Fields and Forests (Falling into the Night)

Where now are the horse and rider? In here, probably.
Chieftain of The Mark
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FIELDS & FORESTS OF ROHAN

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~ who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows ~

THIS THREAD MAY NOT BE FOR THE FAINT OF HEART, FOR AMIDST
THE TALES WOVEN LIE THEMES OF PERIL, GREED & MURDER

The seasons have wheeled, and the warm days of summer are now but fleeting memories. Drovers, shepherds and fisher-folk have struck their camps. There are crops to gather, and homes and storehouses to repair and weatherproof before Mettarë can be celebrated.

The days will be shorter now, and the lands and roads less easily travelled. Where will your trusty steed take you? Who might you meet on your travels?




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Fea
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Dusk in the alleys of Edoras (@Allacan ob Burzum, @Éolath, @Lailyn)

“I am no hælend but nothing can help him now,” Lailyn murmured, and Nia nodded grimly, trying but largely failing to keep her eyes from seeing the growing pool of blood on the ground, and the lifeless body of the man from which it flowed from. All of her concentration was spent on processing what she had just seen occur, that she had taken no time to look properly at the face of the woman who had been so brutally accosted. It was Lailyn’s piercing screech of “Allacan!” upon recognising the unconscious woman, which brought a sudden terror to Nia’s heart.

“No…” gasped Nia, falling to her knees at once beside Lailyn, leaning over and pushing the woman's hair from her face, desperately hoping Lailyn was wrong in her identification, or that it was another woman who shared the name of her old friend. But as soon as Nia’s eyes fell on her face, as swollen, and as bruised as it was, there was no question that it was Alla. Nia didn’t need asking twice, she knelt into the ground, and scooped Alla’s lifeless arms across her shoulder, and with all her might tried to stand. “We need to get her onto your horse,” Nia croaked through the strain of exertion of lifting the dead-weight of an unconscious body, her face steely with fiery determination. They were going to save her. They must save her.

Dúnadan
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NPC: Olimir (Errand-rider of Gondor) on the Great West Road, heading east

Olimir dropped his messages at Helm's Deep and spent a night in a comfortable bed. No one in the fortress knew or had seen his friend Calimir and there were no letters or parcels to take back to Gondor.

So there was nothing left to do but head back to the White City. Cal's parents would be disappointed (and worried) that he brought back no news of their son. Ol' guessed that Verimir, their captain, would be worried too, and angry perhaps. Errand-riders weren't meant to vanish into the blue!

The tall lad spurred his horse down the road. He would spend the night in Edoras and see if he could find out anything about his friend's whereabouts there.
man of gondor < Image > heart of rohan

Ent Ancient
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Lailyn, alleys of Edoras (with unconscious @Allacan ob Burzum , @Éolath (as dead Galulf) and @Nia, co-rescuer)

The single word Nia uttered pierced Lailyn’s heart. Until then, she had forgotten how familiar they were with one another at the festival, these two friends. There was so much weight and sorrow in that one word and for a moment, Lailyn felt rather like she was intruding on some private scene as Nia sank down beside her and saw for herself the identity of the fallen woman.

It was Nia who acted first again, sweeping up her friend with strength and determination that surpassed her stature. Lailyn immediately followed suit, taking up half of Allacan’s weight onto her own shoulders and together, they managed to lift the seasoned soldier up.

“We need to get her onto your horse,” Nia spoke.

“Yes!” Lailyn gasped. What blessed luck Fairmane was close at hand.

The pair shuffled toward the chestnut mare, taking slow deliberate steps and making every effort not to cause Allacan any further pain. Her head lolled between them, dark locks of hair sweeping down over her brow; still unconscious, still somewhere far away in her mind.

“Fairmane...” she said softly and reached out to lay a comforting hand on the horse’s flank. “You remember Allacan. She fixed your leg up when we got home. Now it is your chance to return the favour. Steady now, my love...”

The mare tossed her head sending her mane rippling in waves and turned her gaze to her mistress. Round, dark eyes blinked at Lailyn. Fairmane, seeming to understand and being a gentle creature, first lowered her neck, then her forelegs as if bowing down to allow Lailyn and Nia to shift Allacan into the saddle.

Even with the mare’s cooperation, it was difficult to move the woman but working together, they managed the task; the first of many challenging ones likely ahead of them this night. Lailyn took a few moments to steady her breathing and ensure that Allacan was safely upon the horse’s back before turning to Nia with a wrinkled brow, worry written all over her face.

“Have you any skill at healing?” she asked with a hopeful air. “She needs someone and I’m afraid I am hardly qualified...my skills leave much to be desired, only suited to the battlefield.”

After a pause, her hazel eyes looked past Nia at the body...the body sitting on a blanket of blood. There had been a moment of respite when she had forgotten it. “We cannot just leave the body here…” she whispered.

Ent Ancient
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Night is falling in the alleys of Edoras (with Allacan and Nia)

Lailyn wished someone else had stumbled into this gruesome scene, but now she was here with Nia and there was no one else. And Nia was Allacan’s friend. The moment called for calm, strength, reliability. Nia seemed to be all of those things in spite of the growing fear that must be taking hold so Lailyn did her best to match her and keep her voice steady. The two women discussed in halting tones what they ought to do and soon they had a plan. The first person she thought of was the mute old woman she met the night of the fires and the summer festival whom she’d gathered had some skill with healing. Lailyn gave directions to Nia and promised to meet her and Old Mama Mute as soon as she could once the Cavalry was made aware of the night’s events.

Silence descended after Nia, Fairmane and Allacan left her behind and there was no more cause to delay the next task. The body. First, she reached out to sweep his eyelids shut with trembling hands. He may have threatened to kill them, he may have beaten Allacan, he may have been a wretched person, but he was still human and deserved some dignity. Unfastening her cloak, she laid it over his body, covering the worst of it. If it disturbed the scene, she did not care. If she should have searched him for a piece of identity or a clue, she did not care. She had done all she could and even that was too much.

The sight of the man’s corpse, the lifeless eyes, the blood, brought everything buried deep back to light. The summer night was cool and she shivered as she sat back, curling her knees up to her chest as the weight of haunting memories pressed in. She did not know how long she sat there, swept back by it all. When it finally passed, she slowly uncurled her limbs and peeled herself from the ground. Turning away from the body, she hastened off to the Dragon Room despite her weariness. The sooner she found someone else to investigate and pass this unpleasant news to, the sooner she could help Allacan. The final burst of strength Allacan had managed to grasp to defeat her attacker had faded and Lailyn feared the worst...

----

Reconvening with Allacan in the care of Old Mama Mute and Nia

By the time Lailyn caught up, she found Allacan laid on a bed as Old Mama Mute tended to her, using gestures to ask Nia for help. Soon, the wounds were washed and cleaned and poultices that were applied gave off an earthy fragrance that was not displeasing. She knew she was right to trust the old woman with her care and she already looked better...but what was that? Black lines criss-crossed Allacan’s bruised face, swirling around her right eye and over her cheek. Lailyn gasped audibly at the sight as the pieces fell into place. It was the second time in a few months her impression of someone had been shattered to pieces like a looking glass leaving her with a broken reflection of her misplaced trust. “I don’t understand,” she said, stunned, looking to Nia for answers. But did she have them? Did she know the truth or part of it or was this a shock to her too?

Once satisfied with her patient’s well-being, Old Mama Mute offered them food and drink and room to stay the night but Lailyn had no appetite and knew she would not sleep. Instead, she watched over Allacan and agonized over the details she could remember. From their first meeting at the stables when Allacan so rightfully chided her and then seen to her horse with tender care, to the wigend who took action in search of Pele’s assailant in the market...and then disappeared. The culprit was never caught. Then there was the very different Allacan who called Eowyn a traitor and the events tonight...

Running her fingers through her hair, Lailyn heaved a sigh. There had to be an explanation. There had to be one Allacan could give to reconcile the two sides of this person. She longed to understand but she had no idea the depth of malice that had been woven long before they ever met. Maybe there was some part of her that never could understand it, even if the demon inhabiting Allacan looked her square in the face and tried to wring her neck. If she knew, she would still believe that Allacan could win.

“She will be fine. She is strong.” Lailyn sought to assure Nia. As time passed, doubt began to creep in. The bruises and injuries healed and still Allacan remained in this half-awake state, barely cognizant, murmuring nonsensical phrases when she did stir. The three women did all they could, tending her day in and day out.

The days shortened and the weather cooled. Lailyn mopped Allacan’s brow with a cloth dipped in lavender-scented water and brushed her dark tresses into a sleek, neat braid. A somber crown for a mysterious soul. Lailyn thought the ink marking her skin did nothing to mar her beauty, though it lent her a distinct ferocity, one she hoped she held on to as she fought for her life against whatever this was. They spooned her tinctures of honeyed herbs and broths and food with patient and careful hands. Miraculously, Allacan took them during the moments when she wasn’t trying to push them away. Lailyn brought fresh flowers until the winter claimed them, then brought sprigs of pine and holly instead. There were times she felt helpless sitting there, but at least she had these little gestures, better than nothing.

Lailyn tried to ask questions, but it seemed that Allacan struggled to string the words together so she stopped. There were some strange moments when she felt a prickling on her neck as if someone were watching them. Every time it happened, she was slipping into slumber herself and when she started awake, there was no one else there. She brushed it off as a figment of her imagination or a wisp of the nightmares that slipped in unwelcome and unhallowed.

That was when she would pour herself a cup of tea and tell a story as much for her own sake as for Nia's and Allacan’s. She stuck to tales of victory, heroic deeds or those with happy endings. Elven tales of distant lands and times, Rohirric legends and occasionally, stories of her own past. The first time she rode a horse, the childhood adventures she took with her family into the wilderness, the time she conquered her fear of water and sailed on the Bay of Belfalas. Lailyn would tell as many stories as it took, sit and help for as many hours as she could while she waited and hoped for the best.

One night Lailyn came in bearing a single candle. She whispered the question that burned to be set free but she didn’t expect an answer.

“What happened to you?” Then, barely a hush, “who are you really?”

The candle flickered, faltering in a brief fight for life before it went out and the room was doused in darkness.

Balrog
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He Who Hunts
Outside the Village of Benton

(Private)

Andrādan’s aged face split into a self-satisfied grin. The little idyllic village was hard to find, the roads and trails that might have led to the hinterland spot seemed to work consciously against him, they went nowhere or turned away at the last moment and saw him ride into a stream or nearly off a cliff. Yet despite all the workings of whatever witchcraft this village held, he’d found it. No sorcery or magick could break him away from his task. He’d lost his horse on the search and been forced to take one from an outrider serendipitously travelling along the same road. He bore the man no ill will of course, but his mission was of far more importance than anything a mere messenger could have been relaying. He sniffed the air and fancied he could smell her. The grey dappled horse whinnied uncomfortably as he climbed off her and pulled her along by the reins. She was a willful beast, but she was close to breaking, he could sense it.

She wouldn’t be here, not even with his unnatural luck. A deserter like her would never try to come home to hide, it would be beyond foolish. She was cleverer than that. After all, the marshal had sent him, not some green trainee, to track her down and bring her back. The marshal new he was the best, not to be wasted on some random runaway. A merry hunt it had been so far as well. She went north, that much he could tell, but his first order of business was not to go north after her. Where was the thrill in that? He was a hunter. No, he was more than that. He was beyond that sort of thing. When he found her and caught her, he wanted it to be so inexorable, so complete, so total that it broke her spirit. Not only would she never try to run again, but she would be a cooperative tool for the marshal and himself, a blank slate upon which they could inscribe anything that wanted.

He wanted to know everything about the half-breed girl before he began to track her. He stayed in her room at the inn, stayed in the same space she occupied before she betrayed her oath and ran away. He walked the streets that she’d been seen on the day she disappeared. He ate lunch at the inn where she met the man she absconded with. A man far too old for her, by all accounts. After doing as much research as he could within Edoras he rode here, to her hometown, to her mother. From all the interviews he’d administered, the relationship between mother and daughter was strained at best, fractured at worse. Yet she could still give him vital information.

The village smelled of old hay and stale mead. It was a sad little village filled with dirty peasants who could barely scratch out a living. He had been plucked from such a village at an early age. He felt no pity for any of these people though. His nose wrinkled in distaste. He was aware of all the eyes on him, a dozen, a score, of mistrusting, suspicious eyes. He watched them too. He knew there would be at least one attempt, maybe two, to steal his horse or accost him. It would end in failure, naturally, but they would still try. He would spare the first and ply them for information in return for his benevolence, the second he would kill quickly and quietly and make sure the body disappeared.

He saw the man that would try first, a youngish looking man with hair more brown than blonde. His eyes were sharp and green, and his mouth was twisted and angular. He was dressed in what Andrādan barely recognized as clothing, same as the rest of the people here, but his were just a little cleaner, and fit just a little better. He could easily be turned into an informant. The lad looked full of himself. He stuck to the shadows, but he was not bent over like some hunchback freak. He was a watcher. Andrādan liked that. He gave a nod to the lad and sneered.

He came to an inn, the only inn in the wretched backwater village, the only building that was more than a story tall. He stabled his horse, she tried to bite him when he fed her an apple. “Tsk, tsk now,” he murmured in a singsongy voice. “None of that now.”

He sat in a table near the door with a clear view of the stables. A girl brought him a bowl of thin stew with barley and bits of beef.

“Tell me,” he said, his drawl slow and off putting. “Where can I find a woman named Aethelgifu? I need to talk to her about her daughter.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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He Who Hunts
The Village of Benton

(Private)

This town as filled with tiny, skittish mice. Andrādan scowled as the serving girl stammered something unintelligible and ran off, leaving him with a bowl of bad stewing steaming in front of him. He looked at it in revulsion. People didn’t know how to live out here in the hinterlands, this stew was barely edible. The smell coming off the steam was bland. Everything about this place was bland. There was nothing in this tiny town worth keeping. It would be a blessing, in the end, if everyone here suffered some unfortunate accident. A fire, especially at this dry time of year, would be a tragic necessity. The earth needed to be wiped of places like this. Once he left, no one would remember that this place ever existed. He fumed as he listened to the conversations in the inn. When he’d come in, everyone stopped and stared at him, slack-jawed and stupid, but no one dared to look him in the eye. This town was full of mice, and mice needed to be eradicated. He flexed his fingers over the spoon, cracking his knuckles as the tension coiled in his gut rose. A serpent was necessary when the mice were too thick, a necessary evil that would cleanse the land and disappear. He had long ago given over to the idea that he would be demonized, should he even be remembered, but that was okay with him. Villains were never sainted, but they were the ones that helped society become greater. IT was a sacrifice he was willing to make for his Rohan.

All of that was fine to think about, but none of it made his mood or his present situation any better. Eyes were still being cast his way, timid orbs hidden in shadow, and there were still murmurs of disapproval. What right did he have to just come inside and sit down? What right id did he have to even know that this backwater, sheep screwing village existed? What right did this interloper have to exist amongst them? He sat back in his chair, straightening his spine so that he stood taller than any of these farmers or foresters. It was a not-so-subtle way for Andrādan to show off his superiority. The castle forged sword at his hip, too, gave him an air of superiority. None of these mice would dare do anything to him. He wished they would though.

The marshal’s instructions had been clear: find Walpurga and force her to come back, don’t kill anyone unless it furthered the pursuit of his mission. There was no amount of mental gymnastics that he could see that would give him a way to kill every single person here. The marshal knew him well enough to give that stipulation. There was a reason she had his complete loyalty. Even though she didn’t allow him to kill whenever he wished, she would occasionally throw him bones to gnaw on. They’d met during the war, Andrādan was taking advantage of the chaotic opportunity to cleanse some of the Dunlending villages too close to the border. Instead of stopping him or threatening him with a court martial or prison, she joined him. More than that, she’d given a better strategic plan to wipe the villages out. Evidently, the marshal (before she was a marshal) felt the same way about Dunlendings and their corruptive proximity. They didn’t see each other again until after the end of the war, when peace broke out and covered the land in a slow, sweet decay. She, just like him, knew it was inevitable for their enemies to strike again. She employed him to strike before they had a chance. She gave him a clear mission, the first she’d given him: create chaos in Dunland by any means necessary. It was a mission he accomplished with relish. A contingent of diplomats made their way to Edoras to demand answers, but she cut them off at Dol Baran and, claiming they were assassins, slaughtered them all. She was raised to marshal for her heroism. She brought him with her to the city, a personal attack hound, an arrow ready to be pointed at the hearts of her enemies.

Walpurga had been a project of hers, a raw lump of steel for the uncivilized hinterlands. The marshal would turn her into a weapon, a hidden dagger she could use in the heart of her foes. But the wench betrayed her, spat at her generous offer, and betrayed the marshal’s loyalty toward her. She ran away, a thief in the night, a scuttling cockroach hiding from the blinding light of truth. The girl was a coward. She would pay for her disloyalty. Andrādan would see to that.

“Why are you looking for Aethelgifu?”

The strange backwater accent brought Andrādan out of his reverie. One of the men from the table next to him was staring at him. He was blonde with shoulder length hair. He looked cleaner than the rest, but still had old pig slop stains on his shirt. “I’m looking for her because I have questions to ask her,” Andrādan snapped.

The man was not taken aback, instead, he pressed forward, turning his chair so that he could face the dryhtguma. “It’s that daughter of hers, ain’t it? Walpurga,” he said the name with such disdain, if Andrādan wasn’t so put off, he would have laughed. “I always knew she was bound for trouble. Girl never fit in here, never wanted to. She looked us all like—”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Andrādan said, cutting the man off before he could go into a diatribe about how terrible Walpurga was, “but the conversation I intend to have with Aethelgifu is meant for her ears alone. I’m not at liberty to discuss why I need to talk to her.” It was not a confirmation that it was about Walpurga, but it wasn’t a denial either. If the girl ever tried to come back here, she would find the land even more toxic than when she’d left it.

He finished the stew, or the thing that called itself a stew. “Where does she live?”

The man pulled his greasy hair back and looked eastward reflexively. “She lives by herself up the road, the second farmhouse you’ll come across. She doesn’t come into to town much these days. Not since that girl of hers ran away. She join the Cavalry or something?”

Andrādan snorted, pushed his chair back, and stood. He tossed a gold coin to the man, stamped with the head of the old king. Like as not, that was more money than he’d ever seen in a single moment. A hushed murmur spread throughout the inn and all eyes returned to him as he stood. “Something like that.” He teased, “Thanks for the help.”

“I’m sure she’ll be in town later!” the man called back, staring at the gold. Now he thought the more information he gave the more money he’d get. Greedy little weasel. “She usually goes over the to market stalls to buy slop for her pigs! I can hold her there if you want—” Andrādan didn’t hear the rest, he exited the inn and the dingy, dirty atmosphere, He took a deep breath of fresh (or at least fresher) air and went around back to get the horse.

As he’d predicted, the boy he’d seen early was skulking around the stables, looking a dozen different directions as he struggled to undo the ropes keeping the horse in place. Andrādan caught him, laughed, and cut him off as the boy tried to run. He grabbed the boy’s arm and threw him against the wood of the stable. Horses whinnied irritably. Then, grabbing him by the neck, he pinned the boy to the wall.

“I was wondering if I’d see you again,” he said with a smug smile.

“I— I— I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, please don’t hurt me. I won’t do it again. I promise, I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me, please. I’ll do anything.

“Tell me about the woman Aethelgifu.”

“What?” the boy coughed. “What do you want with her? She’s just a pig farmer. Nothing special about her. A bitter old woman, that’s all she is. Angry at everyone and everything. What could you want with her?”

Andrādan smiled, a nasty twisted thing that looked like a shark. “Daughter’s gone and committed treason. Aethelgifu is going to have pay the piper.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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He Who Hunts
The Village of Benton

(Private)

The cottage was dull, nondescript, and without any distinguishing marks of personality. Even in a village as lifeless and solitary as Benton, the house in which Aethelgifu lived was banal. It was comprised of the same stone and thatch as any of the other houses he’d seen. It had large windows facing the east and the west with shutters that needed badly to be replaced. There were pigs about, Andrādan could hear their telltale snorts the closer he came to the house. Despite not being old, Aethelgifu had taken it upon herself to cast herself in the role of forest hag. The woods encroached upon her property on three sides, tall elm trees and thin willows looking regain their lost territory inch by inch. They cast a sort of twisted shadow across the entire farmette, dappling the land underneath them in deep purples and greens. The land itself was flat but away to the north was a hill and an arroyo running down the hill’s back that led to a neat little irrigation ditch. It was the wrong time planting and harvesting, but he could see the small field ready to be seeded. Despite his distaste for hinterland life, he could see the appeal of a place like this. It was quiet, it was isolated. Aethelgifu had chosen well. Hard to believe that the same woman gave birth to such a traitorous fool. He saw her a ways off too. She was the picture of Rohirrim beauty, tall and strong like an old oak tree with thick wavy blonde waving in the breeze. Her eyes were a wild green, as if she’d stolen some of the green of the trees for herself. If he was ever in want of a wife—

But no, he had other things to do long before settling down was something he could consider such a thing. In the meantime, he would have to hide his disdain for this prosaic, rural life. He cared nothing for the verdant fields and forests. He only cared that they carried on them the name of Rohan and that they would continue to hold that name til time immemorial. He put on a masque, as he often did. A masque of civility. His entire persona was a masque, a person suit designed to deceive so that he might walk amongst the sheep, a wolf searching out the plumpest and choicest. He’d managed to fool all sorts of people, from nobility down to the meanest commoner.

Aethelgifu!” he called out, his horse whinnying.

She looked up, shading her eyes from sun. “Who goes there?”

He dismounted, smoothly leaping from his horse and landing without disturbing the ground beneath him. “I’ve come to discuss your daughter. She’s gone missing.”

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

She poured him a cup of cold milk and sat across the table; her green eyes unable to look him in the face. Beneath the masque of decency, he smiled. The letter from the marshal sat on the table between them, creating a gulf so wide and vast she looked as though she might slip beyond the horizon and fall off the edge. The letter marked out exactly what her daughter had done. It pronounced her a deserter and a traitor, the worst things one could be called in Rohan. It was stamped with the seal of the king and signed by the marshal herself, a massive “T” visible even from where he was sitting. Aethelgifu squirmed in her seat. Andrādan liked the position he was in. He leaned back in his chair and drank the milk, savoring it slowly as the tension built.

“Are you sure you have the right girl?” Aethelgifu’s voice was soft, subdued. “Are you certain it’s my daughter that’s done—done these things?”

“Quite certainly, ma’am, quite certain. There aren’t many in Edoras with your daughter’s particular description. Taller than half the riders with hair as black as midnight, build like a stallion herself? No, I’m afraid it’s true. Your daughter’s gone and deserted the Cavalry. She abandoned us not too long after she was given the rank of dryhtguma. Your daughter, Aethelgifu, is a traitor. She weaseled her way into the ranks of the eored, gained the trust of her marshals, then absconded in the night like a common thief. She’s fled, taking with her more than just the things she came to Edoras with. Not only has she stolen valuable resources Edoras desperately needs, but she wasted our time. We trained her, we educated her, we taught her how to hold a sword and fight. She repaid our trust and loyalty with desertion and cowardice. Tell me, Aethelgifu, if she were not your daughter, what would you think of her?”

The Rohir was silent for some time, eye darting between his face and the letter. There was disbelief, anger, frustration, worry, and dismay written all over her facial features. Either she was bad at concealing her emotions or she was too stunned to even try. Andrādan was, either way, disappointed in her. “So you think she’s come here? Back home?”

He laughed, a callous sound that spoke loudly of his hidden disdain. “No, no. My lady, I know enough of her story to know that Walpurga would never come back here, either to risk guilt by association or to suffer the same kind of scorn she endured for last twenty years of her life. No, I know she’s not here.”

Aethelgifu stiffened, but she didn’t deny the unspoken accusation. It was alright for her to think poorly of her daughter, to think that she would only amount to the pitfalls her father’s legacy set out of her, but to hear it from the lips of someone that she had in fact done exactly that and that she was partially to blame for her daughter’s desertion was difficult pill to swallow.

“I don’t care where’s she’s been,” he continued after a moment. “I only care where she’s going. So tell me Aethelgifu, where is your daughter going?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Chieftain of The Mark
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& where now, across the world's sprawling lands, do they roam?

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In Rubble and Spoil
The Fields of Rohan, a Few Days After

(Private)

His head still hurt. Likely, Drudkh knew, his head would hurt for the rest of his life. However long he was allowed to live, he would feel the pain of the thorns piercing and scrapping against his skull. Isengard and the horrors of the fetid waters were leagues behind now, but they were never far behind him. The Ent had let him live, promising a life of horrible servitude. The crown upon his head was to be an ever-present reminder of the Ents oath.

“Until the shadows of the forest return and cover the earth once more…”

The voice of the Ent still rang in the uruk’s stomach, a stone growing heavier and heavier as he moved away from the ruin and rubble.

He’d been forced to spend that entire night beneath the waters of what was now being called Treegarth. The Ent provided him with a reed to breath and told him that if he is caught, he would die a very painful death, crushed and squeezed like a grape, his head twisted round and round until he exploded, his limbs pulled off like fly wings. There was a malevolent glint in tree’s eye, a challenge, a wistful hope that the orc might try and make a run for it. Drudkh sank like a stone. The waters were cold and smelled of rot and festering swamp, slag swirled around his legs, cutting and scrapping against his submerged form. He did not dare to move. He stayed in that water until the sun’s rays vanished in the west and purple darkness swam across the surface of the water. Even then, when the watch upon the ruined fortress was lessened, Drudkh could feel eyes of burning wrath upon him. He could feel the cold regard of hungry things and knew just how fragile and vulnerable he was.

An uruk made to fear was a terrible thing. They were not meant to be afraid yet know that was all he could conceive. His fingers were stiff and unbending in the cold air, nearly breaking as he tried to form them into fists. He’d been in the water so long now that he could smell his wounds festering.

Once free of Isengard and free of the weight of the eyes of Ents, Drudkh ran. He ran for a day and a half in any direction that took his fancy. He was heedless and careless. His fear and trepidation were the only things that gave him the energy to keep moving. His feet hurt, his limbs ached, and his head throbbed. Yet he could not slow. There was no distance he could reach that was far enough away from the rubble and spoil of Isengard. The smell of his fellow uruk’s bodies, rotting and floating in fetid waters still clung to him like pond scum. He could still feel the cold of the dark waters beneath the forges, could still see in his mind’s eye the things that swam in those waters after they’d despoiled the ironworks, all tentacles and eyes and teeth.

He shuddered. The sun was hot and high above him but he felt not a bit of its warmth. He crested a hill and stopped, collapsed. The air in his lungs was thin, barely allowing him to breath at all. He lay there, an uruk, an abomination of nature and anathema to all goodness amidst a field of green and yellow and blue. He would have laughed at such divine obscenities if he but had the breath to do so. He lay then, silent, staring at the cerulean sky as the sun wheeled over him. Clouds drifted by, considering him before moving off, twisting like ever changing shapeshifters. He envied them. He wished he could shed the corporeal shell that he’d been forced into. He had been born without his consent, brought roaring and screaming into a world that hated everything he was and everything that he was believed to stand for. He’d been fed a diet of hateful philosophy and megalomaniac rhetoric until his own thoughts were naught but mirrors to the hatred of his masters and his fellows, a bright mass of shining dark malignancy, festering in the heart of Middle-earth.

What was he now? What is an uruk bereft of purpose? Drudkh had no one to hate but himself and no weapon upon which to bloody that hatred. He was trapped, just as the Ent had wanted. Trees were cruel creatures, spiteful with long memories and twisting plots.

Drudkh sat up and stared south, in the direction of Isengard. A small grove of trees stood at the bottom of the hill. They towered over the ground with shadows that dripped of verdant blood. There had been no trees there when he was at the bottom of the hill. They did not move, but he could see things that suggested movement to him, intent and consideration of him. Perhaps he ought to walk down that hill and enter the grove, waiting for an eternal embrace.

A crow appeared beside him, materializing out of the stone for all he knew, and cawed at him. The raucous sound startling him out of his existential stupor.

“Thornspawn!” the bird cried.

Drudkh stared fixed at the beast, not daring to speak or move.

“Thornspawn!” the creature repeated. “Find others! Find others! Thornspawn! Find others!”

Drudkh didn’t understand. He squinted at the bird, tried to reach for him but the bird hopped away and pecked at him. He winced, a thorn digging anew into his scalp.

“What are you talking about you infernal beast?”

“Thornspawn!”

“What is Thornspawn?” he roared. The crow fluffed up its feathers in agitation. “Oh,” the uruk said, realization coming to him with the cold grip of iron fingers. “The Ent.”

The crow bobbed its head. “Find others! Find others! Thornspawn! Wait! Find others! Wait! Find the Witch!”

The bird’s cacophonous voice was hurting his head. He tried to shoo it away but the bird bounced up onto his chest and pecked at his exposed face.

“You murderous little—”

The bird cawed and stripped off a piece of his nose. He howled and swung at the bird, but it was too light. It laughed and stared at him whilst swallowing the lump of bloody flesh.

“Thornspawn!” it cried like a protective ward.

Drudkh stopped. If he killed this vile little pest the Ent would know. He didn’t know how or why or when, but the Ent would find out and would crush him into oblivion or something much worse. He kicked a rock at the bird.

“How am I meant to do any of that?” he shouted at the bird. “Find others? What does that even mean? More orcs? What? What witch? Who are you talking about?”

“Thornspawn!” the bird cried again, unconcerned for the uruk’s consternation. “Find others! Find others! Find the Witch!”

Drudkh roared. The crow remained where it was but a flock of birds on a nearby hill took to flight, scattering and calling out angrily.

“How am I supposed to do any of that? I have no weapons. No resources. I don’t even bloody well know where I am! What am I supposed to do, eh you stupid bird?”

The bird cawed and a sound like laughter came from its bloody beak.

“Sod it,” Drudkh said and went for the bird, consequences be damned.

The bird, though, was too quick for him, too quick by far. It was hovering several feet in the air before the uruk had a chance to swing at it. He swung at the empty air anyway.

Then he saw a house, or the remains of a house. A fire must have torn through the area recently. The house was not in good shape. One wall was completely gone while another was on the verge collapsing. The roof sagged under its own weight. There was a stable made of stone nearby that looked in better condition. Drudkh thought he heard the sound of neighing, but that was surely just his imagination.

The crow cawed at him then fluttered away. Drudkh didn’t pay the meddlesome corvid any mind. The place appeared as though it had been abandoned long ago, long before the fire overwhelmed it. Still, there might be something inside. A weapon or something the uruk could improve into a weapon. And if there was a horse nearby. Well maybe the Ent’s mission might not be so impossible after all. Find others? He could find some of his fellows. Surely there were survivors from the battle, stragglers that escaped the slaughter and bloodbath? They would be hunted and harried of course, but they might still be alive somewhere.

Drudkh’s head hurt, the thorns scrapped against his pate with agonizing repetitiousness. His limbs hurt and his body ached. His lungs were afire, and his mind was far afield.

But he had a task in front of him now, and an uruk is good with a task.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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