Lindon Free RP

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
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"In the east, in Ossiriand, the walls of Ered Luin were broken, and a great gap was
made in them towards the south, and a gulf of the sea flowed in. Into that gulf the River Lhun
fell by a new course, and it was called therefore the Gulf of Lhûn. That country had of old been
named Lindon by the Noldor, and this name it bore thereafter; and many of the Eldar
still dwelt there, lingering, unwilling yet to forsake Beleriand where they had fought and laboured long.

"Upon the shores of the Gulf of Lhûn the Elves built their havens, and named them Mithlond;
and there they held many ships, for the harbourage was good. From th Grey Havens the Eldar
ever and anon set sail, fleeing from the darkness of the days of Earth; for by the mercy of the Valar
the Firstborn could still follow the Straight Road and return, if they would,
to their kindred in Eressëa and Valinor beyond the encircling seas."

- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age
"Beyond the Lune was Elvish country, green and quiet, where no Men went; but Dwarves dwelt,
and still dwell, in the east side of the Blue Mountains, especially in those parts south of the Gulf
of Lune, where they have mines that are still in use. For this reason they were accustomed to pass
east along the Great Road, as they had done for long years before we came to the Shire. At the Grey Havens
dwelt Círdan the Shipwright, and some say he dwells there still, until the Last Ship sets sail into the West.
In the days of the Kings most of the High Elves that still lingered in Middle-earth dwelt with Cirdan or in the
Seaward lands of Lindon."
- Tolkien, from Appendix A (III): Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur
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"So Thráin and Thorin with what remained of their following returned to Dunland,
and soon afterwards they removed and wandered in Eriador, until at last they
made a home in exile in the east of the Ered Luin beyond the Lune.
Of iron were most of the things that they forged in those days,
but they prospered after a fashion, and their numbers slowly increased."

- Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix A - Durin's Folk
"There were however Dwarves on the road in unusual numbers. The ancient East-West Road ran
through the Shire to its end at the Grey Havens, and Dwarves had always used it on their way
to their mines in the Blue Mountains. But now Frodo often met strange Dwarves of
far countries, seeking refuge in the West. They were troubled, and some spoke
in whispers of the Enemy and of the Land of Mordor."

- Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - the Shadow of the Past

Rules:

This activity is for roleplaying in Forlindon and Harlindon for both Elven and Dwaren characters. You may also write of your adventures on the Sea west of Lindon but all isle-based writing (Look at the Rivendell Archives https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=192 ; more will be added by me next month, including the guilds of the Lindon Dwarves from the Old Plaza) can be written in the World Beyond thread where the islands are already being established https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=274. There is already a shipyard thread made by Lirimaer for the Grey Havens so there's no need to use that capital harbor in this activity in a major way. There has been a need to seperate all the Elven nations to their own respective threads (Rivendell: https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=30 . Lóthlorien: https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=72) so now I will make the prior one I which combined Lindon and Mirkwood its own space for the latter (Mirkwood: https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=55 ) but Lirimaer did make a thread for Thranduil's halls specifically (https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... f=10&t=414).

@Annúnfalas will make a thread concerning roleplay at Círdan's Court where she will write the titular character for RP'er interaction. In this thread, Tharmáras RPs Dís - the sister of Thorin - who reigns as queen in her late brother's halls in Forlindon.


All OOC conversations are hosted in the Imladris OOC https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/vie ... ?f=10&t=34 .
Last edited by Eriol on Thu Mar 18, 2021 9:05 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Fíllaniël, her sheepdog Caesar, and his puppy daughter Olympia
at the Harlindon beach in western Lindon

~ Private RP ~

His mate in Harlond had turned him away the last time he had visited her, and Caesar had failed to understand why at the time. He and the affectionate Empress had been close but now all she did was bark and growl moodily whenever he was within sight of her.

One day, when she was away from her resting place, Caesar had slipped past the swinging door and snuck inside. It was an impressive abode, with silk sheets and plush cushions; and in a wide rope basket, that is where he saw them: four little mewling puppies. Children he had fathered with Empress.

One of his offspring had crawled towards him with unsteady limbs, bleached and stubby with her eyes sealed shut. She sort of looked like a little white potato to Caesar. This one will be mine, he had declared in thought, tenderly wrapping her in the upper and lower portions of his muzzle before stealing her away.

Caesar had managed to conceal her presence in his own resting place for some time before being caught by his emel. His mother. She had blinked in surprise at first. “Why is there a puppy in your pile of Telkelion’s chewed boots, Caesar? Is she one of yours?” Fíllaniël had asked him with an amused smile, squatting down to the newborn she-pup and stroking her gently. “Well, if she is going to stay here we must feed her appropriately and see that she grows healthy,” she said before looking at Caesar with a more serious expression, “You are a father now my darling pet. You must love and protect her always, and teach her all that you know.”

The short-spanned attention of his canine mind had wandered mid-speech, but the message of his emel was not lost on him entirely.


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Fíllaniël sat on the sand of the Harlindon shore. Salty autumn wind tossing her dark brown hair about every which way. Caesar and his daughter had been chasing one another, but now the growing she-pup turned her gaze towards the Sea. “Look big pillow, look!” cried Olympia in delight, “It is the foamy hills!”

Olympia dashed in the direction of the Sundering ocean. “No little potato! No!” barked Caesar with a rumbling growl, becoming angry now. “You are too small for the big water.”

She skidded to a halt and turned to her father with beady, sad eyes. “Oh, I am sorry big pillow,” she whined, returning to her father with her diminutive tail tucked between her hind legs.

“It is alright little potato,” he lovingly replied, placing a paw on her lowered head - a confirmation that all was forgiven.

“Come,” said Caesar trotting over the base of a nearby tree and resting in its shade. He looked at Olympia attentively before speaking again. “Now listen little potato, being a ‘goodest boy’ is a lot of hard work.”

“Really big pillow?”

“Yes,” responded Caesar, unfurling his tongue, “We must taste and clean everything using our pink wets, especially the walkers, for they do not know how to bathe properly. Cyclops-walker does not let us make him moist and shiny, so we go nom-nom on his feet hides."

"I like feet hides. Corn-hair walker has them too," remarked Olympia in agreement.

“You must mark every stone tree with your golden water,” he continued.

“But, why?”

Caesar panted. “Because other woofers will want to do the same and you must be let them know it is your stone tree and not theirs. Do you understand little potato?”

“I… think so,” said Olympia, who then proceeded to practice her marking stance before losing balance and stumbling.

“You must bury your prizes where no one can find them. Not even me.”

“How do you get prizes?”

“Emel gives me tasty prizes. Corn-hair walker is your emel but we can share until your sharp whites grow okay?”

“Okay,” panted Olympia, placing the pads of her forward paws on her father and wagging her tail.

“Lastly, walkers must always share their foodies. Even when they do not give them to you. You cannot eat the nut cream though. Never.

Olympia whimpered.

Caesar licked her face comfortingly. “Nut cream will stick your pink wet to your sharp whites… forever and ever.”

The she-pup let out a brief, high-pitched bark. “No nut cream. Never!” she proclaimed, reiterating her parent’s words.

As the sky and grainy earth of the beach were painted in the fiery orange glow of the afternoon sun, Caesar let out a yawn. “It is the snooze time little potato. Let us nap,” he announced, resting his shaggy head on his forward paws. Olympia nestled herself in a puff of her dad’s coat and curled her own head beneath one of his large soft folds.

Warm embraces from her new emel and delicious morsels filled her dreams.


OOC ~ As it was discussed with @Tharmáras, my Elven character - Fíllaniël - will be giving the sheepdog puppy to his NPC, Elmarya. From henceforth the character of Olympia is his. :) ~

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Sarnir Erondo and Menellótë Silosse,
Ostelemar Manse, Tirion-Upon-Tuna, Aman.
At the point of departure – 1495 YT


The city was mantled in a darkness, not only of the ruined twin of trees, but of the heart that wept within every Elf there gathered. Silosse and Sarnir raised a hand each together, the one right to the other’s left; their heads drawn in soft incline to near touch close about the brow. The Noldo dared an obliging lock of his wife’s incandescent veil and smoothed it reluctantly against his fingers. The notion of removing his person from hers threatened to shake emotion from his countenance.

No bond is set upon you to depart ..” his devoted wife would swift remind him, softly. For had he not tarried at home before, when all of similar mind went instead to Formenos ? Her husband had remained still in the service to the King, to long stoke the home fire; to secretly keep watch out for the interests of the Crown Prince, throughout his younger brother’s hold over the realm. He could do so again, somehow she felt it important that he ‘should’. But there was no telling the Sculptor so.

I go now for I did not so afore,” Sarnir sought to have his lady comprehend. “Even the ilk of the lesser princes seize up dare. And what manner of an example should I else set to our son, if I do not stand for my convictions ? If I speak loud in support of the motion, and yet withdraw toward silence when time comes to test ? You married not a craven. You knew ever who I was .. ”

“You are my husband
,” the lady dropped her hand from grazing her lord’s grasp. “Not the King’s fool.”

“The King suffers no fools
,” the Proud Noldo raised his head, with pride to know such an Elf as their new-crowned monarch. “His Grace does as what needs doing. He does what none else dares, and he speaks as what he thinks is right. Not what he thinks others have want to hear. He has suffered much for all that he has endeavoured in the name of our folk. He needs now his friends. For who could turn from him ? Who could not attribute empathy and seek for justice in his plight ? If it were my father the demon had slain .. ? ”

“You shall go not from these shores
” the elleth sighed, her pale eyelids fluttering with the weight of the words, as though confessing a great burden of her soul.

Do you look to forbid me ?Sarnir turned a stare at her, and grasped for understanding. But Silosse took a step back from his reach. Her arctic stare was as a wall of silent protest. “Oft you have asked of me to come with you to the coast and visit there your kin ..” he clutched for purchase in her unmoved ocean of response. “I shall give them your regards.”

“You do as you will
,” the elleth admitted. ”You always have. And I love you regardless. Always shall I so. But none may deny the mighty heavens, and they vow that you shall not depart these shores. They swear to me that you shall not take ship. Nor ever pass beyond Swanhaven. So there is not a need to depart from this city, only to return again in small amount of time.”

“We shall go then to Alqualonde; and there, the sea king withholds aid of passage ?
” The Noldo assumed interpretation of his wife’s portent. Silosse nodded, with stately reluctance. “Very well,” her husband shrugged. “What need then for tears ?”

“No tears,
” she would have him see the lack of such about the vast orbs of her eyes. “But a plea that ought stir deep,.” She knew well her husband’s opinion of ‘tears’ and all else ‘emotional blackmail’. He respected none who resorted to either. And she had never felt the need asides. The emotion as much as the insight had startled her.

If our King’s sole hope for vengeance be denied him, he shall come to great grief upon waters edge,Sarnir would have her to understand. “I should be at hand, in show of support and of fealty that may subdue his disappointment. You it was that petitioned for me to make friends outside of my kin. Now my King, my friends, and indeed my own kin also .. they go ? So I go. With lighter spirit now than afore, in anticipating our early return to those loved ones we leave behind,” he smiled.

Wordlessly, her fingers cast against the winds of will to take him once more in her hands, and never let him go. Yet the portents did seem to promise, he would not be lost to her. Why then, the nagging tear to halt him, each time he had set to walk away.

I shall return to you,” he persuaded her, now by sheer repetition. “Your will, it would seem, campaigns the stars and seas alike to hold me captive to your side. What hope have I to ever know escape ?

I am most joyful gaoler,” Silosse smiled slowly, “And yet stand myself a prisoner of patience until you come back to me.”

I am your husband," Sarnir basked in one last, lingering glance, "I shall take our son see this thing through, for all that we stand for. And then to home, I vow. I know not why it be of such import to you, but as such, you have my word."

That was the last that she ever had of him, her husband, for though he did not depart into Exile, neither did he ever come home to his love again. His death robbed him of that right during the First Kinslaying. And his Falmari wife rued more bitterly than all, that silly intuition she had ever thought to try and interpret.



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Menellótë Silosse
a beach below the Tower of Uilosorn
in Forlindon, 3014 TA – PRESENT DAY


Her hair was dusted starlight, wild whipping tendrils, every one contending for the wind to wrest it toward freedom proper from the pale face that served as unaffected anchor. And her raiment fluttered in white wings of cloth about her slender form; that the line where such flowing attire ended and the she within began, it was difficult to tell. Wan eyes both as vacant and discouraging as is the swift approach of an utterly overwhelming blizzard, saw her forth. Feet steady-stepped, although there stood no settled path in sight. Firm and forlorn both was she, in some clear, invisible, resolve.

Time uncounted, she had trod with toes unclad, and felt the crumble of cold sand that longed to bake in the glow of day’s warmth to come. Waves beat their fists in spite as she passed them all, oblivious, pounding against the last vestiges of lazy night. Onward, obstinately onward still she went, even as the ocean spat his foam about her feet and littered her in salty protest. Teetering upon that fence where land was swallowed by the sea, she turned, and whiled back up the haven of shore, until she sank to both knees.

Head thrown back, she beheld the aloft, the stars, those flowers that thrive best in darkness, idling latent about the comfort of their velvet bed. Arms like roots drew down and deep until her fingers earthed through sand at either side. She plummeted, first left, then right, and convulsed in a whipping flourish as though lightning struck fast from below. Lips moved without words. Eyes looked without sight. And for the expanse of a time uncounted, she swayed, as a feather teased by the current of cold air. Until it, whatever it was, was spent. And she too.

Dawn had refrained thus long from bold proclamations and instead swept in with cautious brushstrokes of a tide across the skyline, diluting the glimmer of those sleepy, blinking beacons until they stood undistinguished from all else. The morning was come. And Menellótë Silosse found herself returned to the world. Unsure how long or for what cause she had traversed the beach, she gathered the folds of her loose gown about her, and ascended a staircase of shorn rock, to her chalky tower, set as a lone tree at the height of the cliff. It was not until she glanced down, that she read the pattern that her untamed footsteps had set into the sand.

What she saw there was a tempest, tattooed into the canvas of beach, brandishing as it’s herald a winged demon; a dragon, or perhaps a bat, although her heart eschewed all sense and saw the both at once, a terrifying blend. The vision caused her to draw a sharp intake of breath which rattled as a dose of icicles thrust down her throat. Dust assailed from all sides, until tears blinked their intrusion to naught. But naught could keep her balance steady. The entire ground trembled beneath her. Something gnashing, pierced the cliff with hungry, hooked hands to conquer the hard rock. Some unseen thing, she felt, she knew, was dragging it’s heaving mass of dread up to meet her. Whatever it’s obscure form, she felt it’s advance as though it’s progress was punched through her solitary figure, stood awaiting for it to emerge over the precipice. An avalanche of her anaemic hair swept then both fear and her frozen face aside, for time to compose, and recover a hope of breath. When she glanced back again, when she dared to edge closer, closer to the perilous edge, there was naught to behold below, naught but a mess of tiny imprints, gyrating nonsensical and far too far away to interpret.

It had been three ages, more, since she had last been set upon by such a storm. Since long afore she had set out, in penance, within that fell Host of Wrath, and come to reclaim her lost child out of the gloom. Retrieving now at least her full height, the albino stumbled back until she felt the sure hard armour of her home meet those hands which grasped blindly behind her. Hastening beyond the portal, she closed wood and iron on the world beyond her safest borders, and laid her back against that door as a final impediment to any further visitation.

Thoughts beat around her mind as might a flock of caged things, frightened and fluttering. Only one thought was clear enough, rallied by her heart itself to find the strength, and speak her understanding, to no one. This time, she would not tell any what she thought she’d seen, nor dare to contemplate what it might mean. As misinterpretation had proved so bitter before, she had paid a high price for the pride of prophecies she had no skill to shape.


***(All credit to the icon/ insignia of the Noldorin House of Skysight, attributed to it’s creator, Winterwolf)
Last edited by Ercassie on Thu Feb 25, 2021 11:00 am, 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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Fuin Elda
Celonsend Inn
Shortly after the Lindon Masquerade (open)


The dark carriage rolled up to the small Inn where she had checked in quietly with as much discretion as was possible for one as well known as her. She slipped from the carriage and into the building rage still consuming her in that she hadn't been able to fully get her revenge upon Hatholdir as she had wanted to after he had harmed her as much as he had in years long past. Those in the Inn seemed to know some great wave of malice was coming and hid from the darkly adorned woman as she passed like a wraith of Morgoth.

That he would call her the same as him. She snarled at the mirror in her room as she shut the door. She pulled the mask from her face and unpinned her hair tossing the gemmed mask and circlet that had held it in place aside like petty toys that children might play with. She lashed out striking the mirror in her rage cutting through her glove and flesh as the glass tumbled down. She tore at the dress, ripping the sleeves and gloves off before tearing at the dress itself until she was free of it's bonds. Rusca had been going to help her out of the gown after the ball, but this was not a dress that she would ever dawn again, it was befouled now by the very memory and touch of the King of Dirt and she had half a mind to burn it.

"Miss are you all right?" a soft voice from behind the locked door interupeted her as she stood the black dress bundled haphazardly in hand debating on throwing it in the low burning fire in the hearth of her room.

'Go away.' It was no corporeal voice that answered the woman but a booming command that echoed into the Inn workers mind from the Unseen not aimed at any particular person or being just echoing throughout it to anyone near enough to hear it. causing their eyes to go wide and them to flee from the door. Fuin tossed the dress on the floor and crumpled then knowing full well the poor worker had not deserved that fright but she had no doubt it would buy her some time before another came to bother her in the room. She sobbed clutching her wounded hand to her bare stomach hot angry tears spilling down her cheeks. How long had it been since she had felt so utterly alone? The hull of the ship once she'd woken in the First Age, she'd only known hatred and rage and sorrow when she'd woken. She had hoped not to wake from whatever blow had made her pass from the world of the waking then. Now. There was no such blow coming. Though the soft voice right before she had left the masquerade...

"Mel?" The question in it, the look in the eyes on the ellon that she did not recognize. How would one such as him know her name? It was perhaps the closest thing to the blow that had sent her into blessed blackness ages ago and made her pause tears still streaming down her face.

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- A Prelude to Departure -
With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later


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Celonsend Inn, Girion Coruben's posh guesthouse, was situated a a mile downriver from Mithlond. It was built near a tower bridge connecting both regions of Círdan's realm. The ornamental gardens of the gabled edifice offered a panoramic sight of the lush riverine fields of southern Forlindon. Patrons were presented with a marvelous view of the Lune, its meandering rivulets, and the great nameless tributary flowing into the distant Hills of Evendim. Whether you were a traveller or an Elf bound for the Wethrin Isles or the paradise of Aman, anyone found a measure of peace and contentment at Celonsend.

Tonight however, there was a Telerin elleth who wept in anguish and the flame of hatred burned hot within her tempestuous spirit. Her lamentation and furnace fury troubled Ulmo for he keeps all Arda in thought. He loves both Elves and Men, and never abandons them. He spoke with his vassal concerning the Telerin woman who had been wronged and the ire of Ossë was awakened.


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"Ulmo arose and went to the Outermost Seas that were set beyond the Outer Lands...
leaving the governance of the Great and lesser seas to Ossë and Ónen his vassals.
Yet ever of his magic deep in his outermost seahalls of Ulmonan
he controlled and ruled the lakes and springs and rivers of the world."

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


The depths of Arda belonged to the Dweller of the Deep but every wave belonged to the Master of the Seas. All coasts and islands belonged to him but these he shattered in sudden willfulness. Glorying in tempestuous rage, Ossë wrecked ships and terrorized the shores of the world with floods of tremendous power.

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Eons ago Melkor swayed Ossë to his allegiance since he could not subdue the ocean. Many lands perished in great ruinous tumults. It was the love of Uinen his wife which restrained the Destroyer on the prayer of Aulë the Smith. The hair of the Lady of the Seas lies through all waters and all weeds which grow therein; to her mariners cry, for she can calm the ocean and restrain the wild nature of her reckless husband. The Númenóreans reigned long in her guardianship and they held her in reverence coequal to the Valar.


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Ulmo pardoned the sins of Ossë. He graciously permitted him to be his chief lieutenant. The Maia remained faithful...for the most part. The delight in violence has never wholly departed from him. Without command he makes mischief, rejoicing in the winds of Súlimo he bends to his awesome power. Storms are his delight and he laughs in the roaring of the waves. Elves and Men love him but they do not trust him.
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Last edited by Eriol on Sun Feb 28, 2021 5:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

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Points: 1 396 
Posts: 769
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:30 am
- A Prelude to Departure -
With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all

This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later


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"The departure of a pleasure cruise, on some vacation all about the Wethrin Isles,
was a timely alternative and she was very grateful to Girion for making the suggestion."

- Ercassie in narration, from the Voyage of the Môrcelebren

"She slipped from the carriage and into the building rage still consuming her in that she
hadn't been able to fully get her revenge upon Hatholdir as she had wanted to after
he had harmed her as much as he had in years long past.
Those in the Inn seemed to know some great wave of malice was coming."

- Fuin in narration, from the Lindon: Free RP


"Little Merry you have never seen so many Elves in your life!" exclaimed Ethir who led the eight-year-old son of Sirdis by hand. She served as the noble's handmaiden on her ventures in Belfalas and voyages to Lindon. Ethir, nicknamed "Effie" affectionately back home, was a jovial and talkative young woman with a drop of blueblood. She was the daughter of a Lond Côl Gentleman which was the lowest rank of the Belfalas landed gentry. Effie was lithe as a doe and pale as Mindolluin snow. She tried painstakingly to disguise her freckles with cosmetics. She knew how clear porcelain skin was so desired in Dor-en-Ernil and she wanted to emulate the Lady Isys despite the earnest assurances of Sir Halgwain that she was the fairest lass in Imrahil's realm. Effie wore her long sable hair in a waterfall braid her grandmother, Lotte, taught her how to style. She was getting older now so Effie had taken responsibility of shaping the tresses of Eressild and Sirdis into marvelous fashion. This evening Effie had coiled the locks of Sirdis into the crown braided updo she often fancied.

"Perhaps we'll find you a few Elfin playmates on Tol Sangwa!" Effie presumed with joyful exuberance and kissed Merry's brow. She liked children and hoped to have one of her own someday. Halgwain still hadn't proposed to her yet. She heard rumors at Lond Côl that her beau, a Swan Knight, had spoken with Lady Eressild about commissioning one of her jeweler relatives to build an engagement ring... If the gossip was true, she would be incandescently happy.

Ethir acconpanied her mistress anx the boy from their suite and down the carpeted stairway to reach the inn's chandeliered common room where Telerin pipers played their seamusic. The noblewoman and her son, Emeredir the Azrubêl heir of Lond Côl, had come to Lindon with Effie and their guards, Halgwain and his old storied uncle Sir Hebinthorn. Presently, the senior and his nephew and Effie's father were patrolling the surrounding wooded coast since Umbarians had been attacking Lindon in recent years. Emeredir's father, the Lord Edhelmir, and his herald Ribedir had been en route to a celestial observatory many leagues west of Lindon three years ago. Galudess of Tol Noldare who was a sailor of Mole Island had come with her Elvish mariners then. They brought unhappy news to Lond Côl that rainy night similiar to the one this evening; they claimed Serendipity had been rent asunder in a hurriance with all souls lost aboard. Now Sirdis had come, attempting the same voyage her beloved husband had sailed.

"Milady, you are the bravest woman I know!" Effie praised Sirdis, coming to a round table draped with a teal cloth. She pointed at a carved upholstered chair for Merry to sit on and embraced her mistress. Sirdis was like a second mother to Effie. "Legends speak of men's courage oversea but seldom do the bards sing of women sailing the high seas." Effie tousled Merry's hair and dropped low to the floor. She rolled her thumb tenderly over the bairn's cheek. "Perhaps one day you'll be as intrepid as your parents!" She grasped the arms of the chair eagerly, grey eyes glazed in wonder. "You'll be a celebrated mariner and the valiant Lord of Lond Côl, Merry the Magnificent!" She kissed the lad between his eyes and stood, winking at Sirdis.

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"Araldur would have been proud of you, Emeredir." Cora, Girion's wife descended from Tatyar and Avari, had been listening as she stoked a warm fire to life in the hearth this cool drizzling night. She was a svelte elleth with olive skin and thick onyx tresses. "It's always a pleasure to host the Gondorians of Lond Côl!" said cheerful Cora, drawing closer toward the Azrubêl and Effie.

"Beause we bring your favorite garments?" giggling Effie asked, waggling her brows. Her mother was a sericulture heiress on the Azrubêl side of the estuary owned jointly with the Dimaethors. Cora who smiled as she swished the glistening hem of her skirt wore a scallopneck gown from Lond Côl made of black and white silk.


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Girion Coruben emerged from the wine cellar driving a cart laden with several bottles of wine. The slim weaselly Sea Elf wore a navy blue belted tunic brocaded in silver thread. His shadowy hair was slicked back like Edan Amrun's but Girion's eyes was a vivid blue of a forget-me-not. He wheeled the cart out mumbling in a melancholic tone how he didn't expect so many people on the Cruise, that he wouldn't have the opportunity to have guzzle all the wine for himself. He caught notice of the Gondorians and hurried to them with one of his broad toothy smiles that was genuine and heartwarming. Girion had been a confident of Araldur when that heroic Swan Knight lived so he had been a frequent visitor at Lond Côl for over half a century.

"Lady Sirdis, this is an unexpected luxury! We are honored by your presence!" Girion declared kindly and kissed her hand in the chaste respectful manner of a Belfalas courtier. Cora bussed her husband's cheek then accepted his plea to build a display table for the wine. He spoke with the Gondorian women. "These vintages are cultivated in the Harlindon vineyard of Telkelion and Fíllaniël," Girion explained to Sirdis and Effie, "and will be served on the Môrcelebren Cruise which will set sail for the western isles soon. A brief visitation of Forochel is slated for the final duration of the voyage." Girion had been a friend and welcomed his favorite Mortals into his home but now he needed to play the role of a merchant. He knew Sirdis visited the observatory and places of learning in Mithlond. Girion wanted Sirdis, her son, and their companions to be safe. They had the option of attending the Cruise or tarrying in the Grey Havens until their return to Lond Côl. Which would mean they should rent suites in Celonsend until the ship sailed...

"I hope your scholarly interest keeps you anchored at port, milady, considering the awful reports concerning Tol Sangwa." Girion shook his head ruefully. "Horrid tidings, madame! Bloody if you can believe it!" Girion divulged with melodramatic apprehension then smoothly put on his innkeeper's smile. He spoke with his silver tongue oozing charm, indicating what delicious appetizers the Gondorians would fancy best. He was cognizant of the dismayed expression Effie shared with Sirdis and crestfallen Merry but kept speaking though he was readily prepared to answer their worried questions. "I suggest the Mussels of Ossë," said Girion, tapping one sheet of parchment in a leatherbound menu. "Ice-cold mussels tossed together with chopped tomatoes and green onions laced through with treads of saffron threads. It's sprinkled with Azrubêl olive oil-"

Girion would have enjoyed waxing lyrical over his impressive menu but a gust of wind shrieked like a demon of Angband, clamorously muffling his words. Torrential rain drummed the rooftop of Celonsend. Large hailstones the size of Shire golfballs smashed through windows of the Common Room, startling all who reveled inside. Some great malicious force was come. Perhaps Ossë whom both Elves and Mortals loved had turned volatile...
Last edited by Eriol on Mon Mar 01, 2021 11:02 am, edited 3 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

New Soul
Points: 1 396 
Posts: 769
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:30 am
- A Prelude to Departure -
With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all


This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later
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Fuin Elda, Master Smith of Rivendell's Forge, entered the establishment like a wraith of Morgoth. It broke Girion's heart to see her incensed like this; he was used to her fey moods but in all the millennia he had known her, Girion had never witnessed Fuin aggrieved as she was now. Against his better judgement, overwhelmed by his anxious thoughts of her well-being, he reached out to hold her but she she roughly brushed past him. Giron gasped in fright, teetering back. He would have collapsed were it not for the Elvish grace of his Moriquendi wife. Girion, a longtime companion of Aigronding, was friends with Fuin. He called out her name but she ignored him, locking the door of her suite.

"This cannot be borne!"
Cora averred, seething. Girion calmed her and apologized to the Gondorians. He hastened upstairs and ran to Fuin's chamber. He flinched, hearing the telltale discordant music of broken glass. Girion frowned, rapping his knuckles on Fuin's door. "Miss, are you alright?" crooned Girion. He expected Fuin to shout vulgar insults or impressive expletives. What Girion did not expect was a disembodied voice of some unseen devilish phantom bellowing to go away. Girion didn't sprint down the stairs. He hopped on the fleeging bannister and slid down the varnished railing, eyes bulging wide.

"I don't want to be whoever made Fuin mad," Girion confided in Cora, trembling as if he just fled a Lossoth igloo. Girion held his willowy wife when the wind whistled through jagged shards of a window, now resembling the maw of a great white shark. The howling gale stirred sheer curtains in a frenzy to reveal the threatening rise of the swift Lune River. The mounting tide surged higher by the second but no one moved to bolt out. There would have been no escape. By miraculous intervention the frothing waves subsided, seemingly halted by an almighty invisible hand.

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Was it the sound of trumpeting mermen or the siren blaring of the tempest proclaiming the arrival of a fearsomely tall stranger? No one could know for sure. The fierce breeze flung open the portal of Celonsend. Out of the deluge, illumined by blazing spheres of ball lightning, a powerful Telerin Elf came sauntering over the inn's threshold. The sailor whose origins had been shrouded in mystery since the dawn of the Second Age was known as Falman in Lindon and Yssion in Gondor. These were the titles of Ossë he accepted for his own however, he had a special liking for Gaerys most of all and told no one his true name.

He sole article of clothing was a long loin-cloth and vambraces built of phosphorescent leviathan scales. He seemed scultped from marble, every hard muscle honed to beautiful immaculate proportion. The tanned Ancient Mariner had a thick beard and unruly mane of hair, luxuriant and sun-browned. A sharktooth dangled from the thong around his neck. Swirling in intricate luminous patterns along his mighty arms and brawny torso were images of sea-dragon hide and runes of Tengwar reverencing his love for wind and rain and tumultuous waters.

"It is a dark and stormy night," rumbled Gaerys in his deep resonant voice. "My kind of night but it belongs to someone else and there will be Udûn ("Hell," Sindarin) to pay," he spoke cryptically. Anyone would have guessed Gaerys was the real subaltern of Ulmo by his mere suggestive words but all who knew him were aware he enjoyed teasing the doubtful. Once Cora's staff got the shutters closed and returned inside, scurrying upstairs to repeat the emergency procedure, Gaerys closed the door and demanded a drink.

"Shall wine please you?" Girion beseeched. He flourished his hand toward the display in tandem with Cora's identical gesture.

"Never has, never will," answered Gaerys. His guttural reply sounded like the growl of thunder.

"A beer then," Girion offered.

"Same answer, Weasel."

"Rum?" Girion said, already at wit's end.

"Kraken Spice."

Gaerys wandered past swooning Elf-girls and bowed low before Sirdis. "I am honored to behold your beauty again, milady." Gaerys was permitted at Lond Côl though he suffered the adornment of shirt and breeches. There he played his pipe for the enjoyment of Eressild just as he did at Círdan's palace likewise. His wife, a lissome elleth of plentiful silvery-gold hair, was named Solmë. She would join him at the courts of the Lord and Lady singing her sweet enchanting songs of power which wrought wondrous visions in the minds of all who listened.

"If Girion hasn't warned you, Tol Sangwa is a perilous island. Since you have the bairn present, I will spare you the sanguinary details; I'll save that for a crueller fellow. Trust me, friend... You'll be safe ashore." He glanced at doleful Merry and gave him a fistful of colorful pearls to lift his spirits. "A prince needs adventure so you ought to take the lad on the Cruise Girion is hosting with Davos for the Historical Society," Gaerys told his mother. "A tour of the Wethrin Isles, the remnant of Doriath, and the icy coast of Forochel where one of your Gondorian kings met his doom. Greater than the stars of Varda are her shimmering Northern Lights. It would be a majestic substitute, Sirdis."

"Círdan will need a Gondorian for Avedui's annual wreath-laying ceremony," solemnly addressed Girion, caressing the wad of Cruise tickets inside his pants pocket.

"Where's my beverage, Weasel?" Gaerys commanded, meandering toward the bar. He smirked, hearing a familiar chuckle from the nearest corner of the taproom. "Why are you skulking in the shadows, Old One?" Gaerys called out to Davos in a ringing voice. They had been the best of frenemies since the Elder Days; most of their disputes were the fault of Gaerys' infamous temper, of course...but never once had Garys shipwrecked the scarred Nelya. "Slide your briny arse over here and take a shot with me, you salty dog!" Gaerys clapped Davos on his back but he knew the wiry Light Elf could withstand his brawn. They had been wrestling mates for centuries.

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"Solmë is in one of her beserk moods she gets every couple millenniums. I'm on my own for a while before the wife simmers down." Gaerys admitted this in a resigned drawling voice, knowing Davos would give him shire about it. "I don't know when she'll let me back in. I'm destraught about it. It is a glamorous abode, you've seen it."

Gaerys was being vague since he had the same home in Belfalas and Lindon as he did...oversea. The ones in Middle-earth were no secret to the Gondorians of Dor-En-Ernil or the Elves of Cirdan's realm. Gaerys and Solme constructed each with elven magic and wreathed their silver abodes in shining white mists. The floors were of oceanwater and the lustrous tapestries shone with glinting fish scales. The roofs were clad with foam and thousands of pearls were used for exterior decoration. "She asked me for the umpteenth time what I thought of her hair. I told her it's become a weedy mess and she's in bad need of a haircut." Gaerys nudged Davos and tossed back his head, belting out rich laughter in spite of himself. "Solmë got defensive about it and pitched a hissy fit." Gaerys shrugged with cavalier indifference.

"She threw you out?" Girion snickered.

Gaerys snorted laughter. "Literally. I was both frightened and aroused." He took one of three small cut-crystal glasses of Kraken Spiced Rum Girion filled for himself, Gaerys, and Davos. "Tho' much is taken, much abides," quoted Gaerys in toast, meeting each rim with his own and downed his shot. He slammed the glass down with a sigh of exultation but it burst apart. "Sorry about that," said Gaerys though he didn't sound regretful in the slightest. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength." He arose abruptly like a shark breaking the ocean's placid surface.

"I will return!" he assured his friends. "I must terrorize someone. Er...I must speak to a woman in a friendly, jovial manner, I meant to say." He winked at Davos and crept upstairs with a menacing tread, ignoring Girion's insistent pleas not to intimidate his patrons.

"If it's Fuin, get her out!" Cora urged in a vociferous whisper, touching Gaerys midway. "We discovered Hatholdir's suite broken into and ransacked hours ago. We don't need any wars started here. We don't want messy guests, Mole hunters, or murders. Do you know what it took to hide the last body Erfaron mutilated?"

"Ease up on the Snake," counselled Gaerys, patting her. "He probably left that corpse out on purpose. As a warning.”

"Hmmpf! I want Fuin gone and Hatholdir."

"They won't be here tonight. I'll see to that." His emerald eyes glowed. Cora took a step back, stumbling really; she almost fell backward if she hadn't caught the railing. "Don't follow me," he spoke in a gruff murmur. Cora nodded hesitantly and rushed off. She issued orders to the staff to mop the wet floor and encouraged the Telerin musicians to resume their pipe music to sooth their guests.

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Last edited by Eriol on Mon Mar 01, 2021 11:03 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

New Soul
Points: 1 396 
Posts: 769
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:30 am
- A Prelude to Departure -

With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all


This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later


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"Ossë piles rocks and boulders of huge mass that Melko's ancient wrath
had stewn about the seafloor, and builds these as a column..."

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

"It is some work of Ossë's, who at times with his storms caused
great mists and darkness to be wafted off the Shadowy Seas."

- Tolkien, from The Book of Lost Tales One:
The Theft of Melko and The Chaining of Melko

"Ossë...his silver and dark fish silent
and strange amid the deep waters.... fish luminous...
beneath the Great Sea shone..."

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

Out of sight of from the anxious guests below Ossë walked purposefully yet with a calm regal carriage, drawn by Fuin's spiritual anguish. A golden trident pulsating with a luminous sheen materialized in his mighty hands. He leaned it against the door to unbolt the lock and stood in the threshold.

His moody gaze softened when he saw the Telerin woman who sobbed, convulsing in a fetal position. He outstretched the trident, healing her self-inflicted wounds. The heart of Ossë melted. He could have taken the tormented elleth in his veiny arms and kissed her fair teary face....but he recovered his steely composure.

"This storm must end."

He sympathized with her, truly. When he basked in the gratifying pleasure of his monstrous potential, Gaerys never wanted to let go. He enjoyed reveling in his own glorious strength despite the dangers he posed to lesser creatures. She needed to feel in control but sating her own hatred...it could not be condoned, neither by Ossë or Ulmo.

He lowered the trident and exerted his godly power. Now they stood on a hilltop near Mithlond where she could behold the destruction wrought by her mad ire. Huge clumps of hail pummelled Círdan's palace. Sizzling ephemeral streaks of ball lightning soared in terrifying arcs above Forlindon's vast picturesque woods.

A sudden pique of jealous pride in his own abilities inflamed his wrathful soul. His eyes were torches of emerald fire, wreaking unrestrained havoc upon the capital shores. Ossë manipulated the vaporous storm of Fuin, heaving waves over elegant stone quays. Trees of the coastal forests groaned, snapped, and toppled. Masts of white elven ships splintered, cracking vessels apart when leaping water surged over the slender boats.

- ARE YOU NOT FAITHFUL -

Ossë, submitting to Ulmo's authority, relinquished his attack The waters of the bay turned choppy but the flooding ceased and the waves obeyed his strained command. Yet he struggled with the bridle of Fuin's tempest. Tall pines quivered and boats jostled in their moorings. "You must end the storm as I have shown you." She remained defiant. "You test my patience, Fuin!" Ossë snarled. He caused a screen of devious shadows to encircle them both. When the wreathing smokes dissipated they were no longer in Lindon but atop a pillar of stone amidst the gloom of the Shadowy Seas. The lone gigantic pillar beneath their feet was formed of rocks and boulders which Melkor's ancient fury scattered about the ocean-bottom. Ossë had assembled them into a soaring gargantuan column clinging with Uinen's hair.

"Assent or perish." Ossë outstretched the three-pronged spear glimmering with golden sparkles, vibrating in mystical splendor, level toward her. Leathery ropes of seaweed bound her.

"With one thrust I would rid this world of you," intoned despondent Ossë in a somber voice of ominous foreboding. Refulgent leviathan scales rapidly overlapped his carven body as he repositioned himself, spreading his armored feet apart in a decisive stance. Tentacled Watchers in the Water, sinuous sea-dragons, and fish - silver, black, radiant, and strange - emerged from the deep, bearing honored witness to Fuin's execution. "I have ever been a friend to your people so I will give you one last chance to end the maelstrom. Perhaps if I cannot threaten your life I can warn you of another's. You jeopardize someone you cherish. He searches tirelessly for you now. I swear this by the Throne of the Timeless Halls."

Though far away from the Grey Havens Ossë could sense the safety of the Elves and Gondorian visitors. A steady drizzle and pleasantly peaceful peals of distant thunder. She chose wisely. Ossë struck...the stony ground. Fuin's leafy chains became silver floral embroidery of a fitted green dress. She laid in the lush grass of the hill miles down river from Celondsend. "You will enter Fort Gloaming of the Dúnedain in decent raiment," said Ossë in a rare display of chivalry. He claimed he was not gentle or forgiving but he raised the barefoot elleth into his kind embrace and pressed his full lips against her ivory brow. "Ulmo is Lord of Waters. I am his vassal. A long time have I watched you, a long time have I cared for you - unseen, unheard - in the valley of Bruinen. It's with a broken heart I banish you from Lindon...until you master your anger. Promise me that never again will you trouble the realm of Círdan and I will allow you to return. If you are calm in several days, I will meet you aboard Môrcelebren."

Ossë rolled his palm over her sable hair. "Do not let the Noldo hurt you..." He gave her a roguish grin. "Get even instead. I will do my part." Ossë chuckled devilishly then clasped her shoulders with a fond tenderness. "The Elf who yearns for you....he is like a young sapling but you will recognize him if you listen to your heart. Go on. Your beloved will meet you beyond a lofty fence...on a field of flame. I have foreseen it." He turned away. "The white stars of Ilmen will be unveiled soon before the dawn. The morning will be warm and bright..." Ossë didn't know if she'd hearken to his counsel but he left her on the hill amongst the swaying trees.
*
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Last edited by Eriol on Mon Mar 01, 2021 12:13 pm, edited 4 times in total.
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

High Lord of Imladris
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Fuin Elda
Celonsend Inn/Near Fort Gloaming
Shortly after the Lindon Masquerade (open)


She had been fighting with herself mentally in an attempt to get herself up off the floor and get dressed when the door burst open and she growled low like the wounded animal that she was. She glanced at the broken shards of glass debating on throwing one at this man before she realized who it was as her hand healed.

She blinked at the command that the storm must end. What was he talking about? She didn't even realize that her rage that had originally been directed at Hatholdir had conjured forth the storm that she was beginning to hear pattering against the windows in hard drops that worsened with every minute. That rage still twisted in her and fueled the storm she was about to run, knowing Osse had a temper and she had no wish to see him angry only to find herself transported to a slick wet hill top the rain pummeling her even here and below a storm pulled into the shore pummeling Mithlond with a fury that had not been seen in many years. And it was only then that she realized that Hatholdir would still be down there and the thought of him drowning brought a dark smile upon her face as Osse seemed to forget that he was there to halt this storm not make it ten fold worse.

The vassal of Ulmo though was quickly brought to heel by his master and he turned to her demanding she end the storm. She shook her head. "I would watch the Noldo that drew such ire from me drown in the froth of the whipped sea." She spat only to find herself enveloped in shadows. She knew not where she was and she cried out in alarm as she was bound and kept from moving, fear now taking place of her defiance, though the storm still did not abate. It's power was drawing from Fuin herself and she looked at the trident level at her, and she was ready to die. She had lived many long years alone, with the hateful words of Hatholdir ringing ever in her ears. No kind words of Aigronding, Arasoron, Roina, or any other that had come to know elleth had ever managed to penetrate that veil that Hatholdir had set upon her. It was only Hatholdir's own words that they were the same that had unleashed what was now happening. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever pain was to come, she had been stabbed and cut many times, she had been on the very cusp of the Timeless Halls before, when she heard Osse state she was threatening the life of someone she cherished. She was was about to tell Osse to hurry up and kill her then for she had no idea how to stop what was happening, never before had she drawn so much power or put forth so much effort when she started to collapse. Her body and spirit utterly spent and with it, the storm itself though she knew it not. Fuin's eyes were half shut and she panted for air watching that trident come at her only to strike the ground at her feet.

With the loss of her bonds she collapsed weakly to the ground even as the strong cords of seaweed gave way to an elegant dress. She stay still on the ground tears silently slipping from her eyes once again her fists curling around the grass beneath her only to find herself gently lifted by strong arms, and a warm kiss pressed against her brow making her shiver. "I was almost through with him when Cirdan stopped me." She said finally as Osse suggested she get even with the Noldo instead of unleashing... whatever it had been that she had let go. She sank back down too tired for the time being to make her way towards the keep She barely managed to keep her eyes open long enough to watch the Maiar of Ulmo walk away. She didn't even begin to think of what he was talking about. After all, as far as she knew no reborn elves had come back in Middle Earth ever when they had the chance to live in Aman in peace. No her father and her friends and her beloved were all well out of her reach, and she wished with her final thought before she fell asleep on the dew strewn grass amid the flowers where Osse had left her, that he had struck home with his trident instead of releasing her to suffer alone further.

Balrog
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Reunion
Continued from the Lindon Masquerade
(Private with Moriel)

Joy, trepidation, confusion, elation, giddiness. Emotions beyond count or name filled him. After more than three thousand years alone, Númenyraumion had been reunited with his sister. He’d found his sister again! The thought kept ringing in his head over and over again, growing more and more lively and real. He’d found his sister! He wanted to leap and jump. He wanted to run through the ballroom and shout it to everyone there. He wanted to tell Finnbarr, Gellam, even the Lady Tavari. Few times in his life had the nimir felt so much joy. Indeed, the last time had been at the masque where he’d met Anárion. The circumstances were different, but the pure elation was the same. His eyes, mismatched blue and brown, were light with a wild, carefree light. He hugged his sister. No, he hugged his sister! How was this possible? How and why had such a gift been bestowed upon him? He hugged her as tightly as he could. The last time they’d embraced she’d been about to board a vessel and travel south. She’d been just a wisp of a girl then, more apt to practical jokes and sea shanties than serious philosophical conversations or physical exertion (though now that he saw her again, all the memories of playing hide and seek, of playing with wooden swords, and swimming in the bay came back to him with full clarity). She had been much shorter than him then, but now he had to look up, nearly a foot above him now. A giddy, effervescent laugh bubbled out of him. He hugged her tighter, squeezing once more before letting go. She was real. This night was real. His head swam. They had so much to catch up on, so many things to say, so many things to show each other. He had been on his own for so long, he was unsure of how he’d be able to entertain her, but he pushed that aside. This was Izzy! Even before he had dedicated his life to wandering and collecting stories, he’d managed to make up a hundred different stories to entertain her. Whether it was a scary story by the light of a campfire in the deep thickets, or a starry romance under the vault of heaven, whether it was a story of adventure, of knights and valkyries fighting off hordes of orcs, or silly stories about sly, crafty animals stealing food from unsuspecting farmers. There was little doubt in his mind that he couldn’t find a story for her. He had collected so, so many now.

“I don’t actually live here,” he confessed. He sat on the lip of the fountain and tapped the spot next to him. “I… after I went to Umbar and had that encounter, for lack of a better word, with your uncle, I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t just come back here and pick up my life as though nothing had happened. Umbar changed me. It changed both of us, it seems. I wandered for years, aimlessly drifting with the fortune of the winds. For the first year, Finnbarr travelled with me, making sure I was safe and steady, but he doesn’t belong on the land. I found a plant that would make him sleep and slipped away. I travelled around for years and years without a purpose. Then, by happenstance, I found a little cottage in a hidden valley. The family welcomed me in, a husband, wife, three daughters and a son. They were celebrating the birthday of the mother and told me it was good luck to have a visitor on special occasions. I stayed with them that night and they told me half a hundred stories, passed down from generation to generation. When they asked me to share some of mine, I froze. I never thought anyone would be interested in a story of mine. But, but they were. It felt strangely comforting to exchange tales like that. It felt right. I left the next day, but I decided then that I would collect as many stories from as many people as I could. I came back to that little family year after year, generation after generation. Each time I visited, they had new stories to tell me, and I had new stories to tell them. It wasn’t the same as sharing stories with you and ammê when attô was out sailing, but it was close.

“Over time, I think I began to heal. It could never be a full healing, I don’t think elves can fully heal from emotional trauma, not in any measurable way at least. Each story I heard and recorded healed me a little, pulled me back from the ever-widening abyss, but it was never out of sight. I went to Gondor, saw what Anárion’s descendants were able to make of what he built. I think he’d be proud. I went to the Iron Hills, was plied with so much whisky and roasted boar it’s a wonder I was able to move at all. I’ve spoken with ents, learned of one’s journey from Beleriand to Fangorn in such detail as only an ent could manage. I even went to the east. I saw the shores of the Sea of Rhûn and heard tales from men most of our race would have deemed uneducated and simple. I heard stories that did not reflect the so-called barbaric nature a few men had earned for the whole of the race. I went south, so far south I think I found the end of Middle-Earth itself before it gave way to warm, wild seas. I was alone though. I needed to be. If I travelled with someone, I was afraid I’d forget you and mother and father completely, that I’d be able to move on from my grief and that by moving on I would be betraying you.

“But tell me, Moriel,” he was going to have a hard time adjusting to that name. There was something about it that he found oily and uncomfortable, but it was her name and he of all people knew that names must be respected, names were a person’s history, and by denying a name he would be denying her history, a grave crime. “Tell me what happened to you. How did you escape Umbar? Where did you go? Where did you get that name? What other names have you gone by?” He blushed, realizing he'd unloaded a mass of very complicated questions on his sister in his overexuberance. “Tell me that you at least were able to find a measure of happiness. You deserved that, you still do.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

New Soul
Points: 1 396 
Posts: 769
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:30 am
- A Prelude to Departure -

With Ercassie , Fuin Elda, Moriel, and Annúnfalas but open to all


This collaborative short story series chronicles what occurred
following the Masquerade leading to the
Yestarë Cruise of Môrcelebren a few days later


"Falman-Ossë of the waves of the sea and Ónen his consort, and with them
of the troops of the Oarni and Falmaríni and the long-tressed
Wingildi and these are the spirits of the foam and the surf of ocean."

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


"At the coming of the Noldor many of the Grey-elves
lived in Nevrast near to the coasts, and especialy about Mount Taras
in the south-west; for to that place Ulmo and Ossë had been wont to come in days of old."
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beleriand and Its Realms



"Yes, it is Elves," said Frodo. "One can meet them sometimes in the Woody End.
They don't live in the Shire, but they wander it in Spring and Autumn,
out of their own lands away beyond the Tower Hills."

- The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - Three is Company


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"It will be a pleasurable excursion you said!" Halgwain mimicked Hebinthorn's jolly temperament. He raised his voice above the clamor of hailstones. The round clumps of ice pelted his swan shield, meanwhile pummelling the helms of his uncle and Accar in relentless barrage. The Knights of Lond Côl patrolled the coastal woods this side of Lune Bay for an hour. They had ben searching for signs of Umbarians. When they determined there was no sign of eminent danger, they were were caught in the deluge a short distance from Girion's inn.

The weather turned unexpectedly fouler. Accar, his sweetheart Effie's cynical father, claimed they were going to die for the dozenth time. Halgwain agreed with sardonic humor that would probably happen. Though it appeared he meant this in jest, Halgwain privately considered again their demise was certain. Misfortune plagued the Azrubêl domain of Lond Côl ever since Araldur's fiery murder years ago. It might as well be renamed Lond Gurth, Death's Harbor, Halgwain mused in mordant brooding.



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"This gale will blow us to Framsburg!" cried Accar in gross exageration. He yelled over blaring thunder and struggled to calm his chestnut steed. "You'll be the first to fly, old man!" he declared, laughing in spite of himself. Hebinthorn had stubbornly chuckled, riding his white charger in cavalier defiance of the storm. Proven right for once, to Arrac's great astonishment, a fell gust of wind ripped Hebinthorn off his silver gilt saddle and flung him into the lightning-ridden air.

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"If only Araldur could have seen that ridiculous spectacle!" said the wheezing senior knight. Halgwain and Accar found him in a thicket of bracken. The aged fighter laid near the splintered remains of a broadleaf tree cloven in the wrath of Ossë. The hardwood trunk was toppled over seven Dwarves, warriors by the look of their bright mailcoats. "Go ahead, son. Say it." Commanded Hebinthorn with a resigned expression.

"What are you playing at, Uncle?" Halgwain seemed oblivious of the intended joke. Accar joined him to raise Hebinthorn gingerly.

"Miranda Peppermint," rasped Hebinthorn, still trying to catch his breath. "Snow White and Several Dwarves, out with it!"

"Merry is getting too old for your reading of Faerie Tales and you are too old to enjoy or reference them I might add," Accar dryly replied. With surprising swiftness, the rain fell lighter and the shrill winds no longer buffetted them.

"We must speak with the Lindon Guards and the Three Beard Army. The bodies should be identified on the morrow."

"How noble of you Uncle," remarked Halgwain, unable to repress a fond grin. Hebinthorn was well famed in Imrahil's land for his gallantry. "Let's worry about ourselves first or we fall beside them."

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"Are we even headed in the right direction?" Arrac turned about in frantic desperation, hoping for a random glimpse of Mithlond's splendid grey spires. He was blinded in a wash of silver brilliance. When his blue eyes adjusted to the luminous glow, Accar beheld a lithe Elven maiden of wondrous beauty. Haloed in lanternlight the ethereal maiden shone like a star. Her long wet tresses, red as precious coral, fell marvellously in thick rippling waves beyond her hips. She wore an aquamarine cloak and carried a blued steel lamp. It was unhooded, casting forth a white flare of dazzling light from a flaming crystal in a netted chain of mithril.

"A few miles up river!" merrily answered the green-eyed elleth. The cheerful woman introduced herself as Ariel, a mariner of Gaerys the Great. He was a famed Telerin voyager known amongst the sailors and knights of Dor-En-Ernil. Many companions, mostly Elven women of surpassing loveliness, journeyed with him and his wife Solmë oversea. She led the knights of Azrubêl to Girion's inn.

Effie knocked over her chair, having bolted up so quickly when she saw the trio return to the common room. "Perhaps there's some Azrubêl luck in Lindon, darling!" Halgwain boasted, putting his arms out to receive her. Although he was wearing armor and a sodden cloak, Effie flung her arms around Halgwain's neck and joyously cried out. She kissed him soundly. "I'm alive and well, lass. Can't say the same about the few Dwarves we found."

"We discovered no sign of the Umbarian scourge, Milady," Hebinthorn reported to Sirdis, short thinning white hair spilling over his brow as he removed his winged helm. "Sadly, we encountered a group of Dwarven soldiers crushed by a tree. He thought it apt to inform her of such things in her son's presence. Merry would one day become Lord of Lond Côl. It would not behoove him to be a stranger to ill news. Merry was somewhat accustomed calamitous messages, considering the fateful ends disclosed to him already.


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"Dead Dwarves, how delightful!" Girion happily shouted, clapping behind the bar. The brightness of his smile did not reach his cold blue eyes. Girion had been a loyal subject of King Thingol in the First Age of the Sun. Though the ruler of the Beleriand Teleri was murdered by Dwarves eons ago, the Elf's enmity toward the Naugrim aged like fine wine as centuries unfolded.

"I will ask Elves and Dwarves to assist with me determining their names and origin come daybreak," Hebinthorn continued in blithe ignorance of Girion's racisim, being the righteous Swan Knight that he was. The guards ordered baths drawn for them in the suite Sirdis purchased for them and retired to their chamber.

"We have put new towels in your room, Ariel," Cora told the quiet mariner, startling her. The elleth had been watching Elves fastening the shutters outside andsweeping broken glass with rapt attention.

"I should dry my hair!" Ariel supposed as if this was a novel idea. She seemed genuinely thrilled about the mundane prospect. She hurried upstairs but paused midstride, asking Cora if more tickets had been sold for the Cruise. When told that the passage was nearly sold out, Ariel grasped Cora. She squeed with such alarming ebullience, the innkeeper's wife gasped in abject trepidation. Ariel profusely apologized when the realization dawned on her. "I want to be where the people are!" Ariel renewed course to her room, setting loose another flurry of ecstatic squeals. Cora assumed young Ariel hadn't sailed with Gaerys until recently.

Her captain entered requesting a new drink. "Girion, your mixed drinks are weak!" Gaery addressed the publican boldly and belted out rich laughter. "Davos, get behind the bar and make me something fruity!" He chuckled when Girion glanced at the stairway. "I ushered Fuin out of a back door," he said, clasping his forearm. "I didn't want any guest gawking at her. The storm has ceased. She should be safe to find shelter with the Rangers of Fort Gloaming in Emyn Uial if she desires. Fuin shouldn't venture too far, I recommended, since she paid for the Cruise."

"She must checkout by the afternoon or there is a penalty fee," said Girion.

"Coruben, you are weasel of the first order, always scheming for another coin or jewel for your coffers!" Gaerys barked out a laugh. "There are large rubies and garnets in her room which she discarded for reasons I'm not inclined to share. Fuin wanted to leave quickly so I will send her belongings on a boat at first light."



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"Let Shadowing, Fuin's horse, roam free!" Aigronding Mordagnir advised Gaerys, stepping off the porch with his wife Roina. "She trained it to be mean." Gaerys met the High Elves gladly, having known them since his visitations to Nevrast in the Elder Days. By the look of their raiment, Gaerys could tell they recently attended the Spring Masquerade of Lord Círdan. Accompanying the unmasked couple was a blonde Elf with grey eyes they introduced as their friend Afarfin.

"We must have a hearty meal and a soothing rest this evening," explained Roina. The Calaquendi woman handed her cloak to a servant as did her husband to be dried before their morning ride.

"Môrcelebren sets sail in a few days," Gaerys stated. "Will you both attend?"

"Our son and daughter will since it's their aunt's birthday," said Aigronding. "I want them to be with Tavari since we have duties to fulfil at home."



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"It will be a fortnight until we're at Linyamaril," said Roina, hooking arms with her husband, "but first we are visiting the palantír of Elostirion. We have an annual coming to the Tower Hills we never fail to miss. The crystal permits us a glimpse beyond the Straight Road. We can see Tol Eressëa and Aman...even Varda herself. We come there twice a year. If we're lucky, there are some friends amongst the Wandering Companies which frequent the region every Spring and Autumn."

"Speaking of friends, have you seen Fuin Elda?" asked Aigronding. "Afarfin needs to see her. It's important to him."

"She was here tonight briefly, not even an hour," Girion responded carefully, under contact. "I am bound by a confidentiality agreement and I must honor her private wishes..." he mentioned airily but changed his tune when Aigronding gave him a flawless Elfstone of beryl. "Of course for a very small fee such as this I am reminded of a tiny loophole in the fine print. It regards what happens in the event of property damage..." He asked Gaerys for confirmation.

"There was a broken mirror in her room," said the laughing sea captain, shaking his head ruefully. "Keep the large rubies and garnets she left scattered on the floor for whatever you need. She won't care."

"Since she broke the rental lease of her suite, I can discuss what I know. Gaerys spoke with Fuin since she angrily returned here. I know not why."

"Hatholdir upset her at the Masquerade," revealed Gaerys moodily. He cared for his Telerin people with a fervid intensity.

"I witnessed the moment myself," Roina acknowledged with a contemptible expression. "Well...I assume it's memories of him which disturbed her. He didn't actually do anything to hurt her that I saw but there's no doubt in my mind he aggravated her at some point, whether it was tonight or sometime ago."

"Cora thinks Fuin wrecked his chamber before the Masquerade," gossiped Girion. "Hatholdir must depart as well before he instigates feuds with others."

"The Mole King should be here any moment..." worried Aigronding.

"And find himself escorted to the porch a second hence! Fuin could be found in Emyn Uial if she decides to go there until the Cruise or if the Rangers discover her first." Girion turned to Afarfin with a rare stern countenance. "Be careful tracking her. Caution I strongly advise. I don't know if you are a friend of hers but I have known Fuin well since the last days of the First Age. She doesn't like to be coddled nor does she fancy being pursued."

A short while later the Swan Knights rejoined Sirdis, Merry, and Effie. They were feeling refreshed and dressed in silk belted tunics of black, white, and navy-blue. Girion and Gaerys offered them dishes which would be served on the Cruise.

Halgwain chose Belegaer Stones, crisp shrimp cakes with lemony whipped cream and sprinkled with shredded wheat. Hebinthorn decided he'd try Charms of Emlissel, grilled seasoned shrimp with a dipping sauce made of chocolate, hazelnuts, and roasted red peppers; it was named after the Marquess of Lindon. Accar went with Caesar's Treats, salted cod fritters dedicated to a sheepdog beloved by Elves of the realm. They selected their wines for the evening and relaxed with Sirdis.

A Belfalas sea shanty was played for the Gondorians of Dor-En-Ernil. The strumming of lyre and lute weaved a melancholy spell. Their melodies interwined in bittersweet harmony. The music summoned listeners into a tragic tale with crystalline notes of tubular bells and delicate rhythmical strikes of a triangle.

"Lowlands Away," uttered Accar. It was a Gondorian song of a mariner who dreamt of his late wife. There was a female equivalent concerning a sailor's wife who dreams of her drowned husband. She cuts away her bonny hair for she wouldn't have another man to think her fair. Effie usually sang those verses in a round with men at parties at Lond Côl until the passing of Edhelmir in respect of her mistress. Hebinthorn, a widower, solemnly sang the sorrowful words with tears rolling over his strong cleanshaven face. Halgwain and Accar chimed in, providing the somber eponymous refrain.

I dreamed a dream the other night
Lowlands, lowlands away
My love she came, dressed all in white
Lowlands away

I dreamed my love came in my sleep
Lowlands, lowlands away
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes did weep
Lowlands away

She came to me at my bedside
Lowlands, lowlands away
All dressed in white, like some fair bride
Lowlands away

And bravely in her bosom fair
Lowlands, lowlands away
A rose of Lossarnach, my love did wear
Lowlands away

She made no sound, no word she said
Lowlands, lowlands away
And then I knew my love was dead
Lowlands away

Then I awoke to hear the cry
Lowlands, lowlands away
Oh watch on deck
Oh watch, ahoy
Lowlands away

(Adapted from the sea shanty Lowlands Away)
"Eriol... 'One who dreams alone.' ” - Tolkien, The Book of Lost Tales I

High Lord of Imladris
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Before the Departure - Post Masquerade
Open


Afarfin
With Aigronding et al.


Afarfin was pleased when the carriage arrived quickly and the three of them piled inside and raced towards the Inn that Aigronding had mentioned before. Outside the weather had taken a turn for the worse and the light smattering of rain and come to be a full gale akin though still lesser than the workings of Uinen she discovered what had been done to the Teleri. Aigronding and Roina of course were confused at his insistance that something was wrong with Melviriel and that he knew it.

"Surely you can't know something is wrong with her, you two were never..." Aigronding stopped before he said wed as Roina gave him a firm elbowing in the ribs for being rude.

"No but I've seen her I've never seen her so angry, the last I saw someone that angry was perhaps Feanor in Aman after the slaying of his father, how could you have missed it you were right there."

This brought a look of confusion to both Aigronding and Roina, they'd not seen or heard Fuin at all.

"Are you sure you saw Fuin? I don't remember any elleth at that ball in trousers." Aigronding said his brow furrowed further.

"Fuin?"

"Yes Afarfin, that is her name, at least what she goes by now, there are very few elves in the world that know her by Melviriel, she had not gone by that name since... well your death dear friend." Roina tried to sooth the confused reborn Noldo of old but this only caused his eyes to go wide.

"Fuin? Why would anyone give her that name? They not seen her in the Unseen she was a bright shining soul."

Roina and Aigronding looked at each other as the rain pummelled the carriage that they were in with a bit of a worried glance to each other.

"She gave it to herself mellon." Aigronding said with a firm tone looking at Afarfin once more. "She... she is not as she once was something inside of her broke when she found you slain on the battlefield... She nearly had my life if it were not for my brother. And I feel if he did not love her as he had once before you found that she was your soul mate she'd have joined you swiftly in the Halls, I do not think I could have stopped her on my own without his help." Aigronding said working hard to keep his tone level and watched his brothers best friend try to process this information. Afarfin for his part grew quiet and his face dark, he did not like the thought of his beloved seeing him slain as he had been on the battlefield, but she had started to become a fighter by that point and she would not have left her kin defenseless she would have fought even with their plans. He swallowed. Their wedding had been meant to be that night before all their friends under the lighting of the first evening stars.

"She was there Aigronding I saw her, I know her eyes and the curve of her lips, the tipping of her head she was there plain as it is storming outside now." Afarfin said finally his voice cracking. "I know she was in pain though from what I do not know, something... Something had to have brought such wrath from her, the woman in the black dress covered in gems like a living bed of coals." As if to accentuate his declaration a might wind stirred and hit the carriage sending it tittering along the road making the horse cry out in fright as the hail drove down hard upon it and it's driver that tucked his head low rushing to get the carriage to the safety of the Inn and it's stable.

This brought a gasp from Roina who had been standing right near as well as Aigronding, they had been mere feet from her and yet had not known, she'd spoken not a word, had she they'd have caught her voice clear as day, but Fuin in a dress? And such an elegant and lavish one was beyond their dreams, not a scar was showing, and she smelled like rich warm perfume, that was from their family and there was no doubt that that child would have not been able to keep her mouth shut that someone as esteemed and set in their ways as Fuin would buy perfume from them.

"Mellon, Fuin doesn't wear dresses, and she most certainly does not wear perfume or makeup." Aigronding had thought she'd looked familiar but had brushed the elleth aside as a stranger becuase of those exact reasons. One of them perhaps she would do at a time, but all three was quite unheard of for Fuin. "And I do not think that dress could be gotten into or out of without help. Nobody I know could keep that sort of secret reguarding Fuin that would be the talk of all the elven lands to see her in a dress."

"It was her or I'd cut my own heart out Aigronding." Afarfin said firmly as the carriage turned sharply coming up to the hotel the storm still building as lightning forked the sky overhead, the storm was still raging as they rushed into the Inn and the carriage was off to find shelter and safety as ancient tall trees waved their limbs groaning from the strain of keeping upright and as they entered the inn the winds shifted almost as quickly as they had picked up, and the rains lessened thought the storm was still there it was easing the worst of it had passed from what they could tell as they went into the inn.


Afarfin for his part searched the crowd that was in the common area and Aigronding and Roina went to speak with several others and finally after longer than the Noldo would have liked asked Girion himself if Fuin was there. Afarfin hated that name, but if it was her own choosing what could he do to correct those that used it. He frowned even further and debated on doing property damage to Girion himself for withholding information of Melviriel but Aigronding was faster and set a gem before the greedy elf and Afarfins eyes narrowed he honestly wished he'd had a hammer with his costume to blugeon the man as he casually described in as few details as possible what happened with her shortly before they left, she could not have been there more than a few minutes, they had not been that far behind, but Gaerys spoke as if she had managed to travel a great distance from what he remembered of the maps he'd seen of Lindon in a very short time for that Fort was a good hard two days ride North and east of where they were. He glared at Girion with disdain of how he gossiped about Melviriel like she was some commoner to be looked down upon, "You're a worm Girion I like you ill, keep your tongue behind your lips where it can do less harm or I should think to cut it out." He growled before looking at Gaerys who had been in Melviriels room, and from what he understood while she had been undressed for why else would the gems from her dress be strewn about the room.

Afarfin turned to Gaerys and went to him his eyes blazing with rage thinking perhaps he'd done ill to his beloved.

"You would do well to speak more clearly about what happened to her, sai-" He grabbed a hold of Gaerys spinning the larger elf to face him and lock eyes, all of his rage diminished to naught as he looked at Gaerys whose eyes blazed with a green light at the invasion of his space. "Lord Osse?" He whispered, though he knew not who heard him; realizing who he was about to possibly come to blows with and suddenly Melviriels sudden and distant departure made far more sense and his hands slipped from the Maiar and he blinked standing dumbfounded for an instant.

"Please I... I need to know that she is safe that whatever storm in her mind has abated?" He asked his voice cracking knowing full well the temper of Osse could be lethal. "Was she hurt?"


Fuin Elda and the Dunedain Arnubên
near Fort Gloaming


The ranger came out from under the cover of the woods he'd sheltered under from the rain and hail. What maddness of Osse had whipped up that storm he wondered so far inland? He began to head back to the fort, there would be no finding tracks of the dark dwarves that he had been following trying to find their base. The rains would have washed all proof of such things away. He drew his cloak around him to keep the still falling rain from soaking him to the core. He was climbing one of the last green crowned hills before ascending up the path to Gloaming Fort when he found on the ground curled in the slumber of sleep a maiden. He blinked thinking perhaps he'd been struck by a tree limb and this was some dream that he was having but when his eyes opened once more she remained as did the rain that gently fell upon her, soaking her hair and dress until it was laden with water, her hair fanned out on the ground like some dark halo about her head and her hand wrapped in a black cloth as if it were wounded, her dress blending her into the soft deep moss and were it not for her pale skin and the silver work upon her gown he may have missed her in the darkness beneath the limbs of the swaying trees above them

He knelt carefully. "My Lady..." He spoke softly and pressed his hand to her face her cheek was cool to the touch but there was warmth there, and she let out a small whimper as if she was pained at the prospect of waking. He gently but quickly looked her over he could find no wounds upon her nor any blood save some from her wrapped hand where they rain seemed to be making the crude bandage weep what blood it had been in the bandage. "This is strange that you would be out here, unmarred by the hail that even I hid from." He whispered checking her head to see if she had any wounds from the hail that perhaps had injured her and caused her to be left in so open a place. Were it not for the dunedain constantly patrolling the area and keeping it free of wolves he would have been worried she'd have been killed laying unconscious in the open they were too close to the Fort though for the dark dwarves or men of the far east to be near. He took her wrapped hand and untied it, figuring that he should see what wound she did have perhaps it was infected or poisoned yet when the final wrap of black silk fell away her hand was unmarred despite the wrapping having gotten progressively more blood upon it the closer to her hand he had gotten. "This is strange work," He said softly staying beside her looking about as raindrop settled on her skin before running of into her long dark tresses. "I cannot leave you here in good conscious." He said finally and scooped her up wondering if the jostling would waken her but she remained asleep her head lulling against his shoulder as he held her tightly. "Perhaps next time fair lady, you'd find some lighter fabric than this heavy velvet when you decide to nap in the rain." He said as he resumed his march towards the Fort.

When he arrived she was still sound asleep and his brothers in arms came to see what he was carrying for often a Ranger might bring home a hart or hind to feed the Fort if one was found but he was carrying it wrong, and inside the other Rangers were shocked to see that it was an elfmaiden that he was carrying.

"What strange tidings are these after that storm? Asked one of the younger rangers as Arnubên carried the woman to the fire and laid her down on one of the soft furs near it so that she might dry off.

"I do not know, but we owe much to the elves of Eriador and I would not leave this one out in the rain close as she was to the fort, it is no place in the wilds for a helpless maiden to be so alone. When she wakes we will see if we can summon some soldiers to escort her to Mithlond, for I do not see her being from elsewhere for she had no other items with her. Perhaps her horse threw her and ran but I saw no tracks of any beast though they could have been washed away long ago with that hard rain." He said pulling off his own soaked cloak. "Fetch some towels for both of us, my mission in seeking the dwarven base was ruined I wish to find out what misfortune caused this maiden to be so far from safety alone. when she wakes."

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Posts: 1281
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:37 am
Bad Blood - Part 1

**This interim tale occurs after the ‘Old Friends, New Friends’ RP in Ever Beyond,
and before the ‘Home’ RP in the Valley of Imladris. For reference.


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Matsu Halsad and Iggy Hammerstorm
The Dwarven Halls of Ered Lindon


From atop the dizzying heights, the blanket spread vibrant below, a kaleidoscope of fair and naïve arrogance. Royal blue crowned by a pearl white swan; the banner of Cirdan, the Shipwright. Lush green promise set against the argent crescent moon of Earenolwe, the counsellor. Valiant golden griffin, basking in his crimson bed, courtesy of Aigronding, the merchant gentleman. All of them warriors. All of them Elflords. All of them stood tall together against the vast armada ruled by Sarabeth Gameela, her dauntless invasion straddling the shoreline like an army of molluscs encrusting a rock. The wily pirate Captain tread water, privy to a secret none of them could guess. For, their backs turned to their city, behind their armed line amassed another army. That of Dwarves, long nurtured in hostility for their sharp-eared neighbours.

Kfir, brother of Sarabeth had made work of decimating the Harlindon forests, inciting the wrath of local Laiquendi, and setting that blame of wanton forestry upon the Dwarves, who rose up, proud and stubborn as their very race suggested in protest. The Elves ought to have found themselves now beset on two fronts, netted between the one foe on foot and the other, a vast fleet.


There was but one flaw with the intricate conspiracy and that was the apparent absence of Dwarves. In the hour that they ought to have assembled, there was no sign nor sound of those promised reinforcements. And there was but one man who had been tasked with uncovering the cause. Matsu Halsad, Captain of the Scourge, First son of the Burned Man, heir of the Jackals .. had proposed he personally undertake the venture, not merely to secure favour with his alluring accomplice, but for means of his own personal interest. A fact which stoked the fire of his resolve, and drove the Umbarian the ascent of the cobalt cliff-face. So it was that when he did there encounter a Dwarf, that was far from what in truth he searched for.


I am looking for an Elf.”

The Man was incongruous and apparently quite unconcerned by the fact. His strong legs were staggered against the brace of a chilling wind. Bare-chested but for a thong of twisted leather, wherein hung from the slick coils of his neck, a sharp fang of some unnamed beast. His hair was not dark nor slick as rich mahogany cascades, but blacker than starless night and twisted long to tendrils, unruly as tentacles from the seas which had spawned him up unto this shore. The curve of the Corsair’s blade was more scythe than scimitar, and swung from his garnet pantaloons by way of a gleaming belt bedecked by gold. His eyes were as lustrous as heartfire and his lip curled into an assuming smirk.

Rather more accustomed to the anaemic pallor of his aloof Elvish neighbours, the Dwarf was intrigued, but not of the habit of revealing his mind. He crossed burly arms, never releasing possession of the mighty war hammer which he folded like a candlestick between his bulging biceps. The man was strange but it would take more than some foreign oddity to set his informant to unrest.

I look like an Elf to you ?Iggy thrust one caterpillar of an eyebrow forth, that it could be seen even amidst the thatch of his dark mane. The Corsair skated his gaze disdainfully right over the stunted sentry’s head, taking more heed than he would wish noted to how keenly he avoided gauging the strong iron armour. What strength must exist to bear it with as much ease as a child bears a feather ! The Dwarf stood a walking vault, an armoured rock.

You look a meal,Matsu decided, in a lilting accent which the Dwarf had never heard before. The stranger, fearing he had not been understood, dropped his head to indicate the jackal which explained the low growl rumbling about the blustery pass. The beast curled like smoke around his Master’s legs, slavering a thick coriaceous tongue haphazard about an ungainly arcade of blood-flecked fangs. The Corsair stood proud of his four-legged companion. “He isn’t picky,” he warned the Dwarf.

Just the one, single, solitary Elf that’s seen right to trouble you, that right ?” Iggy did not stir, his eyes straying not toward the low-browed brute who now was fixed upon him. Hammerstorm ran one hand the length of his axe shaft. It was difficult to observe even the twitch of his lips, but the tone of amusement could not be concealed. Matsu was not like to overlook the insult. Any insult. He commenced to make account of the colours favoured by an Elf not primed to fight. Golden unicorn upon a purple backdrop ? Iggy allowed the image no time at all to make an impression on his stony countenance. “He is out of town,” the Dwarf let Matsu know, in a droll tone.

Sail away, did he ?” the Corsair spat, earning himself a mute nod in reply. Iggy did not trust himself to respond, sure that this oddity was naming Tharmaras a coward. The hardy Dwarf knew full well that the only reason why the Lord’s colours were not amongst Mithlond’s naval defense, was because he had taken his young children to visit relations, before the conflict had ever come to such a boil. “On his precious boat I’d bet," Matsu did not know enough to stop himself. "And here you sit, too scared to stand up to him. Though he grows rich on the logging of the forests, and directs the Green Elves here to blame your people for that deed. It is time you rose. It is time you proved that Dwarves shall not be made fools of ..”

“Time you left,
Iggy sighed, his patience straining at it’s leash. The Dwarf was not ignorant of conflict between his folk and the Green Elves. They, incited by Mallosel, had brought recent arguments and worse throughout Lindon. But Tharmaras was naught to do with that, he felt certain. What with not having been here … “You won’t find what you’re looking for here.” Hammerstorm made certain to pronounce each word in his last sentence slowly, as though the foreigner was disadvantaged, mentally.


Maybe there are others who are as bold as you are baulking,Matsu was not like to accept any less than he felt he was owed. That was how he had ended up in this situation on the first place ! “Maybe they should like to learn that you are too much a coward to defend the honour of your folk !” he reached up as tall as he could, meaning to intimidate, although this was a mis-step, and not the wisest means to balance at great heights. “No rightly-informed Dwarf would protect an Elf who thinks so little of his bearded neighbours ! Come ! Where is his camp ? Who are his people ? I will have of him whatever I can find, if you dare not. Or I will take whatever thinks it may stand in my way !”

“It is unwise to believe that a Dwarf shall not do what must be done. For sake of his people .
.” Iggy appeared to relent, in face of the overwhelming threat, to himself and furthermore to those he gave a damn about. Such as his brother, who dwelt in the valley of Imladris, with an Elf … Their family’s alliance delved as deep as the histories of Eregion. Their bond had been strengthened by what happened in the wake of that city’s sack. “Hold your breath until I return,” the Dwarf threw down his challenge, and retreated through a door shaved into the side of the rockface. Matsu was left to stamp his very inappropriate shoes in the waxy gleam of the heights and quiet the predator beside him.


The Corsair may have thought that he had manipulated the Dwarf, or at the least turned his head with talk of dishonour. Particularly when Iggy returned, with the gruff bourne news that one who wore the colours of both purple and of gold was known to prance and sing throughout the forest, come twilight. The Elf whom Matsu would name scapegoat was not within reach, but that meant he was not on hand to safeguard what he had left behind, unprotected .. Great attention was lavished on the Dwarf’s description of Nariel Eregwen, and mind paid to how alone and vulnerable she would be.

How many have you at your disposal ?” the informant’s eyes gleamed, and did not quake when Matsu boldly boasted of his ship's crew. “That might be enough,” the Dwarf pondered, and cast a last glance over the strange Man who was now struggling to hide anticipation at the prospect of such hunt, any more than was his beast. “Go bother her then if you think you can outwit a slip of a girl,” he bid his unwelcome guest. “I will have no more of you.

And with that he slammed his door upon the jubilant Corsair, made his way down the long winding corridor and propped for a moment at the doorframe to the hall. It took just as long the second time as it had done the first, to obtain the attention of the She-Elf. She was in the thick of all the dancing which, now that he came to think of it, she had made good efforts in starting. The Lord Earenolwe had charged the maid with the flaming hair toward this aim after all. A feast, a party of sorts, to mend the fragile relations between Elves and Dwarves. A sore trial and a challenge. The feast had been the emissary’s brainchild. The excited She-elf had conceived the theme; Eregion and Khazad-Dum. Songs she bade them sing of the great glories their two cultures had combined to see beloved. Nariel had even brought her paternal aunt, Mallosel, to prove to the Dwarves that the Sinda was not unreasonable. Iggy would have far rather that she had brought other, equally unreasonable, friends, like Silugnir. But he was gone to visit upon Tol Sangwa, apparently. Something to do with his Uncle’s astronomy Guild. Which the Dwarf believed far less than the likelihood that Erfaron was dodging all the dancing here at home.





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Nariel Eregwen and Mallosel Ehtyanar
with Iggy Hammerstorm, (now returned from the front door)
Inside the Dwarven Halls, mid-party



It is done ?Nariel ascertained, winding restless feet toward Hammerstorm. “They shall seek me ?” she would be reassured. Her intrigue brought to mind a young, excited lover, caught up in the prospect of a secret tryst in the woods. There would, at least, be woods involved. That was where the similarity of this scenario though ended.

I told the Man what you told me to tell him,” the Dwarf confessed, nursing serious misgivings but unable to deny her. “Still don’t like it though. He won’t like it either.” There was no need to clarify whether 'he' now referred to Erfaron or Tharmaras, since clearly both and either of them would disapprove of the She-Elf’s plan. She was a rare thing the two Elves had in common and Matsu (though none knew it as yet) had mistook the one protector for the other. Still, his target would strike true, if this went awry.

Mallosel however had swiftly been enlisted to task, dismissive of any thought for danger save to thrive on the adrenaline. “I would be about this,” the Sinda declared her desire to start, joining her paternal niece and ignoring her host. What had been proposed appealed to her far more than acting jovial and amiable with a hall of Dwarves. Though perhaps she stood alone in that regard.
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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Bad Blood – Part 2


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Matsu Halsad and his jackal of Harad
Vs
The combined conspiracy of Iggy Hammerstorm and Bronte Gildbrow
Dwarves of Ered Lindon


He entered the forest with all the premature swagger of purpose in a bold advance, the support of a dozen comrades to swell his confidence. Any misgivings about his errand were put down by the curdling howl unleashed by his gluttonous jackal. The beast had after all took small time to seize upon the scent of their oblivious quarry. This lead he assumed would culminate in capture. And in that he was not wrong, but that he was not quite the hunter he believed. He was himself being hunted, and he knew it not.

The first clue ought to have been the unlikely desertion of his blood hound. No sooner had the beast of Harad proclaimed the chase forth, it rounded upon itself with a speed which near bowled his Master over. Matsu and his crew whipped about in the brute’s wake, left to gape after it’s avid flight back the way they had come; their faces a tapestry of bewilderment. More than one of the Corsairs began to voice silent trepidation as to their proceeding. For was the desertion of their cur not a sure omen of some ill portent ?


It proved so for the Jackal itself, if none else. Bait was the name of this game and Iggy Hammerstorm had unearthed the largest and most juicy slab of venison that he could make a trophy of in such short time. His apprentice, Bronte Gildbrow raised the bleeding, still warm hunk of meat which stood as tall as he, when the younger Dwarf was not shuddered down into a slumping prop beneath it’s heft.


Wait for it,” Iggy rumbled through his huge thatch beard. “Hold ..”

I am holding,Bronte grunted, growing all the more hapless as the baitmeat’s warm blood trickled over his outstretched hands. He was spared from making sore enquiry of what was taking quite so long, when the sound of scattered stones fell aside from swift pounding paws across the bare-backed vista. All at once a weight collided with the fleshy shield, and the young Dwarf was heaved a good count of feet from where he had been stood, on impact. A moment of panic swamped the would-be-miner as he floundered, his sight shadowed by the heft of what hampered his every movement.


After what felt like an hour but which could have only been but minutes, Iggy shouldered what was left of their bait, capsizing it with a rather cavalier snort and one great, burly arm. Bronte emerged from his showseat and surveyed the devastation of their goal.

The Jackal lay several feet, prone, from where it’s decapitated head had rolled and settled, great roils of deep garnet sap belching from the ruptured arteries to nourish the earth. The same mawkish spill stained one half of Hammerstorm’s almighty axe.

Feast on that, you slobbering flea nest,” the Dwarven warrior slung his colossal weapon with an unnerving lack of effort and some gluttoned satisfaction in his hair-framed face. His apprentice kicked at the exotic dog and cast a half-mournful glance about the ruined meat which had served the beast’s fate.

Waste of good meat, that,” Bronte lamented, before harrying behind Hammerstorm. Leaving the dead jackal to the flies, the true victors of an unlooked for feast.



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Matsu Halsad and the crew of ‘The Scourge
being led a merry (dangerous) dance by Nariel Eregwen
The Woods of Forlindon, Northwest of Mithlond

‘Neath the eaves of Forlindon wood, the Corsairs stood in a broken circle, awaiting with baited breath for the return of their dread mascot, or word from their leader to leave it behind. They were practiced to follow the Jackal, literally and here in an alien surround, all sense of normalcy was slowing being skinned of their embassy. In the face of their apparent indolence, a soft trilling rippled on the cooling breeze, a taunting dare to proceed against all better judgement. It was just a bunch of trees ! It was just some foolish girl who capered like a blind doe somewhere close at hand ! Matsu curled his fingers around the comfort of his cold, steel cutlass. A symbol of strength and man-made determination in the overwhelming face of nature herself. He would not turn back, could not. And so, he set upon his path, as expectation fell away and apprehension slithered in it’s stead.

As though bidden by the unseen She-Elf’s song, the nearest tree shook out the lengths of it’s long limbs; which fluttered like the fleetest of fingers out of waiting sleeves, to conduct a dawning orchestra. All corners of the woodland at once took up a tranquil cacophony of melodious masterpiece. And, above them all, from the heart of the forest’s soul arose the dulcet trill of sweetfair song. At the first not unlike to all that accompanying birdsong, but the longer it endured, the clearer it became. Words, shaped by lips, but shared not by the mind of any Man there present. It was Elvishsong. And there ! A maid with long hair not unlike a comet’s tail, eyes as fluid as the sea, stood gathering the hem of her long burnished dress with one dainty white hand, a sprig of some wild scarlet posy bedecking the other. She endowed a gentle dusting of the ground in a half-circle, as though she blessed it with the small vivid spray of colour that graced her hold. And then she was off, darting with head bowed, her hands flung high, as she reeled on her toes, stirring up the leaf litter like a flurry of mist in her wake.


He had not cared to learn the name of the elusive vixen, only that she was held dear to that Elf Matsu had been wronged by. Robbed of vengeance against the one, he would have it indirectly, through the other. That was all that mattered. It took no time for the Corsair to acknowledge that she seemed not to have laid down any mind toward her being followed. Alone in the woods, prancing, frivolous, so vulnerable. So Elvish, he might have rolled his eyes if the maid’s lunacy had not proven so fortunate. Her signature russet tresses splashed through breaks in the unarmed foliage. Like the sun searing through wisps of cloudcover. Her light-hearted refrain summoned forth pursuit as would the ribbons of a fly-away kite.

The crew of the ‘Scourge’, as a man, made after the ripples which her capricious passage conceived, until they could see her not. But snatches of fairest laughter turned their heads in every which direction. To heights in trees which she could not have ascended so swift. To here, and there, and all at once where she could not be all at one time. If but one Man had paid heed to how far he had been induced from his fellows, then he might have concerned smart about his plight. But each Man amongst them believed he and he alone had chanced upon the maiden’s trail, and so each, alone, they followed. And each went further from his friends than he ever realised.
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.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:37 am
Bad Blood – Part 3


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Mallosel Ehtyanar and her granddaughter, Ennora Rameryn
The Woods of Forlindon, Northwest of Mithlond


Ennora lounged easily along a long slanting branch, her legs set at an upward angle against the tall vase split of it’s trunk to hold her pose. A flayed skirt of mottled dun and chartreuse allowed for constant flexing of her restless limbs but she was in no fear of being noted. The Woodelf was cocooned in a softened corset fashioned out of feathered sheathes of thin, layered bark so that she was almost indistinguishable from her perch. Her rufescent locks tumbled in a hood to blur the perfect oval of her face, where large bright eyes of warm brown gleamed like amber beads. Unwilling to warble like a bird, nor prance amongst the tree-roots, she had played as squirrel; leaping and then crouching, snaking up about the greatest heights of tall trees. Strong limbs bore her weight aloft and every deliberate movement kicked up soft soundless clouds of nature’s daubed confetti that it span and sailed down to where her pursuit trouped in willing subjugation.

One such Man had persevered where most others had merely become embroiled and lost. This one steered his wary but tenacious advance into the clearing below. He was not unhandsome, with such dark eyes and a strong jawline and it occurred to the Woodelf that she had no means of knowing if this man were one of those they were luring into the trap. He might just as soon have wandered aimlessly into the forest. But .. no Men came into Lindon so her grandmother had counselled. She regarded the oblivious Mortal a time more sadly, knowing in her heart what she must do but now that it came to it, aggrieved because the doing was more difficult. He was like a small vole skittering across a moonlit field, and she the all-knowing hawk, who had sanctioned his demise before he ever registered his peril. He was close to passing on from her position, undisturbed, when the elleth gave a sigh.


It sounded just enough for the Corsair to halt and turn in a small circle where he stood. He glanced every which way but upward, though she saw his knuckles tighten to the point of white about his basket-hilted sword. Rising as she might from slumber, Ennora brought her legs down in the same shift, and dropped each upon a side of her broad branch now, winding them deftly into place to support her. Rearing up in her seat, she laid one hand sure against the bole for balance, and exhumed her spear from it’s repose toward it’s aim. The slender missile lanced the air with no whistle to betray it’s intent. The only sound was a pulpy ‘whomp’ as the silver leaf-shaped blade broke through the Man’s throat, thrusting to a point which did not quite pierce the flesh at it’s back.

Dropping from her perch, the Woodelf warily approached her ‘kill’. He was not quite killed. He had staggered backward, his sword careering now wildly in front of him as though he could still ward her off until, reaching a trunk at his back, his whole collapsed like a pile of dirty laundry with one leg bent under him. As she edged closer, his handsome eyes found hers, his lips parting in frantic spasms as might a fish flung onto dry land, struggling to breath. All the time she wished that it would end, it carried on, until she could not bear it any more. The same moment that his hand fell limp, it’s blade now forgotten by his side, Ennora cast what strands of her long hair had sought to dab at her tears, over one shoulder. She leant in and clasped her spear with both hands, meeting his eyes so intent upon her face as she extracted her weapon. A fresh geyser of blood erupted from the wreck of his windpipe, and the WoodElf wheeled the polearm in hand, to bring it’s hilt down heavy on the Mortal’s head. His life’s blood continued to seep from his throat down his clothes like vomit, but he would not know now when the moment came he was no more.


A roar propelled the other Corsair who she had not seen approaching in a lumbering stumble of a charge. Though her chest caught in a flutter and she yearned to never have dropped down from the refuge on high, it became apparent that he was not so much running to her but from something else. The blast which broke from his thrown-wide mouth was not so much a battle cry as it was drawn up from the deepest pit of terror. He blundered over his own feet as Ennora quietly sidestepped his landslide of an entrance. Inhaling leaves, the unfortunate scrabbled on hands and knees. He laid eyes about her, and without the She-Elf ever having to react, he cowed, dropping his head in dejection.

Akshur,” he panted, in a foreign speech she did not understand. Then added, “Back there .. !!”

Perplexed, the WoodElf threw sight up as whatever plagued him stalked swift in the wake of her designated victim. For that was his state, in her mind, and in moments. Mallosel’s spear gored the crawling Corsair in the same second that he sought to rise up and flee anew. The limp sagging of his lifeless body slumped upon it’s stem, as the wooden spear’s honed blade planted firmly in the ground.

The Sinda spat her curse on the wilting corpse, standing boldly akimbo with long hair the hue of caramel descending in twirled cords of bullion over both shoulders. Mallosel was swathed in leaves of interwoven fern and juniper hued cloth, the fall of which convoluted close to form, as though a second skin of downy moss. Braided corkscrews of what looked like flawless vine meandered down each of the She-Elf’s supple arms, and gathered about each wrist as might a writhe of snakes, denouncing any need for conventional bracers. Some things never change and she was one such thing.

Her knee veered in a sharp angle as the foot below found purchase against the unfortunate Corsair’s shoulder, and the Sinda extended her pliant limb so that the flaccid lump of the dead was eased the entire length of it’s penetrating stake. Mud from her boot left it’s imprint on the crimson cape which now served as the Mortal’s shroud. Ennora’s grandmother held out her free hand, and clasped the other She-Elf in kinship.

Veer right,” the younger was instructed, in the briefest passing between them before the game renewed. “I will have what’s left.”
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.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
Points: 2 909 
Posts: 1281
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:37 am
Bad Blood - Part 4

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Matsu Halsad come close now to Nariel Eregwen
Departing the Woods of Forlindon, Northwest of Mithlond

All across the forest whirs of movement, shadows leaping, darting, declared the slow decimation of the Corsair crew. One by one they fell, as leaves torn from their tenuous bond of tree. Matsu, self-possessed, had not an inkling of his apparent isOlation from where he had spearheaded their advance. He was not laid low with alarm by the lack of sound which should have signalled his jeopardy. He but revelled in the opportunity to better note his quarry. No novice to wading through the lush jungles of Far Harad, Matsu held no qualms that he could vanquish this muted, pale woodland. He scoffed from the outset at the faded silverbark, the trees here sprouting up so arbitrary, as though scattered ancient statuettes, each lost and abandoned from even one another.

The trees in the south were an impregnable labyrinth of deep black stems, each vying against the other for some strain spilt of the high sun. There a Man was forced to make his path through the undergrowth by sweat, and blood, to observe a breath-taking kaleidoscope of sharp contrasting colours. In the jungle there was no fear of silence, for the cacophony of a vast array of life, never ceased. The ravenous gurgle of waterfalls, the scream and hoot of monkeys and the endless miasma of bugs that swarmed you, a living, buzzing veil of insects.


This was far from the Jungle, and all that he had thought he knew. Here the only sound was stillness, an anticipation, tattooed by the gentle thunk of hollowed-reeds hung in small clusters from the outspread branches of forked trees. Disrobed all by autumn’s clutch, their toothed green leaves had come to yellow hue, pirouetting each in their unspoken turn, down to clad the ground like a storm of gold-spun doilies. They rustled underfoot, those fragile skeletons of summer, faded paper-thin and crumbling to nothing but dust and memory. He would have the memory of his embarrassing defeat rendered to dust as well.

Come then to the hem of the dulcet surround, the Corsair obtruded through the already receding treeline, as a swimmer thrashing through the fine haze of a dream. It required a short moment's worth of blinking to attune his senses to the revised ambience as calm woodland fell away behind him and he scanned the stark horizon against the scream of a bitter wind. There was little challenge in deducing the intention of his mark. There was but the one direction she could take up if to know now shelter. The lone tower, stood, it seemed, against the edge of the entire world.
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.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
Points: 2 909 
Posts: 1281
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:37 am
Bad Blood – Part 5


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Matsu Halsad, in pursuit of vengeance
Come now upon Uilosorn, on the cliffs North-west of Mithlond,
still in sight of Forlindon Woods.


The architect had named it ‘Uilosorn’, the everwhite tree. For though the pallid tower bore up seemingly out of the very clifftop, it’s stone roots ran deep. All the way down to the sea which roiled at the base of the indifferent rockface as does an infant whine and grumble at it’s distracted mother’s skirt.

There beneath the water had a secret channel worn away the stoic stone, forging a slender and airless, claustrophobic passage to the lowest level of the residence above. The stairs ascended in a wearying mount from this depth to the highest perch of the lonely bleached spire. And who could say what the reclusive resident did besides the walking of those stairs. For rare was it she received any guests. Until the day that Nariel learned of her. And would not be turned away.


Menellótë Silosse was not accustomed to playing the hostess. Those few friends she deigned to spend time with would find her come about their lands, that she might always leave when she was weary of company. There were few who might ever consider calling upon her at home regardless. Those who knew her would not press themselves upon her without cause. Those who knew her not, knew of the rumours, that some wailing beast (‘tis claimed) abides deep in the lowest levels of her solitary residence. Sometimes the most dejected cries of such torment carried through the windtrap of Uilosorn, and were liberated into the clear sky to bear down woe and grief on all that heard them. And sometimes it was just the wind itself, bolstered by an inflated reputation. The wind did not fear the daughter of Lindesul.

Matsu
knew naught of the legend of ‘Uilosorn’, nor possessed the slightest clue or care for who might call that abstruse structure home. The image of the girl with flaming hair, he’d pursued all about the forest lured him still, as a siren here upon the shore. Her voice rose and fell as her capering silhouette likewise wove in and out of the burgeoning mist. The Umbarian raised his free hand to shield narrowed eyes. His other hand found still confidence in his sword. The fact that he stood now forsaken by his beast and divided from his brutes, did not tell him enough of the odds he faced and would not have made difference if he had observed such facts. He had faced the odds before, and he had survived.


The eldest, though his brothers had not looked to him as children as much as he had demanded they heed him. Keket believed himself to be ‘so’ cunning, and Uhta outweighed any other who might try to move his indomitable heft. But Matsu, he was naught if not a leader. And when the other children in the streets had called the triplets out for being sons of a slave, it was Matsu who had roused them to stand up for themselves. It was Matsu who had raged and thrown himself in fury at any, child or other, who thought they could shame him. The first time, he had persevered against a small gang of other urchins, and earned himself countless bruises and worse in so doing, before ever his two brothers felt enough pride to support him. Their unshakable bond against the rest of the world was perhaps all that the siblings had in common. They went about their own interests and ambitions, but never were they more dangerous when the three were primed upon one mutual objective. And it always was always Matsu, the only one of the three who could make them one.

There were not here to help him on this day. Nobody was. But he was not a man to forego of a prize by any means. Neither was he like to baulk at the unknown. Much less when all his crew had looked to him to rain down vengeance, as he had sworn that he would. Matsu made a habit out of swearing. Promises and speeches ushered from his maw like flatulence from a boar’s backside. Or so he had been informed, by his mother. But it was a matter of pride for the Umbarian that he lived up to all that he assumed for himself. He had more to live up to than most. The world would never remember him if he did not stand out, and satisfy all of his promises. He had sworn to be avenged and he would be. Or be naught indeed.


The door gaped wide, even as he approached. An invitation he ought not accept, but would. A violent mobile of tiny bells convulsed like frantic puppets on the thin twine which hung them above the entrance. There was nowhere else the girl with flaming hair could have gone, but over the cliff. Part of him was sure that even an Elf would not be so foolish. The other, dominant part of him would have trespassed inside the tower, whether his quarry were drowned or not. There was much of an adventurer about the young Umbarian, and he could not think of a place existing without the knowledge of his mastery over it. To intrude and leave his mark would be to conquer another new enclave. And it’s treasures he meant to pillage. The girl, and .. whatever else he might encounter.

The sand made him stall, not because he feared it but because it was some way up a long and winding trail from the nearest beach. Somebody had bourne that sand back here, a toil strange indeed, when it had clearly been employed only in building sandcastles. All about the circular room where he found himself. There was no mistaking that the structures were quite intricate, or that they could not be thought as unimpressive. Still, to even Matsu’s eyes it seemed rather a pointless venture. Whatever he had expected of an Elf’s home to look like, this was far from any inkling. There was little furniture save for the incessant mobile. And it was conjuring up such a headache for him that one hand seized it down, and to ground. Boots shattered the fragile decoration underfoot and a smile pulled at the Corsair’s face in some glee at the (though meagre) devastation. He commenced the kicking apart of all three sandcastles in the room, for good measure. The room did not react or retaliate, silence rounded off the tapestry of shells, pressed into the stone for skin. A high orbit of tracery window frames allowed light to pour in through the mosaics all of mottled sea-glass.


The Corsair astounded at the odd apparel of the room, and for all the lack of substance obstructing his view, soon located a door at the far end opposite. He almost imagined that it would lead back outside, but this nestled just ajar; a wall hung of driftwood which looked like it had been scavenged of some shipwreck, and hung, ill fitting to meet the frame upon all sides. Beyond it’s insufficiency were steps curving both upwards and downwards, a lone rope coiled through intervals of rusty iron rings to serve as bannister in both directions.

The enduring wisps of Elvish song called from the depths rather than heights of the tower. And so downward Matsu went, clutching at the rope to steady one hand, his scimitar held aloft in the other, as though it were a torch which might lend him sight. It would have been advantageous, for the further that he went from the front room, the deeper the darkness, until the man might as well have swum in ink. He could see not his hand before him, and the stone steps which he puzzled must be of white stone, as was the entire tower, yet evaded his eye. There were times they grew steeper, to fool him, and in other places abruptly more narrow, so that his feet stumbled and hung over the edges. It was impossible to gauge a safe passage, but he could not turn back now. It felt he had been winding down the levels of the earth for so long that thoughts he could still turn back and be forced to ascend the same distance was exhausting. Besides, the girl’s merry prattling persisted, and it was not in the Corsair’s nature to retreat where a mere ‘slip of a girl’ would dare lead.

Finally even her song seemed to desert him, else other sounds which became more and more prevalent merely drowned out the trill. There were drips now, from every which direction, and occasionally to burn the Man’s temple with a piercing cold. The wailing began in earnest, and if he had heard the stories of the creature abiding in the white tower, he might have been fearful. But for all that he knew, it was one Elf girl alone. So puffing out his chest, the Corsair rallied onward.
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.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
Points: 2 909 
Posts: 1281
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:37 am
Bad Blood – Part 6

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Matsu Halsad, faced with Nariel Eregwen and Menellótë Silosse, Mallosel Ehtyanar and Ennora Rameryn
The Tower of Uilosorn, on the cliffs North-west of Mithlond


The steps of Uilosorn took him for a sleepwalker, so long had the Corsair been tasked with not tumbling their entire descent. The echo of his own advance seemed at times to jest with the man’s heightened mind, and imagine that there were footsteps of many chasing him, from both directions. But there was only Matsu upon the stair. And he fled from himself so often that his hand grew coarse through the friction of rope burn at his endless handrail. Finally his efforts or sheer obstinacy dispensed with reward, of a door that opened up into a dimlit chamber. There had been some countless such doors he had passed upon his journey ever downwards, though he had not noted them in all the pitch of shadow.


This room though, was high ceilinged, and though the floor remained obscure, there was some ring of good many candles squatting on a circled shelf that ran a dizzying orbit around the room’s upper circumference. Wax dripped off the edge of that raised stone shelf like tiny stalactites. Laughter also drizzled down from unreachable heights. Beneath a bonfire of the She-Elf’s blazing hair, her face could be gleaned amidst the drape of a burnt-golden ball gown, the hang of two slender white legs. Nariel was perched upon that same high shelf, casting colour as the tight-packed stumps of wax cast light.

Glancing up at his elusive prey, Matsu nigh slipped where he stood, even as he astounded how she had climbed aloft. Elves did not, to the best of his knowledge, fly. Nariel, allowing a hand on either side of her to anchor sure balance, swung her legs and even dared to wave at the Umbarian, afore a second sprinkling of mirth saw him close to explosion. There had to be an answer to such a riddle, the Man knew, though he knew not what it was. Warily he ventured further into this new round room, and could only find for all his explorations, the sound of water, close at hand. Closer than he’d come all this long way.


The longer he scrutinised his surroundings, the more sure that he became there was a hole in the centre of the floor. Silver glistened thereabouts, as it pollutes an old woman’s hair, betraying the motion of the sea below. A hole then, it seemed, leading to where there was water aplenty. Still no ladder. And he saw small recompense in going further down when he wished to instead rise up. At least the damp might answer though for why the Corsair was so easily veered from right balance, sliding as though the floor had been iced or polished so excessively, that he could not make purchase where he stood.


That was the moment, that uneasy moment in which Matsu feared the tide of doubts would gush forth from beneath him and be done with it. For his eyes caught notice of some figure, and she stood as still as stone, as pale as the walls, as silent as the scream which he dragged back down his treacherous throat. Silosse’s hair was spun of pure snow, her eyes as ghastly mesmerising as an advancing blizzard. Her garb was so fluid about her that it seemed she wore the wall itself. And she smiled, to see that he saw her. Though she spoke not at all.

How long she had stood there the bewildered intruder could not have said, but it was another She-elf, or so appeared like. Hasty was the search he threw about the room to identify more, if there were any more here to be seen. And never had the man known such unease, as the tower clocked a shuffle of footsteps approaching, to find himself surrounded at last by folk of the fairer sex. By the time that Mallosel and Ennora appeared, a duel speared obstacle to block the door he’d come in by, the corsair was already considering that hole into dark waters as more a means of escape than cause for alarm ! Quite how this had gone from he and his outnumbering a mere slip of a girl, to he alone standing solo and surrounded by defiant She-elves .. They did not speak, the one up in the rafters cut her silvery laugh off, abruptly. Then the two barring the door narrowed their twin green eyes, and the one that seemed to walk out of the wall itself .. bore her trident high, in hand. It glimmered like an abrupt snatch of lightning in the gloom.

At that point all the candles were extinguished from their high and distant hope. The room went dark. The Umbarian swallowed and reached for his blade.
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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Bad Blood - Part 7


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Matsu Halsad, Captain of the ‘Scourge’
Losing himself and his mind, in the Tower of Uilosorn

It had been a sometime dream of his, to be surrounded by a round of fairest females. But in all that time he had imagined it, Matsu’s heart had never clattered quite so hard against his ribs. It verged somewhere between terror and excitement, and he was not sure what was about to happen, but he raised his sword erect to warn all he was no craven. He would meet it standing, as the man he was. Dark hair strained against the pitch and the great length of time he had descended down the staircase now weighed heavily upon his mind, where all thoughts flailed like a flock of startled birds, confined in his skull. The eyes of Elves, tis said, by contrast are stars that do not diminish in the darkness. They would see him still, in this, their lair. And he stood blinking uselessly, surrounded, in a trap he’d walked into of his own accord.

Even as the mellow light had been extinguished, the Corsair had thrown up a glance to gaze one final time upon the beautiful smile of his prey. If it were to be the last thing he would perhaps ever see in all the world, it could have been worse. A sailor drawn to his doom by a siren of the sea, well, the seaside. But there was time not to fester in such a maudlin despair, when new perils and concerns abounded. The Man turned in a belated, vain hope of which direction he believed the doorway stood, but found in the moment that he made to run that his feet were taken out from under him. The entire floor began to rise, and yet not solid. A distinct sprinkle of shattering bells assailed the Umbarian’s ears as he found that what he’d thought was wet floor, was in fact a web of kinds. A web it seemed spun of silver, bejewelled with the shrill song of small bells, it’s unrelenting metallic ribbons slender, cold and slippery.



A sailor as much as an adventurer, the eldest son of Halsad fared better than another might. Decks he’d rode awash with fierce and grasping waves. Nets he’d climbed and masts, to unfurl sails. But in darkness, assaulted by countless ringing bells, the man slipped and slithered as he sought to disentangle first his ankles and then his calves out of the cloying web. For a time thenafter he manfully managed to bear a while on his hands and knees upon the treacherous mesh, avoiding the chasms where his hand randomly plummeted through, his breath escaping until he retrieved nerve. And when it seemed at last that the floor net had ceased rising, the Corsair, his blade caught still within one hand, tried to force a larger hole or means else to escape this reckless tide. But this net was not meant for giving. This net was for keeping.

It was only once the man had stalled his struggle that he realised the bells were chiming not for naught, but to signify the motion of another, who traversed the silvered net besides him. Their shifting silver stage was further raised about the edge, and there it seemed that something circled the depression which clawed to have him. Carrying about the outskirts it was, that unseen albatross, ever moving closer in a whirlpool’s pull. Matsu hauled at his blade which had become tangled, grasping otherwise the metal streams he balanced on. The bells raised up their beautiful pandemonium to yet greater degrees, and the man darted his helpless eyes about him, as though expecting the sky itself to fall upon him from above. There were whispers in his ear that made the corsair flick his head incessantly. There seemed wings, far larger than spanned any bird, that soared and then closed fast about him. The Corsair fell into a strange half-recall of sitting in a playhouse he had made with a sheet draped across two out-facing chairs, and how it had felt when that silken canopy sunk down to engulf him.


The snagged blade fell loose, fell through the net and from his reach, as the unseen web began more and more to turn. Come to his behind upon a rising seat, fiercely he swiped left and right and any else which way that he might imagine the presence arriving, but there was never any purchase made. Just sound. Just that feeling. Just the fear. As though he were being swallowed without ever even realising it. Floundering he lost one leg through the firm-woven mesh, and felt his foot strike the cold floor below. In seeking to heave it back up, his hand slipped on the smooth strands they clung to, and his face met the horrifying mask of the silver net against his face. A grunt managed to right himself out of the countless holes, even as the bells swarmed all sound until there was too much and not enough to hear all at once.

He never saw the blunt end of the trident coming, and when it struck hard at the back of the man’s head, Matsu could have sworn he saw a wave of silver butterflies all pulping to macerate that blended with his skin, his eyes, his ears. On opening his mouth to scream, he choked on nothing but a lack of consciousness. And finally was still.
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.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
Points: 2 909 
Posts: 1281
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 8:37 am
Bad Blood – Part 8 - being the end of this chapter



'The wind was in his flowing hair.
The foam about him shone;
Afar they saw him strong and fair:
Go riding like a swan.

But from the West has come no word
And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven folk have heard
of Amroth ever more.
"

(The Poem of Nimrodel, JRR Tolkien)




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Nariel Eregwen and Menellótë Silosse
The Tower of Uilosorn, on the cliffs North-west of Mithlond


The silken quilt of lush white sand extended way across the landscape, far as eyes could see. And dawn whispered it's subtle approach with nary a crash nor sputter from the clear unbroken ripples. As though day itself stood as reluctant to arouse the azure blossom that lay, like a single tear spilt from the heavens, to festoon the otherwise unblemished beach. This lonely flower of a maiden, decked out in a multi-faceted bell of flourishing coral-blue skirts, shimmered within her own isolation. Nestled deep within the fastness of this rather impractical attire she lamented for her sorry lot in life, soft lips painted by the oceanic kiss of salted refreshment. They moved in weary contemplation of the melancholy ode, the cause for her apparent malady. Nariel awaited. In the only way that she knew how.

One very pale arm was dashed across the length of her face, as though to conceal the greater portion of her woe, and this she now relinquished. Gentle fluttered a soft catch of breath somewhere about the small rise and fall of her chest. Her entire person had been sprinkled by the gentle peppering of sand, the book also, which had been rather dramatically discarded to her side. A tome of romantic poetry her only means of distraction for the many hours now she had abided in such an engagement.

From her vantage point upon the stone-paved patio, Menellote Silosse allowed a small sigh of her own and relented toward the inevitable redress of her young friend. The elder lady solemnly pressed the final pieces of azure seaglass into the embracing caress of the small wall she had been constructing. Standing back to properly appraise her efforts, she felt her soul sink and her smile waiver as Nariel's song rose up anew. She had imagined that the singer would have given up languishing upon the beach, much less employing her song to move the Waters, some count of many hours before now. If naught else, Silosse was forced to admit that Eregwen was every bit as obstinate as her mother had been before her. Bracing herself to revisit long past tribulations, Silosse gathered up her flowing gown of ivory about one arm, a long cool glass of water in her free hand, and duely conquered the stone steps down to the beach. It was more than time.

Cautiously she approached the forlorn maiden, closing without words the volume of her disapproval. Nariel at this point fluttered one long-lashed eye open, and betrayed mute disappointment at her company. Silosse observed in silence of her own, how the maid's bewitching blue-grey eyes matched perfectly with her elaborate outfit, to such a sure perfection that it must have been planned with meticulous degree.

"You were expecting some other than myself," the silvered matriach assumed, reading from the red-head's expression, more than she would have ever chose to know. Nariel sat up with a small sigh and considered her visitor. The simple elegance of a white grecian skirt brushed about Silosse's tall amazon form. Star-spun hair streamed like a mist about her, not harangued by the soft breeze but riding proud upon it's own strength. Rimy blue eyes assailed the distant horizon for any sign of Nariel's success. Unsurprisingly, given the self-pitying party that the young She-Elf had indulged it, there was no sign of he whom she hoped to apparently will into existence. Tharmaras was nowhere to be seen. Nor sense. Nor pride. Not here. Love makes a mockery of all such things.

Brushing her veil of great flame to one side, Nariel sat up and meekly accepted the cool drink that she was offered. Common sense at last soothed her dry throat with relief after all the waiting and the singing.

"Judge me not," she begged of her friend. "For I have tried so earnestly to be patient. But it has taken far too long." Eregwen strove to appear as regally unaffected as the snow queen that she stood aside, to no avail. "There is naught else I might do but throw myself upon evident disarray and in the sights of all those mighty Valar, that my undeniable affliction might evoke some pity and mercy enough that should cease their torment," she lamented, with no mighty a sorrow about her gentle tone that no poem she had yet to find might rival to express. "I had thought he would be back by now," the maiden pouted.

"You think your Tharmaras worthy of such ardent melancholy ?" Silosse would have Nariel to confirm, from her suggestive prompt. "Would he wish you to know such distemper ?"

"I can not tell you," Nariel admitted. "For he is flung from my reach and whatever his lips may shape now are too far from my ears. The .. ” pearled lids enveloped the tearful eyes in their cloisters, and the coral lips fluttered about shaping of the words she dreaded to have heard. “The pirate said that he had slain my love. He said that he has stole my heart. He said ...he said that he had sunk his ship .."

"I have not heard it said that Pirates were renowned for honesty," Silosse offered a hand, to lead Nariel from her woe. The two of them had watched in hope and horror as Mallosel took their prized prisoner off to Telkelion and Earenolwe. If anything might stall the violence being threatened at their shores by the Pirate Queen Sarabeth Gameela, it was perhaps ransoming the custody of her lover, Matsu Halsad. After coming belatedly to her homeland, to Alqualonde, Silosse was open to the option of a non-violent resolution. She had seen too many shores stained with blood, too many beaches awash with woe and weeping. Let Sarabeth have her fool lover back, and be gone. Telkelion and Earenolwe would negotiate the bargain.

"If he did not speak true though, about the blow he claims to have dealt, then might be he spoke equally so untrue about how dearly his own heart might consider him.Nariel allowed her fear escape her. That it should be all for naught. “Perhaps the claim that Sarabeth would see us all dead, for the injury we did him, was the best means he knew to return fast to his folk, and we are but delivering him as his wish," Nariel did fret. "We ought to have seen him to an end. An end none too gentle at that !

Menellote did not produce the support that her young friend had imagined. “You did not think so afore,” the gentle reminder recalled a time when still the ladies had believed they were in control of the situation. After all, they had been so cunning and competent to lure the corsair, as might sirens any sailor such as he. “He was no threat, for all that he had left to him were words. Do not now allow them the power to have him hurt you.

"It is not the smirk of a liar which smites my hope and heart,” Nariel concluded, miserably. "It is the uneasy aftertaste which sharpens every doubt which I may dread unto a greater shape to torment me.” A tiny shudder racked the elleth's body as she rose to stand befind her benefactor. "For wherefore is my Tharmaras if he lies not at the bed of the ocean ? Where is the proof to rally my faith ? Where is the ship which I would see sail him back unto my arms ? I am beside myself with wondering and find nothing engages me from such thoughts ! The harbourmaster confirmed that his prized ship was not at dock" Eyes like great planets each seemed fit to fall out of the mourning She-Elf’s head, so that she flung her both hands up to catch her face, and hold it there.

"If he be drowned, might be then I seek that end myself," Nariel considered, returning to the world when there came no response to her theatrics thus far. "For crying else will leave me with a sore nose and rather puffy eyes. And how should that assist me but to incite further misery upon my injured soul ? Likewise tossing and turning within my bed sheets serves no practical solution. A bed might be made fresh in the morning, with no sign of all the trials of ill dreams, but I can not so easily smooth away the wrinkles of my vast unsettled thoughts and pretend to all of the world that I am well. I am not right, Silosse. I am wronged. Nothing I have ever loved has dealt me such a cruel twist of desire. And I read these books for answers, seeking advice from ladies who found themselves in my position. Do you know of what these pages read ?"

Menellote decided to humour her friend, and raised an elegant eyebrow politely.

"The one whose husband loves the sea more than her," Nariel explained, "he departs, he never comes home. They live unhappily then ever after. And then there is this one .. but he drowns." Nariel sniffed dejectedly.

"You are not the first to have her heart depart and hang on it's return," the Falmari sought to impress the meaning of her warning upon the maid. "Books do not speak of unspoken stories. And their warnings should not be taken as typical." Casting silvered hair aside, Silosse would have Nariel understand that there was no cure to impatience, but to be patient. Still memory assaulted even her of a long-lost love whom she had once looked to observe return to her heart.

Sarnir had left her. His widow closed her eyes momentarily and sank down in empathy and anger for both their plights as she struggled to regain mastery of her power of speech. She had been gifted some hundred years to revel in the love of her husband, but did that make the loss harder or less so, than if she had but leisured decades about his company; as had Nariel with her Tharmaras ? Did the space afforded love depict a difference about the deepness of the loss ?

The answer which presented was not one either of the two had expected, though it stole all further fretting and upset. For a single figure, tall and golden as the sun shimmered as a distant dream only to grow more distinct with every moment.

Tharmaras !” his titian queen rose from her melancholy, and paid the sea no heed as it leapt and laughed at her desperate race across the beach to meet him. From afar Silosse stood, still sentry at her post upon the shore. For slowly, silently, the want to shake off all concern was failing to comply.

Silosse stood sentry still. As she had stood some weeks now previous. When she had bid her only son to go do as he must before. As she had once bade her husband, who had never come back.

She stood there the length of that sombre day remaining, and through all of the night that followed. It was the third day after Tharmaras's return when Nariel managed to tear herself from her husband's side, and come seeking for her friend to ask if she had heard from Silugnir. For the harbour master, it turned out, was missing two of Tharmaras’s flotilla, not one. One had bore the sealord home. But the other, and Silosse’s son, remained still missing. For the long space of three years, which his mother spent in utter silence, her only reprieve from the cold white walls of her abode, were to swim under the shreds of moon. For the water washes away all tears, where no one shall see.


NPF edit: the tears of all oceans, pearls for your solace
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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