Tavari Tales

Original writings and artwork by Tolkien fans.
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Tavari Tales

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Welcome one and all the the one-stop shop for history and chronology of my plaza characters! I chose to name the thread after Tavari as she has the most written history by a considerable amount, but will be using it to collect content for any and all of my characters. Some old material has already been reposted here on Nu Plaza, much more I will post in this thread, and some stories, historical or otherwise, are ongoing and will be updated in the chronologies here as well! This of course does not pretend to be a complete and comprehensive archive of every post ever written for the characters listed, but a collection of notable posts and stories.

This project is partly for me, to collect all this material in one place and establish timelines precisely, and partly for anyone else who might be interested in reading about these characters without having to go on a wild hunt :grin: If you see a post in the thread and have no idea where it belongs, just scroll up here to the OP and check the list under the relevant character(s). All posts are listed in chronological order. Each time I make a post of older content in this thread I will update the OP with its link in the relevant section, and will periodically update the OP with links to relevant new posts elsewhere on the plaza, and post in the thread stating what has been added!

Reviews/reactions are very welcome! Feel free to post in this thread :grin:

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Tavari Tales
tracing the history of Tavari Mordagnir
Biography

Years of the Trees
Roccotaurë, a tale of Tavari and how she earned her name. (Tavari, Oromë, Fëalasso. YT 1454 - 1480. WIP.)
Part 1 (1102 words)
Part 2 (2974 words)
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
First Meetings (Tavari, Caranthir. YT ?)
Second Glimpses (Tavari, Caranthir. YT ?)
Third Charms
A Winter's Ball
Wait For Me
Youth (Tavari, Arasoron. YT 1487)
Wait For Me II (YT 1495)
Unimaginable (Tavari, Fëalasso. YT 1495)
Beneath the Stars (YT 1497. WIP.)

First Age
Condense the Wind (Caranthir, Herugon. FA 60.)
Rejoined (Tavari, Caranthir. FA 60. Flashback to Losgar.)
Swing together, or most assuredly... (Tavari, Caranthir, Herugon. FA 60.)
Great is the Fall/Farewells (Amnon/Tavari. FA 64/116)
The Land of Pines (Tavari, Caranthir. FA 116)
Precipice (Tavari, Caranthir, Herugon. FA 150.)
Narsil (Tavari, Caranthir. FA ?)
Little City By The Lake (Tavari, Caranthir. FA 320.)
Too Many Cooks (FA 320.)
Good Fences (Caranthir, Tavari, Herugon. FA 357.)
Hrívë (Caranthir, Tavari, Herugon. FA 455)
Duty and Promises (Caranthir, Tavari, Herugon. FA 455.)
Homecoming
Wait For Me III (FA 506)
The Next Right Thing (FA 506-?. WIP)

Second Age
Oblivion, a tale of loss. SA 1697. (with Aig, in progress)
1. Tavari (2676 words)
2.
3.
4.

Exile, a tale of solitude. SA 1698 - c. TA 3010

Third Age
Anda Lenda, an adventure between old friends. TA 257. (with Almarëa, in progress)
1. Tavari
Egledhryn (Tavari, Maglor. TA 1410) (1995 words)
Return to Imladris
here ends Exile.
The Hall of Fire
Alliance - Part 2
Alliance - Part 4
Alliance - Part 6
Alliance - Part 8
Alliance - Part 10
Aftermath
Mar Aldaron
Hwinnien
Shadow's Reach I
Choices (Tavari, Aigronding) (4896 words)
Second Chances (Tavari, Gellam. Immediately following Choices.)
Hoard
To Trace A Rat (Tavari, Remlasson) (3944 words)
Autumn Archery
Dead of Night (Tavari, Davos) (feat. flashback to Alqualondë, events also mentioned in Unimaginable and Rembina)
Accord (Tavari, Davos) (6012 words)
Shadow's Reach II
Market of Imladris
Winter Archery
Laer Ball (Tavari, Gellam) (6175 words)
Laurëtavari
Requited (Tavari, Gellam) (3747 words)
Enyalië (Tavari) (3952 words)
Reunion (Tavari, Davos, Valion)
Elenion Sunquelë, a tale of old comrades and enemies (with Lantaelen, in progress)
1. Tavari
2. Lantaelen
3. Tavari
4. Lantaelen
5. Tavari
6. Lantaelen
7. Tavari
8. Lantaelen
Shadow's Reach III


The Lioness and the Fool
tracing the relationship between Tavari Mordagnir and Gellam the Fool, in chronological order.
Many of these posts may also be found under Tavari Tales or/and Gellam the Fool, but are selected for their relevance to this story.
First Meetings
Hwinnien
Shadows Reach I
Letter I
Mother Knows Best
Second Chances
Shadow's Reach II
Winter Archery
Laer Ball (6175 words)
The Morning After
Requited (3747 words)
Letter II
Shadow's Reach III
Aman's Light (3792 words)
Yestarë
Take A Break
Freedom

Gellam the Fool
Biography

Second Age
The Bells of Amon Lanc
The Company of Fools
Dagorlad
Downfall

Third Age
First Meetings
Alliance - Part 2
Alliance - Part 4
Hwinnien
Shadows Reach I
Letter I
Second Chances
Autumn Archery
Shadow's Reach II
Winter Archery
Laer Ball (6175 words)
The Morning After
Requited (3747 words)
Letter II
Shadow's Reach III


Moriel
Second Age
Letters from Lindon, correspondence between distant family (with Frost, in progress)
1. Númenyraumion
2. Inziladûn
3. Númenyraumion
The Ward, a tale of Inziladûn and Earenolwë; her journey with the Bar-en-Raen, and how she became Moriel (with Aig, in Progress)
-Rúthëasercë
Part 1 (9354 words)
Part 2 (8766 words)
Part 3 (3074 words)
Part 4 (9241 words)
-Vinyasûl
Part 1 (4063 words)
now continued in the Ithilien Free RP:
1. Inziladûn

Third Age
Glîngaereth, a tale of Haldanis and Darellon Balakân
Part 1 (TA 2950) (4408 words)
Reunion, tale of unforeseen reacquaintance (with Frost, in progress)
1. Moriel (as Vingilótë)
2. Númenyraumion (as The Fire of Motion)
3. Moriel
4. Númenyraumion
5. Moriel
6. Númenyraumion
7. Moriel
8. Númenyraumion
9. Moriel
10. Númenyraumion
Ships in the Night, a tale of...? (with Frost, in progress)
1. Vingilótë's Letter
2. The Galedeep's Letter
3. Finnbarr
4. Moriel
5. Finnbarr
6. Moriel

Darellon Balakân
Glîngaereth, a tale of Haldanis and Darellon Balakân
-Part 1 (TA 2950) (4408 words)
The Silver Arrow


Kamion
Who's Your Daddy?, a tale of mistaken identity (with Frost, complete)
1. Kamion
2. Walpurga
3. Kamion
4. Walpurga
5. Kamion
6. Walpurga
7. Kamion
8. Walpurga
9. Kamion
10. Walpurga
11. Kamion
12. Walpurga
13. Kamion
14. Walpurga
15. Kamion
Estrenar, a tale of new adventures (with Frost, in progress)
1. Walpurga
2. Kamion


Davos Seaworth
Years of the Trees
Rembina, a tale of Davos Seaworth and his ward Finnbarr Galedeep. YT 1495. (with Frost, in progress)
1. Finnbarr
2. Davos (feat. Tavari, unnamed, and events mentioned in Unimaginable and Dead of Night)
3. Finnbarr
4. Davos
5. Finnbarr
6. Davos
7. Finnbarr
8. Davos
9. Finnbarr
10. Davos
11. Finnbarr

First Age

Second Age

Third Age
Dead of Night (flashback to Alqualondë, feat. Tavari and events also mentioned in Rembina)
Accord, a tale of Davos Seaworth and Tavari Mordagnir (6012 words)


Alagon
Biography

First Age

Second Age
Ihethrillend I

Third Age


Capalimo Condorórë
Warrior of Virtue
First Age
Don't Look Back (FA 455) (3123 words)
The Ballad of Breigon (FA 455)

Second Age

Third Age




Tyelpelfindis
Years of the Trees

First Age
Amarthedhil, a tale of reunion and remembrance. (with Aig, to be continued?) (7295 words)

Second Age



Sombelenë
Years of the Trees

First Age

Second Age

Third Age
Helcë etta Anga (with Frost, complete)
1. Sombelenë
2. Frost
3. Sombelenë
4. Frost
5. Sombelenë
6. Frost
7. Sombelenë
8. Frost
9. Sombelenë
10. Frost
11. Sombelenë


Swiltang
Years of the Trees

First Age

Second Age

Third Age
Alliance - Part 1
Alliance - Part 3
Alliance - Part 5
Alliance - Part 6
Alliance - Part 7
Alliance - Part 9
Alliance - Part 10

Yarltang
Years of the Trees

First Age

Second Age

Third Age
Alliance - Part 1
Alliance - Part 5
Alliance - Part 6
Alliance - Part 9

Ziltang
Years of the Trees

First Age

Second Age

Third Age



Amarthel Delgaran


Hrafnhildr Frostdóttir
Biography

Summons (prelude to Storm Crows)
Storm Crows, a tale of dóttir and father (with Frost and Tara, in progress)
1. Hranfhildr
2. Frost
3. Hrafnhildr
4. Frost
5. Hrafnhildr, Keziah
6. Frost

Miscellaneous

The Mingling of the Lights
Laurelin (3294 words)
Telperion
Tilion
Arien

Alliance: Host of the Eldar/Dúnedain RPG
featuring Swiltang, Yarltang, Tavari, Gellam, Elladan, Elrohir, Gildor, Erestor, Red, Eck, Bog, Jabber, Kork, Ahaser, Garth, and Kaltag
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Right, I was going to do more about getting actual content up tonight, but as I was putting the finishing touches on what is currently in the OP my computer froze up, blinked out, rebooted with no warning, and somehow miraculously after it restarted (doing a weird blue flash along the way) and I reopened my browser, there was the previous session and my post saved in the text box. So I'm taking that as an omen and going to sleep, more to come soon :googly:
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Posts: 1866
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Aman. YT 1487.
Youth.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

The Gardens of Vána the Ever-Young shimmered and shifted, each bluebell and marigold seeming to giggle and whisper as the breezes slipped through their stems. Laurelin’s golden skeins filtered through branch and leaf to dapple the mossy bed below, spreading into warm fields of light where trees gave way to meadow. A laughter sweeter than silver echoed through the leafy copse and a pair of suede-clad calves disturbed fingers of brush as they dashed through, trailing tawny linen. A dark pair of breeches followed, a deeper chuckle and a heavier tread, pursuing the first. They burst from the woods, a pair of ónoni (twins, Q), running through the leg-high grasses, sending up a cloud of moths when they hit the edge of the field. The nís turned, a long flash of flaxen hair glinting in the light as she whirled, one arm raising. She pelted her brother with small, hard pinecones as he raced to catch her, smacking away his questing arm. He raised a hand to protect his face, dark viridian eyes flashing with a playful menace into her dancing periwinkle ones. With a sudden turn of speed he had caught her, seizing her by the wrist, but their momentum caused both to tumble over and over in the grass in a tangle of mirthful limbs. When at last they came to rest, the nér lay with his torso across his sister, pinning her to the ground. He proceeded to wriggle his fingers against her side, causing her to shriek and squirm.

“Enough! Enough!” she cried, and with a triumphant bark of laughter he rolled off to lay on his back in the grass, panting. Before it could strike his face his hand snapped up to catch the object she had thrown, the subject of their dispute: a ripe peach.

“Tavari.” He sighed, taking a large, contemplative bite out of the fruit. “Aren’t we getting a bit old for this?”

“Never!” the nís asserted, rolling onto her stomach and thrusting her elbows against the ground to prop up her torso. “Honestly Arasoron, you can be so dull sometimes.” She punched his shoulder, causing him to squeeze the peach, which slipped in his fingers. Tavari snatched it away and took a mouthful of the succulent flesh, speaking around it as the juice dribbled down her chin. “Just because we’re getting a new sibling doesn’t mean you have to assume the mantle of dour older brother. I’m sure the child won’t think less of you for frolicking a bit.” The ónoni had lived over thirty years in the light of the trees, which in the later days to come when the sun and moon would reign, amounted to thirty more than three hundred. In this time they had been their parents’ only children, but soon a new progeny would be born, adding to their orderly world. “Besides,” Tavari continued, rolling out of Arasoron’s reach as he thrust out an arm, seeking the peach. “Maybe carrying around a baby will help you with the ladies!” She sprang to her feet and darted away again laughing and wolfing at the peach. Her brother made a strangled sort of sound and jolted to his feet, following behind her at a jog.

“I don’t need any help!” he called sullenly. “I would be just fine if it weren’t for your ‘advice.’”

“Really?” Tavari had reached the trees on the other side of the meadow, a conglomeration of wild things which bore whatever fruit they pleased. Leaping into the air, she caught the low-hanging bough of the one nearest her and swung up into its branches nimbly. “That Teleri maiden- what was her name- Evanya? You gave her a morning dove, not realizing that she was deathly afraid of birds?”

“How was I to know? She never told me that!” Arasoron protested hotly. Tavari’s bell-like laughter came from above, and as quickly as she had vanished into the foliage she dropped down again, hanging from a branch by her knees. She smiled at her twin, extending an arm that held a new, whole peach.

“Come here, háno.” Grudgingly Arasoron came, and she deposited the fruit in his hand, before taking his face in her upside down hands and planting a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Someday, you will find a nís who loves you, faults aside.” Her eyes crinkled sincerely for a moment, before breaking into a broad grin. “Besides me, of course! And Varda only knows when that will be!” Tavari ducked out of the way of his swipe and vanished back up into the branches, laughing.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Aman. YT ?.
First Meetings.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

As he argued back at Ambarussa, his color rising in his fervor, the thunderous sound of approaching hoofbeats caused Carnistir to break off midsentence. A great host of horses from the sound, but one set ringing clearly above the rest. He turned to look in the direction of the noise, and from over the top of a rolling hill came a great grey stallion, sinking down into his hindlegs in a sliding halt, before leaping upright to rear and paw at the clear air. He saw her then: the golden maiden clinging like a burr to the horse’s broad back, one arm swinging freely, a great mane of tawny hair fanning out behind her as the stallion pivoted. Her abandoned, silvery laughter mingled with her mount’s triumphant bugling neigh, and her head was tossed back in mirth. It seemed as though all of Laurelin’s glory was caught in her tresses, the perfect angles of her face outlined against the morning sky as nís and horse alike declared their joy to the world.

Carnistir stared, stunned into stillness and silence by the sudden apparition; then the spell was broken, as upon the great steed Nahar Oromë crested the hill and the maid wheeled her mount to meet the Valar King, who grinned as they met, and though he could not hear the words that passed between them over the thunder of Oromë’s host as they caught the pair, Carnistir knew from the tilt of the nís’s chin and the flash in her eyes that she had won some sort of race on her fleet stallion, presumably beating out the Vala himself, who congratulated her. Yet could such a creature be of elvenkind? More likely she was a maia in the service of Oromë; a sister of Tilion, who now clapped her on the back, shaking his silver head. It was only when Ambarussa elbowed him that Carnistir realized he had been holding his breath- now he shook himself and shoved back at his broadly grinning brother, muttering darkly to himself.


*

Carnistir wandered alone in the fading of Laurelin’s beams. It would be hours yet until Telperion cast his silver light over the land, but a darker golden tinge had come to the light and shadows had just begun to lengthen. A light wind rustled in the leaves of the gardens as he walked aimlessly, mingling with the sounds of running water. The son of Fëanor could not rid his mind of the image of the golden nís outlined against the sky. Days had passed, and still he found himself haunted by her. He had found his eye caught by many a fair maiden before, but none who had lingered so long in his consciousness unbidden. It were as though her laughter had cast some spell upon him, so that he was forced to think of nothing else. And so he wandered- half to distract himself, and half in the hopes of encountering the host of Oromë once more; his brother Tyelkormo rode often with the Vala, and so Carnistir knew that the company were hunting.

Thus far, though, his search had been fruitless. As he walked, hands shoved into his pockets and frustration coloring his cheeks, Carnistir became aware of a different sound- the soft thudding of hooves in the distance; just one set, and then a cascade of laughter and the sound of splashing. It couldn’t be- it was simply to coincidental, too perfect, but unwilling to deny the chance, Carnistir hastened on through the trees, following the water-sounds. The trees grew thicker, and then after a moment began to disperse and be replaced with brush behind which, like a naughty child, he hid himself. As the trees faded, the land broadened into a clearing swathed with grass, where a wide, clear spring was fed from above by a tumbling waterfall. And within that pool he saw, to his disbelief, the golden maiden and her stallion, splashing about and playing in the water, her clothing strewn upon the bank. Stealthily Carnistir skirted the edge of the clearing, and as he watched the horse snorted and shook his mane, prancing out of the water to begin cropping the grass at the edge of the spring. The nís lay back and stroked her arms through the water, propelling herself languidly about its surface.

She fit into the landscape so well that for a moment Carnistir wondered if he could have been mistaken- perhaps she was a handmaiden of Yavanna, a wild spirit who served both the mistress of the earth and the master of the hunt. He could wait no more. Boldly Carnistir made his move, stepping from the trees and striding out towards the bank of the stream as he called, “I offer you greetings, huntress, on this splendid afternoon.” With a surprised splash, the nís straightened and jerked around in the water to face him, but when her eyes lit upon him, her face relaxed into a friendly sort of roguishness and she floated, unabashed, treading water. He could see even from where he stood that the eyes were a rich periwinkle blue, and when the maiden spoke her voice was light and lyrical, but with enough of an edge to catch his attention. “Greetings, son of Fëanor. I saw you from afar as I rode with Oromë days past; tell me, Carnistir, is it your custom to thus pursue every female who happens to cross your path?”

Her teasing tone took him aback- here she swam, exposed and taken by surprise before him, defenseless and in the presence of one of the most august names in Aman, and yet she had the gall to mock him. A brief spark of ire flared up within him and he made to step forward, but the stallion, who til now had merely watched him intently, now cantered over with a snorting cry, blocking Carnistir’s path to his mistress, baring his teeth and stamping a hoof at the elf-lord, bulling into his space with his muscular bulk. “Fëalasso.” Her voice called, and there must have been nuances behind the mirth that were unintelligible to Carnistir, for with a final black look and laying back of his ears, the horse retreated, whisking his tail irritably, to the water’s edge. The ire had faded within Carnistir, and he found himself intrigued. Choosing to ignore the maiden’s insinuation, he merely replied, “Clearly you have the advantage of me, lady. Might I be privy to your name?” Perhaps the name would tell him who –and what- she was.

Rather than answering, the maiden let slip with a whistle between her teeth, and the stallion responded at once. He trotted to where her mossy tunic lay on the grass and seized it between his teeth; clearly more concerned for his mistress’s modesty than she was, he splashed back into the water as she made for shallow water and arose, walking unashamedly from the water until the reached the stallion, then took the tunic and dropped it over her head, where it fell almost to her knees. Turning her gaze back to Carnistir she gave him a small smile. “Tavari.” He chuckled- fey of the woods indeed. So she had decided to be coy; that was well, and to be expected from such a one wild and bold enough to ride with Oromë. Whether she be elf or maia, he would have her name- thought it seemed today was not the time. She had gathered the rest of her clothing and was now slipping on breeches and jerkin over the tunic. The wet length of her hair straggled down her back, but that did not reduce her allure in Carnistir’s eyes. He had moved slowly closer, and now as she called the stallion to her and fisted her left hand in his mane, he caught her by the right.

Her hand was warm and soft, though the fingers were callused in the manner of an archer, and though not small, it was slender enough to appear so within his. She turned, and had to look up only slightly to meet his dark gaze with her bright one. “Please, allow me.” Carnistir offered, releasing her hand and lacing his fingers together. With another small smile, she lifted her foot into his hands, and allowed herself to be boosted onto the stallion’s back, where her right hand fisted at once into his mane, and he pranced, obviously eager to be off. This time Carnistir caught her by the left hand, and again she turned her head. “Will I see you again?” he asked, thinking that perhaps she was one of those spirits who rarely took on an elven form, or whom emerged only at the bidding of their masters, preferring to hide among the forests.

She laughed, and again the ringing, silver sound filled his ears, and she reached out to touch his face. “Yes, Carnistir. I rather think that you will.” And with a cry she had gone, releasing the stallion from his stillness and into an unbridled gallop, sending up clods of earth from the shore in his wake. Carnistir watched her go, weaving through the trees until she had disappeared from sight, still feeling the lightness of her touch against his skin. He shook his head- the ways of women were unfathomable. But, he thought, if this one should appear again, he would be more than willing to endure them, if it meant prying a little more information out from behind that smile. Carnistir’s face cracked into a smile of his own, an expression which Ambarussa was always telling him to use more often, and he set off the way he had come.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Aman. YT ?.
Second Glimpses.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

A light breeze rustled the leaves, lightening the leftover mugginess from the night. The morning was slowly becoming crisp, as Laurelin’s golden light overtook the silver of her mate, and Carnistir breathed deeply of her all-permeating fragrance as he set his back against a tree and sank to the ground. The book in his hands, well-worn, fell open against his propped up knees, and he began to read. Earlier in the day he had been engaged in an argument with his father- never a favorable proposition. Carnistir’s temper didn’t need any assistance in enhancing its reputation, and a certain amount of decompression was always necessary afterwards. But it seemed that the peace he had sought out was not to last, for no more than twenty minutes after he had settled to earth, a distant noise caught Carnistir’s attention. It was a thrumming, throbbing sort of noise, and almost as quickly as he heard it, the elf-lord began to feel it too, a slight vibration in the ground, drawing nearer and nearer. He remained where he was, but closed the book, waiting.

The wind began to pick up as though spurred on by the noise and as it built, nicking dry leaves from trees to send them whirling about the wood, the first deer burst from the trees. They were running, bounding over logs and bushes, sprinting and weaving in and out of the trees. Carnistir hastily thrust himself to his feet and stood close to his tree, out of the way. The deer took no notice of him, continuing their madcap flight. But they did not run in fear, as though pursued by some predator, and as he watched the herd became thicker, filling the spaces between the trees- and among them began to appear elfin forms, dashing along amidst the deer, laughing and whooping. Carnistir stared, all unnoticed by them. And then, a figure flashed by that he recognized: Nessa, sister of Oromë. This was remarkable enough in and of itself- she was not a Valië with whom he was acquainted- but, at her side, just as fleet, there ran another vision.

The golden nís –or spirit- who had ridden with Oromë’s host, who he had surprised in the pool, ran now with Nessa. Her wheaten hair was unbound and whipped out behind her, tangled with twigs and leaves, and she was garbed in a brief bark-colored frock, ragged at the hem. Her feet were bare and stained with dirt and grass. “Huntress,” Carnistir uttered, his eyes following her as she sped across his field of vision. He had not spoken loudly, but she seemed to hear. She halted, and it seemed as though in slow-motion she turned, as the deer continued to fly past. Her visage was one of wildness- even barbarism- as she made her way back towards him, periwinkle eyes shining in the woodland gloom, and for the first time Carnistir found himself wondering if she might have told him the truth about her name. Without realizing it he had moved towards her too, and now halted close before her. Continuing the motion of her walk, she lifted her hands to grasp him by either side of his face, palms pressing into the angles of his jaw. Without fuss or hurry, but a slow assurance, she pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him.

Carnistir was so startled by this that by the time his arms had responded to his mind’s command to ensnare the lithe figure, she had gone, whirled away by the wind and pounding hooves of the deer, leaving only the heat of her lips on his, and the echoing silence of her passage as the sounds of the deer died away. Even if he had not been rooted to the spot, there would have been no point in pursuit, Carnistir knew. He was not half so fleet as Nessa in her ilk, of whom this huntress certainly was. And yet, was she? It was maddening, the glimpses he had seen: first he had thought she must be an acolyte of Oromë, a sister of Tilion- then, he had thought, upon seeing her alone amongst the landscape that she might or might also serve Yavanna. Her easy command over the great grey stallion was too inherent for her to not be connected to the Huntsman in some way. But now she ran with Nessa, primal, through the woods in fellowship with deer. Was she elf or maia, and if either, from where did she come? Carnistir had not been able to bring himself to question Tyelkormo about her, though he also rode with Oromë’s host. It was none of his brother’s business. Still staring after the direction in which the herd had vanished, Carnistir found that his hand was over his mouth, as though to trap her lingering essence there. Shifting, he rubbed his chin, half bemused, half exasperated, and trailed off towards the edge of the woods, so as to not be run over by anymore haring packs of cervidae.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
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Alqualondë. YT. 1495.
Unimaginable.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

A high-pitched, keening wail rent the air. It seemed to go on and on, ululating slowly into the chill, grey dawn, the cry of some mortally wounded, unhinged and despairing beast. Then with a meaty sucking sound and a final gurgling cry, the dying Teler’s voice was cut off by the thrust of a Noldor swordsman. Tavari flinched. She stood on the shore, haggard and spattered with blood and sand, her armor feeling so much heavier than its skillful craftsmanship warranted, and she leaned heavily on her spear. The spear she had taken from a Teleri guard, and slain him with it. Before her weary eyes she could still see his look of surprise as she had cast him to the ground, and the blade of his own weapon tore his throat asunder, spilling bright blood onto the fine length of his silver hair. His eyes had been green, looking up at her in an almost bemused fashion as his life drained away onto the sands. Though it had tasted the flesh of many others through that long night, as the blood dripped down from the spearblade onto Tavari’s hand, she felt as though it were his, still hot and searing into her flesh as his eyes had seared her soul.

“Tavari.” The voice caused her head to jerk up. From nearby her father Erindan beckoned, and the golden-haired nís roused herself, trotting quickly to his side, lowering the spearpoint and taking a firmer hold on the sword in her other hand. He pointed to the mansion which stood a ways above the docks, upon a slight rise, and commanded her to investigate if there were any of their host still within, requiring aid. Erindan squeezed Tavari’s shoulder and met her gaze briefly before releasing her, and she made swiftly for the manse. The sounds of the dying grew fainter as she moved away from the docks, but it still plagued her and she quickened her pace, seeking refuge within the graceful house. Quickly she mounted its steps and slipped through the door which had been left to stand half open in lack of care by those who had passed.

Refuge, however, was not to be. Tavari pressed the door shut behind her and turned to face the room, and was met with a scene of carnage. The bodies of Noldor and an overwhelming amount of Teleri lay strewn about, ripped and torn, standing against the staircase propped by the spears that had slain them or sprawled in unnatural heaps on the floor, the white marble slick and clotted with blood, the outstretched hands of a silver-haired elf reaching for mercy curled and dead at her feet, the sword of his killer still standing out of his back, and there, another lying facedown, only there was no face, it hung in flaccid strips from the bones of his skull. Tavari’s spear clattered to the ground; her stomach roiled and she fell to her knees as it emptied itself violently onto the ground. The retches were mixed with sobs as her shoulders heaved with the effort, until finally there was nothing left. The nís pushed herself back on her heels with shaking arms and wiped her face on the arm of her already filthy tunic. Slowly she rose, taking a tight grip on the hilt of her sword as though it might bring her some comfort, and began to pick her way forward through the corpses, leaving the spear where it lay.

By the time Tavari emerged from the manse she had been joined by several others under her father’s command, and between them they had found no wounded, but several alive and unarmed Teleri, secreted in corners. She did not blame them for their hiding, nor would she could it cowardice, for they had seen the carnage within and now faced their captivity gladly, knowing that they would live. But she did not take the harnesses which bound them in her own hands, leaving that for others, and strode away from the wretched building as quickly as possible, stony-faced, to seek out her family. The nís had sheathed her sword and was running along the beach, to where she could see them gathered near where Fëanor stood and Uinen rose coldly from the waters. Noldor milled about the beach everywhere, some had already boarded the great swan-boats and others looked uncertain. Tavari had almost reached where her family stood clustered when the triumphant, bugling neigh she knew so well reached her and she spun about on the spot.

Fëalasso was cantering down the beach towards her, the muscles rippling under his silver-grey flanks as he ran, tossing his head. A wordless cry of elation broke from Tavari’s lips and she sprinted to meet the stallion, who half-reared as she drew near and thrust his head out to meet her encircling arms. She buried her face in his flowing mane and he bumped her back with his cheek, pressing close and whuffing against her hair. Fëalasso, her joy, the stallion gifted to her by Oromë in the early days of her childhood, had borne Tavari to Alqualondë and into battle, but when the fighting grew close and furious she had sent him away. Until this moment the nís had not known whether he lived or had perished, and though she thought she could weep no more this day, the tears coursed through the grime on her cheeks. “Fëalasso!” she cried, her voice lost in the proud arch of his neck as he pranced with delight.

“Tavari!” the sound of her name again jerked her out of a reverie, and she looked around to see her father beckoning once more, but anxiously this time. Uinen had gone and the sky darkened yet further; the seas were beginning to boil and rise. “We must hurry! Come!” Aimira and Maltahtar had already begun to run for a boat, but the golden-haired boy hung back, waiting for his siblings, until Erindan seized his arm and dragged him on. Tavari began to run as well, but hoofbeats followed her. Again she stopped and spun, and Fëalasso snorted and backed to avoid hitting her. “You must stay!” she ordered, but her voice cracked, broken by the tears which just a moment ago had been of joy, now turned to despair. The stallion bellowed at her, stomping and sidestepping. Though they could not speak to one another in the same words, the connection between the pair had always in impalpable and complete. “No!” Tavari’s voice rang firmer now. “You will not survive the journey Fëalasso, you must stay!”

The rain had begun now and was indistinguishable from the tears which reddened her eyes. “Come!” she dimly heard Arasoron shout from behind her, and was faintly aware of his running. Tavari could see that Fëalasso did not believe her, and her despair became rage, at what she had done, at what she must do, and what she must leave behind. “Don’t you understand!” she cried desperately, ripping the bow from where it hung slung about her torso. It was a longbow of finest yew, crafted with silver and leather by the hands of Oromë, but Tavari now employed it as though it were no more than a hawthorn branch, striking Fëalasso across the shoulder. A welt rose there and the stallion leapt sharply away, his eyes wild as the lighting flashed and the rains poured, and his mistress chased him, beating him about the quarters with the bow until it cracked. “Go!” she screamed, “Go! Save your hide and go, for the love of all that is good, GO!”

Sand spurted from Fëalasso’s heels as he dug in and fled the lashing cuts, calling out piteously as he ran. Arasoron’s arms caught Tavari about the waist from behind, pulling her back as she stood in indecision upon the shore and hauled her back towards the docks. “Fëalasso!” she screamed again, the gorge, dread, guilt and anguish all welling up into her throat, “Fëalasso!” But her twin’s strength had brought her to the dock and she turned to cast one sob over his shoulder, before turning her back on Aman. They sprinted together, gaining the deck of the ship even as its headrope snapped from the dock. Those already at sea were being pummeled by the wrath of Uinen, but as the valiant Noldor at the oars pushed the ship away from the dock, they joined the host rowing northward. Tavari fought for a place at the rail, hastening up steps and seizing a rope to support herself she looked out over the raging waters, her face now starkly washed clean and pale by the lashing water. And though she could not see him through the blinding rain, even above the sound of the water and the crash of the heavens’ thunder as Alqualondë receded into the blackness, she could hear Fëalasso’s bugling neigh, now a sound of sorrow, and unutterable longing.
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Ost-Fennas. FA 60.
Condense the Wind.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Hay, grain, dung, and horse. They were warm, comforting smells, the rich bouquet of a stable, backed by the clipping sounds of hooves, restless snorts, and continuous equine breathing. Caranthir inhaled deeply as he entered the stable- at his side, Herugon sniffed, and his nostrils curled. Caranthir gave his comrade a sidelong glance, and shook his head. They had come to Maglor’s stables, each to replace his fallen mount from the stock of the second son of Fëanor, given free reign to choose a horse from any in this part of the stable, who had no master. Caranthir appreciated the power and glory and wildness of a horse, due in no small part to the teachings of a certain nís- though unlike she, he had not yet found that certain steed who could make him feel more than a friendly partnership and a means of getting from place to place. As Caranthir stood surveying the stable, glancing up at its airy beams, Herugon had already proceeded down the left side, striding purposefully past stalls, giving most no more than a glance, and pausing every so often before continuing. Two thirds of a way down the long row he gave a cry and beckoned to Caranthir.

“Here!” Herugon said proudly, pointing into a box, wherein stood a bulky black stallion, seventeen hands if an inch, thick necked, pawing the floor of his stall. His ears flicked back and forth, whickering as he pranced to the edge of the stall and thrust his head out abruptly, nearly upsetting Herugon, then pulling back with a snort to circle the stall. Herugon laughed and turned to Caranthir triumphantly. “I fear I may have gotten the best of you. This one I shall have, and call him Tauro.” Caranthir snorted, a sound much like that made by the newly christened Tauro, but nodded. The stallion was perfect in Herugon’s eyes- powerful, imposing, and impressive. No doubt he was well trained, but the Champion of Thargelion had taken no time to examine the animal, nor question a familiar about his faults or personality; Herugon was not cruel, but to him, Tauro would be a means to and end, and little more.

Caranthir stalked up and down the rows, entering many stalls. He would approach a horse, speaking to it in a low voice, and examine it thoroughly, running his hands over coats of many colors, bending and flexing legs, tousling manes and peering at teeth. Herugon, bored of the stable now that he had made his choice, followed along impatiently, waiting expectantly outside of each stall, only to let his breath hiss between his teeth with irritation at each shake of Caranthir’s head, which only made Caranthir’s expression grow darker. “What, are none of your brother’s horses up to your standards?” Herugon questioned acidly as they reached the middle of the row opposite Tauro. “They are perfectly adequate,” Caranthir growled, bending over the hoof of a large bay gelding. “Superior, even. But not for me.” He let down the hoof and exited the stall, raking a hand back through his dark hair. “Tavari would know.” He muttered absently, stepping in front of the next stall.

“Well maybe you should have brought your little horse tamer with you then!” Caranthir spun on his heel, backing a step as he seized the front of Herugon’s tunic and pulled him close, grey eyes raging and he drew back an arm to strike his Champion. But before he could complete the motion, his elbow was met by something hard, which jerked away at once with an affronted squeal. Even as Caranthir began to turn, a set of sharp teeth ripped into his upper arm, rending flesh and cloth alike. He shouted with pain and shoved Herugon away, leaping away from the stall and whipping about to face his aggressor. It was a mare, large black eyes as enraged as his had been a moment before, a strip of bloody fabric dangling from her mouth. It dropped to the ground and she whirled and lashed out with her heels, striking the stall door and sending splinters flying. She circled the stall, tossing her head in a temper. Herugon was cursing, but Caranthir drew near to the stall again, heedless of the blood dripping down his arm. The mare continued to pace, giving him ample opportunity to admire her.

She was finely drawn, but neither diminutive nor delicate, with a high, arched neck and neat muzzle. In the legs her coat was dark, but lightened upwards into pale brown dapples, and all over she was touched with a metallic sheen of gold. Her mane and tail were light and flowing, a creamy ivory that stood out sharply against her body. As she came about, Caranthir rested his arms on top of her door, and stretched out a hand. “Hello, lady.” He said quietly. Herugon laughed harshly from behind him, all thought of insult forgotten. “You’ll have a time breaking that one, my lord, she’s a hellion and no mistake.” Caranthir shook his head firmly. “You don’t break a horse.” He asserted, still with his voice level and low as the mare eyed him warily. “If you break him, what good is he to you then? You must capture his wild spirit, tame it to your needs and desires, but never break it. If you break a horse, he will never trust you.” The mare’s eyes and nostrils were wide and aquiver as she stepped closer, and thrust her black muzzle into his hand, ears pricked forward with interest.

“You are quite correct, Lord Caranthir.” The voice caused both Caranthir and Herugon to jump in surprise, and they turned to see a slender, dark haired elf standing several feet away. With a cough and a slight smile he inclined his torso in a shallow bow. “Ah, yes. Working amongst horses has caused me to develop a quiet tread. I am Roquendon, master of Lord Maglor’s stables. Lávarë I trained myself,” he said, indicating the mare, “but she has never known a master. Her mother was of our own stock, hardy, bold and noble. But her father was a stallion from the east of this world, light and fleet, fleeter and wilder than any I have seen, and his coat was burnished brighter gold than the fruit of Laurelin herself. Much has Lávarë inherited from him. Have you taken a liking to her?” The corner of Caranthir’s mouth quirked upwards at the sound of the name. “Aye.” He replied, turning to the horse again. Her eyes were quizzical now, bright in he sunlight shafting through the stable door. He stretched out his hand again, and she pushed her head forward, allowing him to stroke her jowl. “I believe I have. Lávarë.”



The Hills of Himring. FA 60.

Nightfall, and the flickering firelight played across his brother’s face. Lamentation dripped from Maglor’s harp, and Caranthir couldn’t help but think it would do his elder good to cheer up. And people thought he was dark and moody- that might be true, but at least he didn’t sing about it all the time. He had his back against a large stone, propped up with his legs splayed out to the fire, wrapped in a cloak to ward off the night’s chill, a stick of wood and a dagger in his hands. The wood had not yet taken shape, thought the two lumps suggested it was destined to become an animal of some sort. Herugon was stretched out full length on his back to Caranthir’s right, close as he could be to the fire without scorching his cloak. O, Carnistir! Maglor’s voice broke Caranthir’s brooding reverie, and his eyes flicked up from his hands. So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more, Maglor continued; Caranthir grunted his assent Then he snorted as Maglor requested Herugon to fetch parchment and quill- when the fervor of composition was on his brother, Maglor paid little regard to station.

Forunately there was an interruption before Herugon had the chance to get too offended, in the form of a sentry bearing a message. Maedhros was requesting their aid. Caranthir chuckled- dire as the situation may be, he couldn’t help but wonder what would become of his brothers the day he decided not to answer their every summons. A day that was unlikely to come, but a thought worth considering nonetheless. His expression darkened as Maglor spoke of Orodreth, but he held his tongue. Until he knew Maedhros’s reasons for allying himself with the son of Finarfin, he would keep silent, but if those reasons were inadequate, the eldest son of Fëanor would find himself called to answer to Caranthir’s scourging tongue. The idea of mistaking Orodreth for an orc was quite the pleasing one, good for a few hour’s entertainment if nothing else. But the nosy sentry’s outburst of mirth was an unwelcome one, and even as Maglor rebuked the nér, Caranthir turned a cold eye on the hapless soldier. His expression was flat, but at the slight downward draw of his brows, combined with Maglor’s pointed question, the sentry scuttled away.

Caranthir turned back to the fire and to his carving. He listened to Maglor’s plan, and nodded. “Aye, Makalaurë.” He replied, choosing, as Maglor had, to use his brother’s mother-name. Quenya was still strong among the Noldor, and not least amongst the sons of Fëanor. “I am better suited to aid our elder brother in the north. I will go to him, with all the force of Thargelion.” Caranthir lifted his eyes again to command Herugon, who had sat up abruptly upon hearing his lord agree. “Spread the word. I will have my host ride prepared.” The eagerness for battle shining in his dark eyes, Herugon threw off his cloak and disappeared into the night. Caranthir turned back to his carving as Maglor’s harp started up again, and began shaving away at it again, turning it over in his hands to determine what shape it might take.

A horse, perhaps.
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Ard-galen. FA 60.
Rejoined.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Your callous shadows mock
And make it clear some things
Were not enough to make you stay.
The moment time stands still
Is the moment that the writing’s on the walls;
The words are clear as ringing bells,
That pride was present right before the fall.

(Sail Me Away, from Lestat the Musical)


A strident, piercing cry rent the air; far meters below, the lean, tawny-haired nís lifted her face and raised a hand to shade her eyes against the sun. The great eagle wheeled above, and descended out of her view, past the edge of the trees in which she stood, to where the land sloped up. Tavari increased her pace, to a swift trot, then broke into a run, leaping stones and thick swathes of grass. Long had she traveled alone, but news and rumor alike had reached her in her peregrinations, confirmed now by the distant battle sounds towards which she harried, and there could be only one reason a great eagle would stop in this place. Tavari’s garb was worn with travel, but sturdy: she was arrayed in tall boots, dark trews, a long mossy tunic and brown leather jerkin, all neatly repaired in one place or another. Her thick mane was bound back in a single long plait tied with black cord, and over her shoulders protruded the tools of her trade. Over the right, the hilt of a longsword: plainly steel pommeled and quillonsed, its two-handed hilt bound in black leather. Strapped on the opposite diagonal to and atop of the scabbard was a quiver of arrows, straight, true, and golden-fletched; the accompanying bow slung about her torso to balance her left.

Tavari broke from the edge of the treeline, to see the great eagle, having landed upon a grassy knoll, speaking to a group of elves. And at their head, the tall and upright, fiery-headed figure that could belong to but one person. Maitimo, Tavari’s lips formed the word, but no sound escaped them. A great surge of exhilaration filled her, and her periwinkle gaze blazed as it rested upon the eldest son of Fëanor. Her feet were rooted, but her tongue loosened now, as she tried again: “Maitimo.” This time the name came from her aloud, and as a figure moved up behind Maedhros, her eyes flicked to it- even at this distance, the slender, striking dark nér was unmistakable. “Edan!” she cried, and now the grip that had held her fast released, and again she ran, across the plain and up the slope towards the gathered group atop the hill. Her eyes raked them as she approached obliquely, the heart pounding abnormally in her ears; he was not there, but he must-

Several figures turned, and eyes widened and started in recognition of the figure before them. “Rávnissë!” spoke more than one voice, acclaiming Tavari by the epessë with which she had been named at the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. Some of the faces were familiar, but none she knew so intimately as the two at the front, nearest the great eagle- first Amrun turned, surprise in his elegant features, then Maedhros, and in the winking of an eye as he faced her, she was there.

Flames licked high against the starry sky, their tumultuous screams devouring the clean white of countless swanships. Tavari stood with her family near to the shore, looking on in disbelief, their hands bereft of the torches that had put fire to the ships. Nor were they the only ones: Maitimo stood aside, at words with his father, until at last in frustration turning away, walking from the scene of destruction. Trancelike, Tavari moved forward, passing the prince and nearing the king. Fëanor had turned then, and on seeing her smiled- expressing his favor of her, and his apology that Maltahtar had chosen not to join them, though he found the boy an irritant. He had offered her his embrace. Rage such as she had never known surged within Tavari, and her face contorted into an expression of venom and hate. She spat at Fëanor’s feet, fire and starlight alike reflected in her bitter eyes. The words burst from her in a furious torrent: “Fiend!” she named him, swearing with all the vituperance of a scorned lover that she would have naught to do with this firestorm, nor his selfish jewels. That from this moment, she would fight to prevent the fulfillment of his Oath and his sons', and in doing so, swore her own.

Almost before she had registered his movement, the back of Fëanor’s hand had connected with Tavari’s face, and the force of it staggered her. The voices of father, mother, and twin rang out in concert and protest, and Aimira ran forward to pull her daughter to her chest. Fëanor threatened, Erindan placated, and torches were distributed. Her parents moved towards the ships with their flaming brands, and after a backwards look at his sister, Arasoron did so as well. Fëanor had gone back to his destruction now, and Tavari threw her torch to the ground. It sparked and hissed, rolling pricks of orange disseminating into the dark ground, and she stamped on it until all its light had gone out. She looked up, cruel wind clawing the hair across her face, to see the dour Maitimo, and his glance flicking away.


“Maitimo.” Tavari greeted him now, with a smile and a bow, pressing her hand to her heart. Much time had passed since Moonrise, and the last time she had seen the sons of Fëanor, but she had the fortune to have parted on good terms with Maedhros. “Tavari.” He returned, in some surprise. “Have you dropped from out of the sky to join us?” She laughed, straightening, and replied, “If it please you to have me. I have been alone for some time, and could do with a battle to stir my senses.” A moment seemed to stretch out between them, but then a wry smile crossed Maedhros’s face, and he held out his arm. “If your skill hasn’t decayed, I should be glad to have you.” Tavari reached out to grasp his forearm, and Maedhros’s fingers closed about hers in a firm grip, and almost at once a signal from him sent them off, swiftly mounting up their horses and streaming down the hill towards the fighting. Edan offered Tavari his hand, and with a running leap she settled in behind him on the horse’s broad back, and they were away.

As soon as they blasted into the melée, she leapt from the horse, squeezing Edan’s shoulder to aid her vault and let him know she had gone, drawing her sword as she landed catlike on the ground. Without hesitation Tavari threw herself into combat with the vicious fluidity and ruthless grace that had earned her name: Rávnissë, the lioness. Her every cut and thrust was connected to the next, and to the rapid footfalls that twisted and carried her throughout the field. Both sword and nís grew spattered back with the blood of orc as they fought together- at times alone, and at times to backs or in circles with others, elves of either host- that of Maedhros, or that of he whom she scarcely hoped to see. But see him she did: as she recovered from and upward cut that had parted an orc from his gullet, the flash of steel from atop a small hillock caught her eye. There he was, the sword that had caused the flash upraised, falling from the dying grey gelding he rode. He fell in a roll, but as he arose from the earth, a black shape approached behind him, and even as she sheathed the sword and whipped the bow from about her body, Tavari bellowed,

“Carnistir! Down!”

Caranthir obeyed at once, ducking his head in time to miss both the orc-sword chopping at him from behind, and the arrow that hissed over his head to bury itself in the attacker’s throat. The orc gurgled and toppled, and Caranthir whipped round, to see the gold-fletched arrow of his savior sticking up from its corpse. Covered in blood and battle, the blood racing in his veins and heart pounding in his ears, Caranthir experienced a moment of disbelief, staring at the arrow. Then he turned, and saw her racing towards him, bow in hand, tawny braid flying out behind her. He ran, cutting down an orc who appeared in his path with one brutal blow, he ran silently, fixated on the nís until they collided and his arms crushed her to his chest, her feet leaving the ground as he staggered backwards to keep balance on the slight incline. Her arms were around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder’s crook, and the fingers of her bowless hand clutched at his nape. Caranthir inhaled deeply, smelling their mingled sweat, blood of orc and elf alike, musty leather, iron-smelling armor, dirt, muck; but beneath it all, was the woodish, green goodness of Tavari.

“Tavari.” He half-gasped her name into her hair, and they separated. Blue eyes met grey, and speech seemed suddenly purposeless and weak. More than half a century’s time seemed but a moment in that wordless communion, and yet also an age. But there would be time enough for words later- in the same instant both came back to the reality of their situation, and sprang back to the task at hand. Moving in tandem as if they had trained for this day, Caranthir hacked and hewed at the enemy nearest,
while Tavari moved in his shadow, picking off those further away, and those who threatened their comrades’ blind points. The battle wore on, and still not a word was spoken, until the rays of the dying sun burned umber across the land, and the final screams of extermination rang out from the hazy field, and all action came to a halt.

Panting with exertion, roaring with hunger and dehydration, Tavari and Carathir stood several yards apart and facing away from one another. Her arrow stock depleted, Tavari had reverted to the sword some time ago, and now fell to a knee, and set about cleaning its well-used length on the inside of her tunic. Exhaustion covered her in waves, but she still needed to retrieve what was salvageable of her arrows before retiring. The back of her neck prickled and, sword clean enough to be sheathed, she rose, doing so, to find Caranthir watching her from mere feet away. The light glowed bright and harsh off his ruddy face, lighting up the tendrils of dark hair come free of their bonds. His expression was inscrutable, and Tavari looked away, tiredly out over the field, fingering the fletches of her last remaining arrow meaningfully. A purposeful walk and a long conversation seemed to be exactly what was in order. She extended her hand towards him.

“Come with me?”


He stepped forward, and grasped it.

“Yes.”

*


Fingolfin’s pavilion was a warrior’s thing, Caranthir would give him that, uncluttered by frippery and useless things. The High King –his countenance darkened at the thought- strode up and down before the assembly, what seemed to be every royal and noble in Endor, all under one room. Strategically poor idea, he thought, tracking Fingolfin with his eyes. The so-called High King was proposing a siege of Angband, an assault on the very heart of Morgoth’s dominion- a siege which, while not as impossible and suicidal as an all out attack, would cost many years and lives of a certainty. Caranthir stood at the back of the crowd, his arms folded and expression grim. As much and more than anyone, he desired to see Morgoth driven out from the land, but such a task seemed nigh on impossible. Thargelion had never interested the lord of darkness, and how could he, Caranthir, serve as its king if he were killed in a vain assault? They were all kings, the sons of Fëanor, and no less worthy of the titles, powers, privileges, and responsibilities as Fingolfin, who sought to lead them into what could easily be ruin. But cowardice had never entered into Caranthir’s vocabulary, and though a refusal and return to Thargelion could easily be justified, they were not worth being so branded, nor of taking the chance to tip the scales in favor of Morgoth’s victory. Maglor spoke, then Aegnor, then Angrod. He glanced sideways at Tavari, who was seated inconspicuously slightly behind him, but the lift of her eyebrows told him nothing. Caranthir’s glower deepened as he faced forward again, jaw clenched against the idea of joining with these usurpers, but when he spoke, it was in affirmation.

“I too will stand against the tide of Morgoth, with all the warriors Thargelion has to offer."
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FA 60. Ard-galen.
Swing together, or most assuredly…

Originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Outside Fingolfin’s pavilion, Caranthir strode rapidly away into the gathering darkness. Tavari flitted out of the tent at his side, and together they walked down path between the rows of beige housings. The sun, which had disappeared below the horizon while the conference had been in session, still stained the sky with a dark orange glow, lanced here and there with deepest violet. “I cannot believe I have just allied myself with that traitorous-“
“Carnistir.” Tavari hissed. He glowered at her, but she merely transferred her gaze back to the path before them. They had only just exited the stronghold of the High-King and his supporters, after all, and it would not be wisest to be maligning him so close by. A third set of footsteps approached, loud, heavy, and rapid. “Carnistir!” the voice that belonged to the feet shouted, “I cannot believe you’ve just allied us with that usurper!” Where Caranthir had growled, the new voice shouted, and both he and Tavari halted and turned to face Herugon as the ebon-haired nér ran to join them. Caranthir raised his eyebrows at Tavari, and she snorted.

Herugon, pale face afire to rival his King’s skidded to a halt before them. “This is none of our concern- he thinks he’s the high king, he can take his people and make this fight himself! Why put ours at risk? And you!” he rounded on Tavari, “I see you’ve come back only to encourage him to foolishness.” It was the nís’s turn to raise her eyebrows, one golden arch rising dangerously higher than the other. “Hello to you too, Herugon. It’s good to see you haven’t changed.” The burly nér took in an outraged breath, but Caranthir raised his hand and his gaze, and cut off his champion’s tirade as effectively as a noose. With a curt gesture, he beckoned Herugon, and the three turned as one, falling into step as they continued away from the pavilion. “You should know,” Caranthir reproved Herugon, “the idea repulses me much as it does you. But Makalaurë had already spoken- yes, Makalaurë- and the others were not far behind.” Caranthir thrust his hands into his pockets as he walked, shoulders hunching slightly. Of course it had been Maglor to speak first- he had always been the most tenderhearted towards the children of Indis and their ilk.

“This is a tide we cannot outrun, Herugon.” His silence kept further protest at bay, and at length Caranthir continued. “The greatest evil any of us have ever known threatens this new world to which we have come to carve out our kingdoms and new homes.” A weight settled upon him as he spoke. Evil. It was a heavy word, one that for most of all their lives, none had known nor even conceived of. Not til Melkor had begun his whispers and lies, and begun the irrevocable chain of events which had driven their people from Aman. “We could turn our backs and return to Thargelion, but I know you relish the prospect of being named coward no more than I. And, what then? More even than Fingolfin has betrayed us, we have been betrayed by him we now call Morgoth, and what, then, when he defeats the rest because we were not here? Can we hide in our forest and mountains forever? No, we would be found out. As long as some of us are committed, so must we all be, and stand together until we have prevailed.”

By now, they had reached the end of the encampment where the Thargelion contingent was settled. Fires were lit and cooking pots steamed, the smells of roasting meat pervading the air with the sounds of crackling flames. Here and there voices called; conversations rumbled, and the occasional bout of laughter interrupted the stillness.
As they reached the centre of the area, Herugon halted. He took up Caranthir’s earlier posture: hands screwed down into his pockets, shoulders hunched; but his head was also slightly bowed. “Sometimes I forget you are my King as well as my friend.” That gritted statement was as close to contrition as Herugon could come, and he stretched his neck side to side uncomfortably. “Though it is vile, I suppose it must be endured. Don’t expect me to make any friends at it.” A short bark of laughter escaped Caranthir, and he nodded. “Me, either.” Herugon separated from the group and made his way into his nearby tent, while Caranthir turned to Tavari. “Come with me,” he said, his voice considerably lighter than it had been, and a hint of mischief in his dark-grey eyes, “I have someone I want you to meet.” “Oh, really?” Tavari questioned, turning to walk with him as he continued towards the far edge of the camp, “Why haven’t you introduced us before?” “The opportunity hasn’t come up. But I think you and she will get along,” he chuckled briefly at her look, “Her name is Lávarë…”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

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Vinyamar, Nevrast. FA 64.
Great Is the Fall.

Turgon’s voice brought with it thunder and rain, as though the heavens themselves rebelled against his decision; the king did not see it this way though, and it was only behind Amnon’s veiled eyes that dread gathered, and shuddered, and waited. His head was still slightly bowed, but he could sense the king’s approach, and the Staff of Doom as it was leveled at his chest. Amnon raised his head and the end of the staff pressed into his chest, and for one of the few times in his life he wished that he could remove the blindfold to beseech Turgon with seeing eyes, for the king’s determination was great, and it seemed there was aught the Prophet could do. Turgon ordered someone to remove him –the fiend- from the premises, and almost at once he was seized under the arms by two strong pairs of hands (Aigronding and Fareglín), that began to pull him backwards, away from the dais. Amnon was not a fighter, nor was he apt to take paths of greater resistance than necessary, but he struggled against the two elves with what little might he possessed, his normally soft, level voice rising to a tenuous shout. “Turgon! Turgon, do not do this thing! You will doom your people, and yourself!” The Prophet’s twistings were in vain, but his voice cut through the air like a knife. “Great is the fall of Gondolin! When the lily of the valley withers then shall Turgon fade!” With a sound more ominous than any thunder, the doors of Turgon’s hall banged shut before Amnon’s face, as he was dragged from the room.



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Vinyamar, Nevrast. FA 116.
Farewells.

She had been in Turgon’s hall, that day fifty years ago, when the king had announced his plan to move his people to a hidden city, to be called Gondolin, never from there to return. She had heard Amnon’s pleadings, protestations, and prophecy. She had seen the Prophet being forcibly removed- by her brother, no less, and Tavari Mordagnir did not approve of any of it. The idea of a safe haven- of a city of idyllic peace, where lives could be lived in contentment and plenty, there was nothing wrong with that. But to up and move a whole population to such a place, and forbid them from ever leaving- not even never returning once they had left, but from never leaving at all? Not only was the idea personally repugnant to the traveling nís, but it was also unconscionable. No one should ever be forced to live in a place for ever- what if someone went along, thinking that they would love their new life in Gondolin, but for whatever reason, it didn’t matter what reason, and reason would be valid, they hated it instead, or were simply not content to stay put after a long period of time? They could never leave. Never again see the world outside their city walls; never roam the free earth or breathe the free air or see stars different than those which would hang over the city, year after constant year.

Not long after the announcement, Tavari had left Nevrast. Since reuniting with her family there after the Glorious Battle, for prior to that conflict her visits had been fewer and further between, she had remained with them in the city for some time, during which her father Erindan had been ennobled, conferring on her the title of Lady. It was a strange thing, to walk about a city and be treated as a noble, a sensation to which Tavari was not sure she would ever become used. But at Turgon’s decree that all who went with him would be lost to Gondolin forever, the old ache had come back to her feet and heart, and she set out wandering again- but not so listlessly as before, now that she had Thargelion to return to. Even so, she had popped back in several times in the intervening years, and most recently had arrived in the city just two days ago. Upon her arrival, she had found the city in a frenzy, preparing to set out. Every thing and every one was in an uproar, and this included her own house. Everything was being packed- every item of clothing, stick of furniture, and inch of rug was being folded, loaded, strapped, tied, boxed, and prepared. Aimira had questioned firmly; Erindan, always so willing to support his wild daughter’s ventures, even his eyess had beseeched; Maltahtar had raved, extolling the virtues of the new city.

And yet, Tavari could give them no answer. She sat now upon a wall of the city, legs crossed beneath her on one of the battlements. The wall was deserted and she was alone, but for the light wind swirling about her, toying with the little wisps and fragments of her hair, broken free of the single long plait she wore. Beyond Vinyamar, the sea stretched out in one direction, and the land in the other. Waves crashed and chattered on the rocks far below, hissing and burbling and murmuring secrets to one another. Seagulls wheeled and called, playing whatever games seagulls played, no doubt fighting imaginary battles and convincing themselves they were eagles. The sea was rich and steely blue, deep and immeasurable, and Tavari wished that Ulmo might rise from its waters and tell her what to do. Or, from the great rolling green plain beyond, that Oromë might come galloping forth to counsel her, as he had done in the blissful days of her youth. Unexpectedly, Tavari’s eyes welled at the thought of the Huntsman, and she swallowed hard. Would she ever see him again? Ever hunt at his side in the dusk? Would she ever again join Nessa in her flights through the woods, chasing and laughing with the deer, dancing in all the blazing glory of day? They seemed unlikely things, here so far from home.

Home. It was a word that would never- could never- have the same meaning to Tavari again. Even if my some miracle, she someday returned to Valinor, it would never be the same. In all her wanderings until now in this new world, she had never found anywhere that she wished to try and call home. The one hope she had was, just maybe, Thargelion. But there was still so much uncertain and unsure… time would tell, but not if she went to Gondolin. The shining city would be a cage for Tavari, that which she feared above all else. And yet, her family would go. Mother, father, younger brother; ward- they all had resolved to go. Not Arasoron, though- nor Indilë, and even if all other things were laid aside, even though they had gone many years at a time apart, Tavari did not think she could bear to be forcibly parted from Arasoron. She blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek. Gondolin offered peace, plenty, and family- but was that enough- could it ever be enough. Family, or freedom? Despite her maunderings and delays, deep in her heart, Tavari knew what she must do.

A short time later, dry-faced, Tavari arrived back at the manse of her father, to be nearly run down by a servant dashin out of the door, loaded down with boxes. “Apologies, Lady Mordagnir!” he yelped, before rushing off. She shook her head: the title still grated at her ears; and slipped inside. There in the main room of the downstairs stood Erindan, rolling up a scroll that the tail end as it flashed by looked like some sort of map, and as Tavari entered the room, he looked up, and smiled. Aimira was just coming down the stairs, no doubt from directing operations on the second floor, and Tavari heard a thump that sounded like it had come from Aerlinn’s room, which caused her to pause and look up at the ceiling questioningly for a moment. When she looked down, both her parents were looking at her curiously, and she took a deep breath.

“I am so very sorry, but I simply cannot do this. I will not go to Gondolin.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Thargelion. FA 116.
The Land of Pines.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Rich, pale light flooded the densely wooded land east of the River Gelion. Nearer the mighty flow, the landscape was gentler: rolling hills and lush swards, interrupted only briefly by stands of trees. But the closer one drew to the Ered Luin, the more frequent and thicker grew the woods, and the more tempestuous the land, as though the roots of the mountains thrust out and abroad, feeling for new surfaces to ensnare and transform into rocky peaks. Atop one of the larger hills, away up in the highest branches of a towering pine, was perched a lithe figure that did not belong, gazing up at the moon. The golden-haired nís was washed out in the whitish light, face and hair ghostly against the dark of her surroundings, and the former lingered upon a vaguely melancholy expression. “Hello, my friend,” she called softly, raising an arm in salute to the moon. It seemed almost that Rána winked brighter for a moment, as though Tilion had tilted his vessel in response, reaching out from above. Tavari smiled at her own fancy, but took comfort in it anyway. Not so long ago, she had ridden with the moon’s steersman beneath a similar light, when the Trees were strong and the company easy. Now he hunted alone across the nighttime sky, with only the stars for companionship, and she had never had the chance to say him farewell. But he was not gone, not really- every time the moon rose, no matter how much he may tarry or stray, Tilion guided the last of Telperion’s light across the world, and in that there was hope.

Tavari lingered a long time, there above the world, in the silence of early night. Her journey had been long, but she was nearing its end and now was the time together her thoughts, before rejoining civilization. Civilization- she knew many who would scorn to hear Thargelion called so. Although his domain had begun to be called Dor Caranthir, its king still referred to it by its older name; largely, Tavari suspected, because the new contained the name that the Sindar had conferred upon him. He did not reprimand his subjects for using the name, but Thargelion still fell from the lips of many. Not only this, but Caranthir had named his capitol Thargelion as well. Tavari could see it now, across the next valley- or all that was possible to see of it at a distance: lights winking here and there through the trees, too bright and yellow for foxfire, indicating windows where the inhabitants had not yet retired. Spurred by the tantalizing sight, she gave the moon one last glance, and slipped silently back down the pine, and in short order was striding once again across the forest floor.

It began to slope sharply downward nearly at once, and despite the trees Tavari’s pace naturally increased. She knew these woods well, and it was not long before she had reached the river that ran through the bottom of the valley. It was nothing like the Gelion, only a smallish flow, but wide and swift enough to warrant the narrow bridge to which she now came. It was little more than a horse’s breadth across, just wide enough for a cart, and the only crossing that had been built over the river. Tavari ran lightly across the sturdy timbers, and came into the city of Thargelion. Although it was the population centre of Caranthir’s kingdom, it was not a city in the typical sense- it was nothing like Tirion, which was all stone and gleaming streets- but rather seemed to grow out of the hillside, sturdy wooden buildings clambering out of it here, reinforced by stone there, and where the terrain was rock the dwellings had been hewed into the very bones of the hill. A minimum of trees had been cleared, and all around the grew up, ancient and strong, the towering foundations of a realm. Ropes and ladders and platforms crisscrossed some of the trees, and within or perched upon some few were more dwellings. Thargelion’s people were at one with their land; the beauty, ease, and entirety of it, and as she moved upward through the city, it lifted Tavari’s dithering spirit and gave strength to her weary limbs.

Higher and higher she wended her way, until she came to the base of… it could not precisely be called a palace, manse perhaps was the closest term, for it was certainly the largest home in the city, and the great and powerful dwelt there when they were in Thargelion. A great stone shelf jutting out form the hill near its peak provided the base, and several huge old oaks- Tavari’s mind reeled to think how many uncounted years must have passed since Yavanna had sung their seeds into being- framed it, and the tiers of the house had been carved back into the hill and built up to meet the trees; bold, imposing, but not unfriendly, and still part of the hill: a bulwark to protect, not a parasite to invade. This was her destination, but rather than take to the road which ran up and around on the hill, Tavari kept to her course and proceeded straight up the bottom of the shelf. Tired as she was, she had made this climb many times before, and the final exhaustive effort was needed to satisfy her of the end of her journey. Hand over hand, foot over foot, scrambling where necessary and running where she could, the nís scaled the shelf, until with a final heave, she gained the flat ground that lay before the manse.

Turning her face upwards again, Tavari sought this time not the moon, but another sight that made her heart glad- there, three floors up, a light flickered in the room beyond a small balcony. Seized by a fit of mischief- and a desire not to attract attention- she again turned away from the conventional path (that is, the door), and began instead to climb the outside of the house. It was a simple enough proposition, for one who knew the place well and had a certain disregard for one’s own safety in the undertaking. The varied surfaces and growths of brush and ivy that seized every opportunity available to them helped, and it wasn’t long before Tavari reached her goal. Inching along to the edge of the balcony, she hooked her elbow over its rail and toppled herself over onto its floor with a deliberate clatter. Hastily she sprang to her feet, and darted into the corner where the balcony met the wall, furthest from the entrance from the room beyond, squidging into the shadow and holding her breath.

Within that room, the king of Thargelion had been peacefully ensconced by his fire, book in hand, attempting to put behind him the casually irritating events of the day. Maglor had come to visit, and his composition had been decidedly morose all day long, the hunting had not been good, and Herugon was busily sniping at anyone who would listen about how they really needed to start a captive deer husbandry operation, completely unwilling to admit that there were plenty to be had, they just hadn’t been had by them that day. All in all, it had been a relief to Caranthir to escape up to his chambers, leaving behind the temptation to give his champion a good smack. He was sprawled out in a wide, low-slung chair, feet stretched out towards the flames, one hand cradling his head, the other just barely balancing a heavy leather-bound book. The binding was cracked and unevenly faded, the pages well thumbed, but as traveled and well known as it was to him, Caranthir was just debating giving it up as a bad job for the night, when a sudden noise out on his balcony caused him to start. He shot to his feet, throwing the book down on a table and catching up from its surface the belt he had discarded upon retiring, from which hung a heavy, sheathed dagger. Moving slowly towards the portal to the terrace, he buckled the belt back on and let a hand fall to the hilt of the dagger. “Show yourself!” he commanded, stepping out onto the balcony, “Who’s there?”

Silent as a leaf-shadow, Tavari darted out of her concealment, up behind Caranthir, and snaked a hand over his shoulder to cover his eyes. “Guess.” Quicker than she had been silent, he seized her by the wrist and spun about, pulling her to him with the hand that had flown from his dagger. When after a long moment they broke apart, Caranthir rested his forehead against hers, chuckling darkly. “Tavari.” She laughed. “Oh? Did you realize before or after-“ He snorted. “Before, please! But what brings you back here? I thought you intended to remain at Vinyamar for some time.” “Oh, I did, but… ah, Carnistir, the queerest news!” Tavari grinned her deflection, starlight paling her gaze. “Turgon has seen fit to ennoble my father, conferring titles upon the entire family.” Caranthir’s eyebrows shot up, and Tavari laughed. “Oh, really? And have you decided to throw me over and go live amongst his court, drip with jewels, and find some simpering little lord to steal your wealth away?” Tavari arranged her face into a serious expression, as though considering the idea, then shook her head thoughtfully. “No… no, I think I ought to stay here for now. But you speak now to Lady Tavari Mordagnir, and would do well to remember it, impudent sir!”

Caranthir chuckled. “Not Tavari Roccotaurë?” Her arms slipped down from about his neck, and her eyes too, both coming to rest upon Caranthir’s chest. “No,” her voice was quiet, all jest gone at his last word, “not anymore. My father’s epessë has become our family name, and I will take it on with the rest. They are all gone, Carnistir,” Tavari raised her face again, and there was a chill rain in the periwinkle of her eyes. “Gone with their king to his hidden city, all but Arasoron, and I have little else to remember them by.” She turned away, crossing her arms and hugging her elbows to herself. “Perhaps someday I will be worthy of my name again, but for now…” Caranthir drew up behind the nís, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders, drawing close behind her. “You are worthy.” It was flat statement, no false reassurance. “The Huntsman would not have named you so if you were not.” At the mention of Oromë, Tavari’s whole body seemed to seize; outwardly it was but a slight tensing, but beneath his hands Caranthir could feel her crumple, and though her face was not visible to him, sensed the anguish there. He allowed his hands to slip over her shoulders and down over her collar, crossing there to embrace her to his chest. Her own hands crept up to clasp his forearms as he spoke quietly into her ear, his face resting against her hair. “You are Roccotaurë, whether you think yourself worthy or not. Such a thing cannot be taken away. The Huntsman named you so, in recognition of what you are, and that will never cease to be. No matter how far you are from him, from home.” From Fëalasso, Thargelion’s king thought, not wanting to remind his huntress of the heart she had left behind. But he knew, even as the words crossed his mind, that the same thought had invaded hers, and he raised a hand to brush a silent tear from her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“He waits for you,” Caranthir murmured, his voice a soft growl, and a long steady sigh leeched the tension from Tavari’s body.
“You are right, of course. But even so.” He knew the subject was closed, and rather than press her, Caranthir released Tavari, backing away and turning her to face him with a hand grasping her fingers. “Well then, my lady,” he said with an outrageously exaggerated bow and extension of the leg, “shall we go in? The others will be pleased to see you, and bask in your reflected glory. Herugon especially will be eager to pay his deference to your new status, I’m sure.” Tavari snorted in a most unladylike manner and rolled her eyes, but followed her king as he led her inside, towards the flickering warmth.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Ered Luin. FA 160.
Precipice.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, thrust their jagged heads far into the sky east of Thargelion, the land of which Caranthir was king. For so he was known now amongst the Sindar, since in the year sixty-seven Thingol (Caranthir would not accord him the title king, so great was his animosity for the greycloak) had taken it upon himself to ban Quenya, his own first language, the tongue of the Noldor and all the elves of Valinor, from spoken use in Beleriand. Ever more increasingly amongst even his own race the name Caranthir was falling into common use, as was the tongue of the Sindar in daily life. Although he did not dislike the name for its own merits, the capitulation of his brothers in accepting the casual dismissal of the names they had been born to fired Caranthir’s hate of it, and though he did not lash out in anger at those who addressed him thus, each time the name was spoken even with reverence and respect, a little flicker of ire seared across his heart. But not in Thargelion: though Sindarin nibbled at the edges of his realm, Quenya reigned in Caranthir’s domain still, for beyond the Gelion the power of Thingol was weak, and the king had made it known that those who still held to the tongue of their birth would be welcome there. How long one determined stronghold could resist against the tide of an entire world, Caranthir did not know, but he was determined to try.

A gusting of the chill wind yanked Caranthir’s mind back from these thoughts, spurred on by hearing the name of the mountain range spoken aloud, and realizing quite suddenly that they had no name in his own tongue. But that was one fight he was willing to let go- brash he may have seemed to outsiders (and may well have been, he was not above admitting), but the king of Thargelion did know when to pick his battles, and turned his attention now to the wind. It was the sort of wind that they had taken to calling ‘a thin wind’ or ‘a lazy wind’- the sort that couldn’t be bothered to blow around a person, but went right through instead. Together with Herugon and Tavari, Caranthir had accosted the wind, climbing and scrambling up the steep-sided and snow-drifted side of one of the mountains. A party of threescore had set out from Thargelion with the aim of exploring more of the Ered Luin and possibly seeking out the tribes of Naugrim they knew to inhabit the region. They had put into the mountains ahorse, knowing there to be plenty of passes that that animals could manage but frequently in the high places it was necessary to dismount to better navigate the treacherous ways.

The party had come to a little hollow in one of the passes, well sheltered from the searing wind, and there put in to rest for a day. But such inactivity did not sit well with Caranthir, and so with his two companions, he had set off to summit the mountain, and see what he could see. Now they were nearly at the top, scrabbling over rocks and skirting drifts as the incline steepened here at the very end, as though mocking their efforts. Gaining a small ledge and pausing to take a brief blow, Caranthir glanced back at the pair just behind him, navigating the particularly treacherous outcrop he had just overcome. The wind had torn odd-size wisps and strands of hair from Tavari’s plait and whipped them across her face, obscuring her vision until she had to pause and rake them back, irritation betrayed in crook of her wrist. “If it wasn’t keeping my head warm, I’d cut it all off!” she shouted above the whistling of the wind, and Herugon’s barking laughter rang out, but it was Caranthir who threw the jibe her way this time. “Perhaps you’d better turn back!” Tavari’s effortless grin flashed across her face, but there was a core of steel in the nís’s periwinkle eyes, and she surged forward, within seconds surpassing Caranthir and hoisting herself up to the next ledge while managing to kick a sizeable chunk of snow into the king of Thargelion’s face in passing.

What had been a slow drudge now became a race, with the three full-grown elves (even Herugon) darting up the last twoscore yards to the top of the mountain, dashing snowballs at one another, laughing, sliding, and being generally reckless. But at last they reached the end, pink faced and gasping, Tavari kicking her heel out of Herugon’s grasp to dash, fists thrust triumphantly into the air, first over the final lip and onto the mountaintop. It was not one of those spiny mountaintops with barely room for one body, but a somewhat level area perhaps eight yards by ten, disrupted here and there by a large boulder. She turned back to see the other two cresting the rise, punching and shoving like children. Caranthir ultimately emerged victorious, and Tavari wished that those who called him the Dark could have seen him in that moment, laughing and flushed with pleasure and exertion, not anger, eyes glinting with mischief as his run slowed to a trot and he came to her side.

“Look.” She said quietly, taking Caranthir by the crook of his arm. Herugon drew abreast of them on Tavari’s other side, and together they gazed out over the Ered Luin. They had stood upon the tops of the Pelóri and beheld the darkness of the sea to the east, and the wonders of Aman to the west, but this was another sort of beauty entirely. It was in the wild, stark, freeness of the mountains, their jagged slopes of blue and white thrusting up and away from the earth like teeth, hands, claws; like the uneven heartbeats of a world striving to burst free of its crustal bonds. It was in the swirl of the snows, here at the tops of the mountains, which bled into darker slate-blues and moss-greens where the harshness gave way to living things once more, and the earth-tones of the lower mountains and hills showed faintly in the valleys far below. The sun was not bright-gold as the light of Laurelin had once been over the Pelóri, but a thinner, more strident thing: glancing off the snows and the rocks to reflect and dash and dart about, illuminating every surface with an energy that betrayed its youth and joy. It was in the very ground beneath their feet, its grey stones suddenly jewel-bright with wonder. The trio stood together in silence for several long moments, before Herugon broke the spell.


“Look.” He echoed Tavari, stepping forward with an arm outstretched to gesture at one of the nearer valleys, though still some distance away. “There are buildings there, and- look! See, that smoke rising!” Herugon turned back to Caranthir, his face alight with interest. “Do you think this could be a dwelling of the Naugrim? Someone is dwelling there, at any rate. Worth exploring, I should think!” Caranthir nodded decisively. “Agreed! We’d better have a look. Meet the neighbors, as it were. Let’s hope it is the Naugrim, I have heard wondrous things of their skill at weapon-crafting, and we could do with a some new skills to enliven our smiths.” “Aye, and I’ve heard they’re fearsome fighters, too,” Herugon put in, “if rude and ugly to look upon.” Tavari shoved the burly nér with a laugh. “You’ll fit in well then, won’t you! Perhaps we’ll leave you with the Naugrim, and you can find a wife amongst them. You’ll learn to look past the beard eventually!” Herugon lunged after her, but the fleet-footed nís was already dashing for the edge of the mountain, calling gaily after herself, “Last one down fills in the slit trench in the morning!”


*

It was two days later that the company approached what they were now reasonably certain was the dwarven city of Belegost, down in a valley between the mountains where the land leveled out and made for a wide, straight road from the bottom of a pass to the gates. And it seemed that their approach had been spotted- which was not unexpected, although Caranthir turned to raise an eyebrow at Herugon when he saw the host of dwarves milling out of the gates, armed and grim. They rode to within shouting distance of the Naugrim, and just as Caranthir had been about to give the signal for a halt, one dwarf and the front spoke up, commanding him to stop. Affronted by the creature’s churlish manner, Caranthir deliberately allowed his horse to walk forward until his company was within easy speaking distance of the dwarven host, before raising his fist in the signal for a halt. Lávarë’ s nostrils curled as she took in their scent and she shifted beneath Caranthir, stamping a hoof. Even if these Naugrim were uncultured things, they surely knew something of rank and station- if not of their own accord, then by their association with Felagund. Thargelion’s king had allowed himself to be goaded into wearing its crown, a thing of iron and silver that looked weighty but sat easily upon his brow, dotted here and there with garnet and obsidian, and embossed with the crests of Fëanor and Thargelion. If not else, he had expected it to garner a bit of respect and attention from these little people, but it seemed that they were not interested in friendly relations.

The more the dwarf (Alrik) spoke, the darker Caranthir’s “shiny eyes” turned, his cheeks reddening now with ire, which conveyed itself through his body to the horse, who shifted, shied, and pranced beneath him. On his right, Herugon gripped the shaft of his mace hard and kept a sidelong eye on his king, waiting for the signal to strike. Likewise on the left, Tavari’s gaze had gone flinty, her fingers wrapped casually around the grip of the bow slung about her torso, and the whole of the company acquired an air of general unease as the dwarf rambled on, letting fly with barb after barb at Caranthir’s temper. Finally he could take it no more- and neither could Lávarë, who let loose with a shrill neigh and reared, bearing Caranthir forward from his host. Quickly he brought the horse under control, whirling her about to face the dwarves as he broke across the end of Alrik’s speech. “No, indeed we are not those Sindar elves, Broadbeam! You speak to Caranthir, as they call me; Carnistir, son of Fëanor, High King of the Noldor; King of Thargelion, west of these mountains! We came here with no proposition but to seek out you or your kindred in the interests of friendship or alliance, but clearly you have no such interest. Is this how you greet all visitors to your city? It’s a wonder and perhaps a pity that you haven’t been wiped out yet.” Caranthir’s lip curled with disdain as he looked down at Alrik, holding in the agitated Lávarë with one hand in her mane, the other resting on the hilt of the sword in its scabbard at her shoulder. “Imports from the west? What makes you think that you dirty little people are worthy of goods from the west? And what could you possibly have to trade? Hah!”
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Thargelion. FA ?.
Narsil.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Celegorm’s voice cut the air petulantly, cutting off the song of the minstrel, and Tavari rolled her eyes as Caranthir snorted. “Eat something, Tylekormo.” Caranthir scoffed, “and leave the minstrel alone.” The pre-supper drinking on an empty stomach had taken its toll on his brother, though admittedly it wouldn’t have taken much more of that cursed song for the King of Thargelion to react the same, and his glance at the mandolier indicated that he would, indeed, be better off playing something else. For her part, Tavari considered pelting Celegorm with one of the grapes from the table’s fruit platter, but thought better of it. However, as though he had read her thoughts, he reached for his wineglass and began drink it lustily. Reminded of her own goblet, the nís reached out and drew it near, glancing down at the fluid within. It was a pale, golden wine, with a delicate fragrance perceptible even before raising the vessel to her face. Smooth and sharp at once, it had been brought to them that very day from the south- Laurëtavari, it was called, and Caranthir had commissioned it from the wineries in the lands of his twin brothers. She felt eyes on her, and glanced up to see that Caranthir was watching her from his seat at her side. There was an indescribable softness about his dark grey eyes as a small smile creased his features. She returned the expression as her cheeks colored lightly, and she sipped hastily at the wine.

The glass door swung open- one of the few fancies Caranthir had allowed in the building of his manse- and the dwarf Telchar strode in, followed by Herugon, whose normally pale face was reddened with exertion, his brow slightly sweaty. As the dwarf made his reverences to Curufin, Thargelion’s champion came to stand beside Caranthir’s chair, muttering, “That mad dwarf’s brought a great sheet of iron! What does he intend to do, forge us a new table?” Caranthir raised his hand to silence the burly nér, and he watched as Telchar produced his gifts. The king’s face darkened when his brother named his new knife in the tongue of the grey-elves, and it seemed Curufin anticipated this reaction, for he turned to look at Caranthir, questioning what the point was of giving names on their own words anymore. “The point?” Caranthir growled, his jaw reddening in temper, “The point in preserving our words and ways? What, should be begin naming our children in their bastard tongue now?” Beneath the table, Tavari gripped his wrist tightly. He looked at her sharply, but her periwinkle eyes were narrowed at him in silent remonstrance. She agreed with him, and well he knew it, but now was not the time. As one, they turned back to watch as Curufin drew the sword from its scabbard.

Tavari leaned forward in her seat, and her eyes shone with a jealous light. Her own nameless sword- she, unlike Telchar, did not believe a blade must have a name to be great- had come from the forges of Fëanor and was her greatest joy in arms, behind the lost bow from Oromë’s hands, but this new sword glimmered with the light and aura of destiny, as though some part of all their fates were folded in its steel. It was simple and sure, burnished to a mirrorlike finish, fitting perfectly into the hand of Curufin, yet foreign for its dwarven make. Caranthir too gazed on in admiration. More than Arien’s glow to him it seemed that Tilion’s light was bound up in this blade, cold and steady, deterring the dark of the night. Even Herugon drew closer, leaning in between Caranthir and Tavari to admire the blade. When Curufin named this blade, he did not sully it with Singollo’s words, but called it Narsil, light of whiteness and of fire, and Caranthir grunted his approval.
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Thargelion. FA 320.
Little City By The Lake.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

Swirling with motes, golden sun lanced through the canopy and boughs of Thargelion’s trees, thick pines interspersed here and there with deciduous sisters, creating dapples and pools of light on the ground beneath, and illuminating the air with a soft summer glow. The season was high and hot, Lake Helevorn glittered in the sun below Mount Rerir, and the occupants of the city above were not about to let such a day go to waste. Shouts of exuberance and delight were the first sound that filtered down the steep slope, voices male and female that were soft amongst the trees here, but gave lie to their greater origin. Then a thrumming, deep, low noise rumbled the earth and was followed almost immediately by the rush of wind as a herd of deer bounded through the trees, bursting as if from nowhere. They ran not with fear, but with the same exuberance as those voices which followed: and amongst the soft pounding of their cloven hooves came the silent tread of the fleetest of the voices, her bare legs turning over with incredible speed down the incline, leaping and darting, turning and grasping, heedless of the twigs that whipped her skin. Tavari Mordagnir, clad only in the briefest of bark-brown smocks, bounded amongst the deer, the silver peals of her laughter echoing off antler-horn and tree trunk alike, Her wheaten hair whipped unbound behind her, and her periwinkle eyes danced with glittering starlight, for all the world a spirit of Nessa, abandoned to the wilds.

But soon the others followed behind: other elves, clad with similar immodesty, pelting down the hill in pursuit of the one who runs with deers, inexorable in their mission to reach the lake. Barely before the edge of the massive waterbody did the trees end, and the feral nís burst from their hold in a shower of needles. The deer broke away and continued on their path further into the forest, while Tavari carried her momentum straight forward and threw herself off the edge of the cliff with a wordless, ululating yell. Her lean body formed into a taught dive above the lake surface and she plunged in deep, deep into the cold water, the breath driving out of her nose in a long stream of bubbles. As she made her way back to the surface, soft booms indicated the arrival of others in the water, and a great cacophony of splashing and shouting and laughing met her ears as her head broke the surface of the water. No sooner had it done so than did she dive back beneath again: having looked up, she saw the rapidly descending body of her king, arms wrapped around the legs bent to his chest, plummeting directly toward her. Though she had escaped damage, the force of his cannonballed body moved the water so that it initially buffeted her, then sucked her towards him. Their bodies collided beneath the water and his hands attempted to grab for her, but Tavari evaded, and twisted about. Even as both their heads were about to break the surface, she secured his shoulders in both her hands, forced him back down, and climbed onto his shoulders. Using them as a spring board, she dove away.

“Tavari!” Caranthir’s voice was mirthfully outraged when he at last emerged, spluttering, and she gave him a mocking incline of her head from her position of backstroke, “My apologies, your majesty!” Nearby, Herugon’s harsh bark of laughter rang out, and Caranthir promptly turn and, with a skillful thrust of the heel of his hand through the water, sent a gout of it directly into his champion’s face. It was Herugon’s turn to splutter now, and then, seeing the petty behavior of their king and his senior advisor’s, the rest of the elves, Noldo and Sinda alike, joined in, and the once tranquil surface of Lake Helevorn turned into a full-fledged water fight. It was a far cry from the stately halls of some of their fellows, but this was the way the elves of Thargelion liked it: none of them was to high or noble to indulge in the blessings of their adopted home, and to appreciate each moment of their long lives. Some time later, when the sun had nearly sunk below the horizon and darkness drawn on early due to the mountainous peaks, the revelers had lit fires upon the beach. It was a narrow strand near to the cliffs by which they had first entered the lake, with soft black sand and large rocks and logs here and there. Against one of these last leaned Tavari, in the flickering glow of the largest fire. Others were gathered about it as well, singing and playing upon instruments they had contrived to retrieve from somewhere, and a few, some of them inspired by good forest wine, had begun to dance in the firelight. Caranthir slipped over the top of the log and settled next to Tavari.

“I need to ask a favor of you.”


There was something in his tone that caused her brown to quirk in suspicion. “Why do I suspect that if you were to say what you’re about to say to anyone else, it would be a command?”

“Because you are terribly insightful.”

“What is it, Carnistir?”

The King of Thargelion snorted and flexed his fingers to and from a fist, watching himself perform the action. “My brother has called a summit in Estolad, to liaise with the mortals there and attempt to recruit more to our cause,” there was no need to specify which brother- that phrasing always meant Maedhros, “As the mortals of my realm are the Haladin and have no desire but to keep to themselves and occasionally trade with us –which I certainly do not begrudge them- it is especially important that we are on good terms with the other houses.”

“That may be the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Well as you may have noticed, arimelda (most dear, Q), I am a king. Kings must, on occasion, do diplomacy.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Yes, well,” Caranthir sighed, his grey eyes turning broody in the umber light, “this time I think it must be necessary. Which is why I am sending you.”

“What?!” Tavari’s head jerked to face him, “Why not go yourself, or send Herugon? Surely either of you in your official capacities would be better.”

“I feel I must stay here. We are stable enough now that I could go, but I want to assure the people that I’m not abandoning them in favor of new allies. The Sindar have begun to call Thargelion Dor-Caranthir in my name, and that loyalty cannot be counted. And we certainly don’t need the Haladin to turn against us.”

Tavari nodded in concession. “Very well. Why not Herugon?”

“It’s bound to be a delicate conversation. Do you really think he’s the better choice?” As though in reply, a raucous, drunken, bray of laughter came from Herugon himself, who was swinging a giggling elf-maid about near the fire. Tavari snorted.

“Very well. If it’s a matter of diplomacy, I suppose I have a better chance of success than he.”

“And,” Caranthir interjected before she could continue, “Finrod Felagund comes with a company of his own. I think it likely-"

Quick as a striking snake Tavari came to her knees and whipped around, laying her fingers over the lips of her king. “Sssh,” her eyes implored, “Do not give me too much hope. It is likely you are right, but I would not hear it spoken aloud.” Caranthir’s own eyes softened, and his hand came up to grasp hers, pulling it away from his mouth.

“Very well, my suspicious Lady.” Then his eyes turned to mischief and he leapt to his feet. “Come! Tomorrow you must ride to Estolad, Herugon must ride to Lothlann, and I must rule in solitude. Let us revel tonight like we did once under treelight. Dance with me.”
Tavari arose with the pull of his hands and her laughter mingled with the song and music of the others.

“Yes, my Lord!”
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Estolad. FA 320.
Too Many Cooks.

originally posted in Ages of Arda: Children of Endor

The scent of Maedhros’s tea curled from his cup and permeated the room, setting the inner edges of Tavari’s nostrils aquiver. She had never been fond of cassian smells, a fact that caused her mild agitation as most others seemed to find them so comforting. There was an element of warmth about such a smell even though it tormented her, making its dislike full of all the more discomfit. With a short exhalation through her nose, Tavari laughed at herself: such a silly thing to be grousing about, and yet life was in the details. The ripple of Maglor’s mandolin brought her back to the events at hand, and she turned to face the gathering, where Earenolwë was showing Maedhros’s housecarle, Lantaelen, the cheerful ring he had obtained from an Atan glassblower. She was about to mention how from certain angles the shade of the ring matched the peculiar hue of Lantaelen’s eyes, when Maglor interrupted his brother’s speech, and the room paused. “This is as far as you go, Kinslayers!” A strident voice shouted the words, and Tavari bristled. It was no lie that they had been among those at Alqualondë who had participated in the killing of elf by elf, nor was it uncommon knowledge. But the obviously capitalized noun in the sentence branded them, and there was no elf that had the right to judge their actions. “If they’re going to call us names, they might at least take them as a warning,” the nís growled under her breath to Earenolwë, “they at least know what elven rage looks like.” Herumacil’s voice rose then, of course, taking this opportunity to call back to the approaching party, and Tavari turned to Maedhros as he rose, strapping on her swordbelt. Her typical dual baldric she had abandoned for the moment- there was no need to appear fully armed with sword, bow, and quiver, but she did not feel this the occasion to be completely unencumbered, either. The corner of her mouth quirked up as she replied to Maedhros with grim humor, “I should gladly lend you one of mine, otorno (sworn-brother, Q), but I would be afraid of not having it returned in one piece.”

When the Fëanorions and their cohorts exited the pavilion it was into brilliant sunshine, and their eyes were briefly dazzled. They turned in the light and strode towards the approaching company, Maglor at Maedhros’s right shoulder, and Tavari at his left. The party they viewed was led by Finrod Felagund, of whom the voice of Edrahil had shouted, and- at the sight of him, it was all Tavari could do to keep herself from shrieking aloud and throwing herself across the intervening space to his arms: Arasoron, as dark as she was tawny, at Finrod’s side and looking as astounded as she was sure she did. Her heart raced and a huge grin grew across her face, her eyes shone bright and she practically bounced with glee; it was surely only Maglor descreetly poking her in the ribs behind Maedhros’s back which stopped her from running towards her brother, her twin, her fëa entwined. She cared not a whit for the sword Edrahil had leveled at Erfaron. As the two parties met, Tavari wrestled her face back under control, though she could not resist glancing repeatedly at Arasoron as Finrod and the others conversed. She was unconcerned by those few mortals who departed the scene upon hearing confirmation of the Kinslaying that had occurred: she knew very well from the Haladin that while murder was a grievous crime, killing in battle had no such weight among men as it did among elves. If there were mortals who judged elves for their deeds harsher than they would judge their own people for the same deeds, by her account they were not the mortals they needed.

Only when Finrod mentioned the prohibition of Quenya did her countenance at all darken: this was an outrage perpetrated by Thingol, not only because Quenya was the more beautiful and elegant of the Elven languages, but because restricting the use of anyone’s native speech was a hideous crime. It was one thing for an elven kingdom to have a primary language different from Quenya: Sindarin had developed in Beleriand and taken on a life of its own, most of Thingol’s subjects had it as their native and only tongue, such a thing only made sense. But to outlaw its elder sister out of spite, the effects of which could already be seen in Quenya’s dwindling usage? Tavari would never forgive Thingol for that. Apart from this, she could practically feel waves of disapproval from Herumacil, and a smirk tugged at her lips, renewing the vigor of her face. Clearly, he was not pleased with the company he now kept, and the barbed exchange between Maglor and Earenowlë at his expense was most pleasing to her. Finrod cut the tension of the many meetings by releasing each to their own reunions, and Tavari’s heel expelled a clod from the turf with the force which she turned on it, away from the potential intrusions of any of the others, particularly those with whom she might be inclined to exchange sharp words, and collided wordlessly with Arasoron. Her arms clenched tight about him, with a force that would have crushed any mortal man, but through which she sought to communicate delight at their reunion, sorrow at their long parting, and boundless love. “And you, háno,” she gasped finally, taking in the dark, earthy scent of him. It seemed ages since she had felt his presence, and yet no time at all. He was home as no place in Beleriand or beyond would ever be. When at last their grip upon each other loosened, Tavari’s gaze over her twin’s shoulder met briefly with Erfaron’s, before the latter’s eyes flicked away. “Hmm,” she mused, glancing into her brother’s own viridian eyes, “Do you suppose little Sarnirion has something to say to us?”
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Return

Many long years had passed since Tavari Mordagnir had set foot in the halls of Imladris. The cities and havens of the Eldar in Middle Earth had long been foreign to her; she was a wanderer and watcher of the world, more often than not solitary in her venturings, drawn only seldomly to populated places. Tavari had always been a traveler, long ago roaming the world with her brother, Arasoron, when it was new, the two of them like two bodies sharing one fëa. But now as for centuries she walked alone and eldest, bereft of the indescribable and inescapable bond she had once shared with her onóna (twin, Q). This was not to say that her mood was always melancholic; the nís’s will and the fire that glinted in her eyes were as strong as ever, but though she did not dwell in sorrow, on occasion she found herself standing at the top of some cliff overlooking the sea, or in a secluded clearing, speaking aloud to the air.

Tavari stood now at the threshold of the Hall of Fire, listening to the babel of voices from within and the faint undertone of the ever-licking flames. She leant for the moment in a slight recess just outside the entrance, taking in the scene within, and Imladris in its turn observed her. Her frame rose tall and to just the lean side of slender, tempered by years of walking. The hair which grew long from her head and tumbled down beyond her back in glistening waves was golden, standing out starkly against the deep, forested green of her gown. It was a simple garment, long sleeves lined in black and trimmed with the same, a touch of silver glimmering in the fabric here and there, and belted at the waist with a soft silver rope. In its simplicity was an elegance which suited Tavari well, in despite of her usual utilitarian garb. As she observed the Hall one could see that her gaze was blue and piercing, though if the onlooker were to peer close enough, a smile lay hidden just beneath its surface.

After a final moment’s consideration, Tavari slipped inside the Hall. It bustled with activity, filled with people young and old, the elves of Imladris and their guests. Talk filled the air, and as she moved at the perimeter of the euphoria, she could hear a voice raised in song- deep and mournful, and she saw that Lord Elrond had sung, completing his verse mere seconds after she had entered the Hall. Removing her gaze from the Lord of Imladris, Tavari cast about, certain that he would be here, and continued her way about the periphery, until- yes, tall and strong among the crowd, alike such that they could have been mistaken for ónoni (twins, Q), her eyes found him. He was deep in conversation with another elf, looking very serious indeed, and a pang struck her heart. The years had changed them both, but it was the similarities which caused Tavari’s chest to swell, and she wondered what he would feel upon seeing her.

She made her way through the crowd nearer the tables, to where several musicians had gathered, and spoke quietly to an elf who’s skillful fingers had been plucking out a tune on a harp. He looked surprised, then nodded, picking out a few more notes as she hummed softly to him. Once in agreement, they both moved forward. Tavari stepped into an open space at the center of the room, near to the group surrounding Elrond, but far enough that several strides would be required to cross the floor before reaching her. With a last quick glance at the harper, she inhaled deeply and began to sing. Her voice was both strong and edged with a ghostliness that caused it to lift above the chatter of the room, the words and melody of her song incongruously peaceful.

Undulávë ilyë
Tier lomé,
Ar caita mornië
Sindanóriello
I falmalinnar imbë met,
Oialë.

At the edge of darkness
Hope is whispering still,
Tender, unerring,
Gently stirring,
Memories unfurling in the mind,
Warm wind from a far, forgotten country,
Long left behind.

Wandering the empty road
In twilight’s silver shade,
Following the hidden paths
Alone and unafraid.
Let the sunlight free the heart,
Forever bound to roam
And let the waking morning find
The weary traveler returning home.


(The Song of Hope, The Lord of the Rings (stage musical), modified)


It was a song born of trial and solitude, but also a memory of joy. The writing of it had been long, and none but the birds and trees had ever heard the nís sing of it. As the final words left her lips, she turned her face towards Aigronding across the space between them, seeking his eyes. The last note of her strident voice died away, throbbing over the strum of the harper, and Tavari turned, closing the distance between the two of them, and casting her words now to him.

“Máravë omentaina, háno. Lúmë anta avánië.” (Well met, brother. It has been a long time, Q)
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Dinner in the Hall of Fire/First Meetings
originally posted in The Hall of Fire. A post by Aig is missing between the two parts


Part 1

The last homely house East of the sea had been well named, and Tavari had found herself well provided for. Even luxuriously so- the chambers provided for her by Lord Elrond on her first night in Imladris had tempted her to escape their softness into the outdoors- but, weary from travel, she had succumbed to their blissful embrace. Soon after she had gone to Nossehtele Tirno, the manor of her brother, who had immediately installed her in her own rooms there amongst their family. The few days that had followed had encompassed a slew of meetings; relations and family friends whom the wandering nís had never met, and tours of the hall and surrounded. This day Tavari had lain late abed and slipped quietly from the manor to invest in her own exploration of the vale. She had spent hours in the valley alone the day waning into evening as she examined tree and plant, taking moments to sit beside meandering streams and speak to a bold squirrel that crossed her path, singing small songs to herself. Now and again her voice was joined by one singing tra-la-la-lally as an inhabitant of the valley’s edge made themselves known. In this way she made the acquaintance of several elves who did not often come to Elrond’s halls, though they called his vale home.

But now twilight had come to Imladris, and Tavari had taken herself to the homely house, to seek out he Hall of Fire to which she had first returned. Aigronding was a busy nér, a leader of warriors and herald to Elrond, and she had not seen as much of him these past few days as she would have liked. She was certain that he would be here, as he often was on an evening. And she was not mistaken- as Tavari entered the hall she caught sight of him seated at the feasting board, poring over some papers, with two of his daughters nearby, Isabeau and Silmiel. So many nieces and nephews! For one who had been without family for as many centuries as she, it was almost overwhelming. “Do not look so dour, háno (brother, Q),” she said by way of greeting to him, a smile curving her lips. “The evening is yet young, you will have plenty of time to choose the perfect verse.” Tavari paused to bob a small curtsy and offer a greeting to Lord Elrond at the head of the table, before gathering a handful of her moss-colored frock into her hand and sliding into the seat next to Aigronding. Her garb was much as it had been her first night here; simple, with an inherent elegance, the long-sleeved gown belted at her waist with a simple two ring leather strap. Today several small braids bound the mass of her wheaten hair back from her face, out of which her periwinkle eyes sparkled at her brother.

For a moment then they turned away as Glorfindel greeted her. They had met on the day Tavari had come to Imladris, and upon her coming he lifted his platter and moved down the table slightly to allow her room. “Suilanyel,” he said in his merry voice, still edged with laughter. “It is good that you join us this evening, I think if you had not, Mordagnir’s face may have fallen completely off.” Tavari grasped Aigronding’s hand and squeezed it lightly, smiling at Glorfindel before turning to give her brother a swift kiss on his cheek. Silmiel pushed her way between them then, and extended an arm to her aunt, who lifted the small elleth into her lap. Silmiel offered the plate she carried, upon which was another slice of the pie she had been eating, and which had become slightly squished in the journey from her previous seat. “Oh no, pinig (little one, S),” Tavari said, placing the plate on the table before them. “I am not very fond of sweets. You have this one too. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”



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An incoherent shout and a clatter sounded from outside the Hall of Fire, followed by a skidding of feet, and the doors to the hall burst open. A tall, lean ellon hurtled in, arms flailing, long mahogany hair whipping out behind him as he spun to face the doors, which he quickly shut behind him. Holding them closed, he pressed one ear to the door and listened as footsteps pounded past, chortling. He was a Silvan elf, slightly swarthy of skin, with bright dark eyes and a clever mouth that now twitched with merriment. An only child, his parents had named him after their jubilation- and so he was Gellam, Thranduil’s fool of Greenwood the Great, now an emissary of the Elvenking in Imladris. He had come once to the valley and, by his king’s leave, remained. Perhaps the revelry was not as unrestrained as it was in his home of Mirkwood, but there was plenty of opportunity for the wood-elf to frolic, and Gellam did love a good frolic.

His garb was somewhat less than formal, a rustic jerkin of russet, belted at the waist, with a row of buttons curving up from waist to throat, though the top few were now undone with a flap of the jerking handing down. From beneath the jerkin protruded the full sleeves of his butterscotch colored tunic, gathered into brightly embroidered cuffs at the wrist, and his breeches were of dark green, disappearing into the tops of his tall, soft boots. A long baglike brown cap surmounted his head, holding fast just above the brow, so that his hair disappeared beneath it and emerged again from beneath its fold, from which hung a small bell, on the opposite side. Gellam thrust the cause of the commotion, a pilfered pastry, into his pocket and bounded into the room, coming to a halt before the table to sweep the cap off his head with a jangle and execute an extravagant bow, complete with elegantly extended leg, in Elrond’s direction. “My Lord, looking in excellent health this day!” Sidling over to the canopied chair, from the air the wood-elf plucked an immaculate lily. “And my Lady, fair as the stars.” He complemented, extending his arm to hand Arwen the flower.

As Gellam looked up to survey the rest of the company, his eyes alighted upon a fair elleth he did not know (Tavari), who held the girl Silmiel, and his grin broadened. He clapped Erestor on the back as he passed addressing the dour elf, “Come come! How can you look so glum! The presence of such beauties in this room ought to brighten anyone’s day. Eh, Glorfindel?” Gellam leaned in beside his friend, a fellow lover of laughter, before continuing round the festive board. On his approach to the elleth, who sat beside Mordagnir, the Tar-Taidron’s small daughter slid down from the stranger’s lap and flew towards him, crying, “Gellam!” The fool paused in his flight to catch the girl’s hand and spin her about, then crouching to face her at eye level. “Hello little bird! Oh, what’s this?” he reached behind Silmiel’s ear, and seemed to pull from it from it a small blue flower. “What on earth was that doing there? Here, you’d better have it.” The girl squealed with delight and tucked the flower into her hair, running back to show her father.

Gellam rose and continued towards the elleth, clasping a hand over his heart and delivering a slightly less florid bow as he reached her. “Lady, forgive my forwardness, but I feel simply bound to introduce myself to, captivated as I am by your loveliness. I am called Gellam, purveyor of music, lover of wine, appreciator of beauty, and fool. Pray allow me to compose a few lines in your honor!” With a swift motion he had slid the lute that he carried slung across his back to his front, where nimble fingers grasped it. Strumming a few chords in thought, the wood-elf sang out lightly, “The hair of a maiden bright as the morning sun, from me my long-stone heart she has won, with shining blue eyes, no need to disguise, what a perilous game, O, if I but knew her name!” The fool extended his hand in the manner of men, but when the elleth (Tavari) reached out, he instead seized her hand and turned it over, planting a delicate courtly kiss on its back. Gellam straightened and lifted an eyebrow in Aigronding’s direction, still lightly grasping the elleth’s hand. “I say, sir, hadn’t you better be careful your lady wife doesn’t catch you with the beauty?”


Part 2

“Aigronding!” Tavari came swiftly to her feet as her brother yanked the lanky elf called Gellam away from her and threatened him, before casting the fool away. Her periwinkle eyes snapped at her impetuous younger brother, but she held her tongue; the wood-elf was dusting down his clothing and bowing deeply to Aigronding with a mischievous smile on his face, and as she caught his eye, he winked impudently at her. The corner of Tavari’s mouth quirked upward. She would wait until she had him alone to remind her brother that his overprotective streak had gotten him into trouble before, and he would do well to keep it in check. For now, she nodded assent to Lord Elrond, who requested she sing, reiterating the earlier request for a song from her travels, and rested a soothing hand on Aigronding’s shoulder. It seemed that Gellam had something of a reputation as a rake; still, she was not one to judge a book by its cover, and hoped that her brother did not think her any kind of fool. At least, if he were a rake, he was a charming one.

Tavari beckoned the fool, and
Gellam came swiftly to her side, grinning widely and straightening his long soft cap, its bell tinkling merrily. He dipped his head and made as if to take her hand again, then jerked his hand back as if it had been bitten by a snake and shook it fearfully, looking at her with frightened eyes. “Ah, Gellam, mustn’t touch!” the fool chided himself, before allowing his dark eyes to dance once more, and slinging the lute back around to his front. “Now, Lady Mordagnir, what shall it be! A reel? A jig? A stately air? Perchance you are learned in the songs of the Greenwood? Or something of your own composition? I hate to brag on my own skills,” (here Glorfindel gave a choking laugh, which Gellam blithely ignored) “but I have quite the ear for melodies.” Even as Tavari turned to confer with the fool, Aigronding called her attention to one who had just entered, an elleth to whom she was introduced as an aunt- Varda’s stars! Would the relations never cease, she would have to ask Aigronding if she had not loved him enough as a child, for his adopting all who crossed his path. The flaxen haired nís smiled- he had a kind heart, her brother.

It was then that one entered whom Tavari did know, though it had been long since she had laid eyes upon the elleth, longer even than since she had sighted Aigronding before returning to Imladris. Almarëa had come to the Hall of Fire, travel worn, but hale looking. The breath caught in her throat as her brother rushed to Almarëa and no words came to her lips. But even as Aigronding made to lead the elleth from the hall, Tavari’s eyes sought hers, and promised wordlessly that she would later make up for her lack. Before he guided the new guest from the hall, her brother instructed Glorfindel to look after Tavari, which caused one of her golden eyebrows to raise fractionally, but again she said nothing. At Glorfindel’s remark, however, she laughed merrily, the silvery sound causing her eyes to dance again. “My, it seems there are no end of compliments to be found in this vale, I ought have returned years ago. My Lord, but a moment, and I will acquiesce to your request.” Tavari said, directing this last to Elrond. She beckoned Gellam to her and the wood-elf came quickly as they stepped apart.

Whilst they conferred, several strangers entered the hall (Raj, Líriél, Loewan), but none seemed eager to take up Elrond’s invitation to entertain. Snatches of humming and the brief plucking of strings came from the corner where Tavari and Gellam were closeted for many moments, with the fool nodding eagerly alternately with moving his fingers delicately and concentratedly over the instrument. At last Tavari gave a nod, and the pair moved back towards the feasting board, where sat Elrond with his daughter and councillors. “My lord, if it please you, I have a song from my travels. Not from any recent journey, however, but from my earliest wanderings. After I came from Aman to Endor with my family, I spent many years exploring this Middle-Earth, and this was the first song I happened to compose on these shores.” As the fair elleth turned her face to nod to Gellam and the first quivering notes spilled from his lute, a shaft of evening sunlight streamed through an upper window to catch Tavari in its beam, illuminating her golden hair with its radiance, and sparkling against her skin. Her voice moved soft and lilting over the hall, much as it had when first she had come there, and the fool plucked a rippling counterpoint to her song.


Land of bear and land of eagle
Land that gave us birth and blessing
Land that calls us ever homeward
We will go home across the mountains

Hear our singing, hear our longing
Hear our tales of hearth and fire
Here is our joy our sons and daughters
We will go home across the mountains

We will go home,
We will go home
We will go home
We will go home across the mountains
We will go home
We will go home
We will go home singing our songs

Sapphire skies and diamond waters
Emerald forests stretching higher
Golden fields that never tarnish
We will go home across the mountings

Land of bear and land of eagle
Land that gave us birth and blessing
Land that calls us ever homeward
We will go home across the mountains

We will go home,
We will go home
We will go home
We will go home across the mountains
We will go home
We will go home
We will go home singing our songs

(Song of the Exile – Pandora Celtica, adjusted)


As she sang, Tavari allowed her eyes to drift briefly closed, remembering the first time she had sung this song; long, long ago, centuries before the lord of this vale had even been born, long ago when her twin still lived and his strong hand grasped her shoulder, tear sheen glinting in his eyes; long ago, when only the crackling of the fire had accompanied her voice, and life had been uncertain but full of joy. When the first refrain drifted from her lips she forced her eyes to reopen and saw a golden head re-entering the hall; it turned to reveal Aigronding, and from across the hall she caught her brother’s gaze as he stopped, knowing that he, too, would be lost in remembrances. Strength and passion filled the song, but longing also, unutterable in any other way, and sadness as well. But today was a day of joy, and so at the end, when the last high, soft notes hung upon the air Tavari permitted them not to be mournful, but wistfully yearning.
When at last they had died away, Gellam slumped against the great fireplace, his dark eyes shining with admiration, and heaved a great sigh, at which Tavari had the grace to blush.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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The Silver Arrow
originally posted in Pelennor Fields - The Silver Arrow Contest

Part 1

It had been a number of years since Darellon had taken up bow to compete in the tournament of the Silver Arrow. When he had retired from training soldiers to the sword he had also retired from competition, leaving the quest for the arrow to younger and fitter men. The bow was not and had never been the Dúnadan’s forté, even when he was young, rather a skill which he fostered of necessity and enjoyment. Yet every year since his coming to Minas Tirith he had entered the contest, and this year Darellon had determined that it was high time for a return. He was old; not the oldest of his race, but the years had moved more quickly on him these past few years, and pains and ill-health had dogged his days. Nevertheless, Balakân retained his upright stature- his height and the breadth of his shoulders echoing the vitality of his youth, limbs slightly withered but not wasted, pride still evident in the tilt of his chin and the kind gleam of his grey eye. Today was a good day, and the Dúnadan had even cast aside the knobbly blackthorn stick he customarily used to aid his steps and strode out confidently, if more slowly than he might in the past. The once-black hair that touched his back, now silver only threaded with the darker hue, had been groomed and tied neatly at his nape with a frayed bit of dark blue cloth.

Darellon made his way through the crowds on the Pelennor until he had reached the table where the scribe, Amrir, sat with the judges. Several others were declaring their intention to compete as he arrived, young noblemen and a fair elleth- far from her home. When at last it was his turn, he stepped up to the table. “Darellon Balakân, competitor.” He said evenly, and took up the quill. His script as he signed the ledger was strong and unruly, the same as it would be found on many pages before in the same book, from past contests. The Dúnadan examined the selection of bows and arrows carefully. He had come unencumbered of any weapons of his own. There had been days when he, like many of the young men present, had carried his sword everywhere, be there the potential of danger or not, but these days he preferred to save his back the weight. And the weapons needed for this competition were provided by its sponsors, so he bore no more than the clothes on his back: black trousers tucked into black leather boots, overlaid by a long tunic of grey, embroidered with silver at collar and cuffs; simple finery. Darellon’s still-trim waist was cinched by a broad leather belt fastened by three buckles, and a long bracer protected his left forearm in preparation for the games.

The quality of the weaponry was high this year, no less than he had expected, and Darellon selected a tall longbow. It was a fine, springy bow of yew, well aged and well soaked with tallow and sealed in resin, strung in hemp. There were those who scorned the longbow for its size and unwieldiness, but the old Dúnadan liked it for its solid efficiency, and the strength it required. Moving to the selection of arrows, Darellon carefully chose his first six, examining them for length and sighting along each shaft for smooth and soundness. Each was a long and fine shaft suitable for the longbow, fletched in black and equipped with a long bodkin head. These in hand, he moved to an empty lane, straw butt standing ninety yards away, and thrust the arrows into the soft ground, each shafting standing in wait for its turn. Darellon settled his feet, feeling the grass beneath his boots as he aligned himself with his target. He lifted the longbow, curling his fingers about it and lifting one slender shaft to nock against the string. His movements were slow and unhurried as he drew back on the string, the back of his hand brushing against his weathered cheek. Darellon’s breathing was slow and even as he sighted on the target, and in that instant between one breath, one heartbeat and the next he loosed his shaft.

Part 2

“Well.” Darellon rubbed somewhat bemusedly at his chin. It seemed that age and experience did count for something, after all- confidence, too. For it was certainly not by a superiority of pure skill that he had managed to achieve six bullseyes in the first round. True enough, it was the easiest of the rounds with the butts a mere 90 yards away. Nevertheless, the Dúnadan had expected only a good score, not a perfect one. But it seemed that luck or fate or a hand from above was with all the contestants that day, for each of his competitors had also managed a perfect score in the first round! A low whistle escaped Darellon’s teeth. The competition was surely stiff this year, even odds into the second round. He watched as the butts were moved back in preparation for the next round, and took the moment’s respite to examine the other archers more closely. The serious looking young noble (Hallas) who had shot first in the previous round now stepped up at once again, with the eagerness of youth. If he had to hazard a guess, Darellon would judge from the description that his son Kamion had given him that this was young Pehwarin, a soldier of the Vanguard. Headstrong, his son had said, but worthy. And so it seemed.

The next man the old Dúnadan did not know, but he (Alcarnor) was regal looking and apart in age from most of the rest, though Darellon quietly suspected that, with the possible exception of the two elves who graced the Pelennor with their presence, he held the crown of most decrepit archer. He chuckled, watching as the elleth (Lailinwen) made her shots cool and cleanly, and the others who followed. Lastly before Darellon stepped to mark was Captain Ziranphel of the Vanguard, under whose command his son served. He gave her a courteous nod before stepping up to take his place. Thoughts of his opponents vanished as he gazed down the field at his target, and fingered the end of the first arrow below its fletches, the smooth wood rotating beneath his calloused fingertips. This was no different than the first round, really; the slightest calculations came into play, a careful absorption of the details of wind and weather, the trembling or stillness of one’s muscles and the sureness of one’s eye. The years had blessed Darellon with the full use of his sight, and as he lifted his bown, nocked with the first shaft of the second round, his gaze was steady upon the bull.

Part 3

The blood hummed in the old Dúnadan’s veins and pounded against his ears as he saw the final of his second six arrows strike the bull. Each had followed the straight course of the last, impaling the center of his target with a sure swiftness. Perhaps the secret to refining a skill was to let it lie dormant for a time, and approach it with fresh eyes! Darellon laughed aloud, unable to contain his surprised delight at his score. A roguish grin, worthy of a man of far younger years, crept onto his face as he joined the line of archers waiting for the butts to be moved back for the third round and leant upon his longbow. Maybe he would show them up yet; how astonished would Kamion be if his doddering old father brought home the silver arrow! He stood near enough to hear Alcarnor mutter to himself about becoming too old for such competitions and chuckled. One was never too old for a little healthy sport- it seemed that Alcarnor was not about to give up yet, for he gave a good accounting of himself in the third round, striking the bull with his fifth arrow. Pehwarin followed, but the young man’s hastiness was perhaps misplaced, and his score faltered.

A young man took the lead, but was swiftly overshadowed by the woman Likus, who struck the bull twice. Darellon rubbed his hands together, watching as the next competitor, a young girl, stepped up. This was the distance that would separate the real competitors from the pack, and it seemed that the winnowing was already at work. With Likus in the lead, and the two elves as well as Captain Ziranphel yet to shoot, the Dúnadan stepped forward to take his place at the line. Six black-fletched arrows stood up from the ground at his feet, waiting patiently for their turn. Before, Darellon had considered each of his shots carefully, taking probably more time than was necessary to aim and let fly. At this level however, speed began to come into play as well. He considered the target, the distance, and inhaled a slow breath, feeling the play of the air against his face. The old muscles unused to archery were well-limbered now, remembering their tireless training of years gone by. When Darellon lifted his bow it was with a sure movement, eyes fixed on the target at hand, his heartbeat far slower than his excitement demanded.

Easy breathing, whole body attuned to the task at hand, his hand darted out to lift the first shaft from the ground and set it to the string, nocking and drawing in one easy movement. The distance was considered, factored in, and the intimidation of it dismissed. The black feathers brushed against his cheek as he released the arrow. Not waiting to see where it had struck, Darellon gripped the second shaft, rolling it within his fingers to align the fletches as he brought it to meet the bow. Each movement was precise and considered, a fast-forward version of the previous two rounds. Perhaps the speed would cost him, but in this competition there was no point in holding back. Particularly not when faced with competitors a quarter your age!

Part 4

A thrill touched the Dúnadan’s spine as Captain Ziranphel completed her third round. She had amassed eighty four points, leaving him tied with the ellon Aduchil for first place. Darellon had expected no less, having watched the performance of his competitor throughout the preceding rounds, but now the contest for the silver arrow would enter into an unprecedented –even in all the years that he himself had been competing- fourth round to determine the winner. This threw all those archers who had attained eighty points or more back into the mix, and Darellon began to do quick computations in his head as the butts were being moved back yet further. If the closest competitors behind, tied at eighty-four points, somehow scored six bulls, he would need twenty-seven points to beat them- twenty-five for the next, twenty-four and twenty-three. No less than his score in the third round. Still, Darellon thought, glancing down the field at the distant butts, it was unlikely that anyone could perform such a feat; six bulls at such a distance was nigh unthinkable, even for elf-kind. For a moment he watched Aduchil, diverting his attention from the lad who had stepped up to shoot. They had each selected the same type of bow, a resolute longbow of yew, strung with hemp. Their arrows were of a type, favoring the head of long bodkin. Each had as required drawn equipment from the stores of the contest, so no unfair advantage could be gained in that respect. The contest would be decided by skill alone… and perhaps a dash of fortune.

Fortune was a fickle thing, Darellon mused as he returned his eyes to the archer at hand, watching as one of Tathai’s arrows struck the middle band of the butt. Bad fortune had brought him to this city half a century ago, and fair fortune allowed him to remain until his limbs grew tired with the years of his work, but the fruits of his labor went out over the West as knights and soldiers, able and strong. And fair fortune had allowed him the life beyond battle and trial to see his greatest labor grow from boy to man within the proud walls of the White City. Kamion was a son of whom any man would be rightly prideful, with the strength and honor of any noble son of Gondor, the height and air of their Númenorean forefathers, the inquisitive mind of a scholar, and the quiet grace of the mother he had never known. Unconsciously, Darellon pressed his hand to his heart, and felt the crinkle of parchment beneath. The Dúnadan slipped a weathered hand into his breast pocket and drew out a folded square of heavy stock. It was yellowed and feathered about the edges from the passage of time and constant handling, a crinkle spidering here and there across it. But as he unfolded the page to look down at the sketch upon it, Haldanis stared back at him through the years as clearly as though pencil had been put to paper only yesterday, the lush waves of her raven hair falling into infinity where the strokes of the pencil had ended. The drawing was simple, a quick effort by a fellow Northman that had taken mere moments, but Darellon kept it with him always. For luck, he said; well, he was certainly in sore need of that today. Chuckling quietly past the momentary pang in his heart, he slipped the drawing back into its hiding place. Oh Hala, he thought, if you could but see the notions of an old man, you would laugh ‘til dusk.

“Father!” The shout pulled Darellon out of his reverie. He turned quickly to see, pushing his way to the front of the crowd, waving an arm, Kamion emerging from the spectators towards him. With a quick glance at the field to ascertain that the butts were occupied, Darellon stepped away from the group of archers to reach the edge of the crowd and clasp his son by the arm. “You got away, then.” He said by way of greeting, grinning. Kamion laughed and clapped his father on the back. “Of course. All I had to do was mention that you were back in contention for the arrow, and all the business suddenly took care of itself extremely quickly. And you certainly are in contention, tied with the elf in the final round.” Darellon nodded slowly. “Aye, but the game is far from over yet. Six archers yet to loose in the fourth, myself included, and plenty of opportunity for a miss. It’s no mean distance we’re up against now, and the other fellow’s got better eyes, no doubt.” “As you say the game’s not over yet, and eyes aren’t everything.” Kamion replied, shaking the tousled strands of black hair out of his face. “You were a ranger before any of these men and women were born, the lady elleth is out of the race, and as for the ellon, well, perhaps it’s time to show that men are just as able with a bow!” Darellon laughed. His son’s grin had taken on a cheeky cast, an expression too seldom seen since his younger days, with the responsibilities of command now weighing on him. “We shall see. Stand here now, I must go make my final shots.”

Darellon strode towards the line after Likus, who had just completed her fourth round. Only fifteen points needed to pass the young woman, and the Dúnadan was confident in scoring at least that much. There would be five others to beat after him though- but now was not the time to think of that, only to concentrate on the task at hand. As with each round before, he thrust the six black-fletched arrows into the grass at his feet, before taking up his stance. Again as before he made conscious note of his body. His bad leg ached from the long day in the field and tomorrow he would surely require the aid of his stick; the bracer protecting his forearm had trapped a fold of fabric that over the course of the competition had chafed a score into the flesh below, and his right ached, deltoid throbbing, with the unfamiliar effort of repeatedly drawing the powerful bow. Nevertheless, the long slow weariness that could entrap a soldier and spell his downfall had not overtaken the old man, and his mind remained clear. Long experience had taught Darellon that the mind was more often than not more powerful than the body, and so put his hurts to one side. There would be time enough for hot baths and rest when the day was through. Lifting the bow with his first arrow nocked, he closed his eyes. Several seconds passed as he focused inward, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing became slow and even, and listening to the rhythm of the heart that followed suit. Control, precision, power.

When at last Darellon’s eyes snapped open their calm grey gaze was fixed firmly on the distant butt and at once the first arrow sped away. He nocked a second without delay and sent it winging hard on the heels of the first. For the honor of Men, he silently affirmed, drawing the third arrow back, its black fletches brushing against his scarred cheek. For the courage of the North. For the stalwart South. Three and four shafts hummed through the clean Pelennor air, seeking their target with a fervid purpose. The Dúnadan thought of Karis, now a leader, and the other young soldiers who had passed under his care throughout his career. For what I have given, and what I have yet to give. The fifth arrow hissed away, straight and true. Unbidden, the image of Haldanis sprang before his eyes as he reached for the sixth arrow rolling its slender shaft between his fingers. She stood before him, lithe and lovely, tossing her hair and laughing, maiden and warrior at once. When she turned to face him, the ethereal perfection of her face transformed and her startling cobalt eyes were set now in the strong face of his son, crinkling in a manner he knew so well. Win or lose this day, Darellon Balakân had family and life to return to, with the story of the unlikely Dúnadan’s quest for the peerless silver arrow. A slow smile spread itself across his face as he loosed the final shaft. For love.

Part 5

Though he had been tracking the numbers in his head as the tournament proceeded, Darellon still could scarcely believe it when his name was announced as the winner of the Silver Arrow. Surely, he had thought, the ellon Aduchil would surpass him in the final round- but by some miracle of luck or skill, the Dúnadan had come in seven points ahead of the elven archer. In all his years competing in this contest, he had never scored so high as that day, and had seen but few scores approaching it. As the first roar of the crowd began around him, Darellon was hardly aware of his own legs carrying him forward; his eyes darted about- he caught sight of Karis, and lamented the injury which had prevented her from completing the competition. Then he saw Aduchil, and wished he could stop and shake the ellon’s hand, but other hands were clapping him on the back and pushing him forward, and so the Dúnadan contented himself for now with nodding to the elf, for a competition well fought.

Darellon approached the judges, where the Steward stood, and Mirkano at his side. He stood straight and tall, his silver head held high, until Lord Denethor spoke his name and bade him approach, then the Dúnadan brought his fist to chest in salute, and as he came forward fell to one knee before the Steward. The Lord extended a small pillow towards Darellon on which rested the Silver Arrow, and as the Dúnadan extended his hand to take it, pronounced him its Keeper, to all and sundry. Mirkano handed him the small heavy sack filled with coins, and Darellon rose again, turning to face the crowd; those against whom he had competed, and those who had come to watch. From somewhere, someone shouted his name, Balakân! Then others began to join, until the field echoed with the sound of the old Dúnadan’s name. Looking over the crowd he could his son, see Kamion cheering with the rest, a grin splitting his face as he pumped his arm in the air. Darellon’s eyes creased with his broad smile, and the edge of a tear glistened in one’s corner. Though he was not given to show, as the noise of the cheers washed over him, Darellon clenched his hand around the Silver Arrow, and raised it above his head in triumph.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 1

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Swiltang Yarltang
+many miscellaneous minions, Elladan, Elrohir, Gildor

The ruined fortress at Trollshaws was pitchlike in the darkness before dawn. Even as Tar-Taidron Mordagnir and Lord Elrond surveyed the scene, they were in turn surveyed by the ruins and those who haunted them. Though most of the small host of orc and troll who occupied the are lay in wait underground, several of the more asute and bow-carrying among them hid peppered about the surface ruins, on the lookout for any elves who would come seeking their captured kin. Each of the elf nobles was secreted in a different place about the ruin and heavily guarded. It was rare that the minions of this region captured such valuable prisoners, and they were not about to let them escape so easily…

~

Bog (troll), Swiltang (orc) & co. – Facing Merl’s group

“Why can’t we eat ‘im now?” Bog asked nastily, prodding the elf’s shoulder with one large, callous-encrusted finger. “I ain’t et an elf in ages! All we had is mutton,” the troll shuddered, “that skinny little orc who couldn’t keep up and grass for the past week! Grass! Idunno ‘bout you lot but I’m used to eatin’ better’n that.”

“Shut it, Bog.” An orc replied shortly from the corner of the cellar, where he had lit an abandoned torch in its bracket, illuminating the room with a small, unsteady light. “We need him for information. Won’t be much good if he’s dead, will he?” Swiltang (for this was his name) turned away from the torch and crossed to where the elf sat on the hard-packed floor, hands and legs bound. Swiltang was uncommonly tall for an orc, lean and twisted, with a permanent vicious sneer on his discolored face, and he showed his pointed teeth as he leaned over the elf. “And you’re going to cooperate, aren’t you?”

Elrohir’s lip curled as the orc leader drew nearer, bringing with him the vile stench that always seemed to accompany the creatures. Clearly one of the qualifications for leadership among the yrch was an even greater lack of personal hygiene than the rest exhibited. The son of Elrond had been thrown to the floor of this pit some time earlier, to be badgered and prodded by a ravenous troll. He was weary and battered, but with no wound serious enough to diminish his ability to resist and defy. He hoped only that his brother and the others were of a similar state as he drew breath to fling a scathing reply back at the orc.

Before Elrohir could begin his retort, a shout distinctly not the voice of yrch or troll came form the stairwell leading away from the cellar. Swiltang whipped round, drawing his wicked, curved blade. “What are you waiting for?” he bawled at the other orcs gathered in the cellar. “Get them!” He laid about with the flat of his blade at the slowest of the bunch, then turned back to his prisoner to see Bog hauling the elf up by his arms. “Just a bite, Swil!” the troll moaned, bringing his gaping mouth close to Elrohir’s shoulder. Swiltang sprang towards, slicing into Bog’s shoulder. The troll gave a low roar and dropped the elf back to the ground. “Get out there, or you’ll have none, do you hear?!” the orc spat, jabbing his fist at the stairs, from the top of which he began to hear the cries of his command as they met the elves above. Grudgingly Bog seized his enormous blunt hammer from where it had stood against the wall and lumbered up to stairs. Swiltang dragged Elrohir to a sitting position against the wall and stood beside him, sword across the elf’s throat, eyes fixed on the door.

Bog crested the stairs to meet the carcasses of four orcs, impaled upon the spears of the elves. He stepped on them as he pounded out into the hallway, roaring, hammer upraised. Two points of stinging pain erupted in his arm and caught sight of two archers- Bog broke the shafts from where they stuck in his arm. “Come on!” he bellowed, “Let’s have elf flesh for breakfast!” He chose a pair of elves near to him (Merl & Mar), one with a long polearm (Merl) and swung the hammer wildly down at them.

~

Red (troll), Eck (troll) & co. - Facing Aldahir’s group

Deep in the dungeons of the ruined fortress, far below the ground and way from the coming fingers of the malevolent sun, sat Red and Eck, talking together. They completely ignored the group of orcs that accompanied them, and were discussing the finer methods of preparing elf, or whether it ought to be prepared at all. The orcs were crowded together at the opposite side of the hallway that stood before the cells, muttering and complaining about having to deal with the inconvenience of trolls who had minds of their own and couldn’t go out in the sunlight. Between and behind the two groups, in a cell barred with a twisted bar of iron, sat Gildor, who was in a mood. The elf was seated cross-legged upon the shelf-like slab of wood which hung by chains from the wall and must at some point have served as the bed for those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned here.

Now one of those unfortunates himself, Gildor allowed his thoughts to wander to his comrades and fellow captives. In a surprisingly tactical move, the leader of the orcs had separated them, and he could only wonder what had become of Erestor, Elladan and Elrohir. Given the discussion of the two trolls, which he was attempting not to listen to, any or all of them could be residing in the bellies of both troll and orc by now. Nevertheless, whether any of them were alive by the end of the night, Gildor was certain that Lord Elrond would not allow the abduction of his sons to go unpunished.

“Now listen, Red.” Said Eck, in as persuasive a tone as he could muster, “there’s no point in cooken ‘em at all. You loses all the juices that way!”

“Idunno, Eck, give me a nice crispy elf skin anytime.”

“How about we compromises then, you can skin him and give it a toast, and we’ll eat the rest raw!”

One of the orcs hissed sharply at the pair of trolls, causing them both to turn abruptly. The orc beckoned them over, and they hurried as quickly as possible in the confined space, each pausing to grab his club on the way. The orc led them to the front of the group and gestured out the door. Red and Eck peered around the doorway into the corridor. From around a bend they could see a shimmering blue light approaching, a sure sign that elves were about, no doubt a rescue party come to snatch away their potential breakfast. Red and Eck exchanged a look that spoke more volumes than many would have thought possible of trolls, and with movements swifter than many would expect of trolls, Red had seized the hissing orc and Eck had punted him, with a sharp impact of his knobbly foot, out into the corridor to test the waters.

~

Jabber (troll), Ahaser (orc), Kork (orc) & co. - Facing Beltranc’s group

Ahaser thought that this ruined hallway would be the perfect place to secrete their prisoner and for the troll to take cover from the sun, but Kork did not agree. The two orcs were engaged in a vicious, sotto voce argument behind the pile of debris which filled most of the width of the corridor. Jabber had dropped to his haunches against the rubble, after depositing their unwilling elven companion several feet away in the corner. Every few moments Jabber, grown bored with watching the orcs fight, would glance over at Elladan, a gobbet of drool sliding its way down his face unnoticed. Contrary to his name, Jabber was one of the least talkative of his cousins, especially Red and Eck. Their constant chatter irritated Jabber, and he almost hoped that the orcs they were with would get fed up and do something about it.

Though he did not know it, Elladan’s condition was in nearly identical condition to his brother. Slumped against the rocks, he held his right arm gingerly as he could with it being bound. He had received a deep slice near the shoulder, and though he did not think it grievous, it would bear coddling now if he were to be able to use it to effect an escape. He was not about to sit by and wait for a rescue, or to be eaten, if there was anything he could do to help it. Clenched in his fist was a sharp rock he had managed to scrabble from the debris pile when the troll had set him down and with the tiniest movements, eyes still watching the bickering orcs, he began to rup it back and forth across the ropes which bound his hands together.

In the open area beyond the pile of rubble, the argument between Ahaser and Kork had evolved into physical violence, the pair grappling and rolling about on the floor, punching, biting and kicking one another. The rest of the orcs stood back, egging them on with spirited gestures, still under the rule of silence. Pummeling Kork’s head twice, Ahaser leapt to his feet and drew his ragged blade.

“Swiltang put me in charge, if you’ve got a problem with that we’d better settle this now!” he hissed at Kork. The other orc charged, but his blade stuck in the rough belt which he wore and before Kork could turn to run, Ahaser had run him through with a triumphant shout. It mingled with Kork’s agonized squeal and with Jabber’s grunt as he came suddenly to his feed, tapping Ahaser on the back.

“Sounds.” The troll rumbled. Every creature in the hallway froze except Kork, who continued his deathly twitches. They could hear footsteps and faint voices. Of a sudden Elladan began to shout, but his voice was quickly drowned by Ahaser’s as he ordered his orcs over the debris. They came swarming over the pile, bristling with blades to attack the group of elves on the other side. Jabber came lumbering after them, a great axe clutched in his enormous hand. His eyes focused on an elf who carried what seemed to him a miniature version of the same weapon (Beltranc) and proceeded calculatedly towards him.

~

Yarltang (orc), Garth (troll), & co. – Facing Nulda’s group

Aboveground waited the archers, hidden among the crumbling ruins, sitting still and silent as stones. They were led by Yarltang, brother of Swiltang, if possible more cruel that the other, and bitter in his position of inferiority. If the opportunity presented itself for a well-timed shaft to crunch its way though the back of Swiltang’s skull Yarltang would not pass it by, but for now he would have to content himself with a spot of elf-slaughter. His group were responsible the elf-lord known as Erestor. The prisoner was not in the archer-orc’s immediate sight, but he was confident that those who held him directly would ensure his continued confinement if he happened to wake up. Yarltang chuckled softly- a distinctly unpleasant sound- remembering the look on the elf’s face when he had bashed him.

For some time, Yarltang had been watching the shadowing figures move about in the distance, growing closer and closer to the ruins in which he and his group stood watch. He had signaled some of them to hide themselves on ground level, with a few remaining higher up with him, bows at the ready. He had waited, not giving the order to fire or reveal themselves when all the elves who had ventured into the fortress were above ground, but now only a small group of them remained. The orc began to raise his hand to signal the his archers, when suddenly there came a rumbling grunt from below and the sound of heavy footsteps; he looked down to see a troll moving in the shadows, approaching the group of elves below.

“Garth!” Yarltang growled in venomous exasperation. The troll had objected when he had been forbidden to go and kill the invading elves at once, but at the persuasion of the spears and blades of the orcs on the ground, he had gone off to tear up a small tree to use as a club. Tree end hand, Garth charged now at the group of elves. “Now!” Yarltang shouting, throwing off the veil of subterfuge, throwing up a hand and making a swift cutting motion with it. He rose above the crumbling battlement which had shielded him and drew back the string of his small, compact bow, aiming the arrow which he had already nocked to it. He squinted one eye, taking careful aim before loosing the shaft at a longbow-wielding elf below (Malora). Meanwhile Garth rushed swinging his sapling club at the cloaked elf (Nulda) while the several other orc archers began to fire and those on the ground sprang from their hiding places. Yarltang was not foolish enough to believe they had won, and glanced to the tower behind him, catching the eye of the guard-orc at the decaying window.

~

Yarltang hissed with delight as he saw his arrow take an elf (Malora) in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Unfortunately, due to some last minute movement by the elf or poor aim on his part (though he was inclined the believe the former), the rat regained his feet and loosed a shot back at him. The orc archer stepped to the side of his battlement hiding place, laughing harshly as the shaft winged by, its unstable flight clattering to an end on the stones at his feet. Yarltang nocked another shafter and stood waiting for one of the elves (Malora & Beathan) to break their cover… then he would finish them off. In the meantime the rest of his archers would continue to harass them. He took a moment to glance down at Garth. The troll’s initial strike had missed the elf (Nulda) and he roared in upset, skidding on his lumbering feet to face the Authon once more. An elf dashed forward, no doubt to aid his leader, and with a swift lash of his muscled arm, Garth had struck the offending creature in the abdomen, sending him flying back into a stone wall. The troll’s bulging eyes returned to Nulda again and he stalked forward, holding the trunk out threateningly before him. It had splintered slightly with the force with which he had struck the elf who now lay still behind him. Garth did not speak, unlike some of his cousins not one to taunt his prey, only calculate the best way to kill it.

~

Bog (troll), Swiltang (orc) & co. – Facing Merl’s group

Bog bellowed aloud as he swung his hammer down… only to miss completely, and narrowly avoid smashing his own foot with the weapon, which plowed a deep furrow into the ground. He looked up in time to see each of the elves dash in a different direction. Raising his hammer, Bog lumbered forward, still undecided which of the tasty morsels to chase. One of them shouted something at him- big pile of cow dung. Wounded, Bog grimaced at the elf. He may have smelled similar, but if he was going to be dung he would definitely be the dung of something much more impressive than a cow! Injury turning to fury, he turned to the elf who menaced him with the glaive (Merl) with a roar, deflecting her slash with a jarring blow. Before Bog could make another swipe with his warhammer, a searing pain split the back of his right leg and he howled in agony. His knee buckled and thumped to the ground as his head swiveled to see the elf (Mar) who had lacerated the back of his knee, parting tendon from muscle and unleashing a torrent of blood to pool around his foot on the ground. Enraged and blinded by pain, he swung his hammer straight down at the elf (Mar).

Meanwhile, Swiltang still lurked in the cellar with Elrohir, listening to the sounds of combat from above. No elf had made it through the doors to the underground yet, but even as the orc leader menaced the elf lord with his wicked blade, he heard Bog’s wailing cry from above. Swiltang’s head jerked up; the troll must have been badly wounded, and that spelled disaster for him. He had kept the smallest contingent for himself, thinking his position secure and not expecting attack. Glaring daggers at Elrohir, Swiltang thrust his blade through the thick belt at his waist and drew back a leg. The lean orc delivered a sharp kick to the bound elf’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground, where he lay still. Acting quickly, he dragged the elf into a corner of the room and dashed out its single torch on the ground, plunging the cellar into blackness. With the large eyes of his race, Swiltang picked his way swiftly up the stairs and out of the cellar. When he reached the open air of the night outside, he saw Bog fighting off two elves, and the pitiful remnants of his fellow orcs dealing with others. With a swiftness that belied his twisted body, he seized one of these fellows as he passed, thrusting the unfortunate orc before him. The underling stiffened, the arrow meant for Swiltang now protruding from his chest. Swiltang slipped swiftly into the darkness among the ruins, leaving Bog to his own devices.

~

Red (troll), Eck (troll) & co. - Facing Aldahir’s group

“No.” Red grunted in response to Ulzog’s questioning. “Swil wants ‘im kept alive.”

“Waste.” Muttered Eck, still staring out to where he had kicked the hissing orc. It was too quiet, no response from the enemy or enemies he knew to be lurking out in the corridor. He looked at Red with his protruding eyes. “What’j reckon?” he asked slowly.

“Yes.” Red agreed, nodding at his cousin. “Another.” Simultaneously they turned to Ulzog. “G’wan then, bold one.” Red ordered, pointing out to the corridor with a stubby finger. “We’ll follow yer with the rest.”

~

Jabber (troll), Ahaser (orc), Kork (orc) & co. - Facing Beltranc’s group

The troll lingered back a moment, letting the orcs rush forward to face the group of elves. Jabber kept his dark, glittering eyes fixed on the elf he had wounded (Beltranc) as he staggered backwards into one of his own (Isabeau), his blood spilling all over her. Looking down at his own axe, the troll saw its edge smeared with the elf’s blood; he ran one bulbous finger along the blade and thrust it into his mouth, savoring the taste of elf-blood, a delicacy he had not tasted in a long time. Strength seemed to surge through Jabber and he unleashed an earsplitting roar. The reprieve was over, and he rushed at the wounded elf, not even noticing as the wolfhound and a pair of elves (Isa and Naur) slipped past him. The wounded elf stood upright to meet the troll, dodging the first wild swing of the axe that Jabber directed at him. The second time he was not so lucky, and the axes were sent spinning from his hands by the titanic impact of Jabber’s own.

Beltranc backed away, stumbling over the carcass of an orc as he sought to evade the troll, his strength failing. Even as he recovered his feet, Jabber’s blow struck him. The troll had struck not with the edge of his axe, but with the enormous rectangular back, a solid slab of iron that cannoned into the elf’s body and crushed him against the stone wall. All that could be seen of the Tirn were a pair of twitching legs below the axe. Jabber roared again in triumph and pulled the axe back with a sickening squelch; a heap of gore slid down from the crater that now indented the wall, leaving bits of flesh and bone and hair stuck in the cracks of the stone. The troll stepped forward, over rubble and the orc that had been Beltranc’s undoing, and seized one of the former Tirn’s legs. He laughed hoarsely; so he hadn’t gotten to eat the elf lord, one was as good as another! Jabber thought as his teeth sank into the leg and wrenched away a huge bite, which he devoured with relish.

~

Yarltang (orc), Garth (troll), & co. – Facing Nulda’s group

Garth swung his sapling at the running elf (Nulda), but the creature was too nimble and moved beneath the strike, his blades slicing into the side of the troll’s leg. A bellow shook the air as Garth expressed his displeasure; the wounds were not debilitating, having bitten into the thick flesh and heavily muscled side of his leg, rather than honing in on sinew or bone. Still, even to a troll such a wound was an irritant and his black eyes narrowed in cunning thought. Slowly Garth pursued the Authon, shaking his tree-club menacingly, the few leaves left upon its sparse boughs rattling, twigs scattering. He stalked the elf around the crumbling wall behind which it had hidden itself, out of view of the archers. A deep grunt which could almost have been a laugh escaped the troll, this one puny elfling with his two knives expected to defeat a hill-troll? Garth lunged at the elf as they drew close to emerging from behind the wall, swiping at him with the sapling from a high diagonal; he would take the beast’s head and have done with it.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Part 1
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 2

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Two green-surcoated figures stole through the darkness blanketing Trollshaws. One dark, one fair; one male, one female; one bearing the black squirrel of Mirkwood emblazoned on his chest and one the kingfisher of Imladris upon hers; they moved as one out of the trees and beyond the edge of the ruins, coming silent and swift to the rear of the host that stood waiting. Gellam and Tavari made their way quickly to the head of the massed group of elves, sliding through spaces between them, while others gave way for their passage. The pair had been dispatched on a scouting mission by the Tar-Taidron, to skirt the edges of the ruined fortress and woods around in search of signs that the enemy secreted within the ruins were not the only foes they would face. When they reached where Aigronding and Elrond stood, the pair halted and Tavari gave a shallow bow, while Gellam tipped a finger to his forehead in salute. In response to her brother’s questioning look, Tavari shook her head.

“No sign of orc nor troll beyond the ruins, or any of their ilk lurking about. All trails end at the edge of the trees and lead into the fortress. There was also no sign of violence, the captives must by within the ruins.” She turned her face towards the crumbling fortress, from which she could see the glint of torchlight and faintly hear the cries of battling elves; the teams dispatched to search for the abducted elf-lords had made contact with the enemy, it seemed. The sounds were fainter here than they had been when she coursed the land around with the fool, who took up where Tavari had left off.


“Their number of trolls seems to be significantly higher than we had originally thought, maybe up to half a dozen, they may have picked more up on their way here to hide out.” A grin flashed across Gellam’s irrepressible face as he quipped, “A troll a day keeps the elf-lord away, hey, Master Elrond?” Not receiving a particularly favorable response, the fool turned also to look at the ruins, standing near to Tavari. They were oddly matched, the slim, fair elleth and the lanky, dark ellon. Her wheaten hair was bound back today in a heavy braid that ran the length of her back, and beneath the mossy surcoat she wore tunic and breeches, as many of the women of the host chose to do, and a long shirt of mail fell to just above her knees, peeping out from below the front hem of the surcoat. About her waist was a simple ring belt, from which hung a hip quiver on the right, and its partnering compact horsebow slung across her torso. At her right hip, sheathed and resting in its frog, was Glamor (Echo, Sindarin), the dirk that in the wilds had been Tavari’s only weapon. Its blade was as long as the span of her elbow to fingertips, and its hilt added the length of a further handspan. A curious weapon, halfway between a dagger and sword, it had once belonged to her twin, but now the steel-cased crystal of its pommel absorbed the heat of her hand alone.

Beside her, Gellam’s garb had not changed overmuch from his ordinary colorfully earth-toned jerkin and breeches, though he had refrained from wearing his cap, for its jangling bell was not a great contributor to stealth, and a wide war-belt now bound his lean torso. It bore three buckles and strapped tightly, etched with no design. Apart from the absence of any other armor, the truer purpose of the belt was revealed in the fool’s weapon. Held in his hand, its butt digging into the earth, was a vast polearm that was half axe and half hook, taking the name lochaber. The steel-capped pole of the weapon was only inches taller than the wood-elf himself, but the wide blade of the axehead, which began near Gellam’s shoulder, continued straight upward until it reached its second rivet at the top of the pole, where it curved wickedly, extending yet a further foot above the fool’s head before reaching its needle-sharp point. Opposing the fearsome blade was a wide, curving hook that began just below the top of the pole and extended up to the tip of the blade before curving back down in the opposite direction to come to its own point on the opposite side. It was a heavy and ill-balanced weapon, but Gellam gripped it lightly, jiggling the shaft between his hand as he dug the spike-pointed butt of the weapon into the ground.

Away and below, shapes moved in the darkness. But as the fool peered closer, he could see three figured moving away from the ruins, up the slope and towards the remainder of the hose. “Tar-Taidron!” he said sharply, thrusting out a hand to point at the small group making its way towards them. They did not appear in shape like orc or troll, and Aigronding issued a command; two elves nearby hurried away from the rest, hastening down to see what the trouble was. The speed of the small group increased once the two had reached the unknown group, and when they neared it was revealed that three of those who had gone into the ruins now returned. Aldahir was supported between the two who had gone to help, Elennáro and Aerlinn following closely behind. None of them appeared the be grievously injured, though the barely-conscious Aldahir was hurriedly removed to the rear.
Tavari moved closer as the remaining two gave their report.

They had been ambushed in the dungeons of the fortress, where a sizeable group of orc and two trolls lurked, caught in the narrow dark space. The other two soldiers that had gone with them had been slain, and the three lucky to escape with their lives; at the furthest point of their penetration of the dungeons they had glimpsed Gildor, held captive in one of the cells. But they had been pushed back, the orc and troll too much for three alone, and fled. Once they had finished and were being escorted away, for the healers to tend their hurts, Tavari stepped forward. “Háno,” she called, to catch Aigronding’s attention, rather than using his title. Her look when he turned to catch her gaze communicated all that words could have; she stood ready to lead a group in replacement of those who had not achieved the rescue of Gildor. True: she was but an Aphador in the ranks of the host, as was Gellam, who had moved in behind her, sensing her intent, but Tavari trusted that her brother had not forgotten over the long years the martial skill she had wielded in battles ages past.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Part 1, Part 2
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 3

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Swiltang (orc) – Facing Terian

The chaos of battle outside the cellar steps had apparently not been enough, and as he slipped in and out of the shadows of ruined walls, Swiltang noted the presence of an elf (Terian) trailing him. Although he had lost possession of his own captive, the orc leader was not about to lead any of the filthy beasts to another; three was not as good as four, but it was better than two. Swiltang receded into the shadow of one of the walls, his black form blending closely with the stones and darkness. He waited for the elf to near and then, clutching his long, curving blade in his right hand the lean orc leapt from his hiding place, bringing the sword down in a swift arc that would cleave the elf from shoulder to waist if it connected.


Bog (troll) & co. – Facing Merl’s group

The troll screamed his agony. The elf (Merl’s) blade had sunk deep into the soft flesh behind his left knee, slicing flesh and snapping tendon. Bog’s knees hit the ground with a resounding thud and for a moment he wavered, as though he might fall. Then he roared again, waving his club wildly, swinging it down at the offending beast (Merl) while his free hand flailed in the direction of the other (Mar). The elves that made up the rest of the group had been busily killing orcs, and those who remained, seeing the crippling of their troll and the absence of their leader, scattered into the darkness, fleeing the seen. Bog did not know that he had been abandoned, and in his enraged pain saw nothing but the two elves who had deprived him of his legs.

A searing pain hissed across Bog’s broad back as two blades sliced deeply into the flesh, touching bone and tendon beneath. The troll roared wordlessly in pain and rage, arrows striking him from either side. The deep gouge of an elf (Sírean) plunged into the joint of his elbow even as he swung the club to try and rid himself of the arrow shafts, and the weapon fell from Bog’s now-useless hand. Another arrow struck, thudding into his neck even as the glaive struck the inside of his thigh, its keen blade sinking deep into flesh, muscle and artery beneath. The troll’s bellow became a groan as he swayed on his knees, the harrying elves fading in and out before his eyes. It was not until his face hit the ground that Bog realized he had fallen, and by then it was too late.

Meanwhile, in the cellar, Elrohir had begun to slowly regain consciousness…
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 4

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+Gildor

Knights called by her brother gathered at Tavari’s back while he instructed her, tasking her with the objective that the returning group had not achieved: the rescue of Gildor. She responded only with a firm nod, knowing that he would be thinking of their brother, her twin, long ago lost in battle. Now only the golden Mordagnirs remained. I will not fail you, Maltahtar, she silently promised. Rávinissë (Lioness, Q), Arasoron had named her in years long since gone to dust, and millennia had passed since she had heard the name spoken; now was the time for Tavari to remind the world that her epessë had not been mis-given. Turning to her knights, she assessed them briefly- two swords and a spear, all confident and capable looking elves of Imladris. Though she had never fought with them, she trusted in Aigronding’s choice, and they set off swift and silent down the hill, with Gellam bringing up the rear. The fool had been held up by the Tar-Taidron’s catching his arm. The high-elf’s admonishment was not as harsh as usual, and a smile even graced his stoic features. At this, Gellam grinned widely, shaking his head firmly (absent typical tinkling accompaniment). “Of course, Tar-Taidron! I would never think of being less than vigilant!” The wood-elf tucked his arm in, balancing the great weight of his lochaber, and raced off down the hill after the rest of the group.

As they drew nearer to the ruins, the group could hear the sounds of battle, but Tavari held up a hand, signaling that they must continue straight on. She had drawn Glamor (Echo, Sindarin), holding the shining dirk in close, her fingers curled about the hilt in a reverse grip. The returning elves had passed on the path to Gildor, and her group of five slid rapidly through the ruins in the shadows. Tavari could hear another group running down the hill from which they had come but did not look back, keeping her focus forward. At the rear of their small pack, Gellam did look back. Through the night he could make out Aigronding, Elrond and the one-eyed Telkelion, and though it was unlikely any of them would see, lifted his free arm in salute. When the fool looked forward again he saw that Tavari had raised her fist and slid in quickly behind her, as did the three knights. He peered down into the gaping hole in the ground before which they had halted, and raised his eyebrows at her in question. Tavari nodded, and moved on. They descended the crumbling staircase into the ground more slowly, and as the darkness swallowed them, Lannor, one of the swordbearing knights, struck flint to tinder, and the torch he carried flared into life.

They followed its flickering light down several flights until the stairs ended and leveled out into a long stone corridor.
Tavari increased her pace, pushing the group into a silent dogtrot; as they went further down the corridor, they began to be able to hear distant sounds- voices, deep and grunting and high and nasal. Troll, and orc. Another light became visible also, torchlight from ahead, and at a gesture from Tavari, Lannor extinguished his torch. The five elves flattened themselves against the near wall as they drew ever nearer to the light and the voices began to become more distinct. Several yards from where the wall broke to create an opening from which the light issued, they halted. Gellam leaned in closely to whisper in Tavari’s ear. She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He nodded, and gestured the other three in. After a swiftly whispered conference they broke apart, unlimbering blades and gripping hafts. Tavari slid Glamor back into its frog and slipped the bow from around her torso, drawing an arrow from the quiver at her leg and nocking it to the bowstring. Lannor gripped his sword in his right hand, weighing the blackened torch in his left. After a quick glance in the elleth’s direction, he drew back his arm and threw the torch.

It clattered and banged against the wall opposite the adjoining corridor, ricocheting loudly to the floor. A roar sounded from within the corridor and pounding footsteps sounded. Two trolls burst from the opening, each wielding a twisted bar of iron. Several orcs followed hard on their heels, but no sooner had they overtaken the lumbering beasts, Lannor and his two fellows had raced forward to engage them. Immediately as the trolls had appeared, shafts had begun to hiss from Tavari’s bow, her hand moving in a continuous motion from quiver to bow, drawing back, loosing, and again. The powerfully compact bow sent the arrows straight and true, burying themselves to their golden fletches in the thick flesh of the trolls, their twisted razor heads burrowing through the tough hide. Trollish voices roared with pain as they were pierced; the leg of one buckled as two arrows in quick succession sank into the joint of his knee.
Gellam beheaded an orc with a swift blow from the monstrous blade of his lochaber, twirling the polearm with an ease that belied its weight and vaulting quickly to meet the strike of a second orc who had come behind him. The inferior iron of the orc’s weapon shattered under the force of the wood-elf’s blow and it threw itself bodily towards him. But the fool was faster, reversing the lochaber and drawing his leg back; his body twisted with the momentum of the orc as the vicious hook that opposed his weapon’s blade caught the creature between the shoulderblades, flinging it to the ground screeching. “O fearsome beast who fought so well, how quickly now I see you felled!” Gellam sang out gaily as his hook sent the orc flying, “Alas now for the greater good-“ The orc had gained his feet, twisting around to rise and face his opponent again, but before he could take a step forward, the fool’s axe had neatly nicked the head from his shoulders, sending it winging away into the darkness, “-I must spill your foul black blood!”

The orcs had been quickly disposed of, and now only the two trolls remained, one disabled and one at his full height, roaring and swinging his iron bar. Tavari lowered her bow for the first time, watching the others begin to close in on the trolls. Briefly she caught Gellam’s eye and jerked her head towards the adjoining corridor, receiving a quick nod in return. In a flash of golden plait, she disappeared around the corner. She stole down the corridor, towards where the torches flickered brighter and more numerously, set into every available bracket. Much as trolls needed the dark to survive, it seemed that they didn’t mind if their underground hiding places were well lit. Tavari could see it now, the door the cells was hanging on its hinges. She stole inside- then leapt aside just in time to avoid the thrust of an orcish blade. The keen edge hissed so lightly along her cheek as the orc attacked that at first she did not think it had even connected, but a split second later the flesh began to burn and she could feel wetness rolling down her face. The orc had thrust down at Tavari from a ledge beside the door, and snarling at his missed stroke he leapt down upon her, drawing back with his blade and cutting viciously downwards. There was the clash of steel and the thud of flesh against stone as the orc impacted the elleth and bore her to the ground. But when they rolled over, the orc lay dead upon the stones, Glamor buried to its crystal hilt in his throat. Black blood mingled with red on Tavari’s face, and streaked down her body where the orc had tumbled against her. At the sound of a shout she rose quickly, unsheathing the dirk from the orc’s throat. But it was no enemy who had shouted, but an elf-lord, pulling at the manacle which chained him to the wall.

Tavari leapt over the body of the orc and ran to the cell where Gildor stood waiting. The door had only been barred, not locked, and she lifted the latch with ease, pulling open the rusted bars to slip inside. She gave Gildor a smile, which he returned as she examined the chain holding him to the wall. “Good to see I haven’t been forgotten, clearly they decided to save the best for last. And sent the best for me, Lady Mordagnir.” Tavari chuckled quietly, sliding Glamor into the rusted ring which connected the chain to the wall. “Flatterer, you’ve been spending too much time with Glorfindel. No one could forget you, Inglorion, so cheer up.” With a forceful down ward thrust, the ring snapped off near the wall, shattering into several pieces. Gildor gathered up the short chain; he had only been bound by one wrist, so quickly moved out of the cell. “Perhaps Gellam will sing of my heroic resistance against the trolls!” Tavari tossed the sword of the slain orc to Gildor, who caught it easily as they left the cells. “He’s a bit busy killing them at the moment, but I’ve no doubt he will later oblige you.”

Running out into the main corridor with Gildor, Tavari shouted ahead. As they emerged, she took in the scene; Lannor was slumped against a wall, cradling a mangled hand against his torso, but the larger of the two trolls was roaring in pain and rage as Gellam and the other two knights drove him away down the corridor. The troll took flight, disappearing beyond the light into the deep recesses of the ruins. The troll whose leg she had disabled lay sprawled across the stones, full of wounds but the cause of death belied by a pool of blood and deep slash across his throat that could only have been caused by one weapon. Gellam came panting up, spattered with blood and grime, lochaber well and truly soiled. The two knights with him were in a similar state, though all were untroubled by major injuries.
“The big one caught him a wild blow,” the fool reported, gesturing at Lammor’s hand, “crushed the hand against the wall with his iron bar. Lucky fellow though, a foot lower and he’d have had your head!” Lannor did his best to grin, but it came off as more of a grimace. “No fear though,” Gellam assured quickly, “my Lord’s healers will have your swordhand good as new in no time!” Tavari nodded in agreement. “Aye, but first we have to reach them. Are you fit to run, Lannor?” The broad knight nodded shortly and straightened, pushing himself away from the wall. “Good, then let’s get back to the rallying point!”

The group set off at a fast clip, mounting the stairs out of the underground corridor two at a time to emerge back into the darkness and moving air of the outside world. Some of the sounds had died away, and the faintest lightening of the sky told Tavari that dawn was not far off. Soon whatever trolls remained aboveground would be put paid to not by sword, but by sun, and so much the better. The group moved as a block, though by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, Gellam had slung Lannor’s uninjured arm about his shoulders, aiding the wounded knight up the hill. The pain of mangled bone, tendon and flesh and shock that went along with it could fell even the heartiest, and none would grudge the knight a small amount of weakness. Tavari called for a healer as they crested the top of the hill, but before she allowed them to take her wounded charge away to the rear, she grasped his shoulder firmly. “Rest and heal, Lannor. Your part in this will not be forgotten, I promise you.” A grateful expression flitted briefly across his face, then he was gone as the healers pulled him away and disappeared behind the host. As she turned to face the ruin below, Gellam and Gildor at her sides, Tavari could feel the blood congealing on her face where the orc’s blade had split her skin, and the crust of his blood drying there as well. But her thought was of the battle still taking place below, and those yet to be safely returned. Aigronding, Elrond and others were absent; they must be involved in the clash still occurring below. Arachiril Moriestiel had not yet returned either, nor Maethor Mordagnir- Mar, her brother’s wife. Tavari’s first instinct was to return to the ruins below, to aid whomever she was able- yet, with all the officers still below, and the leadership with which her brother had trusted her, she felt it her responsibility to remain- at least for the moment. To observe, ascertain and, if necessary, intervene. Gathering a handful of her already bloodstained surcoat, Tavari methodically wiped down Glamor’s blade, keen periwinkle eyes gazing into the ruins.


~

Tavari had stood side by side with Gellam, watching and listening to the fighting still going on below in the ruins, straining for any sound that would indicate victory or defeat. Suddenly from the darkness emerged Arachiril Moriestiel, Mar, and others- Elrohir, safely rescued, and a knight (Terian) that Tavari did not know, badly wounded. Healers rushed to attend them and the flaxen-haired elleth remained where she was; too many hands spoiled the broth, the wounded seemed well in hand and the Arachiril already receiving a report. Tavari’s fingers gripped her dirk’s hilt tightly- only Aigronding and his party remained to return, with them Lord Elrond, and Erestor to be brought safely back. It was a welcome relief when she heard Merl’s voice ring out, calling to her. Tavari swiftly strode to to her side, bringing her fist to chest in salute. “Arachiril?” she questioned, fingering Glamor’s pommel.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 5

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+Erestor

Swiltang (orc) – Lurking

It had been a narrow thing, getting away from that doggedly persistent elf before his little friends had come to call. Still, the getting away was what was important, Swiltang reflected as he slunk through the shadows of the ruins. Though he could still hear battlesounds they had grown fewer and further between, seemingly concentrated now in the area where he had left his brother. The lean orc increased his speed, leaping piles of rubble and skirting tumbled walls. A company of elves had come down from the hill and were putting paid to Garth and his accompaniment Swiltang observed, black eyes narrowing, but he could not espie his brother. Ah- yes, there he was, dashing away from his post and back to the tower where he had secreted Erestor. But a tall, golden elf was following, having seen Yarltang’s run, and Swiltang remained where he was behind the wall, watching the confrontation.

~

Yarltang (orc) & co. – Facing Aig, Alma & Beathan

Above the melee, Yarltang roared and swore, loosing arrows for all he was worth as the band of elves swarmed over the ruins. Some found purchase in pale flesh, winkling their way in between gorget and cuirass or thudding into thigh to be rewarded with a bright gout of blood. But they were too man and his forces too few, the burly orc soon realized from his perch as they hoarse orcish cries began to outnumber the higher things of the elves, and Garth’s roaring increased. Yarltang could see the troll being set upon by elf and hound alike, beginning to waver as his flesh was filled with arrows. This cause was lost, and he was not about to sacrifice himself to it. Still, the orc thought grimly as he hoisted himself over the back of the wall with a grunt. There might be something to be gained from it yet. With the bow slung about his torso he climbed silently down the rear of the ruined wall, clinging to the stones like some malevolent, muscular spider. When he reached the ground, jumping the last six feet to land with a thump, Yarltang took off at a run, dodging and weaving as he did so, making his way from the ruined tower from which he had been positions to the one rear of it, which still held walls and a stair.

As he neared, he saw a light flair, and cursed the stupidity of the guards left behind. Now was not the time for lighting torches, and if any of them survived this night, he would make them pay for their foolishness. Even Swiltang would be in agreement with him about this, he was sure. Not that his twisted brother’s approval was required it simply made things easier. Yarltang’s face curled into a grimace. Perhaps one of those warlike elves had managed to sneak a blade past Swiltang’s defenses. Would that he were so fortunate. But that would be a concern for later- Yarltang’s feet pounded up the steps, turning within the tower until he came upon the landing where he had left four others and their burden, the elf-lord Erestor. The elf’s hands were bound behind him and his mouth gagged, a bloody lump risen on his head, but his stare was unrepentant. Yarltang shoved the other orcs aside, spilling their torch to the floor as he did so and seized Erestor under the shoulder, hauling him to his feet. From a sheath at his leg he drew a long, curved knife and reached about to draw it across the elf’s throat from behind. Yarltang propelled Erestor forward, down the stairs of the tower, kicking the backs of his legs when he did not move swiftly enough, and out into the night below.

Whereupon he found himself almost face to face with the golden-haired elf he had already surmised to be the enemy leader (Aigronding). Yarltang snarled and stepped back, dragging Erestor with him, the blade digging into his captive’s throat, so that the distance between them increased sharply. Others followed behind, but the main body of elves still seemed occupied elsewhere- only a few, it seemed, had come this way. The four orcs had followed him down the tower and now emerged, crowding around Yarltang with weapons at the ready. It was true that the burly orc did not have the rapierlike intelligence of his elder brother, but his mind still moved quickly, and at once formed a plan. He shoved Erestor at the largest of the four under his command, passing the blade over as well and ordered him to get back up the tower, which the orc did swiftly, forcing the bound elf ahead of him. The other three he signaled towards the two elves who had followed (Alma and Beathan). They charged ahead, roaring and ready to kill- for who among their number did not desire to add an Eldar to the notches in their hilt? Yarltang himself cast aside his bow and in the same motion drew from its frog on his back an immense warhammer. It was a fearsome weapon, the shaft nearing four feet and topped by a forged head which on one side flattened into a wide crushing head, on the other tapering into a broad spike, and surmounted with a needle-pointed one. The burly orc gripped it easily in one hand, circling towards to golden elf (Aigronding) in silence, daring the pretty lord to take first action.

~

Black eyes followed the golden-haired elf closely as he moved, inching closer as they circled. Yarltang was no fool- he knew that to defeat this elf-lord he must face him singly, and the others had his companions well occupied. But if they were defeated, he would have to strike before the elf. But then the elf moved, and the burly orc knew that he had taken the bait. The elf came in fast, charging into Yarltang’s reach, shield upraised, raising his blade to execute a powerful slash that if it connected would split the orc from neck to waist. But the blade did not connect- Yarltang raised his warhammer and beat the blow aside, following with his parry to catch the crossguard of the blade, sending it spinning away into the darkness. This brought the elf off balance, and with a surprising quickness, the broad orc stepped in and brought his hammer down in a crushing blow towards his opponent’s leg. The elf-lord had begun to spin back out of the way, but he was not quick enough and the flat head of the hammer connected glancingly with his thigh. The force of the blow, which would have shattered the elf’s femur had it hit square on, nevertheless sent him crashing to the ground. His golden head sat there before Yarltang, unprotected and unmoving, and with a triumphant roar, the orc raised his hammer.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 6

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“Aye!” Tavari answered and nodded curtly. Turning away from Merl, she shouted to Gellam and motioned him on; he in turn collected two others and followed her swiftly running form back down the incline towards the ruins. As the land leveled out they grouped together and Tavari quickly relayed the instructions the Arachiril had given her- find Aigronding, Elrond, and their party, and extricate them with all speed. The first fingers of dawn had begun to show themselves over the horizon, casting long, faint shadows of each of the four elves as they ran, low and fleet, to the ruins. Among the scattered stones and crumbling walls lay the bodies of orc and troll, remnants of conflicts complete and rescues achieved; there was now only one place from which came the sounds of combat and it was there that the little band made their way, towards the far edge of the ruined fort, where torchlight flickered and shouts rang out.

As thought it were no more than a molehill in her path, Tavari sprang nimbly up the tumbledown remains of a wall, and when she had reached its pinnacle, gazed out with keen eyes towards the battle they had been sent to find. The sight that met her eyes, however, was not one of triumph, but a vision that might have been drawn from her nightmares. An orc swinging a mighty hammer had struck Aigronding a blow- he fell, the leg collapsing beneath like a puppet whose strings have been cut, golden head bowed in pain, and now the orc was lifting its arm, and she imagined she could hear its triumphant snarl. Without thought Tavari’s hands moved, pulling the bow from her torso and a gold-fletched arrow from the quiver at her leg. In the time it took to nock the shaft and raise the bow she put aside the thought that this was no marksman’s longbow but the compact horsebow that she favored for close combat, that the distance was too great and the light too poor. Tavari’s world seemed to narrow and quieten to a few square inches of black flesh, and with a whispered prayer to Oromë she drew the bow to its fullest extent and loosed the shaft.


Yarltang screamed with pain and fury. Even as he had upraised his hammer to deliver the killing blow to the golden elf-lord, a gold-fletched shaft grew from his hand, pinning it to the haft of the weapon. His arm dropped, nerveless fingers clutching and unclutching the weapon. A second arrow struck his opposite shoulder and he staggered back with a howl. A lean dark shape hurtled from behind a wall and cannoned into him, prodding and dragging away from the elves who were slaughtering what remained of the orcs. “Come on!” Swiltang hissed into his brother’s ear, “Get out of it! We can’t get them back if we’re all dead!” Yarltang gritted his pointed teeth and seized the warhammer in both hands, shoving Swiltang off of him. The two orcs fled like wraiths into the remaining darkness, vanishing into the forest beyond with no trace but the blood which dripped from Yarltang’s shoulder, leaving the elves to lick their wounds. Just before the ruins disappeared completely from sight, with Swiltang forging on ahead and cursing the incompetence of fools, Yarltang looked back. The golden elf had gotten away with his life… for now.

Tavari would never precisely remember exactly how she made across rubble and ruin-strewn ground in the scarcely-ebbing darkness, bow and dirk in hand, at a dead sprint. Gellam and the others trailed after her, and the fool would later in song declare that her fleetness was such that she scarcely touched the ground, as though the wind itself had buoyed her flight. However she had achieved it, Tavari was at Aigronding’s side mere instants after her second arrow had struck the orc, gone now into the receding night. Almarëa was examining him and he was alive, conscious, and speaking. She fell to a knee and embraced him, pulling his golden head into the crook of her neck as she had done when he was a small child. “No,” Tavari replied, moving back with her hands on his shoulders and looking into his pain-dazed eyes. “No, háno, you will most certainly not be doing that again.” She thrust Glamor back into its frog and pulled her bow back around or torso, sitting back onto her knees to watch over him. Aigronding receded into unconsciousness for a moment, but Almarëa was ministering to him and now that Tavari’s immediate worry was assuaged, she could begin to feel other things.

Riding? He thought that after sustaining a major leg wound he was going to be riding back to Imladris? The flaxen-haired elleth’s eyebrow shot up, and from Almarëa’s posture next to her, she could tell she was not the only one offended by this suggestion. Tavari noticed then that Gellam had appeared at her side- no doubt he had showed up moments before, but she had been too distracted to notice. She rose to her feet as Aigronding requested that the two of them help him into his saddle. The fool met her gaze with an amused expression. Clearly he was just as skeptical that the Tar-Taidron was going to (or be allowed to) make it back to the Vale under his own power.
“Er, Lord M-“ Gellam piped up, “In case you hadn’t noticed- valiant and bold as you are- your leg was just nearly bashed in by a rather large hammer. Are you sure you want to do that?” Sulroch had appeared, and Tavari met the great white horse as he came into the torchlight, soothing words and soft open hands preventing the stallion from at once seeking his master, and she guided him around the wall to wait. Unlike most elves, Aigronding had chosen to ride with the aide of a saddle, and it stood dark and empty now on Sulroch’s back, but lucky enough that its rider would soon return to it.

Tavari returned to his side to find that the effects of whatever medicine Almarëa had given him were clearly taking effect- he had gone into a rambling tirade about great men and the fear of death and other things she was certain he would not remember when he awoke from his inevitable collapse. She shook her head at Taurina’s comment. “He’ll be the one crying himself to sleep tonight, there’s not enough chamomile in the world to end the pain of a blow like that. Aigronding,” Tavari called for his attention as he finished his mighty speech. “I hate to draw it to your attention, háno, but every single one of those you mention ended up getting themselves killed wrestling with the leviathan.” She would have said more, but Almarëa chose that moment to make her feelings known, and she seemed to be handling the situation admirably. Although she agreed completely with the sentiment of the elleth’s argument, Tavari knew that Aigronding would not, and that the best way to deal with him occasionally was to let him fall on his own sword, as it were.

“No, Almarëa.” She spoke up when their sister had ended her tirade. “No, if the Tar-Taidron wants to ride, let him ride.” A short whistle escaped her teeth and Sulroch trotted over. Between herself and Gellam they hauled Aigronding to his feet. “Let him do all the passing out, falling off, or gaining additional injuries that he likes. He is after all our commander, and we must do as he bids us.” His well left foot lifted into the stirrup, and by dint of arms and shoulders, Aigronding was got into the saddle, his injured limb no falling no doubt painfully down the other side. Tavari circled Sulroch and tucked her brother’s right toe into its stirrup, willfully ignoring any pained cries the action might have drawn. She had called for a length of slender rope, and as she turned to face Almarëa again,
Gellam was gleefully engaged in lashing Aigronding to his saddle. “Let him feel every bump and jostle that could have been averted by agreeing to be borne in a travois or on a litter. As the bone is not broken, I do not think it will cause him significant harm, only discomfort, yes? We can ride each aside of him,” here Tavari faced her brother again, smiling sweetly. “and ensure that he does not get into any more trouble.” Edan had returned with Valadring, but Tavari relieved him of it before he could pass the sword to its master. “And I’ll be taking care of that.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 7
several months later


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+Kaltag, a werewolf

Ost Thintir
Earlier that day


Swiltang stood on the walltop at Fortress Greyguard, looking out over the misty valley with narrow, piercing black eyes. It was quiet, quiet as it had been since the days before when he had routed the fort of its occupants with his picked band of orc and werewolf, all creatures of the howling north, descended beyond the Ettenmoors to rip Thintir for the cold, dead fingers of its elven inhabitants. Such an action would not go unreturned however, particularly given that he had ordered those who had fled the fortress be allowed to run- some of them, at any rate. And now Swiltang stood waiting, waiting for the inevitable rebuttal of the elves. It had been months since he had led the ill-fated force taking captive the four elf-lords, from which only he and his brother has escaped. The lean, twisted orc hawked and spat over the wall. Yarltang had recovered from his wounds in the intervening time, but would forever bear the scars and residual weakness in his hand from the gold-flighted arrows that had so rudely interrupted his slaying of the elf-lord Mordagnir. They had learned, from the last gasps of an orc within the ruins, after the elf host had gone, that they had been delivered by the sister of the elf-lord, and Swiltang was yet more disgusted that a she-elf had thwarted his brother.

From the wallstairs came footsteps, and Swiltang glanced over his shoulder to see who it was. A small orc, short and emaciated looking, barely filling the light armor he wore and looking almost comical in the black helmet with its three crimson claw marks on the forehead. “Come.” Swiltang commanded, and the orc scurried forward to his side. “They are coming,” the small orc panted- he was not out of breath, he simply always seemed to pant and wheeze his way through life- bowing his head. “From the south, and as you suspected in their leaders. Others also… further away, men, rangers, and another, a man garbed all in green, carrying a staff.” Swiltang looked sharply at his scout, who cringed back. But the ire and suspicion in the lean orc’s glance was not for his minion, to whom he nodded. “You have done well, Kaltag, very well indeed- She will be pleased with you. Go now.”

He watched the diminutive scout hurry away, astounded at always at the inexorable speed and silence with which such a frail orc was able to move. As he descended the stairs, Kaltag gave a wide birth to a hulking, blue-black werewolf who was mounting them to the walltop, meanwhile ripping at what looked like the arm of an elf that had begun to decay. The stench of blood and flesh came with the were as he approached Swiltang, looking at him with a baleful questioning glance. “They are coming.” He repeated the scout’s message, and the were bared his dripping fangs. “Deploy your pack. Two thirds beyond the walls in the forest with my half orcs, the rest to remain within the fortress with the others. Lead them yourself and take no prisoners.” The were’s curled lips stretched back further until his entire max of shining, dangerous teeth were exposed, and a deep growl rumbled up from his chest. “Aye!” He was a creature of few words, the werewolf, but the single syllable was filled with a malevolent pleasure. He turned to descend the wall again, tossing the stripped arm away and taking the steps in two long bounds before disappearing within the fortress. Swiltang watched the disembodied arm arc up over the wall of the fort, then drop, down and down, trailing bits of blood and flesh, before thudding with a faint noise into the mist-covered ground far below. Again he stared out over the valley, shifting his uneven shoulders against the weight of the broadsword on his back.


Present time

They lurked in the shadowed gully among tree and bush, lying in wait. The hulking werewolf shifted, separating himself from the underbrush in which he had been concealed, nose and ears twitching. They are coming, he communicated to his fellow weres, crouched low about the woods, and a soft growl alerting the orc lieutenant at his side of the imminent arrival. There were a dozen werewolves crouched in the gloom and twoscore orcs, waiting. The wait was not long- when the sounds of horses feet and elves’ drew near there came a shout from the still-unseen elves close in the misted woods. Orc! came the cry, and Now! commanded the great black werewolf with his body. The din was immediate and intense, as orc and were alike thrust themselves eagerly forward into combat, bursting upon the party of elves in the trees; one wolf immediately fell prey to the sword of the golden-haired leader, and a second grappled on the ground with the white wolfhoud, seeking to sink his fangs into her neck, to pin her to the ground by dint of his enormous bulk. The orcs roared forward, some armed with swords, others by spear or mace. They were afoot where the elves were ahorse, but horses would serve to create confusion, particularly when blades began to pierce their thin skins.

While his force was charging, the hulking werewolf hung back, keeping with him half his weres and half the orcs. “Come.” He growled above the din taking place behind and silently this company turned and sped off at an angle into the forest, seven weres and a score of orc. The man all in green was their target, he with the staff and the band of men that accompanied him, who had not yet reached the fortress. The great hulking were knew from Swiltang’s manner that there was something different about this man in green, but a man was a man, each throat torn as easily as the last, the flesh of each as sweet- though not as sweet as that of an elf. The weres ran as one, easily outdistancing the orcs who sprinted behind. And when at last he espied the man in green, the werewolf called them to halt as one. He took one step forward, snarling viciously with a red light in his eye at the man in green, with his green staff, as the hastening orcs began to fill in behind. The promised Dúnedain were not yet to be seen. Alone? The green man must have come ahead of his company. The fool. The command was silent and hardly necessary; the second charge began, against the single man in green.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 8

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“Aye.” Tavari and Gellam said in unison, and the fool gave vent to a chortle. Tavari rolled her eyes, and reached across to clasp her friend by the arm before they went their separate ways. Nudging her mount into a trot, the nís circled around to find that Almarëa had gathered the party of archers, and at a node they wheeled as one and spend northwards to the fort. Shouts arose behind them almost at once and Tavari knew that the force they had departed was under attack- but the duty was forward now, not back, and those left behind were well able to account for themselves. Shifting forward in her seat, the flaxen-haired nís urged the horse on to greater speed as they drew nearer the fortress, its dull stones beginning to become visible through the thinning trees. Giving a signal to the rest of the party, Tavari readied her bow, unlimbering it from about her torso, and drawing a gold-fletched arrow from the quiver at her hip.

As the party burst from the trees, they were at once met by the roars of orc massed on the walls and the accompanying volley of black arrows. At once Tavari whipped her mount to the side and the rest of the archers followed suit, scattering to divide the targets, and began loosing rapidly back at the orcs, sending some thrashing back and others tumbling forward off the walls to crash into the ground far below. Tavari’s eyes were drawn at once to a large, burly orc in the center of the wall- there was no mistaking that countenance, even at the distance she had previously seen it. This was the orc who had dueled with and injured Aigronding, though he now held a compact bow similar to her own in place of the warhammer. Her expression curled into a snarl and she at once redirected her aim, letting fly with a shaft at the beast’s throat. He had seen it coming and dodged, and she saw his mouth move in some shout unintelligible above the noise of battle joined.

The mounted archers were harrying up and down the walls now, the number of orcish screams and howls and thudding bodies a testament to their skill; arrows flew thick and fast from both sides of the engagement, but those coming from the walltops seemed to slacken, and after several moments Tavari heard garbled shouts and saw the diminished forces begin to retreat from the battlements. She allowed her bowstring to go slack and wheeled her horse, shouting above the noise or the orcs’ retreat and elves’ celebrations, “Almarëa! Take ten and circle the fort, hunt down any attempting to escape and post watches at any hidden exits you may find, then join us within the walls. The rest, dismount and with me!” As Almarëa picked her party and set off, Tavari slid from her horse’s back and gathered the remaining score about her. They proceeded with caution through the ruined gates of the fort, but the courtyard was deserted, no sign of the enemy but what bodies they had left behind. Inside the main hall the situation was the same- eerie silence preceding the group of elves into the fort. Tavari signaled to another aphador, a dark-haired male archer, to take half of the group and head down one corridor; she and hers would go down the other- bows taut and ready.
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Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 9

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Upon the walltop Yarltang was waiting with his archers, each well supplied and ready. The burly orc stood impatiently, and cursed under his breath to himself, doubting the information of the idiotic hulking werewolf that his brother so favored. But it soon became clear that this time the creature had been correct, and hoofbeats could be heard from the forest. Around him, orcs shifted and muttered. “Hold.” Yarltang growled with menace. He would not be above disposing of any under his command who acted without permission. “Hold until they leave the trees!” They did not have long to wait, and as the first of the group of mounted archers broached the treeline, as one the orc archers released their straining bowstrings, sending a hail of death down on the elves. Yarltang cursed as the first volley did nothing more than wound, and at once refitted his own bow with two arrows, pulling the string taught and sighting on a large male elf on a bay horse, preparing to shoot. The elf doubled over, clutching at his stomach where black feathers now protruded and tumbled to the ground. Yarltang laughed harshly- he loved a belly would, it gave the doomed that much more time to reflect on their misfortunate and enjoy their death.

But before he could extract too much enjoyment from the hit, the spiteful buzzing of an arrow reached his ears, and Yarltang threw himself to the side just in time. An orc who was next to him, offput by the sudden movement was unfortunate enough to step into the path of the shaft, and gurgled backwards off the wall- but not before Yarltang had caught sight of the arrow’s distinctive fletches as it passed by, their sheen flashing before his black eyes. He rounded at once on the field below and saw a she-elf ripping another arrow from her quiver, deliberately nocking and sighting on him, drawing the shining plumage back to her ear. “Goldfeathers!” Yarltang roared, his face contorting in rage. The scars of his hand and shoulder seemed to throb, echoing the agony of their infliction by the arrows of this she-elf. The burly orc had not til now known that it was she who had wounded him, nor that it was a she-elf at all! The bile rose high in his throat, both with fury and the indignity of being incapacitated by an insolent female. She would know what agony was before he was through with her.

His forces were falling, it could not be denied that if this continued the elves would simply slaughter them all. With a shout and a gesture Yarltang ordered the retreat, and his orcs swiftly downed bows and began to run from the walls, clattering down stairs to hie back into the fortress and assume their fallback positions. As he passed into the fort, Yarltang caught his brother’s eye as Swiltang stood at the head of his massed command of orcs and gave him a murderous look. “Goldfeathers has come.” He snarled, pausing before Swiltang. “If the she-elf reaches you, destroy her.” The lean, twisted orc’s black eyes gazed mockingly at his brother. “You don’t want to kill her yourself?” Yarltang snorted. “I have no need to dirty my hands with filth such as that. If she kills you, then I will thank her, and then carve the heart from her chest.” He replied, then took off at a fast trot after what remained of his group. Swiltang chuckled darkly, before giving a gesture to the twoscore orc at his back, and melting away into the corridors of Ost-Thintir.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

originally posted in Alliance: HotE/D RPG

Part 10

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There was no use in the glowing blue of some of their weapons; the fort was so occupied with orc that they had been lit since the party had drawn near outside. Tavari and her ten archers moved swiftly but cautiously, some having traded their bows for other weapons. She was one of these, Glamor now held lightly in her left hand in a reverse grip. Thus far they had encountered nothing, penetrating deeper into Ost-Thintir; it was clear that the fortress could not have been abandoned, but where were the enemy? Almost as soon as Tavari had considered giving the order to double back and explore another passage, a clatter came from ahead. Everyone jerked forward and crouched, expecting movement, but nothing… The torches ahead had been mostly extinguished, leaving the rest of the corridor in an eerie half-light. With a motion of her hand, Tavari indicated that they should continue moving forward. Ahead there was a small, narrow passage leading off to the left, and slightly beyond that, a t-intersection of passages. Even as they drew near to the narrow passage, preparing to inspect and clear it, a great roar rose from ahead and what seemed a tremendous tide of orcs began to pour from the intersection ahead.

Tavari and her company shouted and surged ahead, arrows flying and blades flashing, to engage the host. They were outnumbered, but the orcs fell before the skill of the elves. She engaged an anormously broad orc who swing a heavy-bladed axe at her; Tavari nimbly avoided his swipe, dodging back then darting forward, slicing swiftly into his wrist with Glamor, at once releasing a gout of blood and destroying the use of his weapon hand. He roared in pain and rage and charged at her, forcing her back even as she thrust the dirk into his throat and slashed, sending him spiraling to the ground. By now Tavari had been backed into the entrance of the narrow corridor they had passed by in their rush to join the battle, now another small group of orcs rushed past her from within it, seeming to take no notice that she was there at all as they ran to enter the fray. But before she could even register her own astonishment at the fact, Tavari was distracted by something far more unexpected.

From a niche in the wall of the narrow passage, where once a suit of armor had stood, Swiltang leapt, dropping two loops of thin silken cord over the she-elf’s head, jerking back and twisting their handles cruelly as he fell, dragging her down to the stones of the floor. Tavari’s cry of surprise was cut off by a choking gurgle as she felt herself dragged down by the neck, only just having managed to thrust the fingers of her free hand under the loops of cord. They dug into her neck with a dreadful force and her scrabbling feet found no purchase as the looming, twisted black orc dragged her back by the throat into the concealment of the passage. “Not quite so proud now, are we, goldfeathers?” Swiltang rasped down at the she-elf, a vicious grin on his black face. She twisted her arm, attempting to stab back at him with the glittering dirk in her right hand, but the twisted orc kicked her wrist, knocking the weapon from her grip, and stamped down on it, crushing her arm to the ground. Only a hoarse, choked noise escaped Tavari as she writhed and thrashed on the ground, tugging at the garrote, her eyes rolled up to stare hatefully at her attacker. Swiltang laughed, twisting the cords tighter. One of her fingers slipped from beneath the top cord- if one was left undefended, it would do the work of both.

“It isn’t polite,” he said, as though lecturing a child, “to try and kill other people’s brothers. My brother is quite vexed with you, goldfeathers. I wonder how your brother would feel if I returned your dead, beaten body to him? Perhaps in pieces. Maybe I’ll keep a bit for myself, just a trophy, perhaps this hand.” His foot ground down on her wrist. “Maybe I should let you be the reward for my boys for killing your dear brother if they manage it. Some of them didn’t get a share of the elf-flesh when we took this place. And it’s been so long since they had a nice she-elf to tear apart.” Swiltang laughed nastily, watching as the fire began to go out of Tavari’s periwinkle eyes; another finger slipped, and her struggles began to weaken.


The dingy walls of the corridor and the sneering face of the orc began to fade before Tavari’s eyes, the scraping of her heels against the stones growing weaker as she fought to escape her attacker. After all the wars she had fought, battles she had survived, she was going to die here in an abandoned fortress at the hands of a single orc. Had she the breath, the idea would have made her laugh. But a further tug on the garrote from the orc gagged her, flecks of foam starting out on her lips. He had her under his power; he could have simply snapped her neck, but no, the foul creature chose to slowly throttle the life out of her, with a malicious pleasure gleaming in his red eyes. For the second time in recent weeks, Tavari’s desperate thought flitted to Oromë, this time hoping against hope that he would plead with Námo to see her returned to his side. But it was not to be.

A searing viridian light tore through the hall, burning through orc-flesh and shattering stone, dropping the enemy where they stood, to sizzle and writhe on the blood-spattered ground. The cords around Tavari’s neck slackened and she drew in a deep gasp of air as Swiltang staggered, and her vision steadied. As she craned her neck, grasping tighter at the cords, she saw that the light was emanating from a green-robed, staff carrying figure, white eyes blazing from without his wrinkled face, and a chord throbbed within Tavari. Something about the power surging forth from the Istar was familiar, like a long-ago ache in her bones that she couldn’t quite place, growing stronger as the figure strode forth. A mass of energy formed in his hand, green as his robes and hard as iron.

I only ask once, Orc, he threatened Swiltang, raising the mass of energy as it transformed into a bolt. Tavari’s mind raced, irrationally trying to place the wizard, when she clearly had more important things to be thinking about, as the resurgence of oxygen filtered strength slowly back into he muscles.
Swiltang snarled brutishly at the Istar, but further slackened his grip, and finally shook off the garrote entirely, roughly dropping Tavari and allowing the back of her head to smack into the floor. With a final loathing glance at both wizard and nís, the lean, twisted orc took flight, running with an unexpected fleetness down the corridor, barking orders at the few who remained alive of his command. As he reached the end of the passage where it joined the next, he was met by his burly brother Yarltang, and what remained of the archers. A furious snarl was the only rejoinder of the reunited siblings, and they retreated together, wending their way out of the fortress to hasten north.

At the entrance to the small corridor, Tavari clutched at her throat, feeling the deep, grooved bruising that marked her neck all round, and the springing pinpricks of blood. Dazedly she began to push herself up from the floor, grasping Glamor as she did so, but hands thrust themselves beneath her arms and hauled her upright, before draping her arm over the shoulders of the person to whom they belonged. The green-robed Istar half-carried Tavari, pulling her out of the side passage and into the main corridor, whose stones had begun to tremble from the force of his spell. Somewhat bemusedly, Tavari muttered, “Have we met before?” But at that moment the stones began to crack and crash down behind them, and she concentrated on forcing all her energy into her legs as the wizard hurried her forward until they were running along the corridor- up and out, until finally they burst back through the doors and into the courtyard.

Across the courtyard, among the bodies of the dead and dying orcs, was Aigronding. The Istar seemed to know, and guided and pulled Tavari towards him. Oh dear… she though inwardly, knowing that the marks on her neck must look much worse than they felt- not that they felt particularly pleasant, and did her best to straighten up as they approached her brother, the effect somewhat ruined by the shakiness of her legs. Tavari managed a cheeky smile, and put her hand to her heart for a brief bow, before speaking hoarsely. “Well, háno, Swiltang sends his greetings. And it seems I’ve got a following amongst these types, they even have a pet name for me.”
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Aftermath
originally posted in The Vale of Rivendell. A post by Aig is missing between the two parts


Part 1

Snow drifted against the windowpanes, piling in small mountains against the glass until the weight became too much and it dropped away in a never-ending cycle. Tavari watched the snow fall from her position propped up against the headboard of her bed. She was dressed in a simple green frock, with the blanked pulled up over her bent knees, and her long plait over one shoulder. Gellam was at her side, fingers dancing over the strings of his lute as he sang. It would have been an idyllic scene, had it not been for the wide bandage around her neck. The damage to her throat from Swiltang’s garrote had been significant, and had not improved on the journey home from Trollshaws. On their arrival back in the vale, Tavari had been hustled straight up to the House by her brother, and here she was now. Elrond had gone, after tending her wound and praising he account of the incident, but the bandage remained. It was knotted firmly but not tightly under the right side of her jaw, exerting light pressure on the cleaned and salved laceration. Bruising crept out from beneath the bandage, purpling the pale flesh of Tavari’s neck, yellow around the edges as it faded.

Gellam’s clear tenor filled the room, spinning a tale of a bear and a maiden fair, a nonsense story full of court gossip and silliness. Tavari smiled at the fool and his eyes brightened, his fingers taking on an extra spring as he picked out the tune. She gave a hoarse chuckle, returning her gaze to the window, and was just reaching out for the steaming mug at her elbow when a knock came on the door. Gellam and Tavari both looked up, then he glanced back at her, and she nodded. “Do you mind?” she whispered. The music halted and Gellam stood, striding quickly to the door. He pulled it open wide, but his grin quickly became a bow, and he turned to flash a wink and a wave at Tavari before edging out of the room. Tavari craned her neck to try and see who had come to the door, and as he stepped into the room, her features relaxed into a slightly sardonic smile.

“Ah, háno, welcome! I see your fearsome glare is improving.”


Part 2

Tavari sighed deeply, but did not rise to her brother’s bitter accusation. What would you have me be, Maltahtar? She asked silently, allowing her gaze to drift back to the window as Aigronding seated himself at her bedside. Why would you wish me to be like another, rather than what I am? Why must you compare me to those whom you used to replace me- am I not enough? There is a lonely, angry child in you still. But then her thoughts were interrupted and she snorted, facing him directly with a laugh that raked her throat at his mention of Gellam. “Háno, please. I am hardly the only object of Gellam’s attentions- have you seen how he dotes on Gwenneth? Or any other maid for that matter. You mustn’t think he’s so serious about any of it.” Tavari squeezed Aigronding’s hand as his fingers curled around hers. His concern touched her, loosening somewhat the knot of hurt in her belly- at least, that is, until he voiced is proposed solution.

“Safer missions?” Tavari protested in an outraged whisper, “Any safer, and you will lock me up entirely! You cannot detain me from my duty because of one injury- you would not do so to any other soldier, and so why should you do so to me? You are right, if it is not this Swiltang it will be something else, but those are the danger we all agree to face in the doing of our work. Aigronding,” she cut across his pleas for her not to fight sharply, her use of this name deliberate and flat. “Perhaps, you have forgotten. I am Rávnissë. I am made to fight, and I wield no sword.” His grip crushed down on her fingers, but she returned the pressure, unflinching, her stare unwavering, with what power her injured voice could not contain. “If I am a target of the orcs’ wrath, then so be it. Let you use their knowledge of me as a weapon to our advantage: it is your duty to leverage every opportunity you have against them, just as it is mine to return to the field. Sometimes you must sacrifice the queen in order to save the game.”
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OP has been updated with parts 7 and 8 of Rembina, under Davos Seaworth! :grin:

And I have clarified in the OP that reviews or/and reactions are very welcome and anyone is free to post comments in this thread! :grin:
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Hwinnien
originally posted in the Vale of Rivendell

On the west side of the vale, there was a place where the steeply sloping sides of the valley shallowed and the forested bottom gave way to wide swathes of tall grass; a meadow within the hidden vale, on whose edge a stream burbled and laughed cheerfully in the midday sun. Here and there flowers dotted the clearing, and a trilling bird soared overhead to complete the idyllic scene. It was to this place that Gellam the Fool had come, running long-legged through the trees to reach, and brought with him Tavari Mordagnir. They each were girded and ready for travel, Gellam having fastened on his fighting belt and Tavari garbed in the trews, tunic and jerkin of her warlike persona, though the gold ringmail was not glittering in place as it did when immediate trouble was expected. Her tawny hair was bound back in one long plait, and Glamor hung at her hip. Gellam had left his lochaber at the place from which they would depart, but insisted upon returning down the vale to retrieve something else he would need for the journey back to Mirkwood, and Tavari had gladly, if somewhat bemusedly, accompanied him.

They stood now near the edge of the meadow with the grasses rising to their calves and swaying there gently.
Tavari looked curiously at Gellam, but the wood-elf made no explanation, only threw back his head and emitted a sound somewhere between a whistle and a cry, that echoed through the clearing. Again he made the noise, and this time, listening closely, Tavari could discern what he was saying. “Hwinnien!” Gellam called, the Silvan word seeming to ululate from his throat. “Hwinnien!” And his call was answered, by a rich, shrilling neigh and the sudden sound of hoofbeats. Flashes of silver showed between the trees far across the meadow where it sloped upwards, and as the horse broke from the forest’s edge, Tavari’s heart froze in her chest and she gasped. The dappled grey quarters, muscle rolling beneath them and the flying silver mane and tail, the neck arching proudly; it was though a vision of millennia before had been jerked sharply forward and placed before her eyes. Fëalasso, breaking from a wood’s edge in the same way, but galloping, across a golden field to dance about her in Laurelin’s golden light. Fëalasso, skimming across the ceaseless horizon with a golden-haired maid on his back; Fëalasso, on the cold shores of Alqualondë, bugling for his mistress.

“My Lady?” A gentle touch on Tavari’s shoulder brought her back to the present, but still she stared, watching as the horse cantered across the meadow, scarcely seeming to touch the ground. As it drew nearer she could see now: The legs were slimmer, the chest not quite so wide, and the neck, delicately arched under a lesser burden of muscle. No, this was not Fëalasso, but for the briefest of moments, Tavari had allowed herself to be deceived. Her throat ached and she could not bring herself to look at the fool, whose jovial eyes had taken on a concerned light. “Once,” she said at length, “I was blessed with a companion so like this horse that she could almost be him reborn. Fëalasso, I called him, and many’s the night we hunted together beneath Telperion’s beams.” The mare had reached them now and was prancing about Gellam, bulling close and then darting off again, lipping at his long mahogany hair before seizing the cap from his head and sidestepping just out of reach. Yes, the more Tavari watched her, the clearer the differences became, but in that single moment…

“Well!” Gellam exclaimed, laughing as he chased after the mare, who tilted her head as high as she could, keeping the cap out of the wood-elf’s reach, before depositing it herself back on his head, messily. “My Lady, may I introduce you,” he ran one hand fondly down the mare’s elegant neck while the other straightened his hat, “to Hwinnien.” Gellam’s finger tapped lightly and once on the mare’s near elbow, and she sank at once into a graceful and seamless bow, left foreleg extended forward while the right curled back beneath her, and her head laid itself along the left. It was Tavari’s turn to laugh and she smiled as she returned the horse’s bow. At a small signal from Gellam’s hand, Hwinnien straightened once more and stood at her master’s side, nudging him with her muzzle occasionally. “She has been my companion for many years! And though she has enjoyed this vale, I’m sure will be glad to return home, as will I, if even for a short time.”

Some faint wistfulness must have crept into Tavari’s features, for when the fool continued it was in a less exuberant tone. “I know that you cannot return so to Fëalasso, whether his joyous spirit now hunts alone amongst the wonders of Aman, or whether he runs in the unknowable starless night. And though I am sure you do not need me to tell you, he is with you whenever the breeze rushes past, for if there is a creature condensed of the wind, is it not the horse? But come!” Gellam cried suddenly, his dark eyes dancing, all gaiety once again, and with the aid of a toe on her shoulder, sprang lightly onto the mare’s grey back, drawing from her a whinny of joy. “Hwinnien will seat two as ably as one, and if you will honor us, we shall stir the wind, such as this vale has seldom seen!” All morose forgotten, Tavari seized the wood-elf’s outstretched hand, and even as Hwinnien began to whip about in a tight circle, vaulted onto the mare’s back behind him. No sooner had she landed than Gellam gave a sharp cry and Hwinnien leapt forward with a will, galloping with a thunderous effortlessness across the valley floor, bearing her two laughing passengers back towards the high moor.
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originally posted in Shadow's Reach

“There are just so many people, Gellam, I am glad on occasion to escape the clamor.”

“But surely my Lady is used to her enormous family!” the fool replied glibly as he lifted his pole, punting the craft slowly down the broad, lazy watercourse of the Forest River. “One can hardly live among such a scope of relations without becoming used to a little clamor.” Tavari laughed softly, dandling her fingers over the edge of the boat, to break the moon’s reflection on the surface of the water.

“I have walked a long time, alone and eldest, my friend.”


“But surely it was not always so?” Gellam settled the pole in its hook and leapt lightly down from the plank upon which he had stood, stepping closer to the flaxen haired elleth. “The Tar-Taidron is your brother, and-“

“I had another brother once.” She cut across him uncharacteristically, her fingertips still and trailing now in the water as they glided. “My twin. Arasoron.” His name she spoke quietly, almost a whisper in the night. “We traveled this world together when it was young. Looking at the three of us you would think Aigronding and I the onóna, but it was Arasoron and I who shared that bond. That single life. He was slain by the Necromancer at Eregion.” Tavari’s face turned heavenwards and the starlight glittered in her pale eyes. “Once, I had him. And a mother- a father. And… once upon a time, a love. But I am lemban, Gellam.”

“The one left behind.” He said in a low voice, translating the word of the high tongue. She remained silent for a moment and his hand stretched out, lifting towards her before curling back, until she replied softly.

“Yes.”

“Tavari…” Gellam stepped forward and his hand grasped her shoulder; then he fell to his knees behind her. Hesitatingly at first, then when she made no move to start away he slipped his arms about her waist and pulled her close, embracing her tightly against his chest, chin tucked over her shoulder. “Áni apsenë (Forgive me, Q),” he spoke gently in the tongue of her fathers, “Nwalyan len (I am sorry for you, Q).” The fool released her after a long, silent moment, and sat back on his heels, still gripping her shoulders in his hands. “You shall not be alone again, unless you wish it.” He rose, one hand trailing briefly through the golden strands of her hair as he joined her in gazing at the stars. “I will never leave you behind.”

His tone was so firm that Tavari looked up at him, startled. The wood-elf’s face was illuminated by Tilion’s beam, its ever-mirthful angles now stark in solemnity, and his laughing dark eyes determined in their gaze. Then even as she watched, Gellam’s eyes crinkled into their usual smile and he grinned down at her, taking one of her hands in both his own and depositing a light kiss upon it before bounding back to his place and the pole, and giving the craft a good shove to send it quicker down the river. “Come, my Lady, a song! What would you have?” A brief strum announced the emergence of the lute and Tavari could only laugh then, and sigh in contentment,

“Oh, my fool.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Choices
originally posted in The Vale of Rivendell.
parts in blue written by Aig

A robin swooped by the terrace, chirruping merrily to himself. The sun was bright and golden, lancing through the trees that rose about the Last Homely House to strike and bounce off the pale stones of the balcony. Upon the terrace were two chairs and a table, which was laid with a luncheon of fruits, cheeses, bread and meat. Seated across the table from each other were a pair of elves, golden-haired and fair. Tavari Mordagnir and her brother Aigronding shared the luncheon in the midday idyll, relaxing after an intense council session with the Lord Elrond. The unrest that seemed to be stirring in the north was troubling to them all, and the lack of information only made things worse. These moments of peace were most welcome. Tavari sighed and lifted her delicate spun-glass goblet, draining the last drops of dark red wine from its depths. She replaced the goblet and pushed herself up from the chair, allowing her fingertips to trail across the alabaster surface of the table as she strode across the terrace towards the balustrade.

Tavari closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of the sweet valley air, spreading her arms wide and resting her palms on the smooth rail. The morning had been stressful, and she grateful to be able to retreat and regroup in Aigronding’s company- as her brother, not her captain. Since coming to Imladris the adjustments had been more difficult than Tavari had let on; after close to forty-eight hundred years of near-total solitude, living in a populated vale in a manse full of relations was strange indeed. And though she was inordinately proud of her little brother’s achievements, learning to be his military subordinate had been odd as well. But here and now, out of surcoats and ringmail, they were equals. Tavari turned to look over her shoulder at him with a smile. “Well, háno, as lovely as this has been, I’m afraid I must escape the confines of Elrond's halls,” she said, shaking back her mane of tawny hair. “I have an appointment to keep with a fool and a fishing line.”



He stared at her incredulously. Leaving him to go have fun with Gellam? Aigronding would not allow that; he was quite distressed lately and her presence was a balm to him. Mordagnir would not permit Tavari for disrespecting him this way. Suil! Lord Glorfindel, clad in blue and cloth-of-gold, merrily spoke, coming upon the pair several seconds after Tavari had ruined the happiness of their pleasant luncheon ; Glorfindel wanted to relax with his friends. Not happening. Not right now. This was a private affair and it would continue!

Námarië! the Herald of Elrond barked and the sun-haired elf-lord, wounded, walked away. Aigronding hesitated, wanting to recall Glorfindel back to go with Tavari himself so she wouldn't fool around with the clown that seemed to be enamored of her but he decided otherwise. She was going to spend time with him and no one else. At least today. Don't smile at me, Aigronding quietly seethed, commanding his sister sharply, and slapped a bowl of fruit off the table in his anger. This is cruel and you know it.


*

Glorfindel had noticed that something had gone awry between the siblings which was unusual. So naturally, Lord Glorfindel was intrigued; if Tavari was going to snap on Aig (really, he did deserve it; he bossed her around too much as if he himself were the eldest. It was time for Tavari to put him in his place) he didn't want to leave his vantage point. The keyhole outside the chamber door.

The cheerful elf-lord snickered as he watched through the keyhole the Mordagnirs begin to quarrel with each other. Perhaps he would even discover information that would be enlightening and shocking. This was probably rude, dropping eaves to gain knowledge of matters he shouldn't be privy to, but really he couldn't help himself. The jolly elf-lord try to restrain his laughter; when Aigronding struck the fruit bowl, sending it flying, he almost exploded with mirth. Ohhhhhhhhh!!!!! Glorfindel exclaimed thoughtfully and bit his lip to keep from chortling. Varda's stars, This was getting gooooood....


*

Nimlos, who had been stretched out on the marble terrace floor, yelped and retreated a few paces away and looked disbelievingly at her master and then frantically between him and his sister, afraid. Her white tail swept nervously against the floor of the terrace and the she-hound whined low, glancing at One Who Runs with Deers, wondering what she had said that would have made him so upset. The sentient creature knew One Who Runs with Deers was wild-hearted and outspoken, there would be a fight. Nimlos was charged with protecting the Love Master but the she-hound never had a need to protect him from his own kin before. Or other elves. This one will go away, Nimlos said to them both in the manner of hounds and so she shrank away from the two siblings to the far corner of the terrace until her white tail carressed the balusters and sat.

Snow White decided the only way to make sense of the situation was to think about what she did when Yavië was being an idiot. She cocked her white ears and thought with painful intentness. She bit and scratched him ; she snarled at him warningly, wanting him to know she was displeased. So Snow White decided she would let One Who Runs with Deers handle Love Master however she wanted ; if One Who Runs with Deers sought to bite or growl at him or whatever it was felt that right, Nimlos would allow it. Unless One Who Runs with Deers siezed one of those odd cutting instruments and threatened to slash her master's throat...then, she would be forced to intervene but Nimlos didn't think One Who Runs with Deers would stoop to slaying her own blood.


*

Sit down and eat, Aigronding ordered Tavari, raising his voice, as a red mist descended across his vision, there's plenty of food still left. You can 'escape' our lord's halls when you're done. Erestor had the cooks prepare this food, something sweet for just the two of us. You'd just prance away like one of those deer you run with and have me eating this lunch all lone or with one of the nobles I'm chums with? No, what you're going to do is plant yourself back down on that chair and leave after you're done eating that food. He laid his elbow against the glass counter-top and thrust a finger towards Tavari who stood away. And with me, he finished, drawing the same finger to tap his chest. We can fish, we can swim. We can do anything we want but you're not seeing him or anyone else. And I don't care that you're going to be late, that you'll miss him all together. I don't care how disappointed he's going to be - you're not seeing him today and that's not negotiable. Even if Tavari would have wanted to return to their table, Aigronding, furious, snapped, sweeping his arm to send a saucer laden with cake flying; he arose swiftly from his chair and stalked towards her, stepping over the ruins of the sweet treat. What is wrong with you? he demanded, grabbing his sister by the arm and gave her a little shake.

You know what kind of emotional pressure I'm under, he accused hotly, and what we're up against ; something could happen to us, and what would you have done ? Spend time with that silly clown. We haven't seen each other in thousands of years but you jump quick at the chance to be around him. That disgusts me. What about your brother? He squeezed her arm. Hard. You find it too easy to forget about your family. What about your nieces and nephews; they love you, too. Valion is gone; where were you when he was here ? Anywhere but here and shame upon you. What about your sisters and my wife? You should get to know them better instead of gallivanting and climbing trees with that rustic idiot. You care more about flirting with half a hundred men then you do about appreciating the love and nearness of your kin. And that ends today. He pulled her close forcefully and looked into her eyes. He uttered through his teeth: I will not let you abandon your family for another man, an man who will hurt you. I was young but I still remember the monster you fancied. Lord Caranthir. And what did the brute do? He spurned you. Aigronding pushed her back and snarled. You weren't good enough for him. But I suppose that's a good thing. Beauty shouldn't wed the Beast.


*

Glorfindel was amazed at the Herald's vitriol, unsmiling now ; he felt for him but the elf-lord sympathised with Quimellë Tavari more. After all she did dwell with him and so it wasn't like she was now a stranger to family life ; Tavari could have a manse or her own or, if she was feeling humble which was usual, she could have for herself a cottage but the woman chose to reside with her kin. Ever since she returned Tavari was trying to make up for what she had missed, it appeared, but she deserved to have friends just like anyone else. Perhaps the situation concerning the North's aggression was scaring Arquen Mordagnir and he needed something to be the conduit for his rage and fear and tension to bleed themselves out. Glorfindel pursed his lips.

Upbraiding Tavari wasn't a good means of venting his ire and fright and anxiety; she didn't deserve it Glorfindel thought, but ultimately he decided to let the siblings settle things for themselves. He shouldn't even be spying on them anyway and though he had greater authority than Mordagnir in the vale, this was a private matter. He was too enraptured to remove himself from his position so he remained seated, riveted in place, anxious to know what would happen next. felt and he was of mind to walk inside and admonish And if Mordagnir was going to destroy another delicious snack; really, debating made Lord Glorfindel of Imladris quite hungry....wasting food after council was tantamount to sinning in his vaunted opinion.... What was this? Glorfindel's mouth was agape; Tavari loved Caranthir and they were together for a time? Glorfindel's line was a noble one, he came from a family of princes and so he knew the Fëanorians in Tirion. But Caranthir was a private man and fell of temper ; he hadn't known Caranthir had a lover. And he traveled rarely to the east in the days before King Turgon took the people of Nevrast to Gondolin; he hadn't known Caranthir to be either wedded to anyone or beloved by any elleth in that time, too. Glorfindel's interactions with the Fëanorians were few but he did know that Caranthir wasn't unfeeling, he was emotional but he'd never expect one so aloof or cold as he to fancy any female. This was most interesting indeed....



The bowl clanged off the marble near her feet and Tavari leapt back, staring at her brother in astonishment. “Cruel?” she questioned, bewildered, but before she could inquire as to what he could mean, Aigronding had ordered her to sit, taking a tone as though she were a naughty child, or a dog in need of chastisement. No- a deer in need of censure, it seemed. Had elves possessed hackles her would have risen and fangs bared as he commanded her: what you’re going to do is plant yourself back down on that chair…you're not seeing him today and that's not negotiable. Clearly her little brother was irritated about something, and forgetting his place. “No, Tar-Taidron,” Tavari replied thinly, stressing the title, “you are incorrect. What I am going to do, is leave this terrance, to go where I will with whom I wish, as ever I have. You may be Mordagnir now, but you are not our father. He did not command me, and you will not.” Since her return to Imladris, the flaxen-haired nís had encountered no occasion necessary to exert herself as eldest- but now it seemed, Aigronding had forgotten himself entirely.

Tavari startled back against the balustrade as he rushed at her, seizing her arm in a fierce grip. “I dwell in your manse, háno.” She said coldly. “There is little closer to family that I can be. I see you all every day- especially you and Mar, for do we not all serve beneath the same banner? You would deny my the opportunity to make new acquaintance? You are eager enough to throw me in the company of Lord Glorfindel,” Tavari accused, her normally sunny face slipping into an irate mask. “Why should I not spend time with companions of my own choosing? Gellam brings me happiness and is far more intelligent than you give him credit for, perhaps you should not be so swift in judging a book by its cover.” Her face became even harder at the mention of Valion. “Shame, Maltahtar? Shame on me? Shame on you, for knowing so little of your own son’s mind. Search his letters, and see what you will find. I have no sisters,” Tavari’s gaze grew yet more flinty as Aigronding dragged her close, looming over her, no doubt hoping to cow or intimidate his elder- but Tavari was not so weak nor foolish as to be impressed by the tantrums of a petulant child. “though I may come to accept those you call so as such in time. You have such happied manners that you are sure of drawing friends- or family, as it seems, and I have been long away.”

She was well prepared to spurn any other cutting remarks he would send her way, to cut him down with the scathing edge of her tongue. But at his next jibe, Tavari’s mind simply receded into blank whiteness, and she could not prevent the shock from betraying itself on her face. He did not. He simply could not have said the things she had heard. She staggered back from his shove, turning again to grip the balustrade with white fingers. A slew of imagery passed before her eyes: a rolling golden field, and two figures distantly; a room of thick-veined marble, rich with drapes- a ship, a storm, a sea of ice. Song in a forest and sudden laughter, a dank cave, then another, this one drenched with blood and a din of sound, and over it all a pair of grey eyes and ruddy cheeks- angry, laughing, sad, and adoring. Tavari’s shoulders hunched; the light of Aman in her sky-blue eyes flickered and darkened like thunder rolling over wheat, and a great wrath rose within her, such as she had not known since before the rising of the sun.

She whirled. Her first blow was a blackhanded slap that cracked across Aigronding’s face with a stunning force. But this was not enough, and her right hand curled into a fist as it traveled back, then pistoned forward with the entire weight and strength of Tavari’s body behind it, and it was only the advantage of her brother’s height which saved him from unconsciousness as it took him square across the jaw. She lunged forward, driving him back with her forearm across his chest to smash against the wall. Tavari leaned and forced Aigronding down, buckling his knees and pinning him against the wall like a fly. “Do not speak of what you know naught of!” She snarled. “I would have wed him, aye, and you would have bent the knee and called me Queen. Ignorant child!” she slapped him again, the back of her free hand augmenting the rapidly darkening mark on his left cheek. “You dare speak as if you knew Carnistir Fëanorion? You dare speak as though the few actions of a noble son of the Noldor define him completely? You dare to think that I- that your own blood! Could make such a choice so wrongly and lightly, that you think it worthy of shame? I am thrice a kinslayer, putsiseldo (little boy, Q), and you are fortunate indeed that my wrath does not extend so far as the shedding of our parents’ blood.”

Tavari’s chest was heaving, and all-consuming rage had added further strength to that of the Undying Lands and the Begotten. Had her arm been across his throat, Aigronding would no doubt have found himself gasping vainly for air around a crushed larynx, but as it was, she held him immobile with the force of her body. “You were not at Doriath, my brother. You did not see, and you know nothing. Have you never thought it strange, that though an archer took his life, none ever knew who had killed King Caranthir? Did you never think it odd no one stepped forward to claim the victory, the slaying of the harshest of Fëanor’s sons? Whose arrow do you think pierced his heart, even as he ran to slay Dior in defense of his brother? Whose!” she screamed at him, her voice rising in fury and passion, hot, bitter tears of anger straining her cheeks. “I have carried the weight of his murder for six and a half thousand years. There was no heart at Doriath, only duty, and I did mine- but murder it was nonetheless. In a kinder world I could have been his wife, but instead I left those caves with nothing but wretchedness, accursed by the oath of his father and its ruination of both our lives. You have known a spouse and many children in your fortunate existence; I have had none of those things, by no fault of mine nor of the only one I ever loved. So do not denigrate the one most favored thing I did have, and what I might have had, Maltahtar- by the might of Oromë!” Tavari punctuated her cry with one final shove, which sent a crack spiraling thinly up through the wall, before releasing Aigronding at last, backing away and turning from him, fists clenched. “Do not, lest I go from this place, and see you no more in the circles of this world.”



He was a private man and because of the hell he went through, I didn't pry, I never so much as lifted his journal or perused even one letter. Never once did I interrogate Meril either, Aigronding responded hotly back; as Tavari revealed a secret he couldn't have ever imagined, he could feel a loathing for his own sister beginning to strengthen. You hurt me, Aigronding told her, almost moaning ; his mood swung from anger to sadness like the swing of a pendulum. You would speak to your nephew but not even your own brother? I never gave you a reason to treat me so cruelly. If you only knew how nigh mad it drove me, never knowing what ever happened to you. His eyes filled with tears, dimming his vision and suddenly he was angry again, no furious and his hand became a fist. For a moment he almost hated her.

So many of my closest friends dead and Father beaten down, Arasoron and Indilë killed and faithful Belegarm slain, Mother gone to Valinor, my wife murdered, and who is it who knows what on Queen Yavanna's green earth is happening to you? Only my son? And you swore him to secrecy?! Damn you, Tavari. He trembled, wanting to snap, wanting to clap her face with a stinging blow of his hand as she spoke of Almarëa and Veowyn and Aerlinn; they weren't family ?! Those women may not be your sisters but they are mine. Not your family but my own. Fine. He grabbed her arm and squeezed with powerful enough of force to leave her limb bruised for a long while.

Know this: I just don't merely call them that, Aigronding yelled at her, tears trickling from his blue eyes, they have proved themselves to be family more times than you ever cared to prove it for me! Aigronding released her. You always had Arasoron; you wanted to surround yourself around him more than you ever wished to cleave to me, he said sourly and bitterly added, wiping at his crying eyes, I was the brother you never loved enough until you lost the one you cherished better ! And now like a guilty thing you're trying to make things better. He hollered at her: Try harder ! Tavari lived in his home and though she saw him every day, the weight of the years she had spent apart from him still laid heavy upon his heart and he could not easily forgive her absence as she wanted, not yet.

She was trying hard but as much as she had hurt him by seemingly ignoring him and putting him through perdition by her constant leavintakings, Aigronding couldn't understand that right now. Even just one mention of leaving him to spend time with someone else had plucked his nerves ; it seemed like rejection and the pain resonated deep within his heart, making him react crudely. He grinned like a vengeful demon, laughing manically, seeing how well he thrust his surprise dagger into the deepest part of her heart.

Oh, that hurt you, did it? Aigronding asked with a mad chuckle in his hysteria ; he wanted her to feel the keenest pain because of what she put him through. You deserve it, he snarled and, feeling so victorious, he didn't expect the blow she dealt him. YOU'D BE A QUEEN! Aigronding thunderously snapped back at Tavari pinned him to the wall, the national pride of his fallen kingdom flaring like a star in a moment's instant. BUT NOT MINE! Idril Celebrindal is the only Lady I'd been my knee to, Aigronding Mordagniran elf of noble Gondolin - and not of your FIENDISH lover's cruel Thargelion! Tavari spoke of him and of the heart-wrenching duty that still haunted and hurt her. He began to calm now, moved by his sister's unhappy tale and hated himself for wounding her so badly; he had threatened their friendship and harmony, willingly - the scorned little brother within him was still sensitive to Tavari's brutally swift and silent departures and, what it seemed like to him, constant abandonment. But she was still his sister and, in fact, his only true one.

I'm sorry, he uttered as he walked woodenly to her ; he leaned to kiss her tear-stained face. I never knew. He touched her sun-gold hair and gently moved the tip of his nose against the smoothness of her wet cheek ; he felt her waist tenderly, hoping it would mollify her. I can't imagine what it's like to kill what you love, how you could summon the will and sustain such iron resolve to sever yourself forever from the person you want. And I apologize for doing something like that now ; I could have shattered our bond forever. He stroked her spine with loving fingers and leaned his brow against her own.

I cannot know him like you did, unwittingly shaped by the opinion of the scholars, but if it means anything to you, Tavari, I will not embrace the coldness of the Lambengolmor's beliefs. I will not speak ill of Caranthir again. He made you happy and so I should be thankful that there was man in this world who wanted to give you a merrier life. I won't speak his name so disparaging again and not because you would leave but only because I know how you it would damage a heart already not healed so well, a heart that can never wholly be mended again. I love you. He teetered on the break of indecision. He was sorry....but not completely ; he was still aggrieved. You can think me a whiny boy if you want but I'm a man you hurt. He cupped her face and his words were quiet and sad. You left me many times and so others took the place in my life you should have had.

I can't say I'm sorry for allowing them to - he restrained a sob - I needed what you couldn't give me for whatever reason you had. But now that you're back, you can make up for lost time. But Almarëa and Aerlinn and Veowyn will always be sisters of my heart ; they are as near true to me as you, Tavari. My passion guides my reason. He kissed Tavari once more and stepped away from her. Go then, if that's what you want ; there are other days than these, Aigronding told her but not impolitely. And I suppose I should go see Lord Elrond for healing ; he will ask and I shall be truthful and suffer the ignominy. He smiled wryly at her but that smirk dissolved into a frown. You have never taken another love, you have never wed, Tavari. You still love Caranthir. After all this time ?



She moved out from his grasp. “You must try to understand.” Tavari could not bring herself to look at him, and so instead her gaze searched over the vale, its perfect peace dull and meaningless before her eyes. The anger was still in her, and the deliberate cruelty of Aigronding’s words twisted like a hooked blade in her gut, but the urge to strike, to kill, to complete her own ruination, had gone. “You must try to understand,” she said again, mastering herself, steadying her voice, “that there are so few that I love in this world. Maltahtar, you have such a gift that you are able to love so many, and receive their love in return. All of those whom you have lost, so have I- but I have never been able to replace them, as you were able to replace me. All the cuts are deep, and the torn flesh is slow to heal. Our pains are distinct, háno, and neither can never truly know the other. As I do not know the pain of losing a spouse, you can never know the utter loss of self that tears and wrenches and grinds at your heart and soul when your onóna (twin, Q) is slain.” Tavari’s face trembled, but her voice remained steady. “I ache for him every day, Maltahtar, and the wound is still as fresh and raw as it was the day I saw him die.”

Now she could face him- and did so, the ghost of a smile hovering about her lips. “I love you beyond love, háno. I would lay down my life for you in an instant, without thought, and gladly. I never loved you less than I do now. But after the deaths of my dearest friend and my second self-“ here a catch interrupted Tavari’s voice, but she continued resolutely. “If the only thing required of me in this life had been to slay Carnistir, to put out his fire and be forever sundered from what happiness we might have had, I could have borne it. But without Arasoron, I simply did not have the strength to bear any more. He was the only one who ever knew, not even Indilë shared our secret, and with his help I endured, rather than wane and perish in despair. With Arasoron gone, I did not have the strength to bear your love, nor that of any other living, and only in time did I come to relent to Valion. Seeking and taking him out of Angband left an indelible mark on us both, and he understood my need to distance myself. Make no mistake, háno, he desired to tell you of my safety and circumstances, but I forbade him. The blame of the deception is entirely mine.”

Tavari touched Aigronding’s face lightly, her fingertips skating over the darkening bruises. “I am grateful that you have found such people that you love so well as to call them kin. I am grateful for the happiness that you have found. And now you must allow me to try to do the same.” He released her then, with a sardonic smile, and she turned to leave. But as she reached the door, her brother’s voice made her pause, questioning her: you still love Caranthir. After all this time? Tavari stood for a moment, her gaze downcast, and the silence stretched out between them. She thought of Caranthir, of his grey eyes and ruddy smile, of midnight chases in Telprion’s silver gleam, of secret meetings in war-torn forests; of her parents’ despair at her rejection of every potential suitor who had ever come to call in Aman or Endor, of blood and death and despair; of trackless years and lonesome wanderings, of the high, sweet smell of grass in the summer, and the ceaseless wind. And, oddly, of Gellam- of the jovial fool with the ready smile and kind eyes, ever-ready with a song and a laugh. Then her head came up, and Tavari lifted her chin proudly, a flicker of fire returning to the glittering depths of her fathomless eyes. As she left the room, she looked back at Aigronding and whispered,

“Always.”
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OP has been updated with parts 1 and 2 of Roccotaurë under Tavari Tales in the Years of the Trees! :grin:

This is a work in progress that I originally planned to post as a single unit, but with only 2/5 planned sections written and over 4k words, I have decided to split it up :googly:

Edit: also updated with post 4 of Who's Your Daddy? under Kamion! :lol:
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OP has been updated with the first entry of Ihethrillend under Alagon :grin:
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While there is no way I will ever have a comprehensive list of responses to everything cataloged here, I do have to comment on a couple I've read in the last couple of weeks!

Egledhryn - your use of brief dialogue to create and stretch tension in this one was fantastic. The net effect was deep seafoam melancholy.

Roccotaurë parts 1 and 2 - I love baby Tavari!! It's so fun to read childhood backstory for such an ancient and well-established character. I actually have read very little RP on Plaza set in Valinor (outside of AoA I guess?) so it was a blast to imagine a full society with people actually growing up there.

Also "Who's Your Daddy?" is the best RP title ever, well done
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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OP has been updated with post 5 of Who's Your Daddy? under Kamion! :grin:

@Zôrzimril Thank you!! Edgledhryn was quite different than my usual style, and a fairly early foray in using that kind of structure in substantially sized posts. It's since become a favorite technique :grin: As for Roccotaurë, that's always been something that fascinated me! What was life really like in Valinor? We know there were full societies, but how did it all work and what were people's lives like? I'm having so much fun exploring Tavari's early years and I'm glad you're enjoying it :smooch: If you're interested in a stand alone dose of her in more recent years, may I recommend Enyalië? This takes place in the very recent past (TA-teens). There's quite a bit of build up that leads to it which I haven't posted yet, but I think it works very well on its own!
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Choices has been updated to include the missing posts from @Aigronding Mordagnir, which I was able to recover from the Wayback Machine! :grin: I have not edited them except to preserve his formatting and clean up a few obvious typos.
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Second Chances
originally posted in the Vale of Rivendell
immediately following the events of Choices


With a snap, the door shut behind Tavari, and she slumped back against its post. The corridor was empty, and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders tight and hunched against the buffeting currents of emotion that beat against her, unassuaged by the seeming reconciliation that had just occurred. Even as she had just revealed to Aigronding, never in more than six millennia had she told anyone what had truly transpired in the caves at Doriath- nor, indeed, had she told anyone of the true nature of her relationship with the harshest son of Fëanor. And then all in a moment, those thousands of years of anger, pain, and grief had been dredged up and forced into the light of day. Damn him, damn his childish jealousy and need! Tavari’s thoughts railed against her brother once more, and she thrust herself away from the wall. Clear as they had been when she had given her final assertion to Aigronding, Tavari’s eyes were dazed now, and she half-staggered down the corridor. The sights and sounds and smells of the caves assailed her and her breath shortened, the airy hall of the Last homely House seeming to dissolve around her. She had reached the end of the corridor and, rounding the corner, put out a hand to steady herself against the wall. Sinking into her shoulder, Tavari clenched her free fist and pressed it into her eye, fighting against the memories that threatened to overwhelm her; not just the caves, but mingled with them the flashing eyes and fiery hair of Fëanor’s eldest son; raising his sword, then, dissuaded, casting her into the wilderness. Yes, that was it. That was the best thing to do. Leave Imladris, leave the company of those whom she could not be honest, leave, by the prohibition of her King-

“Ah! My lady!”

A voice from up the corridor rang out merrily, and broke through the ripping tide. Tavari gasped sharply and, looking up, saw the grin fade from Gellam’s face as he ran towards her. “My lady? Are you well?” She flapped her hand aimlessly and pushed herself away from the wall, mustering a smile. “Yes! Yes, it’s nothing, just a sudden headache, I think it’s gone now.” The fool’s look of concern burnt her, and Tavari glanced away. “Are you quite sure? We could delay, you know. I only came down this way because you didn’t appear, and Lord Glorfindel told me he thought you were lunching with the Tar-Taidron-“ Two fishing poles were propped over Gellam’s shoulder, and the bell at the end of his long soft cap tinkled softly as he cocked his head, watching her. “No! I won’t put you off. Come, where did you have in mind?” The grin blossoming over his face once more, Gellam skipped off down the corridor, Tavari breaking into a trot to keep up. He led her out of Elrond’s house, not the main entrance but a small side-door, down a winding path that became progressively narrower and narrower until they were alternately turning sideways and pushing tree limps and brush aside with their hands to get through. Abruptly, all the obstruction fell away, and before them lay a magnificent grassy sward, dotted here and there with wildflowers, shaded and sun-dappled by overhanging tree limbs. The sun broke through and shone gently upon what was clearly a riverbank, and as they crossed the sward Tavari saw the slow, burbling stream below the sharp cut of the bank. A sense of idyll washed over her, so that she hardly noticed Gellam racing ahead, and skidding down from running to his seat on the bank, lanky legs dangling over the edge, and calling out to her to join him.

It was some time later, when the sun had passed from directly overhead to sending shadows from the west, after two water fights, three lures lost, one daisy-chain made, and absolutely no fish pulled up onto the bank, though they were clearly lurking down there, mocking the pair of anglers, when Gellam spoke up.

“My lady-"

“Tavari, Gellam, how many times!”

“Tavari, then,” he surrendered with a chuckle. When he continued, his voice was serious, but soft. “I know you may not wish to speak of it, and surely it is not the place of a lowly fool to question, but I know you were being false with me earlier. You were certainly not all right then, and I suspect it was no temporary thing. If you do wish to speak of it, I beg you speak to me.” He glanced over at her. “When one’s brother is as prominent as yours, and I suspect the root of the problem, I imagine it is difficult to find someone to talk to.” Tavari flicked her line back to the beginning of its float, and sighed heavily. “We have just been quarreling so much, Gellam.” There was more to it than that, of course, and Gellam knew it- so Tavari went on. “Strange as it may seem, I have spent far more time apart from my brother than with him, in our lives. Prior to my returning here, I had wandered, mostly alone, since the year 1698 of the second age of this world.” Gellam’s eyebrows raised. Nearly eight centuries before he had even been born, Tavari had parted from Aigronding, not to see him again for close to five thousand years. “And yet, he is still my brother, and there is a bond between us that can never fail- and he knows things about me that no one else does, or likely will, and he knows just were to prick them to make them hurt.” Beneath Tavari’s sleeve, the bruise from Aigronding’s fierce grip on her arm seemed to throb in response. Her breath caught and her words stopped. She cast her eyes up to the cloudless sky, and swallowed. “Sometimes I think it would be better if I returned to my former life.”

Gellam straightened quickly and turned towards her, tucking his legs up beneath himself and laying down his pole. “Leave Imladris? My lady- Tavari, why should you do that? Trying as circumstances may be,” the earnestness in the fool’s voice did not betray his suspicion that Tavari had not told him the whole truth, but to pry would only make things worse, “you yourself have said that you have been apart from your brother, and even from civilization, much less society where you are loved and respected- no, do not scoff!” Gellam’s voice rose slightly, for she had shaken her head, making a derisive noise in her throat. “You have not been here so long, but quickly proven your worth and kindness, and there are more here who love you than you think, I’d wager. Not only that, but you are noble, though from what I have heard were not born so, and it seems to settle uneasily on you. All of this, and having to reacquaint yourself with a brother who is a stranger but so familiar at once? Who would not have difficulty slipping beneath the surface of such a situation? What you need is time, both of you, and patience with each other. Trite, I know, but you cannot know how something will turn out if you do not give it sufficient time.” Gellam fell silent, and Tavari remained so. After a long moment, she chuckled, and turned her face towards him, a wan smile, curling the edge of her lips.

“Why do they call you a fool, when you are so wise?”

Gellam’s irrepressible grin flashed out once more, and he reached forth to grasp Tavari’s hand where it rested on her knee. “Perils of the occupation, I suppose!” A sudden splash caught his attention, and Gellam released Tavari’s hang, lunging to grab on to the end of his fishing pole- a curious fish had chomped down on the lure while it was unattended, and the pole slithered rapidly towards the edge of the bank. The fool’s hand closed about it, but the pole had gone too far and his lunge had been too great. Gellam toppled over the edge of the bank and into the river with a tremendous splash, and Tavari dissolved into helpless laughter.
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originally posted in the Mirkwood Post Office

Lhindes & Mormerildir
Cottage Among The Alders
The Capital
Mirkwood


Dearest Mumma,


Spring has come and gone, and is summer here! I do so wish that you could have been here in Imladris to feel it come. The sun is so much clearer here than in the greenwood- so clear sometimes it almost hurts, but the sting is tempered by its newborn warmth. The smells are so different too, the sounds, the trees, the wind, and how glorious they are! But even so, oh Mumma, how I miss home. I never wish that the King had not dispatched me here, for I have learned and gained so much, but the melancholy odes I could write for want of the greenwood! But it does not do to write of sadness, for that would be full injustice to the time I have spent here. I hope that your spring was as glorious as mine, and that you and father joined in with the revels. I trust, father, that the smithy was not so busy as to prohibit some celebration!

It is now primarily of revels that I write. When we met at a tourney over the winter, Lord Elrond told me of a ball he planned to give in the spring, and made me promise to invite you both to attend! For several reasons the ball was sadly delayed, but it is now forthcoming, and I plead with you both to come. My dearest Mumma love, you would so adore Imladris, and Alagon pines to see you almost as much as I. Nothing would make me prouder that to introduce the both of you to Lord Elrond, and all the wonderful people I have met here. I know that Lady Mordagnir would be overjoyed to see you again! Though Herald Mordagnir’s wife will no doubt also be in attendance, so perhaps it would be better to differentiate her as Lady Tavari.

Apparently there is a rumor floating about the vale that I am to attend the ball with Lady M, though I believe it was invented only to counter the rumor that she is to attend on the arm of Lord Glorfindel. Which, as I am part and parcel of the evening’s entertainment, seems infinitely more likely! Although I am sure she will be kind enough to save once dance for an obliging fool, if Glorfindel can be persuaded to let her leave his sight. And if Lord M can be persuaded to do the same, for though she is the elder, he possesses a fierce need to protect her (which I can attest irritates her greatly). Lady M’s will will, I anticipate, win out.

Dear me, I do believe my tendency to gossip is as bad as the last time you warned me against it, Mumma. I still protest that it is part of my occupation to know all the little details and tidbits of life around me! In any case I must conclude, or this letter will be too heavy for the bird, and Lady M will soon be calling; the sun is out, the fish are jumping, and an afternoon of playing hooky is just what the fool ordered. Please write accepting Lord Elrond’s invitation, or I will be forced to dispatch the stalwarts of the Halcyon Guard to bring you here.

With all of my love,


Gellam
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Mother Knows Best
originally posted in Shadow's Reach

Lhindes looked up from her embroidery. Her clouded grey-green eyes flicked unseeing towards the door of the cottage, which stood open against the misty morning, and her head cocked slightly to the right. She listened intently, until a second soft flutter confirmed what she had heard, and she leapt from her chair, throwing hoop and cloth to the ground, bounding across the room in nimble leaps, thick man of white hair streaming out behind her. As she halted in the door, its frame seemed to dwarf Lhindes, her small, delicate body incongruous in the door that had been built for her husband’s stature. She stretched up one pale arm, fingers extending just in time to provide a perch for the dove that had spread its wings to land there. Lhindes drew the bird close, stroking its head with the back of her fingers. With two quick twists she unbound the scroll from the dove and set it on its perch, before turning to flee out the door.

The path unwound before her bare feet as she ran, deer-fleet, around the house and through the trees, the sound of hammer striking steel ringing in her ears. “Mormerildir!” she called, the excitement rising in her voice as she ran. The heat from the smithy reached her face yards before she reached its door, and even as she came to a halt outside, the bell sounds from within ceased. As his wife entered the smithy, Mormerildir turned, a glowing spearhead still held between tongs in one hand, a hefty hammer in the other. He was tall, even among elvenkind, but not burly like Rog; his strength in lean, hard muscle, bone, and sinew rather than brute power. His hair was long and very dark, extending to his shoulderblades, although it was currently tied back with a black cord. The face protruding from that hair was angular, sharp, and scarred; a thing puckered line bisected Mormerildir’s left eye, and from his ear swung a golden ring. Below the knee his right leg was not leg, but rather carved of hardwood, ending in a clawed foot.

Mormerildir plunged the spearhead into a barrel of water standing at his side and let it drop, laying aside his tools to attend his wife. “What is it, velethril nîn?” he asked, stripping off the heavy leather gloves of his trade.
Lhindes held out the scroll. “A letter from Gellam.” Mormerildir smiled and took the scroll, crossing the room to sink down into a broad chair. Lhindes followed, and he wrapped one arm about her waist, pulling her down to his thigh as he unrolled the letter. Mormerildir began to read aloud, and Lhindes smiled and sighed in turn at her son’s descriptions of Imladris and his longing for Mirkwood. Her husband’s voice grew startled though, and paused after the beginning of Gellam’s second paragraph. “What is it?” Lhindes asked, prodding Mormerildir in the shoulder.

“It seems, my dear, that we have been invited by Lord Elrond to attend a ball he is giving.” Lhindes’s voice grew as startled as his. “What? A ball? Whatever for?” Mormerildir shrugged. “Gellam does not say, only that Elrond himself has requested we attend. Here, he goes on now to talk about the warrior elleth who was with him when he last was home.” He continued to read, considerably less intent on and more amused by Gellam’s ramblings about Lady Mordagnir and the ball than his wife. When he had finished his recitation, Mormerildir slowly re-rolled the scroll and mused aloud, “I do hope Gellam knows what he is doing here. His ways with maids are hardly discreet, and it wouldn’t do for a dalliance with a noblewoman to get him banned from Elrond’s court.”

Lhindes laughed, low and soft. “This is different! Can’t you see, dearest, our little boy is finally in love?” Mormerildir frowned slightly, tucking the scroll into his doublet. “Gellam has professed to be in love many times before. But, if you believe this instance is genuine, I will bow to your superior wisdom and hope for the best.” Lhindes tilted her head down and kissed her husband lightly, brushing back a stray wisp of hair from his face. “Of course you will. Now, to pressing matters: shall we attend this ball?” Mormerildir’s arm tightened around her waist. “I don’t see how we can reasonably refuse, though if you feel unable to make the journey…” Again Lhindes laughed, and shook her head at him. “Or if you feel unable! No, I think we shall have to go. However…” she paused, looking vaguely distressed.

“I haven’t a thing to wear.”
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OP has been updated with posts 6 & 7 of Who's Your Daddy? under Kamion! :grin:
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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To Trace A Rat
originally posted in Ost-Halatir and Paths of Eriador
posts by others are missing between the parts, but hopefully it still reads coherently to anyone who was not involved!


Part 1

Certainly the dynamics of her team would be interesting, although Tavari was not entirely pleased with that. Cónduil was a loose cannon, and he had better learn to curb his youthful enthusiasm- for his own sake, and for all of theirs. Her eyes flicked to Mazana, whose flat affirmation had answered Cody’s question, and wondered if that one might not be trouble also. There was a fervor, too, in Alara’s eyes, but it was balanced by the solid dependability of Rior’s gaze. He would not falter, she knew, and along with Remlasson would help to keep the band focused on their task. The four others her second had recruited she knew, though not well, and trusted Remlasson’s judgement that they would only aid in the mission. Just as Tavari made to turn to him, however, a voice caught her attention, and she looked around to see Elrohir standing nearby- he had evidently overheard her speaking of the mission, and wished to join. “Mae govannen, Elrohir.” Tavari greeted him with a grin, stretching out a hand to clasp his forearm. She knew the son of Elrond, though not so well as his brother Elladan, but well enough to be glad of him at her back. “So long as you are ready, I welcome your aid. As you can see, we are few, but strong. With any luck our task will be swiftly completed.” At last she looked to Remlasson, and nodded. “Let us depart.”
***

They had trekked afoot from Ost-Halatir for three days and nights, to reach the Great East Road near Amon Sûl. Dawn rose grey and misty now, on this, the morning of the fourth day. Tavari had pushed her team briskly, but not too hard- the distance had not been great, and the need for stealth greater than the need for horses. From where they stood atop a rise, they could see the road away to the right, between two foothills. Ahead of them lay a taller hill, and beyond its hollow an embankment leading up to the road: the perfect place to hide out and lay a trap for any hapless travelers unfortunate enough to cross the Greycloaks’ path. Tavari glanced at Remlasson and he nodded, thinking the same. “Right.” She said in a low voice. “We’ll split up and survey the area. Rior, Alara, and Beldir, circle around this hill to the east and see what you can see- if you come upon anything substantial, report back at once. No heroics just yet.” The last remark was ever-so-slightly pointed at Alara. “Cónduil, Elrohir, Ninneth, and Mazana, go west, angling down towards the road, and do the same. If they have moved recently it will likely be towards Bree. Remlasson, Fimien, Taenor, and myself will circle around the other side of the hill. We are under good tree cover here, and if we find nothing, we’ll make a wide track around and cross to investigate Amon Sûl. It seems a rather obviously place to hide out, so I’m going to give these Greycloaks a bit of credit. Meet back here in one hour if you find nothing.”

Part 2

The groups split apart quickly, and within moments were out of sound and sight of each other. Within their group, the two leaders further subdivided: Remlasson with Fimien and Tavari with Taenor, striking around the hill at slight angles from each other, to cover more ground. Remlasson crouched, Fimien a few feet away, scanning the ground as he moved along unhastily, searching for signs of recent disruption of ground or flora. For many long moments they worked, finding nothing of interest or import, until Remlasson straightened, wincing at the crick in his back, and was about to suggest that they try a different direction, when an urgent shout caught his attention. And that of the other three, all of whom shot upright in unison, like a pack of mongeese at the sound of a hawk. They all paused, until the distant sound of steel on steel reached them. Tavari took off like a shot, dashing through the wood with the others in hot pursuit. As they ran, passing back by the foot of the hill where they had all begun, she set her fingers to her teeth and unleashed a piercing whistle, hopefully to alert anyone who may not have heard the shout –which she was fairly sure had come from Elrohir- and the let those engaged know that they were on the way.

By the time their group reached the edge of the road, three men lay strewn about the roadway, and Elrohir looked about ready to dispatch the final, fourth man, who had already taken an injury to the shoulder. “Hold!” Tavari cried, leaping up into the roadway, with Remlasson, Taenor, and Fimien close behind. “Take that man alive! Mazana, Elrohir, restrain him.” Once they had done so and the Greycloak was held firmly between them, Tavari slowly drew Glamor and approached him, the dirk held loosely at her side. “Fortunately for you, young man, you have not caused grievous harm to my comrades,” she said to him, conversationally, “and if you do as I require, things may go well for you. There is some information that I require.” The bandit sneered and spat, narrowly missing Tavari as she stepped aside. She looked down at the wet mark on the ground, then back up gravely at the man. “Remlasson,” she said, without taking her gaze from the bandit, “take the hand of our friend here, if you will.” Remlasson strode forward and seized the Greycloak’s right hand, holding the wrist firmly in his own left hand, and bracing the ball of his right against the man’s palm.

Tavari began to pace in a slow circle around the group centering on the bandit. “I need you to tell me where we may find the rest of your band, and in particular Logan, the leader of your Greycloaks.” Their captive snorted. “Never. You’ll only find them when they want to be found.” Tavari paused. “Remlasson,” she said, just as casually as before, “break his finger.” There was a slight scuffle as Remlasson began to bend the bandit’s index finger backward, then he went very still, resisting the pain, until at last there was an audible snap and his anguished wailing cut the air, liberally mixed with swear words. Tavari resumed her slow tread, ignoring the groans. “Now, the way I see it, you have seven more fingers and two thumbs for us to work with, before we move on to more interesting bits.” She turned sharply and stepped in close behind the Greycloak. Tavari could feel the quivering of his body- from pain, yes, but the pattern of his breathing indicated fear along with the pain, and when she spoke again, breathing literally down the back of his neck, he flinched. “I have very little time in which to work, sir. The quicker you tell me what I need to know, the less harm will come to you. You have no great loyalty to this Logan, do you? Is your torment worth protecting him?”

Slowly the bandit swallowed, and Tavari thought he would give in, but though the quaver of fear permeated his response, it was still of defiance. “Y-you won’t do anything, I know you elves, you don’t believe in harming pris-“ “Remlasson!” The bandit screeched as his thumb was snapped, no pretense this time, and Tavari kicked in the backs of his legs, dropping the man to his knees on the ground. She seized him by the chin from behind in her left hand and her right flashed over his shoulder, Glamor’s keen blade slicing across his chest, through the clothes, skin, and muscle below in a splash of blood. “You know us, do you? Perhaps you know of peaceful elflings born of springtime and flowers, but you do not know me. Where is your leader and his band?” she demanded, jerking the bandit’s head back, forcing him to look into her face from below. He howled and wriggled, but was still held fast on both sides, in addition to Tavari behind. “Where!” Glamor skated across his chest again, low to high this time, ending in a trace up the man’s neck. Still he writhed, and Tavari swung her blade high.

“Wait!” The bandit cried at last, his face contorted in pain and fear, splattered with blood and tears and spit and phlegm. “Wait! You can- you can find them, not far from here, Logan and the whole band. We just raided a village not six miles north and west of this place and have camped nearby, Logan plans to stay there at least a few days! The four of us were just a scouting party.” Tavari lowered her arm and reversed her grip on the dirk, causing the bandit to relax slightly as a palpable wave of relief washed over him. She reached down to cup the back of his head with the hand holding the dirk. “There now,” Tavari said amiably, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Then, with a swift jerk of the hand gripping the bandit’s chin, she snapped his neck. She released his head and allowed him to topple forward, sheathing Glamor at her hip as he crumpled down in a puff of dust, watching dispassionately. Tavari looked up at her company, making note of their expressions. They had had the chance to abandon the mission- now was the time to see it through. “You heard the man- time to go find some Greycloaks.”

Six miles was no great shakes to a fit pack of soldiers, and in less than an hour they had reached the ruins on the village. It was more of a hamlet, really- a group of dwellings clustered in the depression between a pair of hills; homes, small farms, a smithy, nothing to park it as particularly rich or prosperous, but nevertheless it had been razed by the Greycloaks. The wreckage was only just still steaming, indicated that the attack had occurred many hours, possibly days ago. Beyond the next hill and past a copse of trees, fresh tendrils of smoke spiraled up into the sky, rising no doubt from the Greycloaks’ current camp. The party made their way slowly and carefully through the wreckage of the village, but there were no signs of life, only the detritus of death. Blood spatter dried black on the churned up ground, twisted bodies, and here and there… pieces. Tavari turned her face upwards, her nostrils curling at the smell of decaying flesh, evaluating the position of the sun.

“Rior,” she called out, “take Elrohir, Beldir, Taenor, and Fimien. Circle around to the east and the top of the next hill. Remlasson, Alara, Cónduil, Mazana, and Ninneth with come with me, to the west. The hilltops are wooded and will afford us cover- I have little doubt that these Greycloaks are camped in the next hollow, but we must take our time and evaluate their position before engaging them. Remember, we have no orders to take prisoners, and our goal must be to eliminate them with as little damage to ourselves as possible.”


Part 3

Tavari and her group circled up to the top of the western hill, as the other group circled around to the top of the hill opposite it. The hollow was shallow but steep-sided, affording them good position in this pincer-like movement. She laid her hand on Alara’s shoulder, sensing the young elleth’s eagerness from their position close together, though her face was placid when Tavari looked at her. “Right,” her voice was low and clear, but quick. “there’s not going to be anything terribly sophisticated about this. There’s not so many of them that I’m worried about us being overwhelmed, but they do have the advantage of numbers, and that means we need to be careful. No heroics, no showing off. We’ll go in, do our job, and be on our way. These Greycloaks would show no mercy on us, so show no mercy on them, and kill with efficiency.” Tavari nodded, and turned back to the top of the hill. Edging up, she caught Rior’s attention from across the next hill, and communicated their readiness with hand signals. Then she turned back to her party, unlimbering her bow and pulling an arrow from her quiver, nocking it to the string in preparation. “Ready?” Upon receiving the answering affirmatives, Tavari nodded again. “Right. Let’s do this then.”

Silently the group arose and spread out, dashing with all achievable silence down the hillside, as the other party did the same opposite them. In the centre of her group, Tavari raised her bow, and as soon as they broke through the treeline, loosed. The gold-fletched shaft sped through the air and took the grimy meat-roasting man in the neck, sending him plunging with a flailing gurgle into his fire. By this time those outside their tents had taken notice of the two groups of elves descending wrathfully upon them, and began shouting and yelling and taking up arms. Tavari got off another arrow, although this one was blocked by a swift moving bandit with a wooden shield, and the shaft stuck into it with a resounding thud. Now upon the camp itself, Tavari took the bow in her left hand, and with her right drew Glamor from its frog at her hip. The wood-shielded man ran to engage her, wielding a short, heavy sword in his other hand.

Meanwhile, Remlasson had charged down the hill at the edge of the group, sword in his right hand, heavy dagger in his left. He was entering the encampment at a somewhat more oblique angle, and saw two men emerging from a tent, each armed with a sword, who began to make for Mazana- whose back was two them! “Mazana!” He shouted, to alert her- this also caught the attention of the two men, but for them it was too late, as the dark-haired ellon plowed into them with a firmly braced shoulder, sending both off balance. One was less sturdy than the other and staggered away, but the other regained his footing quickly and turned to face Remlasson, fury in his face, both hands about the hilt of a heavy-looking broadsword. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t com ‘ere, elf-boy.” The man grated, and Remlasson, taking a leaf from the book of his friend Gellam, laughed. “Haha! We’ll see who’s alive to regret things when the day is done!” The ellon lunged forward on his right leg, thrusting at the inside of the man’s thigh. The bandit parried, but Remlasson had already moved on, darting inward and executing a neat vault of the feet to bring him around to the bandit’s opposite side. His opponent jerked around to face him, snarling, but then clapped his hand to his right shoulder, where fabric, skin, and muscle had just begun to part, and blood seeped down the arm. The ultra-keen edge of Remlasson’s dagger dripped, and the maethor grinned in a decidedly wolfish manner.


Part 4

The bandit with the wooden shield and the short sword had come at Tavari with a surprising speed, but undaunted she ducked beneath the graceless swipe of his shield at her head, blocked the cut of his sword with her vambraced forearm, and thrust at an upward angle with Glamor. The dirk slid smoothly between the man’s fourth and fifth ribs, and into his heart. He juddered and gasp and grappled at her with nerveless fingers, but the golden-haired nís had already moved on, slipping past the dying man, the dirk exiting his body followed by a shower of blood that stained her surcoat and boots as she passed. Another appeared from behind a tent, this one more skilled, Tavari could tell at a glance. Seeing the bow in her left hand and the dirk in her right, he sneered, no doubt thinking that his longsword would be more than a match for these weapons- after all, one could hardly nock and loose arrows while one’s hand was busy with a blade. He swept in swiftly, sword held at a low en garde. Tavari sidestepped his feint, and was ready to meet him when he thrust at the inside of her leg. She turned his blade away with a hard parry of Glamor, stepping inside of the blow, and her left hand, clenched about the grip of her bow, pummeled him across the face, once- and again, taking advantage of his surprise. The bandit recovered his presence of mind enough to disengage his sword and leap back out of each, but his eyes were hazy. Tavari’s, however, were not. They blazed like thunder over wheat, and she stalked the doomed man with an implacable purpose. His efforts became more frenzied as the nís evaded his strikes, until one slash at her midriff carried him off balance, and almost lazily Tavari stepped in and repeated the motion that had killed his comrade: one fluid thrust to the heart.

The sounds of the melee had quietened some, and Tavari looked around- but before she could take in more than Remlasson whacking the head off of a kneeling bandit, a movement caught her eye: From out of the farthest tent, a man had broken, and was sprinting towards the trees. The description had been clear, and even if it had not been, the richness of his furred grey cloak would have given him away: Logan was making a break for it. Tavari shot after him. Not for nothing had she run with Nessa through the boundless fields of Aman, and by the time Logan had reached the edge of the gully, she had closed distance enough to hear his ragged breathing. Flipping Glamor up in her hand, Tavari whipped her arm back, and threw the dirk. It stuck with a meathy thunk into Logan’s back, and with a scream, he fell heavily. When Tavari skidded to a halt next to him, his arms were outstretched, fingers clawing against the grass, attempting to pull himself along. Coolly she planted a boot on his shoulder, shoved his face back into the dirt and, using his body for leverage, pulled her dirk out of the bandit leader’s back. Again he screamed, but it was a pitiful sort of sound.

Wedging her boot beneath his shoulder, Tavari kicked Logan over onto his back. The wound would no doubt kill him, but he was not yet dying, and so Tavari knelt, one knee pressing down upon his chest. Logan’s eyes were wild and agonized, blood and foam flecking his lips as he writhed, wheezed and coughed. His lips moved, but no words came out. Tavari gazed down at him, pitilessly. “A coward dies a thousand times, Logan,” she said, as though explaining to a child why one and one is two, “but I’m afraid you’ve just run out of luck.” Laying down her bow, she seized a handful of the bandit leader’s hair and, humming softly, forced his head back. She reversed her grip on Glamor, and ran it lightly across Logan’s throat. Skin, muscle, and artery wall parted, and the blood fountained up- but not a huge, sustained spray. Tavari sat back on her heels and wiped the blood from her face, watching the man writhe and twist, the motions growing weaker and weaker as the previous fluid ebbed away from his body. When he had nearly finished, a feverish surge of inspiration seized the nís and she bent over Logan again, slashing away with her dirk.

Moments later, she rejoined her party, a leather sack dangling from her head. Something large and heavy and roundish was there, and blood dripped from the bottom of the sack, and covered Tavari to the wrists. She surveyed the scene: the camp, partially destroyed, and the scattered bodies of its inhabitants. A brutal carnage but, she saw when her eyes landed on the now-gathered group she had led to execute it, at only a small price. Taenor was nursing what looked like a broken arm, but Remlasson had bound it up- Tavari could recognize his handiwork anywhere. Remlasson himself had suffered a minor cut to the cheek, and as far as she could see, all other wound were of a similarly low lack of concern. Cónduil’s enthusiasm was unabated, and Alara, though not as demonstrative, exuded a similar exhiliration. Tavari shook her head slightly, more to herself than to anyone else. That one could be a problem. She had done well, yes, but her attitude when Tavari had given any the opportunity to refuse the mission, and her fervence about it, were troubling. She was far too young to be as ruthless as she thought she was, and Tavari wouldn’t like to be the one to tell Girion that his daughter had gone off the railes and gotten herself killed.

In any case, that was a matter for another time. Tavari strode across to her party and nodded to them all, mustering an encouraging smile. “Well done. We’ll get back to the fort without any delay- we’ve got to get that arm set properly, Taenor. You’ll all have a period of rest before heading out again, I’m sure, and I’ll make sure to give a full report of each of your actions to the Tar-Taidron.” Her eyes lingered on Alara, before moving to rove over the smikong, blood-strewn encampment. “As for these… we’ll leave them where they lie, as a warning to anyone else who might think that preying on travelers is a good idea in this part of the world.”


Part 5

Tavari had not bothered to return to her quarters, but had gone straight up the stairs from the courtyard, after making her farewells to Remlasson and sending him packing off for a bath and a rest. Over the course of the travel back to Ost-Halatir, there had been some opportunity for washing in various creeks, but blood still stained her surcoat, edged her fingernails, and caked along her hairline, accompanied by a healthy coating of dirt. It did not particularly bother Tavari- she had been much more concerned with giving Glamor a thorough cleaning than herself, which she would have plenty of opportunity to clean in hot water after making her report- and she figured that her brother would want to know the result of their mission as soon as possible. There was no reason to spare him the dirty, battle-crusted sight of her, either. He’s finally gotten over his need to “protect” her enough to send her on this type of mission, to which she was well suited- and he could deal with the outcome. Tavari found herself practically skipping up the steps as she made her way towards Aigronding’s office. As disgusting as the slaughter of the unskilled men had been, and as concerned as she was about Alara’s predelictions, false or real as they may be, it had been a successful mission, and she was eager to report- and to see her little brother. Arriving outside his door, she knocked, and upon hearing his voice call from within, entered. Tavari smiled at Aigronding, seated there behind his desk, and quickly crossed the room to him. “I’ve brought you a present,” she grinned, and reached across to set the leather sack before him, on a clear part of the desk. The blood that had previously dripped from its bottom had dried, and bits flaked off with the flattening of the leather, and the to of the satchel gapped open slightly, bits of hair and more blood betraying its contents.

“It is done.”
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originally posted in the Seasonal Archery Tournament (Autumn)


Tavari was slightly drunk.

After the third round she had wandered back to the refreshment table, and persuaded Alagon to hand over the little red-glass bottle he had revealed to her earlier- after all, it was a fine autumn day, why not enjoy the spoils before the competition had been completed? Plenty of others were indulging, they just didn’t have a special friend in the vale’s resident publican to provide them with the most potent and delicious goods. The nís wasn’t even sure what went into the liquor she had just consumed, but trusted that Alagon would not attempt to poison her over time and that it was safe. She found that it was even more excellent when consumed with a soft, sticky, but not especially sweet little date pastry, and chased with a sip of blackberry wine. It was a wonder that Alagon himself was not always tipsy himself, surrounded by such interesting combinations to discover! Or perhaps he was, and that was why his face was so ruddy. An ordinary person might have been alarmed at the speed with which she downed the contents of the little bottle, but Alagon (who had been at the cups himself) was merely delighted, and produced a second. At this, Tavari- Lady Mordagnir as she was known in more exalted circumstances- had flung her arms about his neck and planted a kiss on his check before wresting it from his grasp. But she was not so selfish all in all, and together they shread this second bottle of delight, all while sipping and tasting, and advising other contestants and spectators on what delicacies they might wish to choose from the table. The fact that she was missing the final round of competition was quite irrelevant to Rivendell’s premier archer. In fact, it was not until her brother’s voice, shortly followed by the pounding footfalls and roars of trolls interrupted the awards ceremony, that Tavari became aware that anything was particularly amiss.

“What ho, my lady!” Gellam the Fool cried as he sped past her upon his mare, Hwinnien. The wood-elf had been enjoying a peaceful enough morning, riding out into the countryside bordering Imladris, and meeting up with Aigronding for a bit of fun and mischief. Most of the mischief perpetrated at the hands of the elf-lord in fact, of which Gellam was inordinately proud; clearly his influence was rubbing off! He had been rolling about in the crocuses with mirth as Mordagnir related his water-pail exploits when the Ettins had appeared, thrusting their ugly mugs into the midst of the proceedings, demanding satisfaction for some slight or other involving the slaying of their cousins. Although enormous two-headed trolls were not really anything to laugh at, Gellam had to stifle his snickers behind his hand as he arose and sidled towards the fleabit grey mare who was cropping unconcernedly at a patch of grass. Hwinnien had known much fiercer things than trolls in her time. But, then the trolls had decided to kill the ‘lanky feller’ as well as Mordagnir, and that could only be Gellam. Fortuantely, Aigronding was in fine fettle and tricked the Ettins into letting them ride away, and so it was that they arrived at the archery tournament, trailing trolls as they burst through the foliage and into the glade. Being unarmed for his day of frolicking, Gellam sped immediately to where the spare bows and quivers had been set up for competitors without their own, and caught up one of each before wheeling Hwinnien about to face the Ettins.

“Gellam!” Tavari cried joyfully, about to say how pleasant it was that he had decided to join them after all, when she noticed the two-headed trolls that were pursuing him- and her wayward little brother. Her lower lip thrust forward in a pout of disappointment. Now the post tournament party was sure to be called off! Or at least delayed until the cleanup from the Ettins’ inevitable defeat was over, and what a dreary process that would be. Nevertheless, Lady Mordagnir was always game for a bit of sport and, truth be told, this would not be the first time she had participated in such while in her cups. With skill born of countless years, she swung the bow from about her torso and into position, even as she drew an arrow and nocked it to the string, while Alagon behind her dove to clear the most valuable of his bottles from the refreshment table, ferrying them out of the way of the chaos, into the surrounding trees. Tavari took this opportunity to increase her vantage point by leaping up onto the table, in a fluid motion that carried her about on her heel, and loosed the arrow into the nearest of the Ettins, which had already taken a red-fletched arrow from Roina between its eyes. Gold feathers sprouted from its left eyeball as Tavari’s shaft sped through the soft tissue and into the brain beyond, its lethal point finally crunching out the rear of the troll’s skull. Though each Ettin had two heads, they had but one body, and such a one could not function without both its brains. The afflicted head slumped, dead, and the Ettin smashed to the ground, twitching and flailing, where it could be finished off by those with blades. It became a game then, and Tavari wheeled and spun atop the table, ruthless efficiency –enhanced by a certain amount of liquor- forming her movements in balletic fashion as each keen arrow sought the eye of an Ettin.

Perhaps drunkenness should be a requirement for the next tournament? It would certainly be most entertaining, even without the addition of a pack of two-headed trolls… the ground shook as a second Ettin thudded to the turf, groaning and speckled with arrows.
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originally posted in Dead of Night - a Lindon Guard RPG

“Oh, I suppose!” Tavari laughed and punched Edan lightly on the arm. “As long as you don’t go trying to keep me out of trouble, I get enough of that from my brother. We can get in trouble together, and bail each other out.” She grinned at him, before turning at a remark from Moriel, who was about to head out with the newly-groomed Beron. Tavari snorted and rolled her eyes, grasping the peredhel’s arm. “Good hunting,” she said, and watched the group slide out into the woods. Again she turned at a voice, this time Edan, asking her to come with him to collect wood. Tavari nodded and they made their way together out of the circle of light provided by the campfires, to the edge of the clearing where there was plenty of deadfall on the ground for scrounging. Tavari lifted a nicely sized branch and shook it to clear off a blanket of dear leaves, running her hands down its length to snap off the twigs, pausing here and there to deal with a slightly thicker protrusion. “I wonder where Rogers has taken my brother off to,” she speculated aloud, “and who could possibly be looking for him out here.”

*

Across from the fire where the group had gathered to divide their forces, Davos Seaworth sat atop a stump, fiddling with his fire. It was just about finished a careful construction of shaved bark, kindling, small branches, and larger ones, all build strategically around another stump. It had taken him much longer to build than the fires of the others, but once lit, would be the most efficient, and burn for many hours. Finally satisfied, Davos struck a match and threw it into the nest of bark, watching contentedly as the little flame crackled and caught, chasing down into the kindling, and began to spread. The movement of horses in the camp attracted his attention, and he looked up just in time to see Edan Amrun and Tavari Mordagnir embrace, and then make their way out of the camp. He chuckled and leaned back to whisper to a passing soldier, “They look pretty friendly, don’t they?” The other elf twisted around to look at the disappearing pair, then questioningly down at Davos, who shrugged significantly, but spoke no more. Seaworth looked back at his fire, going strongly now, and remembered his meeting in Mithlond with Lady Mordagnir.

They had been gathered in the courtyard, awaiting the order to depart, when Davos came in- fashionably late, upon a wiry dark bay mare. He was not a member of the Lindon Guard, but when a serious situation arose, could usually be found in their company. “Alright, I’m here!” he had shouted at Eärmana with a grin that he knew would irritate his friend to no end, “we can get on now.” Davos had twisted in his saddle to view the assemblage, when his eyes met those of a golden-haired nís. Tavari’s eyes had widened with the shock of recognition as her gaze met that of the newly arrived elf on the bay horse, and she had started backwards.

Inside a manor on the shore of Alqualondë, Tavari had collapsed, the horrors of the massacre laid out before her- the massacre in which she had taken part, and on her hands and knees wiped the vomit from her mouth. Her head jerked up at a noise from behind, and she saw the sinewy, silver-haired Nelya emerging from an inner door with a face like thunder, clearly having surveyed the carnage within.
When he caught sight of her he charged across the floor and by the time she had scrambled to her feet, he had seized her by the neck with one hand, knocking the sword out of her grasp with the other, and drove her back against the nearest wall. He had not been scarred yet, that day in Alqualondë, nor quite so heavily muscled, but Davos had already earned his name of Seaworth, an ancient already in the lives of elves, and the star-fire of Cuiviénen burned in his eyes.

That burn embodied a wordless, incomprehensible rage as it bore down on the periwinkle gaze of the golden-haired nís, and his hands tightened on her throat as she clutched at them. Under his furious strength, her back slid up the wall until her feet had left the ground. Her nails dug until the back of his hands, but Davos paid them no mind, until she choked out one word. “Mercy.” Then, again. “Mercy, please…” He looked up into her face- dirty, blood spattered, the whole lot streaked with the tears that now flowed afresh, dripping down her face and off her nose onto his hands- and the fear and anguish and innocence in her eyes, an innocence that would never be pure again. She had killed, sinned, offended against the very world itself, she was grown, sure; but somehow, the nís was little more than a child. Davos’s grip slackened, then loosened entirely, and she dropped to the ground, gasping. Tavari saw the boots disappear, and by the time she was able to straighten again, the Nelya had gone, and familiar voices sounded, others who had fought with her family coming to see where she had gone.


Davos had never seen her again, not until joining the muster of the guard for this mission. And, truthfully, he had never thought of her again, either, and it took a much longer moment for him to recognize her, after her initial reaction. Davos had ridden across to introduce himself, but it had been a strange few days, to be sure. Neither he nor Tavari had mentioned their previous encounter, but she had begun to slowly unbend towards him. So many years had passed since then- and though some still harbored deep-set grudges, Alqualondë had taken up a firmly past-tense presence in Davos’ mind. He had forgiven one of his own for seeming betrayal then, and had no reason to hate Tavari for her part in it, either. Secretly, he was pleased to see her, and very interested to discover what she had become in the life he might have prevented. All those years, that might have gone unlived, but for a moment’s pity- it was almost enough to turn one pacifist. Almost. Davos smiled to himself, watching the flicker of his fire, and wondered if Tavari liked to go sailing.
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originally posted in Shadow's Reach

“Gellam, where are we going?” Tavari demanded as she leapt a fallen log, lengthening her strides to keep up with the fool’s rapid pace. “It’s a surprise, my lady, I’ve told you- a surprise!” Gellam’s voice was jovial and full of laughter, clearly delighted at the suspense in which he was keeping her. She fixed the back of his head with a murderous stare, and it was fortunate he did not turn round, or the bells at the end of his cap would not have been jingling quite so merrily. They had crossed the Forest River, south of the Elvenking’s Halls, and were now off the main path, though there was a small path that Gellam seemed to following which Tavari was not sure she could have followed on her own, first try. Bushes and tree limbs and stumps invaded their progress, but all were jumped or pushed aside by the fool and the way cleared before her in his eagerness. After some length, of a sudden the path widened and flattened, becoming a broad track, and from the forested thickness emerged a clearing- but not just a clearing, a complex: several buildings, one of each clearly a stable and a barn, two fenced pastures, and just visible between the buildings, the fence of a corral. Tavari stopped dead as the sound and smell of horses hit her like a wave, unobstructed now by the greenwood’s vastness. Gellam turned to her with a saucy grin. Tavari pivoted and punched him on the arm. “You fool! You could have told me!”

Gellam threw his head back and laughed uproariously, then seized her by the arm and pulled her forward. “Come, that’s not the end of the surprise!” As they hastened forward, a tall, hard-looking dark ellon emerged from the stable, and Gellam dropped her hand to wave at him. “Arradon! At last. May I introduce Lady Tavari Mordagnir,” he gestured to her as they halted before the ellon, “My lady, this is Arradon, master of these stables. I believe you may be able to help him with a troubling project he’s been having.” Arradon bowed slightly to Tavari, then swept stray black hairs out of his face with one lean hand, a harsh chuckle escaping him. “You’ve already helped me by taking the blasted thing off my hands, Gellam! Lady, I hope you are up to the task. It seems that I am not, and I would love to see it done.” Mystefied, Tavari inclined her head to Arradon, who turned away with a beckoning gesture. She glanced at Gellam but he gave her no clues, only pushed her after the ellon.

They followed him between the buildings until they came into full view of the corral, where once again Tavari halted in her tracks. In the corral was a horse, but no horse like she had ever seen before, not even in the herds of Oromë in Aman, from whence Fëalasso had come. He was tall, but rangy, almost spindle-legged, with a long, thin, arched neck that joined with his jaw at a curious angle. His muzzle was delicate and the ears long and pointed, his tail set high, but thin. Most wondrous of all, his coat was the as the gold of a new-struck coin, gleaming and shning in a many-faceted shimmer, faint dapples visible beneath the gold, which faded into black at the hocks; his mane and tail were black and flying, and his shrill, defiant neigh rang against the trees. Without realizing, Tavari had moved forward, her fingers now digging into the wood of the fence. The stallion stamped and pawed at the ground, his ears pinned back against his head, teeth gaping at the towheaded ellon who was in the corral with him, a long whip dragging on the ground. The ellon approached and the stallion reared with a scream, whipping about to gallop about the pen. Gellam appeared at her side, folding his arms and leaning on a rail.

“He’s yours.” His mellow voice penetrated Tavari’s reverie. “Arradon brought him here in the hopes of making him a mount for the king. But he proved intractable even to his great skill, and so he gave him to me for a song- now I give him to you. If anyone can make him see reason, I know it will be you.” Arradon sidled up to Tavari’s other side, cocking his head in amusement at her rapture. “Horses of this kind are rare, but we find them at times in the east, and I have bred several such myself. All that is gold does not chink and glitter, I have found- it gleams in the sun, and neighs in the dark.”
At last the nís dragged her gaze away from the horse and turned to face Arradon, a beatific smile on her face. “Very true, Master Arradon. If he is mine, I’ll have him now, and from now on- and I will teach him to love.” Tavari pushed away from the fence and strode to the gate of the corral, beckoning to the ellon within, who ran gratefully and darted out as she unlatched it. She slipped in, pulling the gate closed behind her.

The stallion plunged and reared, stopping abruptly and changing directions, trotting here and there, flicking an ear forward, and watching her out the sides of his eyes. Tavari stood still by the gate, her gaze tracking the movement of his flanks. She breathed slowly and deeply, just watching him for long moments. Slowly she allowed her eyes to travel up from his hindquarters, along his back to his shoulder, up the neck and to his head. Briefly she made eye contact, then flicked her gaze away to his ears. Tavari took two slow steps forward, and the stallion, who had almost slowed to a walk, snorted and dashed away again. She halted again, but this time turned with the stallion as he moved, trotting rapidly around the ring; Tavari revolved on the spot, her eyes on the stallion’s head, arms at her sides, slightly outstretched. Slowly the horse began to slow, until he was barely trotting, and she lifted an arm. He shook his head and snorted, but did not run. After another long moment the stallion dropped from a trot to a rapid walk, his head nodding up and down in agitation, hugging the rail of the corral, but keeping to the circle.

Finally Tavari let her eyes travel up again, until they made contact with his. He shied slightly, but again, did not run. Tavari walked forward slowly at an angle, towards the path the stallion would take, and he halted. She stepped forward again and stretched out her hand, palm towards the stallion. He shifted from one side to the other on his hooves, swaying on the spot. “Ho, wild thing. I’m here to be your friend.” Her voice was low, quiet, and soft, just ghosting out on her breath. The stallion’s ears flicked forward, listening. After a second’s hesitation, he took half a step forward- then a full step, and his muzzle nosed into the curve of Tavari’s hand. She bent her fingers to feel the velvety smoothness of the skin and the tickle of his delicate whiskers, then stepped closer in beside him, her hand stroking along the proud curve of his golden neck, beneath the wisping mane. Tavari could feel the stallion quivering beneath her touch, and smiled. “Ma istanyel? (Do I know you? Q),” she whispered, running her hand down his shoulder, before returning to the top of his neck, “Vanesselya síla tenna haiya (Your beauty shines far, Q).” Tavari shifted her gaze, looking up at his head from behind, at the curve of his jaw and throat. “Harya estel nin (Trust me, Q).” Finally it seemed that the stallion had had all he could take for the moment and bolted, cantering around the perimeter of the corral, his tail flagging, shaking his head and snorting. “Trust me,” she repeated, following him with her eyes, “Ñaltanáro.” (Fire-radiance, Q)
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originally posted in the Market of Imladris

Part 1

At the entrance to the market, Tavari Mordagnir paused. She turned to the horse at her side, and ran her right hand firmly along his neck, beneath the sparse mane and down to his shoulder. She repeated the motion several times, murmuring softly to him- reassuring nonsense. The stallion’s head was high, his ears pricked forward, nostrils wide and flaring as he looked about taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the market. Upon that head, he wore a light, slim halter, with a thin chain under the chin that led to the lead shank that Tavari held, lightly but firmly, in her left hand. The right she continued to move over the sleek, hard lines of the stallion's burnished gold body. Indeed, but for the black markings on his legs and muzzle, his body was all over the color of a bright golden coin, with light dapples showing on his barrel and over his rump. Though sparse like his mane, when lifted as it was now his tail formed a sooty plume. His neck above the high withers was long and thin at first glance, and joined his head at a queer angle, an adaptation to life in the deserts from which he was descended. Ñaltanáro was his name, and he had never been to a market before.

Tavari waited until some of the tension had gone out of the stallion’s body and his head dropped slightly- still forward and alert, but not reaching for the heavens. Then she turned to face the market entrance again, and took up the lead in her right hand as well, closer to Ñaltanáro’s head. She did not put any pressure on him, but was prepared should anything go awry. Normally, coming down to the market would have been an excursion she would have shared with Gellam, but Tavari had made it quite plain to the fool that despite his protestations she knew well enough that the market atmosphere would only make him giddy, and he would upset Ñaltanáro. To be fair to the wood-elf, who had looked quite wounded (though Tavari was almost completely certain it was an act), he had managed to train his own mare, Hwinnien, to great effect. But Hwinnien and Gellam were alike in manners, and neither ever so nervous as this untamed, untouched stallion who had come to her. She had made great progress so far with Ñaltanáro, slowly introducing him to new ideas and new things and people, and he had finally reached a point where she felt safe in bringing him to a busy place.

Together they walked through the entrance of the market, Ñaltanaro’s head bobbing along next to Tavari’s. He did not crowd her, nor did he rush ahead, or lag behind. There were frequent tugs at his end of the lead, which he would raise or turn his head to took at something particularly interesting, but she gave him slack, paused to let him investigate, and they continued peacefully. They were a matched set: the tall, fleet-looking golden horse, and the tall, lithe, golden-haired nís. Tavari was garbed simply and for riding; tall brown boots and dark brown trews with long patches of leather on the insides of the legs, a mossy green tunic beneath a jerkin of brown leather, and her hair bound back in one long plait. They stopped at a stall overflowing with fresh produce, where Ñaltanáro eyed the wares longingly, but was rewarded for his patience when Tavari purchased two apples and fed one, slice by slice, to the horse. Munching away at her own apple as they wandered about, she caught sight of something that had certainly not been there the last time she had visited the market.

Away through the row of stalls, she could see a rope paddock at the end, several horses milling about in it. Ñaltanáro had noticed it too, and raised his head to get a better look. Not waiting for the stallion to get it into his head to go charging off and see what was what, Tavari headed in that direction- for she wanted to investigate as well. As she neared, she saw a boy (Cearl) moving a pony into the enclosure, a pony which looked remarkably pleased with itself… as ponies are wont to do. Tavari grinned and led Ñaltanáro forward, halting at the edge of the paddock. “Greetings!” she called cheerily to the man (Osred), who appeared to be in charge. “And welcome to Imladris!” The pony looked up, grass still hanging from its mouth, and came trotting over at once. Ñaltanáro paid it no mind, his attention clearly fixated on the sleek white mare on the other side of the paddock. Tavari laughed and distracted him by feeding him the core of her apple. She surveyed the horses as well, and her gaze, too, lingered on the mare- another eastern breed, like Ñaltanáro, though it had been a very long time since she had seen one. Returning her attention to the man, she nodded at the horses. “Come to sell them? I’m sure you’ll find plenty of interest.” The pony, fed up with the newcomer’s inattention, stamped her hoof and turned away with a derisive flick of her tail. Tavari laughed. “Even that one!”


Part 2

“Thank you,” Tavari returned the man’s bow, though she did not press her hand to her heart as was her wont, since it was busy holding the lead. “He has a long way to go, but I have reason to believe I will be very proud of him! Ñaltanáro is his name. Fire-radiance,” she translated- and then, realizing belatedly her rudeness, carried on, “And mine is Tavari Mordagnir, pardon me. But never fear, I’ve no mind to be selling this lad, so you’ve no competition in me!” The nís patted the stallion’s neck, stroking it firmly in praise for his good behaviour (despite the distraction of the comely mare). Ñaltanáro lowered his muzzle to whuff at the man’s hand when he extended it, fine black whiskers tickling the leathern skin, wide nostrils pricked and interested. “Aye indeed- far to the east, father than I have been in centuries, if truth be told. He came to me by way of Mirkwood, where a trainer had obtained him but could not bring him to heel. I have a bit of experience in the ways of horses, you see.” She smiled, but it was a distant smile, and her shining periwinkle eyes were far away, under a different sky. No sooner had the memory come upon her than Tavari brushed it away. “Red, you say? Yes, it seems to me I have heard of this custom before, in the east particularly.” She surveyed Ñaltanáro anew, nodding slowly. “I do believe you’re right sir, red would be fine among that mane!” The stallion whinnied just then, as if in reply- although it was far more likely that he was trying to attract some attention from within the paddock. Tavari gave a shout of laughter. “It seems we’re all agreed then! But sir, again I am improper. I have not asked your name, nor where you have come from with such fine specimines.”
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OP has been updated with posts 8 & 9 of Who's Your Daddy? under Kamion! :grin:
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