Misty Mountains Free RP

And of old it was not darksome, but full of light and splendour, as is still remembered in our songs.
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Ent Ancient
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(map by yours truly as I was very unsatisfied with available Misty Mountain maps)

Who knows what you might find if you venture to the Misty Mountains, known to the Elves as Hithaeglir. Many folk have dwelt here over time: the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, goblins and orcs and Nameless Things in the deep darkness and Eagles patrolling the skies above. Wolves may howl in the night and prowl by day beneath murders of crebain out to spy.

High Pass & the Carrock
"That Somebody made the steps on the great rock-the Carrock I believe he calls it. He does not come here often, certainly not in the daytime, and it is no good waiting for him. In fact it would be very dangerous."
"He called it the Carrock, because carrock is his word for it. He calls things like that carrocks, and this one is the Carrock because it is the only one near his home and he knows it well."
- Gandalf, Chapter 7, Queer Lodgings, The Hobbit
The High Pass climbs east from Rivendell into the mountains past Goblin-town and onto the Vales of the Anduin. During the Third Age, the Pass was controlled by Orcs on and off until the War of the Ring when the Beornings took over but charged high tolls (at least according to Gloin).

Eagle Eyrie
“‘Soon another eagle flew up. 'The Lord of the Eagles bids you to bring your prisoners to the Great Shelf,' he cried and was off again.” - Out Of The Frying-pan Into The Fire, The Hobbit
Somewhere in the eastern Misty Mountains is the Eagle Eyrie where the great Eagles are based, poised to keep a watchful eye out for orcs and other goings on.

Goblin-town
Caves beneath the mountains occupied by orcs who were ruled over by the Great Goblin until he was killed by Gandalf.

Khazad-dûm
"Greatest of all the mansions of the Dwarves was Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, Hadhodrond in the Elvish tongue, that was afterwards in the days of its darkness called Moria.” - Of the Sindar, The Silmarillion
Once a great Dwarven city with a wealth of mithril until it was abandoned due to the unleashing of Durin’s Bane. Orcs took over residence there in the Third Age despite attempts to repopulate the city by dwarves.

Redhorn Gate
“‘There the mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Aznulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion.’
‘It is for the Dimrill Dale that we are making,’ said Gandalf. ‘If we climb the pass that is called the Redhorn Gate under the far side of Caradhras we shall come down by the Dimrill Stair into the deep vale of the Dwarves. There lies the Mirrormere, and there the River Silverlode rises in its icy springs.’”
- Chapter 3, The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring
A narrow, dangerous pass from Hollin in the west across the lower flanks of Caradhras to the Dimrill Dale and the Mirrormere (or Kheled-zâram) in the east.

Special thanks to the NuLibrary Hobbit QuoteBank for helping provide quotes.

Guidelines
- ALL welcome!
- Label your location. RP is not limited to those listed above - feel free to play somewhere in between or another of your choosing or imagining.
- This thread has no dedicated timeline. Feel free to play in any age/year and label if appropriate.
- Please mark the top of your posts as Open (other RPers are welcome to join in) or Closed (private on your own or with another player).
- Canon Characters: All canon characters are open to everyone. If it happens that two people want to write the same canon character, they are free to do so; all duplicates will be considered as existing in different universes and not interfering with each other, unless otherwise agreed upon by the players. (Rule courtesy of @Moriel)
- Content Warnings to be used at the discretion of the writer, bold and placed at the top of the post.

Any suggestions for other locations for the OP or otherwise (or a quote for Goblin-town!), @ me in the KD OOC thread!

Ent Ancient
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Maecheneb the Eagle
The Eyrie
Open


A great Eagle perched on a stack of large branches that was not quite a nest but must have been a comfortable resting place; her beak was tucked deep in her feathered breast and her eyes were closed in a deep, undreaming sleep. Dawn rose clear and bright over the Misty Mountains on a cold winter morning and the Eagle stirred at last.

She shook her head, fluffing up her feathers and then stretched her great wings out, flexing them a few times before she tucked them in at her sides. Maecheneb was young for an Eagle but she was not small and was as mighty and proud as any of her elders. Indeed she was quite keen to prove that of herself. “Keeer!” she let out a high-pitched call to greet the new day.

All was quiet for now and she waited for the land to warm, watching with keen eyes for the fog to lift in the vale below where the Woodmen might bring their sheep to graze, or for some other prey to make itself known to her.

OOC: anyone feel free to join as Eagle, prey, goblin, whatever!

High Lord of Imladris
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Lóithne the Peregrine
Near the Eyrie
Open


Ahhh yes. The wind beneath her wings as she flew up high her sharp little eyes looking for small prey birds below her in the early dawn light when birds were up stretching their wings after a long night asleep. The early raptor gets the bird as she had no plans on getting a worm.

She had flown through this area a few times and was on good terms with most of the eagles as she was a good friend with an elf. Several elves infact as far as a bird was concerned. Raptors such as herself rarely were friendly with the ground dwellers, but her elf was quite alright as far as the Peregrin was concerned at least when she didn't have her in a shop. Lóithne did not like the shops she wasn't allowed to fly around in them. She heard a loud Keer from an eagle and cocked her head slightly while she was flying and let out a shark 'KAK' a greeting back to the eagle (Maecheneb) that had just woken up. The most proper thing for a raptor to do when hunting in the great eagles territories.

She could easily escape an eagle if they decided to try to run her off especially at the height she would be diving from there would be no chance of the eagles catching her in case they were a little grumpy. Sometimes they could be awful prideful but normally that was when the woodmen and farmers were angry at them for stealing sheep since they were not so good at catching birds with their huge size so being shown up by a little bird catching another bird out of the air kind of made them mad sometimes especially if they couldn't get a sheep.

@Lailthoron

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Ausr the Grim
The High Pass
Open

There was a saying among Grimbeorn’s folk -- if all is well, naught falls but snows. It was true enough in winter, when the weather was heavy on the High Pass and there was little to be done at the toll-stations but bunker down and keep watch for travellers caught in the sudden weather. In warmer seasons, though -- when the pass was clear and freely travelled by those of the Wood-folk or even the dwarf-caravans from Erebor and the Iron Hills Beyond -- that was when the Beornings had to be on watch. The threats to Ausr and his folk were not just Goblins -- many a greedy merchant had thought to bypass their fees, and many a vagabond to seize the arms they were said to keep in the all-season lodges. As though the sons of Beorn had need of weapons. Ausr had his hammer -- smithied at such a great cost by the dwarves of Erebor -- but when it came to true violence, especially violence in the name of the house of Beorn... There were better options. Too often, of late, had those better options been turned on greedy men, and too rarely on the goblins. Ausr scowled. He did not know what the land-thieves were planning, but their perennial assaults were late in the coming this year. Perhaps a new king had seized their subterranean throne. Perhaps there was stock to be taken in the darker rumors from away south -- but then, there were always darker rumors from away to the south.

Today the road was quiet -- momentarily, anyway, though the sun was still low in the easterling sky. Ausr had come outside after breaking his fast to sit on the green between the lodge and the road, taking in the crisp mountain air. This is important work. he told himself. Even if you would rather be taking the fight to the under-ways. Keeping the High Pass open -- it was a vital step, Ausr knew, in maintaining the renown of the Beornings among all the Free Peoples of the wide world. And maintaining their renown was, in turn, vital -- vital movement toward reclaiming these peaks, some-day.

Ausr growled low in his throat at that, and crossed his hairy arms. The broad man had hair which fell to his shoulders and a thick mess of a blonde beard -- he looked half a bear, even in this form, and with the sharp taste of the mountains in his throat he felt half a bear or more. Someday he thought, as his father and grandfather had before him. Someday.
The dwarves and goblins could war in their ruddy mountain caves, so long as they saved the peaks for the sons of Beorn.

[OOC: Open to anyone who passes by. Death and taxes (and Beorning tolls) stop for nobody]
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

Balrog
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Âuzrârg
Outskirts of Goblin-Town
Open, if you dare

Well this was going poorly! The hunchbacked goblin ambled through the empty causeways and precipices of Goblin-Town. The streets were unnaturally empty. They had been for a long time. Ever since them dwarves and that drat wizard fella came through here and killed the old Great Goblin the place had been quiet. The denizens of the bustling lithopolis had trickled, more accurately scattered, like leaves from a burning tree. He had been one of the few to stick around. Predictably, because of his hunchback, he had not been able to make much headway in becoming the new Great Goblin. Right now there were a few “Okay Goblins” trying to dictate policy and exert some sort of control over the masses but they were weak, and they kept dying which really didn’t help with the stability issue. Was he the reason for them all suffering accidently shaving accidents? Well yeah, but let’s not get the warg before the cart here. They all underestimated him and that was their mistake. They should have been estimating him the whole time. Before the great exodus he had been a goblin of little consequence. He bounced from job to job, rat catcher, muckraker, warg breeder, and fungal farmer all within the last couple of years. He was even a skull boiler for the Great Goblin’s fancy staff. It was stinky job, but someone had to do it. Sadly he was not very good at it, he threw up in the pot that the dwarf skull was supposed to go in and ruined the whole thing. The Great Goblin had put him in the cages for a week as punishment for that. That was when he started to devise his revenge. He had no friends so starting a revolution was difficult. He tried baking once and when he set his hovel on fire realized that that route was not the way he needed to go. Truth be told, he was pretty much at a standstill, ranting and raving to himself at all hours of the night and scribbling random angry diatribes on tanning warg hides (a job he’d had a few years ago that he was surprisingly good at but got canned because he tried to eat some of the leftover warg meat). Then the dwarves came and wrecked everything. The Great Goblin was dead, long live the Great Goblin. Since then, it had been a series of those “Okay Goblins” that tried to take control but, as mentioned earlier, he killed them all for being useless. Still, he knew he lacked support of any kind (even his mother and brother had abandoned him in the great exodus) to outright seize control. For now though. He was working on a scheme he was sure would go over well. He had written fliers and put them all over the city, hoping that if he spread the news of a “secret meeting” far enough throughout the city at least a couple people would show up. Well, that had been several days ago and still no one had arrived. This was going very poorly. At this point, it was almost a better idea to either kill everyone here and declare himself king of Goblin-Town, or move to another city and try to climb the cursus honorum there. He’d give it another day.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Snagraz the Unlikely
Goblin-Town, the Mobile-Throne
Open (with @The King in Yellow)


There was the creeper. Where was the creeper? There -- There he was. Snagraz caught sight of Auzrârg moving in and out of view along the wandering walks of what had once been the greatest goblin-outpost south of Gundabad and North of Moria. The greatest goblin outpost in... what was admittedly a very limited stretch of the mountains. And who was Snagraz the Unlikely? Well, he was the greatest goblin.
Oi!” snapped the newly inherited and newly declared ruler of... Well, of some parts of Goblin-town. It was not clear if he was calling out to Auzrârg or to the snaga curs who whimpered at the foot of his throne. There were three of them. There had been four -- for stability’s sake -- but old Laghel had gone and taken a tumble off the swinging walks. Snagraz suspected that one of the other three had pushed him, but he had not yet reasoned out which one stood to benefit, since they all had to carry a heavier share now that Laghel was gone. “Oi.” said Snagraz again, this time aiming a kick at the head of his nearest goblin, a runt called Akrag. Akrag moved, but at least Snagraz had his attention “Catch me up with old Auzrârg up there. Your Great-Goblin wants words with him.

The three remaining throne-snaga scurried to their positions, hefting the chair -- and the rather corpulent Snagraz atop it -- onto their shoulders. For a moment they swayed, tilting dangerously toward the corner which did not have a goblin holding it up -- but Akrag checked himself, rebalanced, and off they went -- rushing along the wooden path in the direction Auzrârg had been moving.

Faster! Faster!” snarled Snagraz, doing his best to strike at the throne-snaga nearest his right hand. When he landed a hit -- and the chair swung for a moment out over the cliff’s edge -- Snagraz stopped.
They caught up with Auzrârg as he was turning into one of the side tunnels. “Woah! Stop! Stop stop -- Halt!Snagraz shouted, remembering at the last moment his new status. “You there -- Auzrârg, you there. Kneel before your king. Before your -- I mean kneel before the Great-Goblin, kneel before your Goblin-ness. I want a word with you.” His chair was still swaying -- it was making Snagraz more than a little dizzy. “Put me down, boys. Come on boys, put me down.” They did, slinking away a few steps, and the Great-Goblin caught his breath.

Alright, Auzrârg. Where’re you going, huh? What’re you up to? I’ve seen you skulking. What’re you doing? And where are you doing it? And can I have a hand in it?” Pausing, Snagraz tried to recall if he’d missed anything. He did not exactly have a sense of what he might have missed. It had been a long time since he’d seen an example of what the Great-Goblin was supposed to sound like. Six of his older brothers had occupied the position at one time or another -- but then again, six of his older brothers had been murdered in a week. “Where are you going?” he said again, slowly. ”And what’re you going to? I want -- I want answers now, understand? The Great-Goblin gets his cut. I mean, I get my cut. I being the great goblin.” He did not feel particularly great, but maybe that feeling would fade. Perhaps it was only imposter syndrome.

[OOC: Sorry about the first circumflex. For some reason the Plaza text box won't let me paste one with a capital A?]
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

Ent Ancient
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Maecheneb the Eagle
Near The Eyrie
Open with Lóithne
(@Fuin Elda)

Though the fog was still dense below and the other Eagles were content on their perches for now, Maecheneb was itching to stretch her wings. There may be no prey roaming the land yet, but if there was some trouble, it would be she who found it and not one of the others. So when the Eagle saw the falcon even before the other bird greeted her, it was all the temptation she needed.

She tossed her head back and shook it; her golden-brown feathers ruffled with satisfaction. Then she unfurled her wings at her sides, inched her claws to the edge of her perch and dove. She did fall down like some graceless pigeon but drifted across the sky and hovered above as if floating on nothing at all. It took only a lazy swish of her wings to stay aloft.

To be a Messenger, an Eagle had to understand all kinds of speech and Maecheneb was a master of most. The Dwarves were greedy and held their language close and shared it with few. Speaking to other birds was straightforward at least and so the Eagle called out to Lóithne.

“Good morning, young falcon. May the winds bring you safe flight and prey aplenty! What nest have you flown from today? Were there any foul creatures or folk abroad?” She was eager to know what news there was from down below, or wherever the falcon had come from, that might have been missed while she slept. Even the mighty needed rest.

“Only two nights ago I caught an orc set to sneak across the Anduin but I put a stop to him, I did! You might have seen the pile of rotting flesh I left for the vultures.” This last bit was said with a measure of haughtiness for she was quite satisfied with her kill. How many orcs had a little peregrine falcon killed?

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Untalonted
Culuxavassë, an Eagle
Eagle Eyrie, TA 2470

It was common knowledge among the eagles that their forebears had seen all that passed beneath them in Beleriand from the heights of the Crissaegrim. They had carried warnings to the kings of the Noldor and even to the Valar themselves, and they had fought the dragons of the Enemy in the battle which broke the world. The eyes of Thorondor’s descendants were similarly keen, their beaks hooked and cruel, and their minds sharp and attuned to all that passed below. Usually.

On this day, Culuxavassë the eagle had spied a lone female mountain goat making her agile way up the heights of a snow-capped peak; his attention, thus, was turned away from subtle events transpiring nearby which would come to change the course of the future. The eagle’s vast shadow rippled on the rocky mountainside as he soared above the goat and considered the angle of his attack, the potential paths she would take to flee, and the direction and strength of the wind. A seasoned hunter, he made his calculations quickly, and then he dove. Wings drawn into his sides, the great eagle plummeted like a stone toward the white goat. At the last second, he let spread his wings and dropped his talons to pierce the goat’s sides. It bleated a desperate, useless cry as the huge bird gripped it in fierce talons, then lifted it away from the rocky slope as he took to the skies once more.

He could feel the animal’s heart pulsing within it - first rapidly in shock, then ever more slowly until it stopped entirely. It had been an easy kill, but he would savor the meal no less for it. He alighted into the eyrie of the great eagles and tore into the goat's stomach. Blood, slick organs, and curling intestines spilled freely onto the stones below his feet. He would make short work of this one.

Or would he? Culuxavassë had just dipped his head to begin eating when something in the entrails caught his eye.

OOC: I’m imagining this will be a little scene around reading the entrails and completely missing the signs of Gollum going to hide in the Misty Mountains, and imagining what the Eagles were doing instead of keeping a watch. Anyone is welcome to join! EDIT: Also this was basically a simul with Lail’s post above.
Last edited by Zôrzimril on Wed Jan 05, 2022 3:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

High Lord of Imladris
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Lóithne the Peregrine
Near The Eyrie
Open with Maecheneb the Eagle
@Lailthoron

"May the sun warm the air beneath your wings and your perches be solid at the end of the day!" Cried the little peregrin in proper birdish greeting to the eagle, barrel rolling through the air like the acrobat she was towards the eagle to be able to talk nicer to the great bird.

"I come from the land of the horse riders this fine day and I've already plucked the eyes of the east out of the sky several times today," she said with a happy and pleased little kak. Meaning that she had plucked several crows from the sky where they'd be spying on the flaxen haired people. "They do not make good eating though so I left them to rot as a warning to their kin to stay away from these skies." She said puffing her little barred chest out slight at the fact she'd pulled birds almost the same size as her today.

"I saw the pile of rot on my way looking for breakfast, it was a most excellent kill. Orcs are most terrible creatures though no orcs in many months for me. I am quite small so I tend to only be able to help bring them down, I sometimes fight beside an elf of the first age, she taught me to go for their eyes when I am fighting beside her in battles. I like to take their spies from the sky though." She said happy for the company of the bigger bird though she did keep an eye out for breakfast for below.

Balrog
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Âuzrârg
Goblin-Town
(Open, with @Androthelm)

Âuzrârg was busy scurrying along, his hunchback making hard to walk in a straight line with much ease, when he thought he heard something behind him. He stopped, looked about, even sniffed the air for all the good something like that would do for a goblin whose only olfactory accomplishments had been the discerning of dietary needs from warg shire. He didn’t see, or smell anything. He was getting a bit of the old dementia at his age it seemed. Or was it paranoia? Without access to a good goblin neurologist or psychologist it was hard to tell. He heard there were surgeons down south, in the Black Lands, but goblin medicare up in the Northern reaches was a little thin. He shook his head and began to hop along the walkway. He nearly slipped once, then twice, then the third time fell into the great inky blackness…

… then landed a few feet below on a stone outcropping with stairs leading back up to the rope walkways. “Well that was anticlimactic,” he said as much to himself as the audience that was probably listening. He was sure there were spies watching him (definitely spies, right?) for the dozen or so goblins that had enough clout to call themselves great. Âuzrârg climbed back up the stairs to the walkway, reached the halfway point, then turned back around. Someone was definitely following him. It was not just his imagination. This was not like when he was younger and he found out all his friends were, in fact, imaginary.

He squinted into the darkness. Spectacles would have been a great boon at the moment, or even a monocle. Again though, goblin healthcare was very poor in these parts. He could visit old whatshername, Sharog or something like that. She was an expert with glass and such, but she was expensive, wanted stuff you could only find outside and on top of the mountain. How was Âuzrârg supposed get things like “a daisy” or “unpasteurized moose cheese”? It was an unfair system designed to keep the common working goblin down! That’s all it was!

But he needed to think about healthcare reform another time (along with infrastructure, border security, drug regulations, welfare and… stop it!) because right now he had to focus on whoever, or whatever, was calling out to him. It was clear now, even to a goblin without spectacles or a very strong sense of smell, that someone was calling out to him. Why him? Well he was the only person out wandering the… streets at this hour.

”You there – Âuzrârg, you there. Kneel before your king. Before your – I mean kneel before the Great-Goblin, kneel before your Goblin-ness. I want a word with you.”

Who in the rotting hells…?

The hunchbacked goblin watched as three goblins, clearly there had been a four but he seemed to be missing, ambled (staggered would actually be better word, they all looked like they were about to keel over with exhaustion) into view. They were carrying another goblin in a makeshift palanquin. He squinted hard. Did he knows this one? There were so many goblins trying to gain the throne that… oh, look at that, he was actually on a throne, that was better than the last three for sure.

“Wait a second, Snagraz? Snagraz the Unlikely? Is that you? What the heck are you doing?”

Indeed, what was Snagraz doing? He was, not to put too fine a point on it, unlikely. If he was the newest claimant, then Goblin-town really was going to the poo chute. Still, Âuzrârg knew when he was outnumbered and out crossbowed. It was difficult for him to get to his knee, the hunchback making it difficult to move, but he did it with some degree of difficulty. “What can I do for you…” he swallowed his pride with a hard gulp, “your great Goblin-ness?”

OOC: (Goblin names are fickle, circumflexes become acutes and sometimes acutes become umlauts, goblins are weird, not worry)
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Snagraz the Unlikely
Goblin-Town, the Mobile-Throne
Open (with @The King in Yellow)


Wait a second, Snagraz??
Snagraz the Unlikely[/b]? Is that you? What the heck are you doing?

It was a fair enough question, and Snagraz gave it a moment’s thought before replying. “Well, Auzrâg, I’m sitting. Or I suppose I’m sitting. I’m sitting on me throne, ruling. That’s what I’m doing is ruling. And I wanted words with you.” that was how old Lagraz would have put it, when he was goblin-in-chief of their little clan and had been approaching the position of Great Goblin hisself. It was a pity what had happened to old Lagraz, to drown so unexpectedly in that barrel of goblin-wine. But he’d been a good boss before that. Though what words would he have wanted with Auzrâg? it was hard to say.

Snagraz blinked. What was the other goblin doing now? Had he fallen over? No, no -- just gone to a knee. Why’d he gone to a knee like that? Oh! On account how he was kneeling before the Great Goblin. That was fair. That was right. Snagraz always got there eventually.

What can I do for you...Auzrâg was asking “your great Goblin-ness?

I--Snagraz paused. He had sort of not expected to get this far. Ordinarily -- Well, with Lagraz and with Zagraz before him -- they’d just sort of said what’re you up to, snaga-swine and it had been all blubbering and begging for mercy, which they’d never given, of course. “You’re a smart gob, eh? You always seemed a smart gob.Snagraz began at last. “And I’m -- Hrrm. Smart gobs is useful gobs, it always seemed to me, unless they’s were dangerous gobs, as old Lagraz always put it. Although Magraz always did say ‘keep your dangerous snagar closer.’ Not to suggest that you’re a snaga, of course.Snagraz eyed the other goblin. He didn’t look too dangerous, physically speaking. Still, better to get on nobody’s bad side, at least not until he had more guards. “We’re moving up. I’m the Great Goblin, now, or I will be, and I need advisors. Now Zagraz always trusted you, and Lagraz did too, and Magraz didn’t but what did Magraz know? He got hisself kilt half a minute into his Great Goblinhood. So, hey, here’s the offer: You put your smart gobbiness toward getting me a proper place to set down this chair -- in a room and all -- and maybe it turns out better for both of us, eh? eh?
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

Ent Ancient
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Maecheneb the Eagle
Near The Eyrie
Open with Lóithne (@Fuin Elda)


The falcon was most respectful of her elders. This pleased the Eagle. The Elf-friend must have taught her well with all her wisdom from the Elder Days. Such elves were rare these days as far as the Eagle knew, but then again, Maecheneb did not really trouble herself with elven population dynamics.

The Eagle may not be able to do impressive acrobatics but what she lacked in agility and grace, she made up for in strength. Her claws were powerful and sharp and would strike fear in the hearts of her foes. She could tear right through a sheep’s dense fleece, killing them in one strike and feasting on their juicy flesh.

Prey would come; the sheep were lazy and slow and easy to catch if unguarded. The priority was any morsel of news that would see her take her first journey across the sea West to the very peak of Taniquetil and to the Lord of the Breath of Arda himself. It was the highest honour an Eagle could achieve.

“Two crows, or four eyes, is a fine score for one your size,” Maecheneb told the falcon. “It is a good fight to take out Enemy spies. I prefer larger prey myself but orc flesh does not make for good eating either.” She released a kek-kek of disgust and clacked her beak. “I would not eat one even if I were starving!”

She gave her wings a lazy flap then returned to her effortless soaring. “If you see your elf friends, tell them there are goblins gathering in hoards but many slip into crevices and caves where I cannot follow. I have not seen so many since the days leading up to the great battle at Erebor. They seem to think they own these mountains but I would show them who rules the peaks!” She released a loud screech that echoed through the valley for all to hear. It proclaimed that Maecheneb the Eagle patrolled these skies!

Her ambition got the better of her and against the wisdom of all her kind, she swooped down into the fog to see what might be found. The Eagle would be flying blind until she escaped from beneath the hazy bank of fog...and who knew what was lurking below, friend or foe?

(OOC: newcomers welcome to hop in :) )

Balrog
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Âuzrârg
Goblin-Town
Open with @Androthelm

In the span of less than fifty words, Snagraz had managed to convince Âuzrârg that not only did he need to die, but also his name should never have been “the Unlikely” but “the Uninformed”. The hunchbacked goblin (never call him a gob if you didn’t want to find yourself on the wrong end of a stein of mushroom grog). Snagraz wanted him to be his advisor? Him? He stood up, favoring his left side as he did, and stared at the goblin for a full half a minute before speaking. He was trying to decide if the new “Great Goblin” was a fool or a savage genius. Âuzrârg thought he caught more than one reference from him that he was onto the hunchback’s extracurricular activities but with the rambling, nonsensical way the other was speaking it was hard to be sure. Goblins often teetered on the edge of utter lunacy and maniacal brilliance. It was just often hard to tell which side a goblin was sliding toward. Being cut off as they were from the Black Lands was having a deteriorating effect on them, something he planned on correcting as soon as he was actually Great Goblin.

“You want my help, eh?” he hid the previous skepticism from his voice and replaced it a toothy shark’s grin smile, full of crooked, angry teeth. “They all wanted my help,” he continued. “But none of them listened to me when push came to shove, “ (meaning of course when he pushed them off a ledge or shoved a knife into their back) “Is that something you plan on doing? Ignoring me?”

He wanted to job as advisor. He needed it. He needed to be visible to the public. One of the many problems of being a hunchback goblin was that it was not easy moving in the public eye in a positive light.

In truth, his mother should have followed goblin tradition and gotten rid of him before he was introduced into goblin society, exposed him to the harsh cavern ecosystem and left him for the spiders and centipedes. Goblins were by no means a sparse society, but it was considered a bad omen for a hunchback to be seen in public. That was one of the many reasons he’d have to bounce from job to job so often.

What if he was able to change that? Snagraz was an idiot, that was clear to everyone, but if he were the power behind the throne… oh that was dangerous. Clever goblins were often spitted for being too clever. Don’t think too far ahead now. It’s hard to play goblin chess with someone who things they’re playing uno. He was going to have to bide his time.

He spat a greenish blob of saliva and snot into his hand. “Alright, Snagraz. You’ve got yourself and advisor.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Lóithne the Peregrine
Near The Eyrie
Open with Maecheneb the Eagle @Lailyn


The small peregrin gave a small nod indeed orcs were disgusting beasts she'd taken the eyes from a few of those as well when with her Elf Friend She flapped her wings steadily and twisted her head about when the great eagle dove, watching her plummet into the fog below. She clacked her beak together and blinked thinking the great eagle may have spotted something in the fog, as her great body cut into the mist and then vanished from the much smaller birds sight. She watched sharply and listened diving lower so that she could hear better the sounds inside the encompassing mists. After all she would help the eagle if she could if there were orcs about, after all a small swift bird like her was hard to shoot with a bow, and she could pluck an archers eyes out with talon and beak and be airborn again in two flaps of a wing.

For now though she heard nothing of battle below, she kept an ear out and an eye out for a pigeon. She thought one of those would make an absolutely delicious meal right about now but one did need to be wary of goblins and other crows.

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Snagraz the Unlikely
Goblin-Town, the Mobile-Throne
Open (with @The King in Yellow)
You want my help, eh?

Snagraz stroked his chin. He did not have a beard, but he might’ve. Magraz had had a beard, but not Snagraz. Still, he stroked his chin, on account of how it made him look kingly--or, rather, Great Gobliny.

Aye, I want your help. Otherwise I wouldn’t’ve ASKED for your help. And I’m not going to disregard good advice, so don’t you worry. Though on the other hand,” he stroked his unbearded chin with the other hand. “if you give me bad advice, I’d then be forced to ignore it. So as long as we’re square on that... We’re square. On more than that, I mean. You can be my advisor, if you want.” He paused and looked around. The chair-bearers had scattered. He hissed -- a sharp sound from between his sharp teeth -- and they scurried back, preparing to lift him wobblingly up.
Here.” snarled Snagraz. “Your first advisory. I lost a chair-bearer some time ago and I’m looking for another. You know any gobs might do the trick?Snagraz ran an eye over Auzrag. “Presumin’ you’re not volunteering, of course. An’ it isn’t to far a walk to go and find the snaga. Not sure how long these three will hold out, being frank.” He flung a kick at the bearer nearest him, who ducked it without looking. "Unless you've got a better idea on my first move as Great-Goblin."

(OOC: !!! I came and checked this thread and, lo and behold, I never sent the post I'd written up. This has been sitting in my notes for weeks.)
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

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The Eyrie’s vicinity to the Vales of the Anduin
Maecheneb the Eagle
Open with Lóithne the Peregrine (@Fuin Elda)

The world was lost in ghostly white as she descended into the fog and little droplets of moisture coated her bronze feathers. Maecheneb did not feel the damp nor the cold for she had preened her plumage well. A little fall of rain splashed forth whenever she flapped her wings. Hopefully the falcon did not get caught in the spray.

The Great River came into sight below, a ribbon of blue cutting across the green vale. Beneath the surface, Maecheneb could see little fish darting this way and that and individual rocks rounded down by the constant flow of water eating away at them ever so slowly.

And there, on the grassy banks of the river were gathered more fluffy white sheep than a Great Eagle could hope for. It was not her dream of a great discovery of wrath and ruin or a daring rescue mission that would become legendary and see her rise up as honoured as Gwaihir or Landroval...but an Eagle had to eat.

Before she swooped down and took an easy meal for herself, a disturbance at the edge of the wood caught her eye. There was a loud cacophony of flapping wings and a chorus of startled birds as a flock of doves were startled from the trees. Perhaps both birds might be successful in their hunt.

Not so fast.

An arrow came soaring from the cover of trees up into the sky toward Maecheneb. It just clipped the edge of her primary feathers but did no damage. Woodmen! It was folly to fly so low near their flocks and Maecheneb knew it but had tempted fate anyway.

A dove-- a meal?
The little dove perched in the treetop and coo-coo’ed with satisfaction as her mate preened her feathers. It was a daily ritual they engaged in after a nice morning spent foraging and gorging on seeds.

They did not mind the presence of the humans so long as they were not the target of their arrows. When one of the humans fired into the sky, the dove was startled and scattered with the rest of her flock even though they were not the intended targets. She climbed up into the sky and she saw the Eagle, but not the peregrine falcon, of whom, if targeted, she would have no chance for escape...
---
OOC: feel free to hunt and eat lil' dovey, Fuin! if anyone wants to jump in as Woodman, sheep, bird, eagle or literally whatever go for it :) there is no plan here.

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Lóithne the Peregrine
Near The Eyrie to the Vales of the Anduin
Open with Maecheneb the Eagle @Lailyn (And a tasty meal named dove)



The smaller bird stayed above the low cloud for a bit longer and it did begin to thin, she could hear the strong beating wings of her eagle friend below and the sharp singing of a bow string and the flapping of many wings and she dove into the mists below her her sharp eyes looking for the smaller wings that she had heard from above it did not take her long to see a dove climbing high as the falcon flew silently well above the eagle yet.

She could see that Maecheneb had not been struck by the arrow in any meaningful way that she could tell, and so she dove upon the dove her wings folding in and she bombed past the great eagle like a bullet whistling through the air like a rain drop of utter wrath and fury. Until shire hit the dove fully on crashing into it with claws stretching out at the last moment piercing into tender flesh spinning rapidly to the ground as the dove struggled,a spray of tiny feathers everywhere for several moments as the dove fought as bravely as a dove may against sharp talons before its fight was done. Lóithne spread her small wings forth and flew for a few minutes along side the great eagle not wishing to eat near the woodsmen. Fortunately for the little female dove that had taken flight with the others she had not been the highest flying of their flock and so she and her mate had survived the deadly hunt the dove in the falcon clutches was younger and more foolish having strayed to far from the flock itself. Lóithne turned an eye to the woodsmen, she did not like them over much shooting arrows at regal birds was an ill thing when there were far worse things to hunt, but she supposed as she eyed the sheep in the larger birds talons that they did need to defend their flock whatever the threat.

Her elf would be displeased if she took the woodsmans eyes and so instead she flew steadily waiting to find a safer roost to eat her prize.

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Maecheneb the Eagle
Vales to the Eyrie vicinity
Open with Lóithne the Peregrine (@Fuin Elda)

The Woodmen were good people, but they were very protective of their flocks. Her elders had long lectured her on straying too close to them with a sliver of fear in their golden eyes. But Maecheneb was a Great Eagle and refused to be cowed by a few men bearing bows-- she’d successfully plucked sheep from the vale before!

“KEER!” Her fiercest cry did not dissuade these men from defending their flock. Another arrow zipped up into the skies amid the flurry of doves and the diving peregrine. Maecheneb swooped and swirled and tilted sideways to avoid it. The effort it took to do so caused her to lose her grip on the scrumptious sheep and the creature fell from her talons. The bloodied remains stood out stark white and red upon the green grass below and Maecheneb released a cry of frustration. That was her kill lost, a waste of good flesh!

The price of wounded pride was less to pay than that of an injured wing, which would spell her certain death, so she soared upwards, back through the thinning fog and retreated from the scene. Perhaps Maecheneb was not so mighty as she thought being deterred by these men and their arrows.

This whole adventure had been a mistake. She would return to the Eyrie hungry, empty-clawed and without any important news of anything and her kindred would smugly tell her “I told you so”. Worse yet, she had been outdone by the little raptor who held a dove tucked in her talons!

Still, Maecheneb could not begrudge Lóithne her well-earned meal. She invited the peregrine to join her and rest their tired wings together. The Eagle left the Vale behind and landed softly upon a rocky peak in the mountains where she basked in the sunlight warming her feathers. She would nurse her wounded pride away from Eyrie before returning to her kindred a little bit humbled and perhaps a little bit wiser for it.

A dove (whew not a meal)
The flock of doves clustered together in flight but dispersed when the peregrine falcon soared into their midst. The dove flapped her wings for dear life, caught in a whirl of pure terror. So terrified was she of the agile avian predator that she did not even notice when the other bird was snatched from the sky until a poof of snowy feathers cascaded into her eyes. She flew on, above the sheltering trees until she heard her mate’s distinctive whistle above the rest of the flock, calling for her. She fluttered to his side where he was settled in a new tree. They caressed each other with their beaks, comforting each other, glad for their fortunate escape from death.

(OOC @Fuin Elda - I'm happy to wrap this little tail tale up, I enjoyed it immensely! Perhaps Maecheneb learned a lesson. Thank you for jumping in with your bird, Loithne is lovely!)

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Lóithne the Peregrine
An Eyrie and Northward bound
Finished


She saw the sheep fall and was glad that the great eagle decided it was better to go hungry than try to get another sheep with the woodsmen firing. She stayed quiet, eating her dove and then sending the last feathery and not so tasty bits off the eyrie neatly so that the roost stayed clean. She thanked the eagle for sitting with her while she ate and gave a proper farewell as one should to a great eagle when one is a small raptor in their home.

With that she flapped onwards further north she would hopefully make it over the mountains tonight and towards the Valley to check for messages for her elf before making a return trip to the small shop where the elf as for the moment in Rohan.

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Fenris Kindir
Somewhere in the Wilderlands

(Private)

The air smelled like death. The scent on the wind was dry, it made Gísli’s nose itch and his eyes water. There was something wrong with this scent, something unnatural and broken. The smell was something like the smell of a barrow that had been opened after a decade. It was not fetid and rotten, but dry decay. The coppery smell of blood was on the air too, but it was the scent of something different, the prey of his quarry. The smell was human. He pawed at the ground again, and sniffed. The smell was relatively fresh, a day old, maybe two. He felt a sense of urgency, a sense of time running out. He huffed, his breath creating a huge gout of steam in the air. It was cold this morning, with white mists rolling off the sides of the mountains and down into the vales. Dawn had been a few hours ago. The great brown bear had a long way to go, he knew. He knew, too, that his journey would take him into contact with humans. The thought gnawed at him like a gadfly. He disliked being around humans. They were only half his kind and he had half the love for them that they had for him. If his quarry were anything else, anything less than this thing, he would have let it go and allowed the hunters and Rangers of the Wilderlands take care of their own. But it something else. No one within a hundred leagues knew how to deal with such a creature, a monster. He was all that stood between it and two score towns full of commonfolk.

He would have to change to interact with them. Gísli did not relish the thought. Beornings preferred to exist in their animal form, life was much simpler that way. Their progenitor was the only one that seemed to be able to exist in either form with any sort of ease. Gísli himself had not walked in human skin in nigh on a decade now.

The vale was waking up now. Serene nostalgia washed over the great grizzled bear. He loved this time of day. The way the shadows looked under the trees, the way the birds sang their dueling songs, the buzz of insects. He could smell the other predators in the vale too, he could smell the musky scent of the wild boar, the elusive, spicy scent of the lynx, he could smell foxes, coyotes, ferrets, and badgers. He could smell the beavers at the little stream, the squirrels in the trees and the little family of river otters, he could smell the fish as well. His stomach growled.

But above it all, he could smell that thing. It was not a natural scent, but at the same time it was. It was not a goblin or an orc, those smelled rotten and meaty. This scent was different. It was musty, like the bottom layer of leaves on the forest floor. He would have ignored it, had he not smelled the same exact scent nearly 40 years ago. He’d been a cub then, barely learning to shift between bear and man. He had his father had been out fishing in the stream, finding and eating the choicest bits of salmon as they bounded up the river near their home. It had been a cold autumn morning, just like this one. It had been eerily quiet. Gísli hadn’t thought much about it, because he was still learning to distinguish sights, sounds, and smell. But his father, an experienced bear, knew something was wrong. One minute it was splashing and growling, the next his father was bounding through the woods on all fours. Bears were terrifyingly fast when they wanted to be, when something was wrong in their world. Gísli had been forbidden from joining his father on his hunt. It was too dangerous for a lad just coming into his bear. But Gísli was nothing if not willful. He followed his father as deep into the forests as he dared, the day wore on and on, from morning until dusk. The forest was suddenly uninviting and threatening. Where once had been trees with golden, red, and orange leaves, now stood bare trees with crooked fingers. And that’s when he saw the thing. It would become his strongest memories.

The thing was lupine in shape, but larger. There was something wrong with the shape of it. The creature looked as though it wanted to stand on its hind legs but didn’t know how its legs quite worked. There were so many teeth, so many fangs. They glistened like diamonds under the fading light. As a bear, he was bigger than this creature, but there was something else about it that made him afraid. He had never quite gotten over his fear of the loup garou.

The battle between the wolf and his father had been long, bloody, and terrifying. There were so many times that Gísli had wanted to charge in and rescue his father from the rushing iron jaws of the beast, but every time he tried, something in his veins froze him to the spot. In the end, the day belonged the bear. The wolf was dead. The journey back to their home was long, slow, and filled with an uncomfortable silence. It was not until they reached home and had changed from bear to man that his father even acknowledged that Gísli had disobeyed him.

Then, along with his mother, stayed up all night telling him about this creature. It was less than the demonic werewolves of the ancient days of yore, but they were more than the wargs of the mountain orcs. They were men, the same what that Gísli and his family line were men. But, like the Beornings, they were not just men. They were not born with such a gift though, they had no control over their shifting. A loup garou was born from the bite of another loup garou.

They went from man to wolf and back and often did not even know they had changed at all. They were dangerous. They were bloodthirsty, savage, and monstrous. Not all loups garous were dangerous and evil, some were like them, living far from civilization and preferred the open Wilderlands to the southern cities. They communed with the woods and hills the way Kementári had intended. Yet they had been twisted by the Black Enemy of the World, they could not distinguish man from beast, in others or within themselves. Once the lines were blurred, the bodies began to stack up. They found that killing was fun, so fun that it turned into a driving obsession. They did not feed on their kills once the frenzy was on them. They often died of starvation and exhaustion, but not before scores or even hundreds of people were killed. The Wilderlands were sparsely populated, but there were pockets of civilization nestled in hidden valleys and mountain crags.

His father and mother had gone into Callisto’s embrace years and years ago. Gísli was all by himself now. There was still that pang, that stab of fear in his heart. He knew, though, that it was up to him to stop this creature. He would receive no thanks for it, like as not he would get blamed for the gory rampage, but that could not stop him. There were innocents in the little hamlets and villages and trade towns, mothers and fathers and children. Old nans and grandpas.

He sniffed the air once more, inhaling the acrid scent of the loup garou. It made his eyes water. He began running. The scent was a day away, but it was in the direction of a forest hamlet a few days from here. He had to move quickly. Time was not on his side this morning.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Fenris Kindir
Outside Yggdrasilbury

(Private)

Two days of tracking and hunting. Two days of naught but blood and air. Gísli shook the snow off his back and huffed. A great plume of air, like a geyser erupted from his nose. It was getting colder. The snow was light and would melt before the rise of the noonday sun, but it was a warning sign to the grizzled Beorning. He was expending energy, far too much energy. His fat stores would not be near enough to keep him satiated this winter. He looked back in the direction of his favorite stream. It was miles and miles away by now, lost amidst the pine and aspen. For a moment, he considered turning around and forgetting about the loup garou. What business of his was this creature’s habits? It had moved out of his territory, why pursue the matter further? Let the humans deal with it. They could deal with it the way they dealt with everything, lots of fire and shouting and unnecessary deaths.

The grizzly bear took a step backward, pivoting. He longed for his little valley, the tiny stream, the gulch, the frosty air. He even missed the wild boar, the pretender to his authoritative throne. He and the boar had had quite a few legendary duels over the years. Now that he was away, no doubt the boar was busy rubbing up against every tree within ten leagues, marking his supposed territory for all the animals to know.

Everything feral and wild in Gísli told him to turn around and go back to his home, to live out his days protecting that land and leave the problems of the world to the world. Nature had a way of sorting things out. He wasn’t needed to go act the hero for folks that had never seen a skinchanger. He was well within his rights to give up the search and nestle down in his favorite stream. Oh, that stream. He wanted nothing more than to sit in that stream and eat the salmon that came upriver to spawn.

But Gísli was a being of two worlds, even if one had totally rejected him. He could go back to his little vale, yes. And he could live contentedly for a very long time. He could even live the rest of his days as a bear and be happy. But there would always be a shadow over his heart, always a gnawing at his mind telling him that there was something wrong in the world now. He wanted to reject his human side, the side of logic and compassion and strife and bickering. There was nothing in the world of men that interested him. Everything Gísli could every want, he could find in the wilds. Let the loup garou run rampant. What did he care? They would kill the thing eventually. It would do them good to have the strength of the herd tested. There were worse things in the shadows than a loup garou. They ought to be prepared.

He sniffed the air disdainfully. What did he owe humans anyway? They were capable enough. Capable enough to cut down half of the forests of Middle-Earth, capable of damming and polluting every river and stream, of stripping the land bare of her natural resources. Of making iron weapons because they were too weak to find with tooth and claw, capable of killing for sport, killing for trophies and stories. The hunt for the loup garou would make a good enough story. Why should he be a part of it?

But what about what I taught you?”

The voice in his head was deep, deeper than the darkest mine shafts of the dwarves. The voice made Gísli tremble. He felt like a young cub again. The voice of his aged father.

You should have taught the humans to take care of themselves first, not to depend on us to be their savior. He was bitter and angry. They had no right to need his help.

I did not teach you such misanthropy,” the voice warned. “I taught you steadfastness, honor, strength and simplicity. I taught you because you would take them to heart. Did I waste my time?”

Gísli growled, popped his jaw at the voice in his head and roared as loud as he could. Birds from a dozen leagues off scattered from their perches. I am not like you. I don’t want to help them.

"Neither did I,” the voice admitted. “I wanted to eat salmon, kill deer, and have as many bear cubs as I could. But we are not just bears, my son. We are more. We bridge the gap. We stand as witness to those that will listen. We are the good that the land needs. We are the voices of the voiceless. We are the call to arms against the forces of destruction and desolation that would pervert and destroy all that Kementári has crafted for us. The humans don’t know this because they were not born to know. We are.”

It’s not fair Gísli thought petulantly.

No, it’s not. But that changes nothing.”

Gísli popped his jaw again. Why are we tasked with protecting?

Because the Matron Girdled in Green deemed us worthy of her trust.”

But what if she was wrong?

Then even hiding in your cave will not be a good life. Go my son. You know what you have to do.”

Gísli sighed. He knew his father was right. There was nothing for it. He cursed it bitterly, wished that anyone, anywhere could do what he had to do so he could continue his life of salmon hunting, berry snatching, and honey thieving. But there was no one else. The loup garou was only the latest symptom of the disease.

He lumbered on.

Finally, the giant grizzly bear came to the trading town of Yggdrasilbury. It was barely a town, barely more than a smattering of rough buildings with dirt in between them. It had been a trading post for hundreds of years, a place where people all over the Wilderlands, from Rohan, and from Dunland and Rhûn. Over time, tents and carts became houses and barns. The city was not a civilized one. That is not to say it was lawless. There was no lord, no king, no steward, or magistrate charged with keeping the peace. The folks of Yggdrasilbury kept their own peace, made and enforced their own laws. Crossing the citizens of Yggdrasilbury is done one’s own risk. They could be brutal, these simple folks, when they needed to be. The town was so named because of the view of the massive ash tree. At least four hundred feet tall and nearly forty feet in diameter, this tree was purported to be a mirror of the sacred ash tree of so many legends. It was nigh as mighty as the great trees of old, if slightly less magical in nature. Gísli knew this was not Yggdrasil, but it was a feat of nature nonetheless. Even as a bear, he was in awe.

He was going to have to do something he was loathed to do, more that interacting with people, he was going to have to become one. He had not used his human form in over a decade. He barely remembered what he looked like, barely remembered how to interact with people. This was going to be a challenge. The loup garou was nearby. He could smell the creature; its scent clung to the area like mold. But it was wild and unfocused. It melded with the scent of the town. He (or she) was here somewhere in the town, but like him, had shifted back to their human form.

Bones snapped, muscles ripped and stitched, organs rearranged themselves, fat and hair were lost, limbs were twisted, and humanity emerged. His human form was nothing like his bear form. He was slim, of average height, around six feet tall, with short greying brown hair and a thin beard with as much white as brown, emerald green eyes, and a perpetually annoyed expression on his thin red lips. Thank the starry heights, too, that shifting from bear to human also afforded him clothing, black pants, black cotton button up shirt, boots, and a black wide brimmed hat with a single five-point star on the left side. The boots jangled as he walked. He longed to walk on all fours, but now was not the time for wishing. It was the time for hunting.

He walked to the bar, or what passed for a bar in Yggdrasilbury. It was closer to a barn than anything else. There was a dozen or so patrons of varying size and shape. They all turned to look at him as he entered. He felt every one of their eyes on him. He could smell their suspicion and their apprehension. He ignored it as best he could and sat at a table nearest the bar with a good view of the entrance.

He nodded to the folks still watching him and they all turned and went back to their conversations and card games. The bar maid approached and asked what he wanted.

“Whisky. Leave the bottle.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Fenris Kindir
Yggdrasilbury

(Private)

He had burned through six shots of whisky. The bottle was looking empty, the brownish-gold liquid sloshing as he held the bottle to the light. Sadly, he felt none of the mythical buzz. A pitfall of being an animal that weighed as much as five of these men was that it was nearly impossible for Gísli to get drunk. That was a good thing at the moment because he didn’t want to get drunk, just appear like that was what he was doing. The eyes of the patrons had not left him wholly. He could still feel the potency of their gaze from time to time. He knew it was going to be like this. Yggdrasilbury was a small, remote town where strangers were few and far between. Along with the “otherness” that Gísli naturally carried with him and it was no wonder the air inside the bar felt thick and stagnant. Something was bound to happen. From his vantage point, the Beorning was able to see four of the five patrons, the bar, and the passage to the kitchens beyond. He could see three men and a woman. The most dangerous by far was the woman. She was lithe and quick; her muscles coiled like a serpent, yet she held herself at ease. She almost looked lazy. Her clothes were better than the rest by at least two degrees. She didn’t hold herself above the men at her table. She wasn’t rich or a noble; those sorts didn’t last long in the wilds. She was a veteran. Her hair was in a neat, tight ponytail that dropped halfway down her back. She had a knife at her belt. She smelled of lilac, his nose itched. There were two men at her table with her, associates perhaps, or underlings. He couldn’t tell. They were brawny men, on the younger side. They didn’t hold themselves the same way she did, they wore their tension on their faces. Both were blue-eyed and ruddy blonde. Brothers? They looked too close in age to be brothers. Cousins, perhaps. The last person he could see from his vantage point was off to the side, sitting alone and nursing a stein of frothy looking ale. By his droopy demeanor, Gísli guessed that that stein was not his first of the day or his fifth. He was unkempt, with a week’s worth of growth in his chin, but he didn’t smell unwashed. The man might have been the town drunk, or he might be a woodsman blowing off steam after three weeks in the bush.

Yggdrasilbury started as a logging town. A small coalition of Northmen, Edain, and Dunlendings settled here more than two hundred years ago. Despite the differences in the cultural background of the people, they got along well. Eventually, demand for lumber slowed as the kingdoms around them grew more and more insular. There was still some trade to be had, but the majority of it was with the myriad farms that patchworked across the landscape. It wasn’t enough to keep the town from falling apart. In the end, they became even more insular than the kingdoms that crept at their borders. They cut themselves off voluntarily from the rest of the world, except those lucky (or unlucky) enough to find the place. They were a people that looked after their own, often with quick violence. Gísli could appreciate such territoriality. They were not bad people. They were not backward hinterland folks that bred with sheep or their cousins, though that was how they were often portrayed by the folks of the larger cities like Edoras or Minas Tirith. They were mean and untrusting, but had the world not taught them to be so? Again, Gísli could appreciate the circumstances. All that said, he still did not like any of them and would have let them all get ripped apart by the loup-garou at the drop of a hat. He hoped there would not be violence today, at least not with any of these people. He could take them all easily enough, bear or no, but that did not mean he wanted to. They had a relationship of sorts, the Beornings of Gísli’s line and the men, women, and enbies of Yggdrasilbury; they stayed out of each other’s way, they didn’t cross over unless it was necessary, and didn’t linger if they did.

A new scent caught his nose. Rather, it was an old scent: copper, wet, and uncomfortable. It was his quarry. The smell was strong but directionless. Either the creature was among the five (unlikely even though he could not see the fifth) or it was running around the town to confuse the trail. Did it know he was after it already? He grumbled, staring at the shimmering lights of the bottle of whisky cast on the opposite wall. He thought he’d been careful, but that might not be the case. Having never encountered a beast like that, he was not sure of all the “abilities” it possessed. Still, things did not look good for him. He had to move faster. He’d come in here thinking he could wait the creature out, see what it did after nightfall. From his perspective now, that had been in error.

He threw some coins on the table. He didn’t know what their value was, only that it would be more than enough pay for this whisky. Humans and their need for monetary systems, he was never going to understand it. No one tried to stop him as he went, but once again he felt all the eyes of the place on him. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he shot to the barmaid who gave him a sour look. As he stepped out, he could hear the shuffling of chairs and the moving of bodies. He did not need to look back to know that they were either pressed to the glass or stood in the lee of the doorway. None of them followed him though, none of them spoke. They left him be, at least for now.

The buildings were grey and faceless. In a town so small, there was no need for signage because everyone knew where everything was. They knew the butcher from the tanner the same way a bear knows the smell of an angry boar from that of a wounded deer. They were all built in a series of circles, fanning out in all directions. He needed to find the marshal, there had to still be one here. He (or she or they) were chosen by their fellows to keep the peace, often plucked from the more violent sect, owing to the liability that their lives would be to be short and sanguine. Gísli hoped that didn’t preclude whoever was in charge from being at least intelligent enough for a conversation, a warning perhaps. He didn’t expect the marshal to whip out a sword and go hunting with him, but he at least hoped he would know the comings and goings of strange folk, notice things being off, and wouldn’t be too hard to pay off.

Something was following him. It was a new scent. Something young, but not a child, inexperienced at tracking and hunting, one of the town’s plucky young men no doubt, looking to impress a girl or boy by showing off how easily he could scare off an interloper.

“I can smell you following me, I could have smelled you a dozen miles off,” he muttered.

He turned. A young woman was standing in the road. She stopped and looked at him. “You aren’t going to find any help that way.” Her voice was clear and calm. She was not a great hunter, but she was unafraid. “If you’re looking for the marshal, they ain’t gonna help someone like you.”

“And I suppose you know someone who could?”

Her smile was as wide as her teeth were crooked.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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TR announcement: rules regarding Content Warnings and Canon Characters have been updated effective from today.

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Culuxavassë, an Eagle
Eagle Eyrie, TA 2470

Culuxavassë peered with keen eyes once more at the goat's entrails. A circle. A mountain belching fire. Nine indistinct blobs. What could it all mean? The eagle clicked his beak pensively.

The mountain spewing fire was easy: volcanoes were rare in Middle-Earth, but Culuxavassë knew of one such mountain off in the south. It had lain still and silent for many a year since the great defeat of Sauron. Perhaps it was meant to erupt again? Nestled in their eyries far to the north, his people would come to no harm. Only the remaining scourges of those southern lands would suffer, and rightfully so. There would be no need for the eagles to trouble themselves in such an event.

“Really,” he muttered, “I thought augury would show more extraordinary portents than a volcano.”

The circle, he presumed, was the sun. Or the moon. Or a great boulder, or a symbol for a never-ending cycle. Or … a ring. A leaden weight sank in his stomach. But no, that could not be. Could it? No. Absolutely not. The great rings were gone, or hidden, or destroyed. Weren’t they? Would not Gwaihir know of their continued existence if it were so? Would not the eagles be on high alert should the ring of power remain at large? Of course they would! But they weren’t, so it must be nothing. The weight in his gut vanished, and he heaved a sigh relief.

The nine blobs were more puzzling. Were they clouds? Small clouds gathering over Mount Doom, perhaps? Or were they just that - bloody blobs of flesh scattered across the stones? Perhaps that was all any of this was.

Still, he was curious what the others might think. With an echoing kee! kee! kee!, he made his presence known to anyone who might be about in the eyrie. He would not wait for long, though. He was hungry, and his food was growing cold.

🧚
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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UnTalonted
Eagle Eyrie, TA 2470

(Private with Tara)

Laiquaninwion was flying about, minding his own business when he heard the call. It was not so much a call as it was an irritating noise that seemed to be coming from all directions at once. He was a young eagle, barely a teenager in bird years (how many years that meant to a human Laiquaninwion did not know because he wasn’t good at human maths) and had not learned the unique eagle ability of “seeing” things the way the honored elders did. He had not, as of yet, been entrusted with carrying any messages more important than dinner invitation between elven lords and ladies. Truth be told, such tasks seemed beneath him. Didn’t they have pigeons or something that did this? Why was he having to do it? His teacher, Khatremém the Blind, told him that doing such tasks taught them humility and loyalty. Well, it was teaching Laiquaninwion something, that he didn’t want to do such a dumb job. He’d much rather be a battle eagle, like the one’s that fought in the wars against the Enemies. They were the coolest eagles that ever soared. Thorondor. Landroval. Gwaihir. Those were names that were etched into history like…

That sound was really getting annoying. Where in Manwë blue sky was it coming from though? He cawed in irritation. Even that sound felt as though it was coming from all directions. What in the sky was going on here? He was torn. Laiquaninwion wanted to see what this noise was and tell whoever it was to pipe the everblue heck up. But he had a message to deliver. Hrávapië, the Princess of the Wildberries was having a soiree and was inviting Elrond (but not Celebrían which was puzzling to the young eagle, but elf politics were weird). If he didn’t deliver this message on time, he might flunk out of Messenger School. His mother would never let him here the end of it. On the other claw, whatever that noise was could lead to something far more important than a simple meat party.

It was definitely worth it. Messenger School was for sticks in the mud anyway.

He swooped down and looked as hard as he could. He was not, in fact, any good at searching but he was going to give it his level best. The search took thirty minutes longer than it should have (at least in Laiquaninwion’s estimation) but he believed he finally found the source. It was another eagle and there looked to be a massive pile of guts all around him. Were they his guts? Was he dying? Was Laiquaninwion going to get to save someone’s life? This was definitely better than delivering party invites.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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Black Swans: Blood on the Mountain
Open


Fuin kept herself pressed against the rocky face of the mountain, letting the rough face of the crag she was hiding in dig into her back as she stood her body draped in her cloak as she stood motionless watching the ongoings of the mountain men below her. She would have to move once the darkness of evening fell letting her close in on them like a wraith of a shadow so that she could hear their plans. She had seen them meeting with orcs before a few nights ago but she had not been near enough to hear what they had spoken of. She knew the orcs numbers well enough that she doubted she would be able to do much to them on her own and there were not enough Swans to take on their numbers, but the Mountain men...

She mused that perhaps she would be able to deal them a blow that they could not recover from and perhaps frighten the orcs into thinking that there was a much bigger force at hand that was watching and spying. She waited with baited breath watching Arien creep across the sky, staying so still was painful but she had no choice in the matter she was too exposed otherwise. And so finally when the shadows deepened and the sky seemed to bleed red as the sun went down beyond the Misty Mountains and the Sundering Seas Fuin moved finally slipping down from the crag that had kept her concealed for hours. Men and orcs. Such pitiful watchmen against an elf she thought to herself as she made her way gingerly down the mountain to where she would be able to slip into more shadows nearer the orcs and the men her only need for care was to stay away from the wargs. Their noses were sharp enough that even if their two legged companions missed her they would not.

For now she did no harm to any orc or man she wanted to know their plans first before she acted she watched silently close enough now to the shabby hide tent that the leader of the Mountain men had set up for their meeting that she could likely send a dagger through it and into the heart of one of them if she was so compelled, the torches of the orcs streamed down from the mountain and soon a vanguard of the orc forces was there, the orc leading them was not the leader of the colony from what Fuin knew of the orc settlement. Killing him would do little good and so she sat patiently and quietly waiting to hear what plan the two groups were coming up with so that she might best be able to sort out how best to seed chaos and fear into both of them.
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Fenris Kindir
Yggdrasilbury

(Private)

Gísli felt an itch; he couldn’t tell if it was an itch in the middle of his back or in the middle of his brain, either way there was no way he could reach it. This girl, this woman, she acted as if she knew him, as if they’d been friends for ages. She chatted with him as friendly as a sparrow, but he had absolutely no recollection who this woman was. There was nothing familiar about her scent (indeed there was almost no scent to her at all the closer she got), nor was there anything familiar about her face. Yet every time someone in town walked by them, she sparked up a conversation like they were two old friends catching up over a pint about the dwindling size of their fields. That she was covering was not in question, Gísli knew enough about humans and interactions to know that, but the why was starting to bother him. She was leading him somewhere, but each time he asked she smiled a mouthful of crooked teeth and put her finger to her lips. Gísli was tired of being quiet.

“What in the green hells are we doing? Where are you leading me?” he demanded, finally fed up.

“You really must learn the value of patience; we’ll be there soon. And then we can talk.”

“No!” Gísli growled, feeling the bear just below the surface of his skin. “Now.”

The woman stopped, muttered something under her breath incomprehensible to the skinchanger’s ears, then turned and wheeled on him. “Now is not the time to behave like a whining child.” Her breath was close and stale, her words sharp and hissed. “I know what you’re about and I’m trying to help you.”

He took a step back. She knew? What did she know? He looked her over again. She was short and spindly with pointy elbows and an unwashed face. Her eyes, though, oscillated from sane to crazy in the space of heartbeat. There was something unhinged about her, something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Did she know what he was about? The thought seemed absurd on the face of it. A half mad woman in the midst of a city? How could she, or anyone in this hinterland town for that matter, know anything of a loup-garou? And yet— he hazarded another look into her mad eyes. Maybe she did know something. The thought gave him a chill.

He did, however, remain silent. He didn’t fear she was leading him into a trap. What could her mind, or any mind in Yggdrasilbury, devise that he could not tear asunder? No, he had nothing to fear of traps and cages here.

They passed through winding alleyways and blind corners until they came to the most nondescript house Gísli had ever seen. Even to describe it is to describe nothing at all. It was a house, run down just enough but not ramshackle or dilapidated, it was of no distinct color and had no particularly strong odor wafting from it. It was an utterly boring, nondescript house. One of a score or more in this town, had Gísli walked past this particular house then turned to look, he would have found nothing or remark, his eyes would have glanced off it like a sword against a shield and gone to the next house. It was so plain and mundane that, even as he walked toward it, he felt his feet and eyes getting tired of looking at it.

“We’re here,” she said ominous. Gísli didn’t like the way she chuckled when she said that. He smelled the air again. Still, there was no scent that came off her. It was strange and unnatural. It didn’t smell like the loup-garou, but that was of small comfort. The bear, once again, came just below the surface of his skin, ready to burst out if the need arose. The woman, this house, it was all strange and uncomfortable.

She unlocked the door and entered; he followed, passing the threshold and believing that when he did something momentous would occur. He held his breath and winced, waiting for— nothing.

The house was not well kept, but it was not a refuse heap. Just like the outside of the house, it was neither horrible and grotesque nor tidy and organized. It was somewhere in the middle. She sat on a chair and pointed him toward its twin, a purple and blue overstuffed cushion on top of a precariously unbalanced wooden frame. He stayed where he was.

“Well,” he said after a long moment’s silence. “What is it you think you know?”

She scoffed. “What makes you doubt that I know what I’m about? The fact that I’m a woman, that I’m ever so slightly mad, or that I’m here in a town of yokels who simultaneously believe and don’t believe in all the fairy tales our parents taught us?”

“All of them at once, I suppose,” remarked Gísli. “What is you think I’m after?”

“I can’t say for certain what you’re looking for. I don’t exactly have a repository of knowledge here, but I know you’re looking for something, something that most of the folks in Yggdrasilbury, the marshal included, don’t want to know about.”

“And that’s why you think they won’t help ‘someone like me’? Is that it?”

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair; her motions reminded Gísli of a cat. “No. They won’t help you because you’re one of those things they believe and don’t believe in at the same time. They don’t know you, don’t know what you are. For all they could believe, you’re the one that’s been causing the problems.”

“Problems?” he asked, cutting her off. “What problems? What sort of problems do you mean?”

“Things’ve been broken into, smashed up, livestock’s been hassled and bloodied. Just this mornin’ before you arrived in the bar, Old Gildir went missing. Man’s a drunk, but he’s a town fixture. No one wants to claim him, but everyone’s on edge. You showing up all gruff and surly put you at the top of everyone’s list.”

“And you?”

Her cheshire smile was wide. “I figure I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Make no mistake though, one wrong move on your part and I’ll shove a dagger up your arse.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “That’s fair.” Gísli leaned against the wall, staying well away from the rickety looked chair. “The thing I’m hunting, the thing I’m after, is called a loup-garou. You might call it a werewolf.”

“Well,” she said, “that puts a spin on things.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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Black Swans: Blood on the Mountain (CW: Deaths/violence)
Open


Night came slow, creeping like slow decay of mountains into hills to Fuin who sat quietly waiting still as the stone she stood beside. The darkness grew and the red stain of Arien filled their camp a warning of what was going to come in the darkness of night. When finally the darkness settled deep with the sickle of Tilion lending shadows and darkness to her hunt she moved. She slipped into the camp their watchmen were the first to fall to the darkness their blood painting her face in a splatter hiding her own sent from the wargs the orcs had ridden.

The wargs were next she did not treat them the same way she treated the watchmen. No their noses would pick her up even with the red blood of the mountain men masking her scent from the orcs whos noses were not as well honed as the canine companions. She slipped down wind of the beasts and struck them, the first two her arrows were true but the third, the beast moved at the last moment and let out a yelp that alerted the orcs who set up a cry that they were under attack.

Indeed at first the orcs thought it was the Mountain men that had betrayed them killing their hounds and there was a vicious fight between men and orcs. The orcs had no regard for the women and children of the village cutting them down the same way that Fuin had cut down the watchmen as she'd come into the camp. The shrieks of terror filled her ears and drove her on, helping keep her hidden as her heart raced pounding in her ears as she kept to the shadows she wanted to kill more of these conspirators but they were doing a good job of killing each other.

She simply needed to keep that fire burning. The best way to do that was to make sure the leaders were at each other throats. She simply needed to keep cutting from the shadows and as she slipped inside one tent she found wide terrified eyes looking at her, a black wraith in the shadows with a smirk upon her face her cold eyes reflecting the light making her look like some demon of the ancient world come for them...
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Archer of Lothlorien
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A Blaze of Glory RP

Maen Anvilcrack, Border Guards
South of Redhorn Pass
Outside the West-gate of Khazad-dum



The year was 1980, of the Third Age, by the common reckoning, and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, who were once numerous and great in number, had dwindled, but never in their spirit. Most Dwarven men never had children, focusing their lives into their crafts and professions, working tirelessly on perfecting their skills. One of these was named Maen Anvilcrack, a stout, hearty dwarve, descended from the Firebeards of Nogrod. He was a Stoker by trade, who helped keep the great fires and smelters lit and hot, but for a time, he served in the hosts of their great king Durin VI, the seventh incarnation of Durin the Deathless. Orc raids and invasions had become the norm since the time that their ancestors had sallied out of the West Gate, and helped the Elves of Rivendell defeat the forces of Sauron. It had been so long since those days, under the watchful gaze of the Misty Mountains.

The clanging and tinkering of the dwarves was endless, as it had gone on uninterrupted since the time of Durin IV, some 2000 years ago. The Orcs had retaken Mount Gundabad some 800 years prior, and had constantly plagued the Dwarves since they took it back; each had fought over it and won out against the other many times over the ages.

It was among this threat that Maen had found himself. Strapped from head to toe in mithril, steel, leather and wool, he carried a war hammer that his Grandfather had named Hamar-norogh (Hammer of Foes). Gallantly they worked to clear the lower dungeons and mountain passes of Orcs and Goblins, where ever they had managed to creep, inside or outside, of the safety of the Dwarven stronghold.

Leaving little in the way of tracks behind them, they had taken a roughly hewn pass down the west-side of the mountain, in order to make it to western door before sun fall, when the goblins and wargs would be out in fuller numbers. They were a roughshod group of Dwarven warriors, roughly akin to rangers or border guards, they would sneak out of the halls of Khazad-dum and clear the passes of Orcs, who typically liked to take up refuge in one of the many cave systems that penetrated around and through the mountains. The group consisted of twenty of the most nimble dwarves when it had left the mountain some ten days back, but all that remained were four weakened and wounded survivors.

"Maen, MAEN!" cried out Captain Forn, who was leading their expedition. The wind was blowing quite harshly as they began to descend down the western slope. Maen quickly hurried back to the group, as he had stepped off ahead of them some ways to try and get an idea of where they needed to go to get out of the deep snow, but also, to find the rest of the path down.

"Captain Forn! I was able to spot the way down, it is about a hundred yards ahead or so, just around these few bends. If we hurry, we can make it to Durins door before nightfall." Maen tried his best to follow his captains orders, especially since the captain had but few men left under his command.

"Men! We shall make for the West-gate, and by this time tomorrow, your feet will be soaking in salt baths, and your bellies will be full of meat and mead." Captain Forn helped one of their companions, Birn, who had been wounded in their earlier scuffle, to his feet, and together they proceeded along the thick, snowy mountain pass.

They had fought a large band of Orcs about four days back, who had taken up refuge in a mountain side cave, from which attacks into the mines were being launched. They had killed most of the Orcs there, few had escaped, but few of the dwarves made it out alive. There were five who made it out, initially, but Tham, their scout, had slid and fallen from the cliff face, down to his demise. That was when Maen had stepped into his place, helping to guide the men back down the mountain and into their home.

Lucky for them, Maen had been up and down this particular path about a month back, upon a routine patrol, but under a different captain. Successfully, he was able to guide them down off of the mountain path and into the small of the woods, which would lead them straight towards Durins' door. Little did they know that a small contingency waited for them just before the Gate stream; Orcs who were hungry for the death of these Dwarves.
Characters: Eruedraith [Lorien Elf], Ar-Turic of Khand [Khandese Man], "Amber" Dan [Gondorian Pirate], Hrard Depthcleanser [Khazad Dwarve]

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@Eruedraith

Baralindir
Ranger of the North
Traveling near the Misty Mountains (and slightly lost)


Blaze of Glory


He was tired, and cold, and hungry, and eager to be home. Eager to see Sîriel again, and walk with her in the calm forest glades, by the stream. He had been gone for a while now, so in the interest of trying to reach home more quickly, Baralindir had decided to try and cut across the mountains rather than going around them. The young ranger had done so before, and hoped that he wouldn't run into any difficulties this time. He had walked all day, and the day before that, and the day was drawing to a close now. He would be finding somewhere to camp soon, and while he looked forward to having a fire to warm up by, and cook some food, he also knew that he must be careful. The nearer he came to the mountains, the more cautious he would have to be with a fire, as he didn't want to draw any undue attention from orcs and the like.

Somewhere in these mountains, not far from here, was a vast civilization where dwarves dwelt, but the doors had been closed for many generations, and he didn't even entertain the idea of seeking for it to ask for lodging for the night. He was on his own, just like always. The thought of returning home to see Sîriel again made him smile as he trekked onward, a lone man wandering in the wilds. He wondered what she was doing, and if she missed him.

So wrapped up was he, in thoughts of the girl back home, that Baralindir hardly realized that he had strayed a little too far to the right, and was a little bit off-course. He was lost in a daydream when he suddenly stopped in his tracks and looked around, startled to realize he was much closer to the dwarves' territory than he had meant to wander. The young man frowned and took stock of his location, trying to figure out the best way to get back on course, without simply retracing his steps. He'd never been this near to the place they called Khazad-Dum, and hoped that no dwarves were going to jump out and threaten him if he didn't leave immediately. In fact, he'd never seen a dwarf before, and found the thought of that a little comical. Still, he didn't want to anger them, so he set off again, more careful of his direction this time. His new course would force him to cross the stream, and he might even get close enough to get a look at the famed Door of Durin that had been closed hundreds of years ago. He couldn't help feeling curious about that, and decided it would be worth getting a bit off course if he saw something like that, because of it.
Last edited by Rillewen on Sat Mar 16, 2024 6:57 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

Balrog
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The Goblintropp
Moria, TA 2485

(Open)

Fleeg disliked being summoned to the Valarauka’s chambers. It was not, as some rumors would have it, because he resented the creature’s authority, but because of the extreme heat. The Innermost Sanctum of the one some called Durin’s Bane was likened to a furnace. The air was thin and scorched his throat with every breath, the floor smoked where he stepped, the very walls themselves seemed to sag and bend with the oppressive heat. Yet the goblin lord was a dutiful one, and went down, down, down until even the whisper of the torches of his bodyguard were a vague memory. He wiped his brow with the back of a hand, and it came away slick with sweat. He was already finding it hard to breath. The Flame of Udûn was in a foul mood. Fleeg muttered a prayer to his forbearer, asking for fortitude in the face of whatever was to come. He only knew to keep moving because the heat of the floor was not such that he was being actively burned. Darkness lay so thick and oppressive around him he felt claustrophobic. Even his goblin eye could see nothing this far from the light. He imagined this was what it must have been like in the old fortresses, Angband and Utumno. There was a vague, undefinable sound coming at Fleeg from all directions, the sound of molten, living fire. Dragons, they say, sound much the same the closer one got to them. Fleeg did not want to find out of that was true or not, being this near a balrog was bad enough. One could be forgiven, though, for thinking that sound was just the inner grumblings of the earth. It was something far simpler, but infinitely more sinister: it was breathing. The goblin could feel his heart skip a beat. He was smart enough to be terrified, but wise enough not to show it. He couldn’t see the balrog, wreathed is smoky shadows as it was, hiding its inner flame, but he knew it was about, and he could not be seen to be afraid. He was a Fleeg after all, he had a reputation.

A voice, or something that might have passed for a voice amongst creatures that had no need to make a sound, issued forth, reverberating like a stygian blaze against Fleeg’s chest. The words were spoken in a language older than the mountains, older than the stars and the sun. It was the rolling and disintegration of boulders, it was the melting of objects that could not be melted, it was the tongue of the forge fire. Fleeg could not understand a single word of it. No one in Moria could. None in Middle-earth save the Dark Lord himself could understand it and converse. Fleeg covered his ears. The sound was so loud that it brought him to his knees. The cloth of his pants sizzled and burned; the floor began to eat into his flesh. He did not, however, cry out or beg for it to stop. A gout of red, bloody flame seared the darkness, catching Fleeg in the face. He was knocked back, tumbling several times as he did so before he regained his balance. He could see the creature now, a vague, smoky outline in the darkness, a shadow moving against the void. His nostrils were filled the smell of cooked flesh. He could not see, but he was sure his hands and knees were scorched, would require healing when he ascended.

Another voice entered his head, a voice so unlike the sound he’d just borne witness to it was maddening to think they came from the same being. Fleeg would not have believed it save that he was the only one that heard this other voice.

Things progress, goblin.

“Aye,” he said aloud, filling the space around him. “My lads and I are making good progress. Verily, the dwarves in their haste nearly left us everything we could need to continue mining and excavating. We will not have an issue in doing so.”

You are doing well then. Good. I had my doubts. I knew your sire. You have much to live up to.

Fleeg held his tongue. The balrog was arrogant, but it had earned that arrogance. If this creature were anything less than a greater demon Fleeg would have killed him there, ripping his heart out through his ribcage. Fleeg did not like be compared to his sire. Not at all. “There was a small pocket of resistance. Some dwarves barracked themselves in one of the mansions. But we tunneled underneath, set a fire below them, and let them fall into the abyss.”

There was a sound that might have been laughter. And the outside world?

“The outside world, my lord, knows nothing. The dwarves will not speak with elves or men about what transpired here. But the elves are growing curious. More of our people come in secret, but they are forced to travel long distances on very obscure roads.”

Then you must deal with them.

“The elves? How?”

Decisively.

This creature might be a demon of the ancient world who stood at the throne of the great darkness himself and saw the world being fashioned, but that did not make him intelligent. “As you wish, my lord.”

Fleeg knew better than to voice any sort of malcontent. The balrog’s sole appearance before the goblins assembled from Mordor, Angmar, and the disparate peaks of the Misty Mountains had been to slaughter nearly three hundred of them in a fit of angry displeasure. Some fools had believed that the balrog was a myth, that belief was squashed quickly. Fanaticism has grown its place, a radical devotion to the shadow and flame of the balrog. Goblins had need to form cults, Fleeg noted. It was an annoying habit. There were even some that looked to him as some sort of mythical, messianic figure: the first Fleeg in nearly three hundred years. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t discourage it either.

There is a force of them coming from the Golden Wood. See that they do not enter my domain.

Lothlórien? That did not sound good to Fleeg. He was aware of who lived there, under those putrid leaves. He swallowed his doubt, they would him no good going forward. If they were ordered to kill elves, then that’s what he had his men would bloody well do. He was not the mad, blood hungry goblin that his sire was, but he was no stranger to combat. He was a Fleeg after all. He knew a thousand ways to kill someone and delighted in each one of them.

“I will see it done, my lord.”

The heat in the chamber became more oppressive. Though he could barely see, the goblin could see a heat haze washing over him. He could feel himself beginning to desiccate. It was a horrible feeling. He would have to try it out on someone and study exactly what it did. He bowed and backed out of the inner chamber. The darkness swirled around him and whispered huskily in his ear. Do not fail me Fleeg, I will make you suffer if you do.

He climbed the stairs. His muscles strained, on the edge of giving out. Each time Fleeg was forced to descend and receive orders it was the same. Yet the air cleared the higher he went, the hot, tenebrous air was left behind and a breeze blew past him. It was an air filled with the smell of goblins, but at least it was not the smell of burning stone. He could live with the smell of goblins. Light appeared too, at first as nothing more than a grey splotch against the infinite darkness, but soon he could make out the pinpricks of torches. His bodyguard waited faithfully at the top of the stairs.

He put a hand on the orc’s shoulder. They were of a height, but Fleeg’s status seemed to give him a several inch height advantage. “We have orders new, Agli. Gather three squadrons from the second legion. I’m going to find Gazmog and Jert. We’re going to hunt some elves.”

Agli’s pale green eyes glittered with excitement.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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