickered, pressing the curled knuckles of his right hand against his bare teeth.

The Lavender pursed her lips, disappointment shattering her effeminate hopes. Her glossy mouth began to quiver and she stifled a gentle sob. "Aw Cherry, do not cry," said The Mad Fox, abandoning his jests for a moment in an attempt to comfort his only remaining family in Middle-earth. "I promise," he continued, "I will make this up to you."

She sniffed, looking at her brother with moist curious eyes. "How?"

"Well, um," replied The Mad Fox, giving his spiked auburn hair a quick scratch in thought, "we can still eat something. Look, there is some food left." He wrapped an arm around his sister's cinched waist and walked them both over to the only remaining table in the ballroom where a few empty goblets of wine and the crumbs of a single cracker on a white, porcelain plate were all that remained.

The Lavender buried her small face in her gloved hands and began to weep. "All I wanted was to spend one night in the company of elegant people, and you have ruined it," she stated sorrowfully, as crystal tears fell from the corners of her purplish mask. A passing server collected the items found on the remaining table and pushed past them. The Mad Fox then flashed a lopsided grin in the direction of his twin, shrugging his padded shoulders.

"You...!" rumbled The Lavender, as her melancholy quickly shifted to anger. She pulled several reeds from the coastal centerpiece on the lone table and proceeded to whack The Mad Fox repeatedly with them. "... foolish... tardy... incompetent... lazy…" spewed Chéruiel, as she whipped the foliage against her brother's head, neck, and shoulders. "Ouch! Haha! Ow!" cried out Cónduil, attempting to block the swift strikes of his sister's makeshift weapon, and resisting the urge to laugh noisily. Chéruiel, who was usually so docile, was quite adorable when in a wrathful mood. "We will have our own masquerade back home, I promise!" he shouted.

"We cannot possibly have our own masquerade," claimed The Lavender hotly, pausing mid-strike.


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"Now that is a wonderful idea," said another, as she calmly approached them. Arwen Undómiel, who had secretly attended the Lindon celebration as "The Nightingale" and reunited with her father - The Seafarer's Son - sometime after the last dance in the ballroom, now stood before the twins, unmasked and with an affectionate smile on her face. "Lady Arwen, whatever are you doing here?" asked The Lavender, dropping the beach plants in her hands and greeting the Princess with a formal curtsy.

"Ada and I were just breaking our fast with Lord Círdan and the Earl of Mithlond. Apparently, some unsavory incident took place in the gardens last night and needed to be discussed. I was enjoying the most delicious glass of orange juice with honey on the balcony when I thought I saw two latecomers arrive and wanted to see who had come to a nighttime event the morning after."

The Mad Fox smiled in embarrassment. "That would be us, I am afraid. We sort of got lost on the way here," he explained, blushing with a hand behind his wildly-fashioned head. "What do you mean 'we'?" grumbled The Lavender with a slight frown.

Dismissing the bickering twins momentarily, Arwen stooped down to pick up a mask abandoned on the marble floor. She recalled the mysterious singer who had worn it the previous night and could not help but see it as a sign. "Take comfort young Chéruiel, I think a masquerade in our Valley may happen yet," she said, admiring the craftsmanship of Ómaquenelya's alabaster mask. Arwen then looked playfully at the twins, and asked -

"Tell me, do either of you like candy apples?"


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Coming to Imladris in 2021

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... also coming to Mordor in 2021


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:mwahaha:

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