The Lands of Arnor: Free RP

Seven Stars and Seven Stones and One White Tree.
Black Númenórean
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The Lands of Arnor
Free RP


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(Image found here)

“Eriador was of old the name of all the lands between the Misty Mountains and the Blue; in the South it wasbounded by the Greyflood and the Glanduin that flows into it above Tharbad. At its greatest Arnor includedall Eriador, except the regions beyond the Lune, and the lands east of Greyflood and Loudwater, in which layRivendell and Hollin.”

- The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A


“After Elendil and Isildur there were eight High Kings of Arnor. After Eärendur, owing to dissensions among his sons their realm was divided into three: Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan [. . .] In Arthedain the line of Isildur was maintained and endured, but the line soon perished in Cardolan and Rhudaur. There was often strife between the kingdoms, which hastened the waning of the Dúnedain. The chief matter of debate was the possession of the Weather Hills and the land westward towards Bree. Both Rhudaur and Cardolan desired to possess Amon Sûl (Weathertop), which stood on the borders of their realms; for the Tower of Amon Sûl held the chief Palantír of the North, and the other two were both in the keeping of Arthedain.”

- The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A

Regions
Arthedain: Arthedain was in the North-west and included the land between Brandywine and Lune, and also the land north of the Great Road as far as the Weather Hills.
Rhudaur: Rhudaur was in the North-east and lay between the Ettenmoors, the Weather Hills, and the Misty Mountains, but included also the Angle between the Hoarwell and the Loudwater.
Cardolan: Cardolan was in the South, its bounds being the Brandywine, the Greyflood, and the Great Road.
Enedwaith: The region between Arnor and Gondor, just south of Cardolan.

Note: many canon locations (Bree, Amon Sûl, Fornost, even the Shire, etc.) are located within each of the areas above - as such, feel free to be as broad or specific as you like when it comes to locations in your posts.Descriptions above are from Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings and Tolkien Gateway.

Rules:
1. Read and enjoy other people’s hard work but respect their privacy (go to the RP Request Form if you would like to join an existing story or start a new story)
2. All races are welcome! Timeline is whatever you like, from the beginning of Arda through the fourth age
3. Keep any OOC comments to the Minas Tirith City Hall OOC thread
4. Refrain from using overly bright colors or potentially incur the wrath of the TRs (Frost and Tara)
5. The above list of locations is by no means a complete list, feel free to use other locations or simply make your own
6. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread
7. We are all adults here and can decide for ourselves the stories we want to read so rather than dictate what can and cannot be written in this thread, we will ask that any CW (at the discretion of the writer) be placed at the top of the post
8. Icons and small images are welcome, but please no moving gifs
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Ent Ancient
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Mantle of Shadow I
Renhir
Cardolan
Late autumn TA 3018

(private)

“'You cannot destroy Ringwraiths like that,' said Gandalf. 'The power of their master is in them, and they stand or fall by him. We hope that they were all unhorsed and unmasked, and so made for a while less dangerous; but we must find out for certain.'”
Gandalf, The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring

“...December was passing, when the scouts began to return. Some had gone north beyond the springs of the Hoarwell into the Ettenmoors; and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers had searched the lands far down the Greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town. [...]
In no region had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Riders or other servants of the Enemy. [...] Of the Black Riders no other trace was to be seen, and nowhere was their presence to be felt. It seemed they had vanished from the North.”

The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring

A Ranger’s labor never ceased. Through storm and stream, thistles and thorns, wrath and weariness, they watched, they listened, they hunted, they fought. They did not complain of the endless toil that had mounted in recent months. In September, Black Riders breached the borders of the Shire after forcing back the Rangers stationed at Sarn Ford. Renhir was not among them but he felt the weight of their defeat. He was already travelling Cardolan, setting out to investigate more trouble along the Greenway when word reached him from Imladris to scout the lands for any signs of the Nine. Pushed back at the Ford of Bruinen but not destroyed, they needed to be accounted for. He turned east from his path, in a prime position to find them.

When they came across folk as Black Riders, they were easy to follow. He had done it before. Those who told him of their passing with the whites of their eyes showing were as frightened of him as they were of them, the fools. He knew he did not have the princely manner or looks of his ancestors nor did he strive to. His dark eyes and heavy brows, the wild beard on his angular jaw and the permanent furrow in his brow did him no favors, but he had little patience for these simpletons who scorned and reviled him wherever he went. Rangers, he would hear them mutter and sneer, shifty good-for-nothings who skulk in the shadows. What did they know of darkness living between four comfortable walls with plentiful warm food to fill their bellies?

The more and more he watched and listened to them, the more he begrudged them their comforts while he suffered for their sake. Not just from the elements and the wilderness but the comrades lost, their bodies wounded and mangled beyond recognition, poisoned from the inside out, and sometimes simply too exhausted to go on. There were many ways for a Ranger to die in the wilds. He had skirted the edge of life more than once himself. Beneath his green mantle and leather hauberk, the bracers and layers of wool, were the scars that recorded the stories he would never tell. His life history was written on skin scraped out like letters in a book.

Renhir did not relish his duty and hadn’t for some time. But he would carry it out until his last breath or the end of all things. Whatever came first. Victory was too intangible to consider in these dark days when Nazgûl rode openly through the lands of the Free People. Unhorsed and unmasked, the Nazgûl left no discernible tracks nor other visible sign of their passing in the wilderness. It made the task more difficult. Only those who knew the land intimately, attuned to her cadence, could feel the little disruptions to her normal rhythm as the Ringwraiths passed by. Renhir felt these pulses of their presence like a single twig swaying against the breeze. Blink and risk missing them. Wherever their ghostly presence passed, he felt the earth tremble beneath his palms, the trees shudder and draw their branches in, shrinking away. As he came upon the Mitheithel, he knew he was hot on their trail by the way the river swirled and spun against its banks in revulsion.

The Nazgûl were moving south. Renhir drew his hood up and trudged on in pursuit.

---

A gathering fog loomed on the horizon, obscuring the paltry rubble of Tharbad not that there was much to see there anyway. The place was weathered and crumbling, overgrown and choked with weeds, another relic of a time long past when Men ruled proud and strong. Growing up and living in the remnants of a broken kingdom littered with more ruins than settlements had rendered the Ranger immune to the dismal decay before him.

The small pools and ephemeral ponds should have been teeming with swans dancing across the water, ducks in a kaleidoscope of plumages and raptors on the wing above waiting for an easy catch. Left in nature’s hands, these were the denizens of Tharbad now, filling the place with quacking and bugling and screeching. On this winter day, the place was utterly silent and still, like one waiting with bated breath before taking a deep plunge. Even the pebbles did not crunch under his feet.

They were close. They were here. One of them at least.

He knew they could not be defeated or killed with mortal weapons or wounds and still, he reached for his axe. He gripped the handle with surprising ease and held it aloft; if this was death, let it come, let it be swift. He was ready. Let me die at the hands of my enemy with what dignity I have left.

The axe cut through the air, passing through nothing. He swung his weapon in an arc to strike again when the Ringwraith released a heart-rending screech that nearly sent him to his knees. His limbs trembled as he felt despair take root in his chest and bury itself there. Renhir could see only a pale shadow amidst the fog, a wisp of his imagination but he knew the Nazgûl was there, with the dusky blue Gwathló behind and the green-clad Ranger before. He could feel it, the truest darkness he had ever known. It captivated and repulsed him in equal measure. His grip slackened and his axe fell to the ground. Cold enveloped him.

“You are weak and unworthy...you will not defeat me…” A voice hissed, wrapping around him and clamoring within his mind where it probed and pried until it recognized some piece of itself and settled there. Unintelligible words in Black Speech whispered in his mind, calling to him. He lurched forward, one step closer to the Enemy. Numbness rained down from head to toe. It was not wholly unwelcome and he closed his eyes to surrender to it…

Renhir’s senses returned with a jolt of rude awakening. The rushing of the river, the bright haze of the white-marred sky, the scent of the dust beneath his feet and every feeling, every ache in his bones and his body, every scar seared with pain as if rent opened again and slammed into him. The Ringwraith was gone. Renhir thought he heard cruel, cold laughter float across the riverbank from the far side.

He gasped as if he’d been drowning and fell to his hands and knees. Beads of sweat dripped down the back of his neck and he shivered. He felt as if he was coming down from a fever. Perhaps he was not as ready to die as he thought. He had looked death in the face, or near enough, and survived. But his reaction, teetering on the edge of abandoning his purpose, his humanity, his goodness, and his willingness to do so and the way part of him yearned for that hazy dullness again...Renhir did not know if that was some kind of Morgul magic or some evil already inside of him clawing for freedom.

You are weak and unworthy.

He knew it as well as the truth he did not want to recognize: it was not a Morgul spell. It was part of him already.

Renhir did not tell a soul of what he had seen or felt. He did not report his encounter with the Nazgûl in Tharbad. All traces of them were lost, as if they had vanished from the North, they said...Renhir knew different. He sought athelas and it soothed him for a time but no herb could distill the corruption from his soul.
Last edited by Lail on Wed Nov 23, 2022 6:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.

High Lord of Imladris
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Mylien and Ruindil Raveara
Bar-en-Raveara


Fuin Elda has long dwelt in the Vales of Imladris either in the Tingdain, the Barracks of the Host or at times in the House of Healing, her dwelling though does not reside inside the safe haven provided by Elrond and his ring of power. Instead on a cliffs edge overlooking the Sundering Sea on the south side of the small peninsula that the forest of Eryn Vorn grew upon there is a Keep protected from the denizens of the woods about it by an equally tall wall, built over many years out of white stone was where she dwelt when she was not in the Valley.

The rough waters among the coast tend to keep ships from venturing ships too close unless they know the waters well and call the docks carved into a small cove just north of the Keep home keeping the Keep secret and safe from many prying eyes. The docks themselves or made of rock and wood and are shelter enough for five ships all crafted from the dark timber of the woods above the docks giving them a distinct dark look to them, with their red sails a warning to others before they can see the flags soaring on the mast as they are not Captained by Fuin but by allies and her Pirate wife and husband formerly of Dol Amroth. Today the banners did not fly above the Keep as Ruindil eased his ship built with Fuin's finances the Morifaire through the jagged rocks that kept his ship safe, his ship had it's black flag with a red Lion spitting fire flew high letting them know which ships were coming home. He glanced back Mylien was following close behind him in her own ship also bearing the red lion flag but instead of flames it bore about it a white gull the Limbërámë was a smaller and faster ship than his and he could see that she had the crew using it's 'wings' (a great many oars) were holding it from over taking the Morifaire which it would do with ease.

Within an hour the two ships were moored fast and the crew were happy to see help coming down from the Keep to empty the holds of the two ships Ruindil and Mylien both helping to direct where things went, ingots from the mines now held in the far east were carted up with a lift to the keep where they would be catalogued and set to travel to Imladris partially for Fuin's use in the Tingdain, the rest of the good were to go into the keep be it the treasury or the larder.

"Ye know ya should probably lead into wit Limbërámë, she's smaller and faster." Ruindil said grabbing his short wife as there was a lull in the unloading process.

"Aye but then I can't watch your arse though me looking glass." Mylien said with a cheeky smile that brought a snort from her husband who shook his head and give her a firm kiss.

"Well we can't have you missing out on me arse. It is spectacular." He said breaking the kiss. Myliens smiled and nodded.

"I'm glad we be agreement over it, I thought our wife was to be home though?" At that Ruindils green eyes glanced upwards towards the stairs that they would need to climb.

"Sometings prolly got 'er held up. Ye know how dem poncey elves be sometimes." Ruindil said calmly before they separated to finish up the unload and mooring process.

"Aye. Hopefully she's only a touch late." Mylien gave Ruindils backside a light smack before bouncing back to make sure the sails on her ship were stowed the anchor was down and the ballast was even so that the ships could be tended for the next few weeks while the crew relaxed on shore in the large Keep and the woods beyond the tall wall.

High Lord of Imladris
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Fuin Elda
One Days Journey North of Bar-en Raveara


She had learned strange news, and it had made her stop everything that she had been doing. It had made her question everything that she had been doing over the years. It had started as great pit in her stomach that made her ill just thinking about it. She had run from it at break neck speed when she had finally been able to without it seeming perhaps too strange. Aigrondign would undoubtedly tell Afarfin that this was normal for her now that he would get use to it, and that perhaps one day he'd be joining her on her strange disappearances into the wilds, or that he'd be enough of a balm for her soul that she would stop feeling the need for her forays and finally think about sailing into the west with him.

Into the west. The thought of it made bile rise in her throat and she hunched over and threw up bringing a snort from her horse who felt that she was being melodramatic. What would she tell Mylien and Ruindil? They knew that Afarfin had been killed but that he was reborn and had regained MOST of his memories if not all of them already? She had been wed him by the standards of so many elves she knew, they had been about to publicly be wed with a ceremony the night he'd died and elves tended to take such oaths deathly seriously. Would he want to pick up where they left off? She couldn't. She didn't know if he'd understand why she couldn't, perhaps he would it had been almost 6 thousand years since he had been killed.

She could see Eryn Vorn so close, the dark stain of the tall trees on the horizon. She would talk to Mylien and Ruindil first she loved them and would do anything to protect them, but Afarfin was as much a part of her soul as they were. Would they understand? She'd sort of stumbled into the relationship with them before going on the cruise that Aigronding had suggested she go on. She'd finally said her farewells to Afarfin on that cruise visiting his grave, she'd told them about that and now this. She pressed her heels into Lunes sides speeding his leisurely walk into a trot. She needed to get this over with she decided and the sooner she reached her keep then the sooner she would be able to talk with her family, that should have already arrived.

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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

What time was it? Finn-adan, commonly known to Breelanders simply as Finn, knew what time it was. It was Adventure Time! It was always adventure time for Finn and his trusty canine pal, Jake! The question was, more often than not, what were they going to do on this adventure? Being a ranger in the northlands meant there was always something to do, even if the mission itself wasn’t very fun. Finn had been through a lot recently. He’d accidently become the king of a tribe of goblins who wanted him to lead them on a glorious holy war against the orcs of Gundabad. That had been a weird week. Then he and Jake accidently got too involved in an ancient board game called Guardians of Sunshine and ended up actually in the game! Well, in the game might be an exaggeration, but it was still a heck of a time! They’d decided it was time to find some civilization after that. Bree was the closest place. It had been a long time since Finn and Jake had been to Bree. Jake asked everyone there were the cheese was and they both laughed at the townsfolks confusion. They’d stayed at the Prancing Pony and along with Bob and Nob, pranked old Barliman Butterbur with the most devious prank they’d ever devised! They filled up a cloth sachet with butter and tricked him into sitting on it! The butter sprayed everywhere! It was well worth the old man’s bewildered face and stream of curses. They’d had to dodge a pan or two, but once they were in the common room it was all pints of ale and dramatic retellings. What kind of mischief could they get up to while they were here now? Would Bob and Nob still be there? Would they be down for some adventuring? Maybe they had the inside scoop on some ne'er-do-wells lurking about in the forest. Finn desperately wanted to fight some baddies. He also wanted some rest. He also wanted some food. He wanted to get out of the rain that was pelting down like nobody’s business!

The rain had come up out of nowhere. This afternoon he and Jake had lain on a hill and played the cloud shapes game for hours and hours, Jake telling the stories of all the bears, princesses, and ice kings they saw. Finn’s favorite character was the Lumpy Space Princess, a foul tempered princess who secretly (or not so secretly) loved
gossip and drama and was actually a cloud but everyone treated as if she was just as normal and welcomed as everyone else. Finn loved those stories. Jake was halfway telling the story of Lumpy Space Princess saving her kingdom (Lumpy Space) from an invasion of vampires when all of the sudden the clouds turned dark and lighting and thunder wreathed the sky. The pair had had to hustle to get out of the rain. They hadn’t planned on rain, Finn’s bear skin hat was soaked and his long blonde hair underneath was plastered to his scalp. Poor Jake looked, well like a wet dog. His jowls dropped like those of a basset hound. Finn thought it was hilarious, Jake did not.

Bree was the closest settlement, so Bree it was! By the time they made it, the sun had gone down, and the gates were closed. It was by sheer chance that Finn had managed to sweet talk the gatekeeper into opening the gate with a bribe of baklava and a promise to help him kill the rats that had begun to infest his gatehouse. It was not the grand quest that the young ranger had hoped for, but it was a start. Big things have small beginnings after all.

“Well buddy,” he said, looking down to his best friend and companion, “where should we go first?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Tara)

The flames were bright and bloody. They were beautiful. The orange and red tongues of destruction lapped at the dry wood, hungry for sustenance. Smoke billowed, black and ominous until it became obscured in the darkness of the starless night. Delicately carved figurines of the Valar, precious and holy to the Eldar, fed the flames, dissolving in the entropic whirlwind. Images painstakingly painted into frescos that had long been abandoned went up like chaff. There was still a strength here. He could feel it. It was old and decrepit, sleeping and long past its prime. The elves had abandoned this place long ago, yet it stood in defiance. They had decided it was time to end that defiance with an act of blasphemy. Blasphemy was something they were good at, together or on their own, they had been a source of sin and sacrilege for decades. That it took so long for them to come together and stand against something so supposedly sacrosanct and not been lost on him. He was eager to see the place burn. Too long this “temple” had stood here, mocking the natural order of the world with its visions of hope and serenity, purity and goodness. Such things were lies from across the sea, from voices on high that no business ordering about the morality of those that refused bend a knee. He and his companion had concluded together that such a thing should no longer be allowed to stand in. They would send a message to the entire north of Middle-earth. They would set the beacon for self-reliance, freedom, and true justice. The shackles of the false lords of Middle-earth those that had cowered in face of an invasion from their ancestors and broke the world to hide from those that knew the truth of their power. The fireʼs smoke was sweet, scented by the tinder of the natural herbs around them. This was no orc fight, meant merely to frighten and disgust. They had more class, more purpose, than that. This was cleansing fire. The smoke was thick and black, it burned his eyes as he stood watching, yet he did not blink. The smoke curled around his fingers like the shadowy tendrils of the will-oʼ-the-wisps. The heat was intense. It must be to be a cleansing fire. Nothing of the wretchedness could survive.

Frost stood defiant against the heat of the flames. Before theyʼd set the ancient temple alight, heʼd gone inside and desecrated it with symbols sacred to the Witch-King and Zigûr, he ripped down the altars devoted to Aulë, defiled the trees and plants meant to give homage to Yavanna, then covered everything in the blood of a herd of goats and their keeper that had the misfortune of stumbling upon his rituals. The fire was beautiful. The heat was intense, he could feel the warmth seep into his bones and sear his skin. He would not move back, however. He wanted to feel the spirit of this place die. It had outlived the great lie of the Valar and remained, like they, hidden, trying to maintain its power and control over the land. No longer. Frost and Zôrzimril made sure that this temple and all the filth that it stood for, all the weakness and corruption it allowed to prosper, died tonight.

The fire could be seen for leagues and leagues. Everyone who lived anywhere close to this ruin would know what this was. Would they rejoice and call them heroes? No, but they would be free of it nonetheless and that reward, the promise of new generations no longer bound in gold filigreed chains, would be a gift to all that lived after them. Frost smiled. His deep ocean blue eyes reflecting the roaring flames. These flames were alive! He could feel the energy pulsating off them like the beating of a heart. His hands trembled despite himself. Had this been how Zigûr felt when he struck down Nimloth and set it ablaze? Had he felt this kind of power? Frost felt like he could do anything. He felt that if he began to flap his arms they would turn to wings and he could take flight, soar higher than the clouds and look down upon a vast world, a succulent peach waiting to be plucked from the tree. Did Zôr feel the same? Did she feel that power thrumming through the very grains of dirt beneath her? He hoped so.

He looked behind him. She was standing there, grey eyes on the flames as well. He could see the flames dancing in her eyes. Somehow in the glow of the destruction, she looked more beautiful. How was such a thing possible? Heʼd seen her in a hundred different environments and situations and postures, yet none of them compared to this moment. She was fiercer and more vibrant and wilder than Arien, the mistress of the sun. She was what one of the old Númenóreans in that light, powerful and defiant, unrestrained by weakling morality.

Then he saw something else in her. Something he had not seen before. Perhaps it was the heat haze, or the smoke dancing in his eyes, but he saw something in her. It was as if there was another image of her superimposed over her physical form. It was her, but it was not her at the same time. The image swayed with her, but it moved on it own. He squinted. It was Zôr, whatever it was, that was undeniable. The features of this wraith, this phantasm, this mirage, were hers, but they were altered just so. They appeared masculine, a strong jaw, a sneering lip, broader shoulders and narrower hips. It was lovely, intoxicating. What was it?

Frost finally moved away from the fire, curious to see this thing up close, but as he moved toward her, the image of the man, the Zôr that was not quite Zôr, dissipated. Like a wisp of cloud it faded into her until whatever signs of another presence was lost altogether.

Still, he moved to stand next to her. The heat of her body comparable to the heat of the arson. It was almost debatable as to which he preferred. Almost. “The stars are so jealous of your beauty that they've hidden themselves away as you burn your own star this night,” he whispered, wrapping an arm about her waist.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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Bar-en-Raveara

Ruindil and Mylien worked hard to find out what Fuin was meaning when she said everything has gone wrong once they'd gotten her to her room and gotten her onto her bed.

She'd pulled away from them and and they kept on her knowing that she needed to talk but she wasn't ready not yet. They got food brought and worked hard to get her to eat and drink hoping that food would help her calm down a little bit.

"Come luv what is botering you?" Ruindil asked both he and Mylien were curled up on the bed with Fuin curled up nibbling on a bit of food that was on the table beside her as she sat on a plush couch. They didn't want to force her to do anything, that was very much against their code.

"Afarfin." Fuin managed to choke out finally and the two pirates were taken aback.

"You're old flame love?" Mylien asked sitting up frowning, "I thought he was in Valinor."

Fuin drew a shaky breath "I did too. He has been reborn." She couldn't look at them "In Lothlorien."

The silence in the room stretched on as Mylien and Ruindil looked at each other. For the last two years Afarfin had always been a touchy subject and it didn't normally come up except once a year. Mostly in that they would make sure Fuin was there with them so that they could hold her and wake her from her nightmares that came around the anniversary of Afarfins death. Ruindil the normally brash and loud Captain stood slowly and walked over to Fuin, the only woman he didn't absolutely tower over and knelt down in front of her asking for her hand which she gave eventually and he took it and kissed it.

"You know we love you. If you want to go back to him you can, but as far as I am concerned he's as welcome in this relationship as you are." This brought Fuins eyes back to him as she'd been avoiding looking at him. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as if that option had never crossed her mind, and in truth it hadn't.

"You - "

"Elves have soul mates, if 'e's a part of ye I have no doubt that I will love'him as much." Ruindil said softly and Fuin wiped tears from her eyes and looked away and then back at him and Mylien who had stood up and was standing a hand on Ruindils shoulder smiling at Fuin.

"And if he doesn't want us, and you want to let go." Mylien said softly. "We'll be alright though we'd still like to use the port." Fuin gawfed at that and reached out and pulled Mylien to herself hugging her tightly pressing her face into the Gondorian womans stomach.

"Even if it don't be our favourite port in the area." Ruindil muttered making Fuin laugh between sobs.

"Thank you." She said softly pulling Ruindil in as well.

The two pirates hugged her tightly and now that she was back to wanting to be touched began running their fingers through her hair and kissing her.
Ruindil after a moment stood up picking Fuin up and over his shoulder bringing Mylien along holding her hand and tossed Fuin and then Mylien onto the bed.

"NOW me loves." He said with a smile crawling onto the bed "I'm going to hold you tightly and ask you when you think you'll be dragging Afafin here so that I can pin him on the bed and tell him how lucky he is to have you as a soulmate?"

"He's an elf." Mylien said with a giggle at Fuin blushing at Ruindils comment. "What if he pins you?"

This perked up Ruindils and a grin split his face "There's always a first for everything."

"OH VALAR." Fuin groaned "HE's got at least two inches on you Ruindil."

"OHhhh a big boy, so you've got a type," Ruindil chirped far too happily. Mylien elbowed him in the kidney for Fuin.

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Bar-en-Raveara

Ruindil groaned and moved to roll off the bed to get up several days later and failed to realize that that Fuin and Mylien had him right on the edge of the bed and hit the wooden floor with a thud making Fuin roll onto her back and look over at him where he laid sprawled looking up at her with sleepy happy eyes and a cheery little smile on his face as he scratched his bare chest and smacked his lips.

"Mornin' beautiful" He grumbled his voice a touch lower than normal as and pushed himself up onto his elbows before grabbing a fist full of Fuins hair and pulling her off the bed on top of him bringing a grumble from Mylien who was still in the middle of the bed.

"Hnnnnn cold." Was all the two on the floor could make out and Fuin and the two giggled Fuin burying her face in Ruindil hair.

"Ye could join us." Ruindil called out. There was another hnnnn from Mylien and then the soft tumbling sound and then Ruindil groaned as did Fuin.

"You asked for this you fool." Fuin groaned as Mylien giggled, Fuin looked back at Mylien "HOW are you so heavy while being so tiny compared to us? Do you have an anchor somewhere?" Fuin asked shifting her weight and rolling Mylien off of her and caused Ruindil to groan as she put pressure on one side of his body before he tossed her off as well.

The three of them lay on the floor laughing at the insanity of what had just happened when the door swung open and one of the ships quarter masters stepped in to tell them something and blinked for a moment shut his mouth opened his mouth shut it again.

"Spit it out man" Ruindil barked and sat up giving Fuin a swat on her bottom bringing his knees up and resting his elbows on his knees his hands clasped together in front of him.

"Looks like we're gonna be stuck here a while longer we found some rot in Myliens ship."

"PERFECT!" He said jumping up making the quarter master jump back a bit shocked at his Captains reaction. "Tell the men to relax fix the ships I've got something me and me wives need to do."

"We do?" Mylien mumbled and rolled over nuzzling into Fuins side.

"AYE we do. We need horses. Do we have horses love?" Fuins face was screwed up at that request.

"You don't know how to ride horses."

"We'll figure it out we'll have long enough." And Fuin laughed at that.
"I don't think you understand how sore you're both going to be after riding a horse for a day."

"Well how long does it take to get Imladris?" And Fuin sat up.

"Imladris?"

"Aye."

"Imladris. Rivendell. The Home of the Half-elven and the Ost-" She tipped her head pausing in what she was saying realizing just what Ruindil was saying. "You want to meet Afarfin."

"Aye. We've go' at least a few months ta break the poor boy in." Ruindil said with a smile and bent down and picked up Mylien and set her on the bed and headed to the wardrobe in the room and pulled a shirt on and tossed one at Mylien who looked unimpressed at the fabric thrown at her.

"You'll need that long for your arses to recover from riding that much." Fuin muttered standing up and catching a shirt thrown at her the quartermaster looked at Ruindil and Fuin - Ruindil was his Captain, Fuin was the Lady of the house and neither one of them had excused him. Fuin realized this and shooed him with a hand as she headed to finish getting dressed.

"So how far is it?"

"It's a week hard ride with you two I'd say probably three weeks just to get there." Fuin said calmly. "And you two will not be wanting to break in anyone when we arrive. I'll probably need to get you both treated for saddle sores at the Abad Nestad."

"Are the healers there cute?" Fuin for her part gave a snort.

"I suppose so. Not sure they'd be interested in you pity for them." Fuin snickered and Ruindil pouted.

"Aren't you a healer? You can nurse us back to health." Mylien said leaning back swinging her feet off the edge of the bed.

"We'd be better off in a wagon. It'll take longer than riding but I think it'll be faster than dealing with you two fools." Fuin said finally "We'll just have to set a watch and be careful as we won't be able out run anyone wanting to attack us."

"Right. We'll take the wagon, you'll protect us from these land pirates." Ruindil sighed and Mylien walked up behind him and gave him a rub on the back.

"You'll be helping too I will want to sleep occasionally in that time since you won't know how to get to Imladris."

"So... you're going to take us to Imladris?" Mylien asked her eyes wide slightly not sure that her wife was actually agreeing to this.

"Yes. We might as well get this over with - he is an elf of Aman so it will be interesting." Fuin said with a swallow she'd pushed the thought out of her mind so long that she'd figured perhaps they'd forgotten. She didn't want to do it but it made sense to get it over with so that she knew what was happening with Afarfin, Aigronding had put him up on a pedestal so high, and her as well being the perfect wife, waiting all those years for him. She was beginning to think that perhaps she'd be better off staying with Ruindil and Mylien. They knew her now, Afarfin only really knew her once upon a time.

Mylien slipped up to her and gave her a hug and ran her fingers through her long hair. "We'll be there with ya we promise, even if I have to stick a rag in the giant fools mouth so he doesn't say something dumb without permission." This brought a chuckle from Fuin.

"Right. We'll need to get the supplies for the trip ready for the three of us."

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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Frost)

The crown was so rotted by age and rain and sun that it was nearly weightless. It was a spiky thing, presumably fashioned to resemble a ring of sparkling stars, and it had long adorned the head of a Vala in the form of a woman raising her hands to the skies. Once an image of reverence and splendor, the statue had fallen from grace as it decayed and its erstwhile sanctuary fell into ruin around it. Dark stains like tear tracks ran down her face from her carved eyes, and the crown now exuded a sinister aura. Before they had lit the oil, Zôr had pried it off the head. The Vala’s gesture of supplication or reverence or self-worship, whatever it was, was fruitless. Whatever she had represented to the countless congregations of this shrine over the centuries would be dust soon enough - dust and ash, blowing forgotten on a chill night breeze. It mattered not whether it was the lady of the stars or the hunter astride his steed: they all burned in the end.

Zôrzimril turned the brittle crown in her hands while the flames danced their delight. The statue of the Vala from whom she’d stolen it toppled as its foundation burned away, sending a burst of sparks flying high above the flames. She smiled and began to snap off the stars one by one. Zôr walked about the burning mess, tossing each one to the conflagration like one might toss scraps of meat to a ravenous dog. The flames leapt to consume the stray bits of wood, long tongues nearly licking her bare arms and constantly threatening to consume her flowing skirts, too. Food might tame a starving dog, but there would be no taming this fire.

She was proud of this fire. Fire had long been her enemy, then a begrudging ally - but now it was the only tool for certain jobs. She had long tried to master it, but both time and Frost had shown her that its true power lay in its unpredictable, indiscriminate ravaging. Best to use it when you had the luxury of not looking back and no need to search through the wreckage. Its destructive power was complete, and it was perfect for this little project. They would erase all traces of these idols from the hilltop. Memories of it would linger, but even those would fade into nothing with the slow wear of time.

Zôr tossed the last bit of the crown into the fire and paused to stand behind Frost. She knew his silhouette intimately - every inch of it. Yet she had to admire the way the flames dancing about his figure shaped and reshaped that form, lending a curve here or appearing as long, trailing tresses there. The fire was a sculptor and Frost the clay, and she was ready to watch it work and rework his figure until the flames burned low and the sun rose upon their violation of this holy place. But then he turned, and their eyes met through the smoke and ash. For the smallest of moments, Zôrzimril saw the puzzled interest she felt reflected in Frost’s features.

And then he was standing beside her. His arm slid around her waist, and she smiled once more.

“Some may have stormed off in a jealous rage,” she said, turning to lean into him. “But the rest fled having seen their defeat in you.” She raised her left hand to his shoulder and traced his jawline with her right index finger before drawing his lips to hers. She tasted smoke and sage and him. When at last they broke apart, she concluded, “This darkness is yours as much as it is mine.” Heat rose in her and around her, and the midnight breeze swirled her hair across her face even as she grinned her admiration of this partner who had fed her every instinct for cruelty while matching all her appetites.

Her smile faltered at a sharp cry from below, at the foot of the little hill on which they stood: “Oi! What’s going on up there? Someone there?”

It was a man’s voice, booming with anger and fear. She heard a horse’s nervous whinny and, moments later, saw a figure moving up the slope toward them. She stepped in front of Frost, planting her feet apart and gazing down at the approaching man. Sweat glistened on his bald head as he neared the flames, and he wheezed with the effort of climbing a hill.

“Turn back,” she called when he made it halfway.

He looked up, sneered, and climbed on.

“Turn back,” she repeated. “This does not concern you.”

By this time, he was spitting distance from her. He laughed mirthlessly. “The shrine that’s stood on the edge of my family’s land since before anyone can remember, burning to the ground on a night without lightning? Doesn’t concern me? How do you reckon that? You done this?” He addressed the last question to Frost and made to sidestep Zôr to get to him. Fool, she thought. The man was unarmed and reckless with righteous rage. He had no idea the mess he was going to make. And yet . . . something about that gesture conveyed a dismissal of her, and she found herself angrier than expected at the slight. Perhaps it was an effect of the heat.

Whatever the reason, she slid into his path and unsheathed her dagger in one motion. With a snarl, she brought the knife to his throat. “We did this,” she hissed into his ear.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

High Lord of Imladris
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Somewhere near Tharbad

Fuin was doing her absolute best not to laugh as Ruindil and Mylien were both done with the wagon and were lazing about as if they were children. Which compared to her they were.

"Why couldn't we ride horses again?" Ruindil asked as he helped Fuin load their camp back into the back of the small wagon.

"Because we'd have not made it out of the forest before you and Mylien would be crying because your arses would be so sore and covered in sores we had to turn back." She said calmly looking at him.

"This bloody wagon is making me sore from how long its taking." Ruindil griped and Fuin looked at him and shook her head. "I'll take you riding for a whole day when we get to Imladris on one of the calmer horses. I don't have enough calm horses in my stables. You normally travel by ship not horse." She said calmly.

"We're gonna have to learn if we are going to visit you in Imladris more often." Mylien said joining in with Ruindil in her complaint and Fuin had to stop and look at them as she moved to harness the horses and tie Lune off to the back of the cart. "Can't one of us ride Lune?"
Fuin snorted at this and shook her head.

"Lune is not the horse for either of you to learn on, Lisse maybe but she is hauling the wagon. Lune is a warhorse and is trained primarily for one rider an experienced rider might manage him... but you." Fuin shook her head. "He'd buck you off and stomp on you until you were dead."

"He wouldn't" Ruindil snorted sounding more like Lune than himself for a second.

"He absolutely would."

He wouldn't I-"

"Pat him." Fuin said and Ruindils eyes went wide and he looked between her and then at the horse who snorted and looked at the massive red haired Gondorian ears swivelled back simply because Ruindil was looking at him. Fuin sat waiting. "Go on then give Lune a nice pat on the side of his head."

"He'll bite me." Ruindil said knowing better than to pat the horse. Even the stable boys weren't safe from Lune most days.

"And you think either of you can ride him if you can't even pat him."

Mylien for her part laughed. "Right we'll learn in Imladris." With that Mylien hopped up onto the back of the wagon and sat their kicking her legs smiling at her two much taller lovers.

"Glad one of you is as smart as you are pretty." Fuin said and leaned in and give the dark skinned woman a kiss before she looked at Ruindil. "Get in pretty boy."

Ruindil gave a little scowl pout but hopped up onto the wagon beside Mylien and they continued on towards Imladris.

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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Tara)

It had been amazing, watching this living conflagration, birthing a thing of pure annihilation into the world. However, the peace and serenity that came with such an accomplishment was soon shattered by the intrusion of an unwanted soul. There were so many of those in this world, people  that didnʼt know when to shut up and cower in their homes while the Shadow passed over them. Frost sneered and flexed his hands, making and unmaking fists. No blood on the lintel was going to save this fool from his fate. He refused Zôr’s commands to turn back, either his ears were stuffed with cotton or his wits were seeping out his backside. The Númenórean, though, paid him no mind. He was naught but a fly, a pestering insect seeking some shire to feast on. He was not going to engage with a man so bereft of sense and sensibility. Yet the more the man climbed the rise to meet them, the less he was able to enjoy the flames of destruction. Their beauty had been dimmed, the flameʼs heat had been stolen, their destructive prowess curtailed by this petulant child, this too stupid for his own good backcountry swine. The manʼs voice was grating and unnatural. How dare he speak at such a holy moment.

It was only after he arrived, continuously ignoring Zôr, that Frost realized the inbred farmer was speaking to him and ignoring his partner altogether, Foolish imbecile. Every muscle in his body wanted to turn and rip the man apart limb from limb and leave him bleeding out, cold and alone, away from his inbred family, from his hinterland dilapidated cottage, from his diseased and pathetic animals. And yet, as he slowly turned to face the man, his expression one of detached boredom rather than blind, seething rage. Zôr was faster than him, sliding in between them with a dagger that shimmered orange in the light of the fire. If he looked at that blade too long, he was sure heʼd be hypnotized. “Sheʼs right, you know,” he said with the same bored detachment in his voice, “we did this. What makes you think it was me?”

He took two steps and with his long gait he was within the manʼs defenses, angling behind him so that he could whisper into the manʼs ear, already distracted by Zôr and her hypnotic blade. With his right hand, he grabbed the manʼs right before he could strike out with it (calculating that the man was indeed right-handed) and pinned it against the side of his body. With his left, he gently, almost lovingly caressed the manʼs filthy, unwashed face, grown thick with wiry stubble. When he spoke, his voice was oddly tender and mild, an octave higher than normal. “You sweet fool. You could have ignored this. You could have listened to my loverʼs command. She told you this was none of your concern. Why should you make it? Do you want to die? Is the world you live in so cruel and cold that you would seek death at our hands? Are you truly so cruel to yourself that you want your death to last a fortnight? You would have better luck seeking death at the bottom of a bottle or the edge of a cliff.” His hand went from a caress to a strangle on the manʼs neck, his voice never losing the sweet, lyrical quality. “You made a mistake thinking I was the one to speak to. You see, my wrath is quick and terrible, but hers, hers is insidious. You tried to swing at the wolf while missing the viper coiled around your foot.”

He dug his nails into the manʼs throat. He gurgled and chocked, trying to speak through the compression on his throat. “You… blaspheming…”

“Yes,” Frost whispered, drawing out the sibilant sound.

“I… Iʼll…”

“No,” Frost said, a hint of melancholy, “No, you wonʼt.”

He released the manʼs throat, licking the blood delicately off his fingernails. “My love, I think he has an apology to make to you. Or a request for expediency. Either way, I donʼt think you should accept.” He moved around so that he was standing behind Zôr, placing a hand on her hip, ready to steady her when she struck the blow.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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The Hoarwell River

Fuin had walked the horses westward along the banks of the Hoarwell cursing their luck and Ruindil and Mylien for their part were not helping her mood at all and she had to remind herself that they honestly knew almost nothing about traveling by horse, and that everything they had learned so far in their short lives had been learned on this trip.

"Shut up about when we are going to start heading north east again unless you bloody well want to build a boat that can float us across the bleeding river." She snapped and Mylien and Ruindils eyes both went wide and they both did as they were told Fuin glared at them both even as they both looked quite upset that she'd yelled at them, they had not actively been trying to frustrate her, or upset her and Ruindil wrapped an arm around Mylien and Fuin realized she'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry." She said softly and Ruindil looked up at her his own eyes flashing angrily it was one thing to yell at him, when he was being stupid but he did not take well to Mylien being yelled at even if it was by Fuin. Nobody got to yell at her unless it was really really well deserved. "I'm tired, and the rivers flooded there's no way we can safely cross, I shouldn't have yelled at you for that."

"Maybe we should stop and have a break then?" Mylien offered and Fuin for her part debated on refusing that this would take them days to get around as they would need to go up to the last bridge and take the road there, if they couldn't find a place to ford soon but stopped herself.

"Sure." She said softly and pulled up the cart there was no better or worse place to stop where they were. She crawled into the back of the wagon and took a hold of her husband and wifes hands and looked at them. "I really am sorry for yelling." Ruindil for his part looked her over and gave a nod and wrapped his other arm around her.

"It's alright love but yer not standing watch tanight if yer tired enough yer barkin at us." He pulled her hugging her tightly and she wrinkled her nose.

"I think I might bark at you some more." She said with a laugh, "I think the lot of us could use a bath." Ruindil gave a sniff and then nodded.

"Aye we be ripe." With that he picked up Mylien over his shoulder and carried her off the back of the cart jumping down off of it and marched straight for the river leaving Fuin in the cart laughing and Mylien kicking and screaming about not wanting her good leather boots ruined in the water. Fuin chased after them and quickly pulled Myliens boots off as well as her leather pants which would take far too long to dry before Ruindil tossed her into the water.

Fuin was busy taking off her own boots when suddenly she felt arms around her waist and she struggled as well.

"No no! My boots and bracers!" She cried out her quiver at least was still on the cart so it and the bow were safe from water damage.

"'Urry up!" Ruindil bellowed and began counting down from ten Fuin barely managed to get the last boot off having deciding her bracers were more important to save before she splashed into the water beside Mylien who promptly used Fuin to climb up like a tree in the cold water of the Hoarwell.

Ruindil looked at the two of them both of them standing their their hair soaked and sticking to their bodies and their clothing clinging to them, dripping with water a grin on his face. "Looks a wee pick cold thanks fer testing tha wat'r fer me I think I"ll skip bathing here."

Mylien and Fuin looked at each other. "AH NA YE DON"T YE FURRY BASTARD!" Mylien yelled and practically leapt off Fuin so that she was only in shallow water chasing after Ruindil who took off in fear. Fuin was swift to follow and soon he found himself stripped of his boots, they weren't so kind as to remove his leather pants - pay back for tossing them in and being dragged quite literally by his beard by Mylien while Fuin had one of his legs making it almost impossible for him to escape properly his arms flapping as he worked to keep his one foot beneath him as they hopped him further and further into the river. It was bad enough at his ankles, his knee was worse, he didn't want to go any deeper but Mylien was unperturbed by the fact she was already up to her mid thigh having been soaked by him and his willingness to toss them into the water. She kept going until half of Middle earth could hear the shriek of a man who had gone too far into very cold water at which point she dunked his head under and Fuin tossed his leg up submerging him entirely before grabbing Mylien and heading back closer to shore.

"THA WAS NO FAIR YE BANSHEES." Ruindil bellowed as he came up gasping for air.

"Yer the one tha shrieked like one the minute yer plums touched the water"

"They're probably berries now." Ruindil looked at Mylien and then at Fuin and then at Mylien again.

"I like ye more anow. She already called me stupid and that I'm teeny."

"She probably ain't wrong love. Ye went up what are them things called with the voice love?" She looked at Fuin.

"Octave. I'd say at least two."

"Ye two octaves." With that the two women stripped of the wet clothing began washing themselves and the shirts so that they could get out of the cold water while Ruindil pouted still waist deep.

"Come on love, they'll stay that small if you don't get out of the water soon." This got him to move and he came towards the shore and stripped off his jacket tossing it to the shore, and stripping and washing himself and his clothing.

***


The three of them sat curled up in blankets that they had brought a small fire burning at their feet there wasn't much here to burn but Fuin had managed to find it. Ruindil for his part was quite firm about Fuin not taking a watch tonight, she had been the one driving the cart since they'd left Bar en Raveara. Mylien was perched up on the cart dressed in clean dry clothing on first watch while Ruindil made sure that Fuin slept and not that weird elven sleeping that she did sometimes with her eyes open half awake. No He kept her eyes buried in his beard or his lips pressed against at least one eyelid so that he was certain her eyes were shut.

Around them there were distant sounds of coyotes howling, and the chirping of crickets and other animals, it was all so very interesting to listen to
and strange for them, and they wondered just how much she'd protected them from that she was so exhausted? She clearly could not have been sleeping at all even when she was on watch though she promised them she was doing the half sleeping thing she'd explained to them that elves could do. Waking dreams. Some sort of nonsense
like that.
He had a hard time believing it but she'd shown them once and it had been, strange - in fact it had been one of the first things she'd taught them about because she often had a hard time sleeping, and Ruindil had found out that she slept best when she was pinned between the two of them he couldn't remember her eyes ever being open when she was between them; made her feel safe he was guessing, but just him would have to do for now.

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Into the Unknown
Tharbad

(Private with Moriel)

Walpurga inhaled, took in a breath of the cool, damp air, it smelled something very like petrichor, but not quite a strong or as vibrant. She nudged Svanhildr to hurry her pace until they reached Kamion and Brocktree. Having the virtue of being taller and sitting atop a taller horse (and likely a host of other advantaged Walpurga had yet to suss out), he could see further than she could. What he pointed at looked a grey smudge against a wide swath of green and brown. She looked back at him, observed him. She hadn’t had much of an opportunity to do so until now. The potential fatherly aspect of his countenance had faded, it had been replaced by something she hadn’t quite put a name to. It was not quite brotherly, it was too distant for that, too unfamiliar. A mentor, perhaps? Protector? A mixture? She looked at his eyes, there was something there, an unspoken desire perhaps? There was something missing, and he was searching for it, always searching. His eyes were restless and elegiac.

It was then that Brocktree appeared and made his presence known. She smiled, her ocean blue eyes twinkling. They had taken to each other, Kamion and Brocktree. Neither of them seemed in desperate need of companionship, but they both needed it, she could tell. Brocktree, without any other badgers to play with, had been forced to play with three much smaller skunks and, while he never seemed upset or discontent, he never lived his full potential. With Kamion, Brocktree seemed to blossom. He became more expressive and noisier, his mischievous personality had begun to assert itself, often to the amusement of the humans watching him play. Kamion, too, seemed to benefit from the friendship. He was brighter, less pensive. Walpurga was happy they’d found each other. Faran, Kamion’s warhorse, and Svanhildr had also come to some sort of camaraderie. Faran making sure that little pony did not fall too far behind and had a friend at night. He was still ill-tempered and impatient, but Svanhildr never on the receiving end of the fouler parts of his temper. All in all, the animals seemed to fall into an easy rhythm as time had gone on.

Walpurga could only hope that eventually she and Kamion would as well. They had not been awkward, that was the wrong word for it, but they had been very content with the distance, the impenetrable space that existed between them. He had not pried too deeply into the reasons and catalysts of her journey, nor had she offered. She wanted to, but something held her back. A warning voice in the back of her mind, the voice that told her he’d never understand, that he’d reject her like all the others had in the past if she unburdened too much. In truth, she had told him far more than she had ever intended. Far more. She spent a good portion of her solitude telling herself she’d been a fool for that, that that was the reason why he was so distant now. She’d violated some sort of mentor/ward statute and was now being punished for it. Still, his presence was comforting, and he was not unkind.

He was an excellent storytelling. Ecthelion, as if summoned by the start of tale, perked up in her lap and watched the Dúnedain expectantly. Walpurga, too, listened with rapt attention. Tharbad was not mentioned often in the books and stories she’d read. It had once been an important place, but it had fallen into disrepair and as trade and culture shifted toward Minas Tirith it was mentioned less and less. She’d read a romance poem about a man that lived there, who looked out on the bridge each day for his lover to return, each stanza ended with the man feeling more and more alone until he finally decided to stop going to the bridge at all. It was then he’d found that the sailor snuck around him, hiding so that when he returned, he could surprise him. It was a nice poem, long and full of long-winded descriptions of sadness and moroseness but ended with a beautiful description the bridge.

She caught a look in Kamion’s face as he told his story, a short history of the now ruined town. It was only there for a second, she blinked, and it changed. She almost thought she’d imagined it. It was a wistful look, sad, but mixed with hope. She felt the overwhelming urge to ask him more about Tharbad, about his father. But the look in his eyes now, one of serious focus and determination forestalled her. Now was not the time.

Influenced by his sudden mood change, Walpurga felt herself grow more serious and focused as well. His demeanor serving as a reminder that the world she was adventuring into was fraught with potential dangers around every corner or beyond every hill. The air seemed a bit chiller, the wind picked up and blew away the scent of petrichor. A knot formed in her stomach. She wasn’t afraid. That was the wrong word for it, but the sudden reminder and awareness of the risks that surrounded her had certainly taken hold. There was a balance to what she was doing. She was excited, she was finally branching in the world of stories and tales, into the unknown, but she was also journeying to places where a frivolous, overeager step could be the last. There was no greater reminder of this than when she looked back at the ruins of Tharbad. The mists still clung the broken grey, monochromatic buildings. The ruins looked, not sad, but melancholic. They had been a great site many ages ago, a place of grandeur fallen and forgotten. The broken bits of buildings, monuments, and artistry chilled and broke her heart all at once. This had been a place where children ran in the streets and played, where sailors came in, where people lived, thrived, and grew old, where people plied trade, wrote love ballads, studied history. It was more than just a name on a faded map. It had existed once, but now it was barely a whisper. No children laughed in its streets, no sailors called to their loved ones, no street criers extol news of faraway. All the happiness and life and been sifted out. What was there now? Sinister thoughts entered Walpurga’s head. She thought, here and there, she saw something in the mists, something creeping and skulking. But surely that was her imagination.

She closed her eyes and inhaled. The air had the faintest scent of decay on it, rotting undergrowth, earthy. She opened her eyes, looked at the ruins again, and gave it a sad smile. “Lead the way, my lord.” She hoped her light tone would cover the fact the sneaking doubt that entered her mind. It was not fear so much as a vague sense of misgiving. There was nothing she could see, but the ruins held so a force of sadness and forlornness that she wanted to be through them as soon as possible. She gripped the reins. Svanhildr protested, swishing her tail irritably before starting. The skunk triplets seemed eager as well, they squeaked and chittered and milled about, restless as she felt inside. “I’ve heard stories about the bridge here,” she said at long last. The hill behind them. “That there’s some sort of elven magic to it. Is there any truth to that?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Frost)

With her back to the blaze, a bead of sweat ran along Zôr’s neck and down the back of her dress. The night air was cool, but the fire dominated the landscape now, beating back the breeze with heat and smoke and ash. She pressed her knife’s edge into the man’s flesh, and a shallow cut opened where the two made contact. She locked eyes with him, daring him to move. He was still struggling with those ragged, labored breaths. What kind of farmer, Zôr wondered, would grow winded merely from climbing a small hill? A poor excuse for one, that was certain. Weren’t they all out in the fields every day? Weren’t they all vigorous and sturdy from the constant toil? All the field laborers with whom she’d lain had been, anyway. In an instant, she connected his stubborn defense of this pointless place to his physical condition and she laughed.

“You must be the one who minds the gods in their absence,” she accused him, even as Frost made to walk behind the man. “Do you speak with their voices?” She leaned in close so he could not escape her questions. He reeked of sweat and fear and, amusingly, lust. His breath was poisonous and rotten. “Where are your sheep, sweet shepherd? How many have you saved from a descent into dark and dangerous ways? And who will tend to your flock when you’ve gone?”

Zôrzimril lifted her eyes to watch Frost. She smiled to hear him crooning threats in a deceptively saccharine voice. There was nothing simple about him, nothing plain: he layered illusion and glamor over malice and decay and ensnared his victims before they realized - too late - their mistakes. His fingers flexed and clamped upon the man’s neck like the iron jaws of a trap. The man sputtered and choked in her partner’s grip. Frost released the man and moved behind her. She took this arrangement as a cue to take control.

“Do you indeed want to die?” she echoed as the man struggled for air. His hands were free now, but she was unconcerned - he was too shocked to be a threat. “I think you do. You want to know what comes next. Have they promised you an afterlife across the lonely seas, free of suffering? Is that what you’ve promised your followers? How many so-called Men of Darkness did you and your ilk purge in the name of the idols who now burn before you?”

Slowly, she slid the blade from his fleshy neck, tracing the cut it had made like a lover’s caress. Perhaps the softness with which she withdrew tricked him into thinking he had been reprieved, for the man began to sob. His shoulders sagged with relief. He had burned through all his indignant rage in a mere matter of minutes. Sad, Zôr thought, considering the pathetic sight before her. A supposed man of principle caving under threat of death.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she repeated. “Confess.”

“I didn’t want any of this,” he choked. “I don’t want to die. I want--”

Zôr had heard enough. The apology Frost had suggested certainly was not coming. She tossed her dagger just high enough to change her grip, catching the hilt in a fist so that the blade protruded from the little finger side of her right hand. In a flash of scarlet and orange, she swiftly brought the dagger up before plunging it into his neck, just beneath his right ear. Her whole body swayed to lend force to the blow. The tip of the blade burst from the flesh beneath his left ear with a light spray of blood. The stuff looked black and oily in the eerie firelight as it fell to the earth. As she had known he would be, Frost was there to brace her. He always knew where to put his hands.

As quickly as she’d stabbed him, Zôr pulled the knife from the dying man’s throat. His life’s blood flowed from dual wounds now. He raised his hands desperately to stanch the bleeding. It was almost comical how his hands moved aimlessly from one wound to the other and back. His wits may as well have seeped out of him, too.

She prowled around to stand behind him and kicked the back of his legs. The man collapsed to his knees before his burning gods. His hands continued to wander over his own neck. For him, the world began to dim. The firelight faded, and with it the smoke and the silhouette of the man who’d squeezed his throat. But the woman wandered back into his field of vision and stooped to gaze into his glassy eyes.

“You have blood on your hands,” she whispered.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Black Númenórean
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

Amid the deluge pouring down on the Breeland, Jake shook his head solemnly. “This stuff’s not gonna let up any time soon,” he said, before stretching his mustard-yellow body up and over Finn to keep his little brother out of the rain. If only someone else could stretch over Jake to keep him dry! Jake giggled as, from the top of his head, there sprouted an umbrella-shaped extension of his body. The fur on his face dried quickly once it was out of the rain.

When they got to the village, the gatekeeper’s eyes bulged unbecomingly at the sight of the giant stretchy dog with a parasol coming out of his head, but that was nothing compared to how he reacted when Jake began speaking. At the word “Howdy!”, the gatekeeper clutched at his baklava and keeled over.

Jake shrunk down to his normal size and sniffed at the man’s mouth and nose. “My dog nose tells me he’s still alive. He’s got breath that smells like the stuff, though. Gross,” Jake said, glancing back at Finn. He stood up on his hind legs and shrugged. “Oh well. But maybe let’s get him out of the rain.” And so Jake extended one paw and it lengthened and flattened into a makeshift cot, with which he scooped up the man and deposited him into the guardhouse before slamming the door shut.

“Well, that’s that!” Jake said with a chuckle as they walked through the streets of Bree. “I dunno what’s next, though. We already defeated Sir Slicer and got you the Magical Armor of Zelderon, then got rid of that armor because it was too frilly for you. PB hasn’t asked any favors of us since we transported those tarts, and Tree Trunks is off in the Crystal Dimension, so there’s no pies in our future.” A gust of cold air made Jake shiver. A dark shape shot past in a blur, and the flames in a couple nearby street lamps went out. “AAAAHHH! What was that?!” Jake shrieked. He shrank down to the size of Finn’s fist and dove into his bro’s rucksack. Trembling, he poked his head out from the bag to say, “Was that… a ghost? Or a vampire!??! Dude. We’re gonna DIE!”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

For perhaps the hundredth time, Finn was very glad he did not have the sniffing power of Jake. In the midst of a deluge like this, there was no telling what sort of bad smells were getting washed out into the streets! He watched as Jake transformed his body into a cot and pulled the man inside and, for perhaps the hundred millionth
time, he felt a little jealous of his brother for being about to shift and twist and stretch about like that. Jake’s special abilities, ones he’d gotten from either being part shape shifter or being cursed by a shape shifter (he liked to change up his story every time the question came up with a newcomer and Finn was never brave enough to sit down and ask Jake exactly what was what), had gotten the pair out of half a hundred pickles. Once he acted as at the string in a labyrinth and nearly stretched himself into nothing by the time they made it to the center (much more on that little tale at a later time, once the appropriate liquids have been imbibed). Jake also never had to carry a weapon because he could simply manifest weapons out of his imagination. Finn, as adventurous and noble as he was, was not the most imaginative. That’s why he and Jake made such a great team. Just don’t ask Jake to imagine something to do while waiting out a knife storm.

“I’m sure there’s a quest to be had around here,” the young man assured his canine companion. “Bree is full of all sorts of mystery and subterfuge, there’ll be something...” he trailed off, distracted by a shadow in the rain. There had been a shadow, right? He was thankful for Jake’s umbrella stretching so he was having to peer through soaking eyes and hair, but that didn’t help for the space beyond.

Jake sensed it too. Something cold and clammy swept up through Finn’s legs and arms. Fear? Don’t be ridiculous. Finn-adan had no fear! Unless it was the ocean. But this was not the ocean! He squinted in the direction he was sure the movement came from and gripped the hilt of his tree sword. “Calm down Jake!” he said with a little more admonishment than he meant. Maybe he was a little afraid. Just a little. The lights were going out all down the street. Finn gulped. Lights were supposed to go out like that. They were covered from the rain and the wind wasn’t a howling gale. There was definitely something sinister up in Bree-town. It was time for Finn and Jake to get to work!


-- * -- * --

Perfect! She snickered and moved closer, floating just out of their range of vision. She knew they’d be coming into town sooner or later and she’d worked out a ton of pranks for them. The rain had been unexpected, but she was very good at rolling with the punches. She could take any set back and turn it into an opportunity. That’s just what one does when one is a thousand years old. She’d seen almost everything so she could easily prepare for anything. The two doofs were sufficiently freaked out now, the lights going out were a neat trick, one she technically couldn’t take credit for. She’d paid Nob and Bob to dress up in black cloaks and put out the lights one by one. Once she heard Jake shriek, she knew it was time for her to make her move. She adjusted the axe at her hip, taking a few experimental strums of the bass strings she’d tied to across the body of the deadly weapon.

Marcy swooped in just behind Jake’s right ear and whispered. “Well, took you long enough to get here.”

She swooped away quickly, ducking into the shadow of an alley nearby, waiting for the pair’s panic to reach another level of scaredy cat, then swooped in on the other side of Jake and whispered again. “I was wondering if my meal was every going to show up.” She broke in a sinister giggle then vanished again. She watched the dark sky for the perfect moment then...

BOOOOOM!

She moved into place just as the lightning struck and the thunder rattled the windows of all the little buildings, appearing as if out of nowhere right in front of Finn and Jake. "Well, well, well if it isn’t a duo of wannabe gnome knights. Plant any magic beans lately?"
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Tara)

He watched the blossoming event with mesmerizing fascination, deep ocean blue eyes fixed on the knife moved through its sanguine dance. She was truly something, this partner heʼd found. Not for the first time (not even the first time this night) he told him how fortunate he was. She was magnificent. Backlit by the roaring orange and gold of the fire, wreathed in sacrilegious smoke, she was more regal than the powers in the west. Her eyes reflected starlight with more savage grace than any of the star maidens could have ever hoped to attain. He held her as they watched the man gurgle and bleed out. He had transformed. Where once stood a backward but proud tiller of the land, now a farcical clown laid, drowning in his own blood. He had a part to play in this morality play though. He was the objector to the sacrilegium, the man of faith who performed a heelface turn to see the error of his way but too late. He was a tragic figure, but one forgotten about as soon as the scene ended. Did he even have a name? Frost considered the twitching body until it slowed and stilled. The objector. Thatʼs all he had been. Now, he was even less than that. He forsook his gods in the last moments, admitted that they were false. But what did that leave him? “If you could cleanse your soul,” Frost said under his breath, “and leave deception far behind, we would never be equal for free I stand, rid of lies, and without lies, youʼd be no more.” What happened to this poor sodʼs soul was of no consequence to him. He was food for the conqueror worm, not even his sheep would miss him.

He kissed Zôr’s shoulder, leaving a more than playful bite mark. Moving from her, he bent low and took a closer look at what had been the shepherd. The eyes were cloudy sightless, bloodshot as all the veins in his eyes burst in his final painful moments. The manʼs final expression was one of utter terror and dismal fear. What had he seen in that final moment? Had he seen the great expanse of the Void? Had he seen Frost and Zôrzimril arrayed as avenging angels with fiery swords and flaming eyes? Had he seen the disappointment in his godsʼ eyes? “A pity you didnʼt apologize, young fool. You would have been happy to serve her for the rest of your natural life. You chose poorly.”

He touched the wound. The blood was still hot and lively. He pressed his fingers into the wound; the blood flowed faster and more freely. Frost pooled the blood in his left hand and stood up. He faced Zôr, looking into the fathomless depth of her grey eyes. He could drown in those eyes if he was not careful. How many had she beguiled with them? Was he already one of them? Frost thought the question then dismissed it. So what if he was? He dipped his fingers into the blood of his hand and reached out to touch her cheek, staining the perfect sculpture of her jawline, he traced two fingers from below her left ear to her chin, then repeated the gesture on the right side of her face. Finally, he placed his fingers, bloody and carmine, on her lips. “May his blood serve you better, my queen of stolen starlight, than it could have ever served him.” Then he leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. The heat of her body consumed him, the smell of burning embers and her perfume overwhelmed him, the taste of her lips and blood filled his spirit.

“My love,” he pulled back reluctantly and considered her, “you are the image of the devil himself.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

“Duu-uuude,” groaned Jake in dismay. “I can’t calm down! What if it’s a you-know-what?! It’s gonna smash our skulls and breathe our vaporized blood mist!” But before Finn could answer, something swooped low and whispered in his ear. “AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!” Jake screamed. Quick as a flash, he withdrew his whole body into Finn’s backpack, where he sat shivering with cold and fear. Ordinarily, he would have made excuses for his bout of shrieking. His usual excuse when he got spooked and screamed was that he was simply singing his “scream song.” But the weather and the creepy voice in his ear made him forget all about excuses.

Nothing seemed to be happening outside of the backpack, so he stretched one eye up and out of the backpack flap. He looked like a dog with one very long antenna, which just so happened to have an eyeball attached to the end of it. “Who’s there?” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, hidden as he was inside the backpack. There came no answer from the mysterious voice, and Jake’s shoulders relaxed. But just moments later, the voice said, “I was wondering if my meal was ever going to show up.”

“AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! AHH! AHH!!! AAAAHH!!” Jake screamed once more. His eyes were wide and he withdrew the eyeball stalk so that he looked like a normal - if minuscule - yellow dog again. “Oh my glob, oh my glob, oh my glob,” he repeated in his terror. “Finn!” he whisper-yelled. “What the junk is going on out there??”

* * *

“Ahahaha!” Marceline giggled, enjoying the spectacle caused by her dramatic entrance. She knew Jake was afraid of vampires and loved to watch him squirm. Finn, on the other hand, was a reliable and mischievous henchman. “Calm down, weenies!” she went on, still laughing. “It’s just me!” Floating through the air as ever, she swooped in a playful circle around Finn and his incredible shrinking dog.

She reclined midair and withdrew a strawberry from her pocket, speared it with one of her sharp teeth, and sucked all the red from the fruit. When she was done, all that remained was a pale white fruit husk. “Ahhh,” she sighed. She tossed the deflated strawberry aside and did a flip, landing in a large puddle and splashing Finn with muddy water.

“It’s been so completely lame here with no one to pull pranks with, or to fight with,” she said, blowing a wet strand of black hair out of her face. She unslung her red bass from behind her back and began to idly pick out a melody. “I’ve missed my little henchman and his dog! But boy, have I got some stuff planned that will really make you say like what.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Black Númenórean
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Frost)

The dead man slumped from his knees to lie prostrate upon the ground. He had died as he had lived: anonymous, unknown, and utterly insignificant to the gods he loved. Even if they were there, dancing and singing and feasting across the seas of this great broken world, why should they know who he was, let alone the mundane details of his piety? He was but one of millions to walk the earth. No deed of his would have earned him special attention - certainly, no envoys of the Valar arrived in their midst to spirit away his soul like an honor guard. In a way, his death had served more purpose than his life: he had borne witness to the profane flames and offered Zôrzimril an outlet for the rage which so often bubbled beneath the silky surface she presented to society.

Zôr stood and allowed herself to be enveloped in Frost’s arms. She felt comfort there, and power. She could slip into and out of those arms as she pleased, but they were always there to receive her when she was ready to return. She took slow, deep breaths in spite of the smoke, sinking into a state of blissful calm while the crackling flames lent a peaceful rhythm to the scene. The tranquility was short-lived: his bite to her shoulder elicited a tiny gasp, and she felt herself tense with surprise.

Frost left her then to survey their human victim. Zôrzimril watched him crouch low and saw his lips form whispered words she could not hear. She smiled, knowing that those words would follow the man even beyond the confines of mortality, taunting or tormenting him however Frost designed. Words are more than wind, she had learned.

He returned to her with a handful of blood. The stuff still shone with a slick, oily sheen, and she wondered vaguely how it would taste. Would a pious dead man’s blood taste different than the small spatters she had tasted by accident during her messier jobs in Umbar? Perhaps they would drink to the demise of the gods burning bright in the night, and then she would find out. Zôr tilted her chin upward to return Frost’s gaze, searching out the nuance in his features as he considered her. Was that merely lust she saw in his eyes, or more? A slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Then he slid his fingers, warm and wet, along her jawline. When he brought them to her lips, she shivered and resisted the impulse to lick away the blood - perhaps there was some ritual he had in mind.

“May his blood serve you better, my queen of stolen starlight, than it could have ever served him,” he said. He brought his lips to hers, and she leaned up and into him. This was no arcane rite - just passion bathed in blood. She tasted copper and life and lust and death and felt a knot of desire twist at her core. She tasted the same power she felt in Frost’s embrace and found she wanted to taste it again and again. When he pulled away, she longed for his lips to return to hers.

“The devil must take on many forms, if he looks anything like me,” she murmured, lifting a hand to push away a lock of long hair blowing across his face.

The flames continued their merry dance and, for an instant, she saw a softer version of his features: full-lipped, with wider ocean blue eyes rimmed by long lashes. She raised a finger to touch those lush lips, but then they were gone, and Frost stood looking down at her as before. She could only conclude that the firelight was mischievous tonight. Still, she traced the edges of his lips, smeared as they were with the blood he’d shared with her, with one fingertip. Then, she led him by the hand away from the dead man. The blood Frost had gathered spilled onto and through her palm and fingers as they entwined with his, and a trail of droplets marked their path through the grass.

Having put the massive fire between them and the dead man’s body, Zôrzimril stopped. She stared into the flames for a while, silent and thoughtful. At last, she turned to face Frost once more.

“The stars fled the skies, knowing you and I would be here tonight. Shall we make ourselves a bed of grass and keep them at bay?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

Finn sighed. He didn’t know what had his buddy on edge so much, but Jake was acting as skittish as a cat (and Finn was not about to think about his sister and her equally magical cat). Was it just the thunderstorm that caused him to jump at shadows so much? That’s all it was, right? Shadows? Sure there could be monsters in just about any shadow one came across, but that didn’t mean there were monsters in any shadow. Right? He gulped. When Jake shrunk and jumped into his backpack, he knew something was up with him. “Duuuuude!” he echoed. “If you don’t relax old Barliman’s gonna make us sleep outside in the stables again.”

Finn saw something out of the corner of his eye but he assumed it was just the rain. Oh how he would wish it had just been the rain. He was too distracted to see it at first, what with Jake wiggling around in his backpack like some weird ass deer. He was about to set the backpack down and pull his friend out when he saw her.

She appeared in a crack of thunder with her axe-bass slung over her shoulder. She appeared so suddenly that, along with Jake’s scream-whisper, Finn dropped his backpack and tumbled back several paces, screaming himself as he landed hard in the muddy streets. It took him a moment to stop and realize who exactly it was that he and Jake were both screaming at. It was Marceline, the Vampire Queen! She looked as cool and calm as she always did. She didn’t even look like she was getting wet. That must be a vampire thing. She had once pretended to turn he and Jake into vampires as an elaborate prank but that had ended with them nearly falling off a cliff (okay they did fall off the cliff but the details were a bit murky).

Wow, had it just gotten really, really cold in Bree all of the suddenly. Finn shivered and his teeth chattered. He hadn’t been this cold since the Ice King froze them both and tried to make them play in a band.

“H-Hi Marceline. Y-You’ve g-got some p-p-pranks to play? L-L-Like what?” He paused and slapped his forehead with a wet smack. She hadn’t even been pranking him and he fell for her little joke. She was like that, always able to get the best of him in their witty exchanges; she must have a lot of tricks like that, being over a 1000 year old vampire and all. Finn would never admit it to anyone (least of all himself), but he was both enamored and terrified of Marceline. She was the coolest and scariest person he’d ever fought, and she was a heckin’ good musician to top things off. They had once sung a duet together with PB and Jake providing back up instrumentation. Could her plan be musical? He was ready to beatbox at a moment’s notice.


-- * -- * --

She had them right where she wanted them. She smirked and continued to thrum the bass guitar. Literally, she had them right where she wanted to them. Bob and Nob appeared from an alleyway and proceeded to dump two baskets of smelly fish guts all over Finn and Jake. It wasn’t the most complex of pranks, but as far as reactions go, it was pretty darn good. Finn, the more squeamish of the two, looked like he was gonna ralph. The two hobbit took a bow and disappeared. They had to get back to work. How boring! She needed some more reliable henchmen. She had a quest so brilliant and hilarious that if she didn’t share it soon she might just burst!

“I have a quest for the tuna of you,” she started, floating closer until she could see Jake’s googly looking eye socket poking out of Finn’s backpack. “I heard the Ice King is trying to come up with a scheme to kidnap Princess Wildberry and Lumpy Space Princess. Supposedly he sent out a tiny cat assassin to knock them out and bring them to him. You wouldn’t want to shark your duties and let them get taken now would you? That is, unless you’ve turned pacifishts. What’d you say, old chums?” She giggled, pleased with all her puns and leaned in close to the backpack where she knew Jake was hiding. “BOO!”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin

(Private with Tara)

His eyes sparkled with rapacious, carnal mischief. They did indeed make a bed of grass, soft and spongy, and lay wrapped and entwined with one another, arms, legs, and fingers. The roar of the fire and the pop and snap of devoured wood were punctuated throughout the night with soft moans and low gasps. The heat of the Númenóreansʼ passions nearly matched the fire and certainly lasted longer. The stars hid their faces in terror and shame behind gloomy grey clouds until the sun appeared in the east, a great paper lantern spreading pale silvery light across the sky. Frost had barely slept that night. His hunger and need had been too great, too edacious for the whispers of sleep to be heard. Even as he stirred from the light trance, he found himself brimming with energy. His clothing had been flung away and was now likely soaking up the morning dew. The air was chill and turned his skin to gooseprickles. He inhaled the cool, fresh air. There was still a hint of smoke on the wind, it flavored the air deliciously. The ruins behind them had burned down to the embers and smoldered still. The fire, despite the great conflagration, had not spread to the surrounding areas; not a blade of grass outside the ruin was singed, and not a leaf was scorched. Frost and Zôr had wished the destruction of the shrine, theyʼd felt no need to destroy the land about it. It was no fault of the trees and the hills that they had been chosen to host such a monument of depravity. They had done nothing to deserve the death the ruins had and neither Frost nor Zôr wished them any ill will. Indeed, as Frost stood and stretched, he saw that the trees and grass looked a little brighter, a little greener, a little more alive. The grass was soft underfoot, it felt blissful.

Zôr looked as though she was still asleep. Sheʼd been as greedy and energetic as he had, it was no wonder she had worn herself out. He looked at her features closely, his eyes roaming over every curve and line. She was a panther, sleek and powerful, with an allure that would make even the wariest prey fall victim to her charms. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was another unwary prey of hers. If that were true, whatever torments she had in mind would pale in comparison to the pleasures they had shared, epicurean and otherwise. The more he looked at her though, the more he remembered that brief image the firelight had shown him the night before. The image that was Zôr but was not Zôr; the hard, angular, masculine lines to her chin and jawline, the broadness of her shoulders, and the hardness in her eyes. What had that been? If it had been just a trick of the light then he would have dismissed it as such, but the more he thought about it, the less he could see it as a trick of shadows and smoke. Fire destroys, but it also allows for new growth. Had he seen something new being seeded within his paramour? He found that the possibility attracted him even more to her. Perhaps, there was a dimensionality of fluidity they shared? There were times when he felt similar when the outward shell he wore did not accurately represent the feelings he had inside. Did that part of him ever show?

That was a conversation for another time though. Frost could feel the heat rising in his chest, and with that heat came the ever-present hunger within him. He flexed his fingers, curling them into fists and back out. He stretched back out on the grass and traced a finger from Zôr’s shoulder down to her hip. He pressed his lips along her side and whispered hungrily. “It is time to awaken, my devilishly darling. We have so much to do.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

With a loud thump, Finn dropped his bright green backpack. Jake was jostled about with the contents - Finn’s trusty bag of trail mix, a book of silly drawings, and a spyglass. “Owowowow!” he groaned as the heavy bag of cashews and almonds and sweet, milky chips fell on top of him. This was an occupational hazard of shrinking down so small - the most harmless of everyday objects could become deadly bludgeons. He recovered from his close encounter with trail mix in time to hear Finn say, “Like what?”

“HA!” Jake giggled. “I knew he’d fall for that one.” A strong smell reached him inside the backpack, so he withdrew his ear and extended his nose to sniff at whatever Marceline had brought along. It smelled pungent and possibly edible, so Jake extended a leg and dipped a toe into the goopy pile of fish guts. He brought the stuff back to his mouth, licked his toe, and swallowed. “Mmm, gutsy!” he said. Like so many things in life, it was weird, but good! Before he paused before going back for seconds - it seemed like Marceline and Finn were conspiring now. Jake was never one to pass up a good adventure plot, so he extended an ear to listen Marceline talking about Ice King and the various princesses he was planning to kidnap. Jake sighed. Oh, Ice King. What a hopeless, crusty old fool. And yet, there was something about him that invited sympathy and kindness, as maniacal and scheming as he could be. Jake peeked an eyestalk out of the backpack again, just in time to see Marceline lean in and yell, “BOO!”

“AAHHHHHHHhhhhhhh… . . . !” he screamed. He caught himself midway through his scream and purposefully let it peter off into nothing. “Oh, y’know, just singin’ my scream song!” He grinned sheepishly at Marceline, then stretched his legs to step out of the backpack and return to his normal size. The rain was still falling and he scooped up another handful of fish guts before saying, “So how’re we gonna deal with Ice King?”

* * *

Marceline threw back her head and laughed at the sight of Jake eating fish guts. “Ahahahaha! You weirdo. Those fish guts were just for a prank, not for a snack.” Still, she let Jake carry on eating the slimy innards - that’d mean less for Nob and Bob to clean up once the trio of tricksters had moved on, which she was sure the two hobbits would appreciate. They had, after all, agreed to this prank half out of fear and half out of mischief. They reminded her of Finn back when he’d agreed to become her henchman only to save her frail old former henchman from eternal servitude. Finn had proved to be a fun guy to mess around with in the years since - henchman, bandmate, and friend.

Jake, on the other hand, was a treat and a half simply because he was super scared of her vampire bite. Marcy knew it, too. She fed off it. It was, therefore, important to keep Jake on his toes whenever they met, even while engaged in some lighthearted pranking or princess-saving.

“Well,” she began, “I just so happen to know the assassin’s name. It’s Me-Mow! You remember Me-Mow, don’t you, Jake?” Jake gulped and went pale, and Marceline knew he was remembering the time the tiny cat assassin had threatened him with poison if he didn’t murder Wildberry Princess. “Ice King’s secret diaries are buried in a suitcase. I think that’d be a good starting place. For, you know, blackmail.” She giggled and struck an ominous chord on her bass. “I’ll let you two decide how to deal with Me-Mow!”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

Me-Mow. That was a name that Finn had not heard in some time. The tiny cat (some might call her a kitten to their peril) assassin had nearly done them in during their last encounter with her. She maybe be only a few inches tall, but she was a study in the art of compact evil. There was problem more evil in Me-Mow than in all of the Flame Kingdom. Okay, maybe that was stretch, but Finn knew for certain that any mission against her was going to be a harrowing one. He looked over at Jake to judge his reaction. Finn himself hadn’t really dealt with the pint sized demon cat, it had been his canine buddy that had borne the brunt of her vicious assault.

Despite being covered in fish guts (seriously Jake, c’mon man, not in front of Marceline!), there was fear and apprehension in Jake’s eyes and his yellowish fur seemed to turn a shade paler. If the dreadful Ice King had employed this assassin as a guardian, it wasn’t just going to be a prank or a simple snatch and grab. It could very well be a fight to the death. Preferably not his death.

He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and drew out his branch hilted sword. “Me-Mow won’t know what hit her!”

Sheathing the sword after his dramatic acceptance of the task, Finn began to think on what the mission itself actually was. Stealing the secret diaries of the Ice King. What sort of dreadful, terrible, daemonical secrets did he have committed to paper? An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. The rain was still coming down, but suddenly the world seemed even colder. Merely invoking the title of the Ice King could draw his icy attentions, the rumors said. Finn looked north. Somewhere out there was a mountain, conquered by the dreadful lord of frost and snow, and filled with, of all things, penguin and snowmen (both real and the kind made from snow) minions. A gust of icy wind hit him full in the face, bringing the young hero out of his reverie. Perhaps it would be good to have something on the Ice King. He was a figure shrouded in cold enigma; knowledge of him did not come cheap. This mission would be dangerous, very dangerous, but the potential reward was immeasurable. Marceline wanted the diaries for blackmail, Finn decided he wanted them to strategize against the Ice King.

He looked at the vampire for a moment with serious contemplation. They had been friends for years now, but she was still as much a mystery now as she had been when she pressed him into servitude all those years ago. She was fun, an excellent musician, a genius schemer, and a trickster par excellence. But what did Finn really know about her? There was history between her and the Ice King, and while she gave out drips and drabs of the story, much of it was shrouded in the mists of history.

“I accept your prank,” Finn said after a short moment, “and Jake does too. Now let’s get out of the rain and start planning before we all get sick with sneezing fits.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

GULP. Jake swallowed loudly. Me-Mow! Of course - he would never forget the cat assassin (catsassin?) who had infiltrated his own body and stabbed him repeatedly with a poisoned needle. That little sneak had hidden herself inside a delicious meat pie, and it had been the ravenous Jake’s misfortune to meet her. At the very least he could look back on the situation and feel proud that he’d done his part to save Wildberry Princess from Me-Mow’s dastardly scheme and foiled the tiny cat’s application to the Guild of Assassins at the same time.

Still, it’s not every day you are set up on a mission against a former foe. Who knew how big or deadly Me-Mow had grown in the intervening years? Perhaps she was as big as a house now and wielded deadlier poisons than before. Jake shivered nervously. Finn seemed more confident about the mission, pledging to Marceline that they’d get Me-Mow. Finn was a wonderful bro and buddy, and the best adventure partner in the whole world, but sometimes Jake wished his little brother would learn a bit of restraint, particularly when the situation called for Jake to be thrown first into harm’s way. He sighed and slumped a bit. There was nothing for it now: they were committed to the mission. It was time to go forth and find Ice King.

Jake puffed out his chest in mimicry of Finn’s gesture of bravado. “Yeah,” he chimed in, “we accept your prank. C’mon, you two,” he said, stretching himself over both Marceline and Finn, serving once more as a living shield from the rain. He walked them to the Prancing Pony’s door, shrank to his normal size, and opened the door. “After you, m’lady,” he said, sweeping out one long yellow leg in deference to Marceline.

* * *

“Excellent!” Marceline said. She knew she could count on these two. With their help, she’d have access to all the Ice King’s most ancient, personal secrets in no time. Sheltered beneath Jake, she walked with Finn to the warm, dry local inn. “Why thank you, good sir!” she said to Jake with mock formality. She floated on in and, after exchanging a nod of understanding with Barliman Butterbur, swept into a small room off the main tavern.

“Okay, weenies,” she said once she’d settled into a fluffy armchair. “Here’s the scoop. Ice King has his sights on two princesses, the ever-sweet Wildberry Princess, and the weirdo called LSP. No idea why he’s after this particular combination of princesses this time, but I’m sure he’s worked out how to capture them by now, and they’re probably already trapped in his domain.” From her back pocket, she withdrew a tattered, folded-up map and placed it upon the small table in their midst. She pointed to a series of extremely angular mountains jutting from the wastes of the far north. “This,” she said, jabbing a finger at the tallest of these mountains for emphasis, “is where Ice King lives. He’s got a pretty sweet setup inside the peak, but his most secret, highly-guarded dungeons are in the bowels of the place.” She pushed the map forward so Finn and Jake could see it more clearly in the flickering firelight.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Come in!” Marceline said. There was nothing so secretive about this that they couldn’t allow the staff in. Besides, she was famished. “I’ll take all of your reddest apples,” she said to the hobbit (she could never tell if it was Nob or Bob) who asked what they’d like. “And your most full-bodied red wine.”

Jake piped up, “Oh! Oh! Can I have a whole steak and kidney pie?” His eyes were wide with anticipation. Marcy laughed at his voracious appetite; it was like there was a monster living in his belly which made him eat all the time, and it was this appetite (and a meat pie, come to think of it) which had brought him face to face with Me-Mow back in the day.

“Just be sure there’s no assassins inside before you dig in this time!” she said with a laugh.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Bree Town, the Prancing Pony

(Private with Tara)

It was much warmer, and drier, inside the Prancing Pony. The smells of bread, stew, beer, and pastries filled the air. There was a homely feeling to this place. Finn had been coming here for as long as he could remember. Barliman had taken him in when he was a child and allowed him to meander around the common room until he was old enough to start working. That, of course, lasted all of a single afternoon. Finn-adan, as it turned out, was not fit or the life of a server or innkeeper. Still, he owed the fat, forgetful man a deep debt of gratitude. He had met Jake here years ago, and they had become as close and inseparable as brothers. They even slept in the same room until they decided it was time for them to set out on their own and to start adventuring on their own. They still slept in the same room, it was now just in a giant hollowed out tree that also served as the base of their adventure operation.

It was so warm in here! Finn could already feel the cold and the wet being replaced by the dry warmth. There were multiple fires going in the absolutely packed common room. It had been that way every night as far back as Finn could remember. They found a seat and Marceline bounced into the fluffy armchair like she owned it (and given how old she was, there was a good chance sheʼd given it to Barliman and told him that it was hers and no one but her could sit in it). Jake sat and ordered enough food to last him through the end of the week, a habit he made every time they were here. Finn couldn't blame his brother though, the food here was very, very good. Barlimanʼs secret was hiring experienced hobbit chefs from Buckland, the adventurous types that wanted to see the world. Heʼd hire them for a season then theyʼd go off exploring, come back and repeat the cycle.

“Iʼll have the stew, with a side of sourdough, no rye bread. And a mug of the Prancing Ponyʼs finest!” Hob looked at him skeptically and frowned. “What? Oh, come on! Iʼm old enough! Hob! Cʼmon man!” The hobbitʼs expression of disapproval did not waver. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave the young Edain the most disappointed dad look
anyone had ever given anyone. Finn’s face reddened. “Fine! Give me some hot apple cider.” That met with Hobʼs approval who scurried off with their order.

Once the hobbit was out of sight, Finn leaned over to Jake, “Iʼm gonna drink some of your ale. I am old enough. Old enough to kill goblins, old enough to drink ale. Thatʼs what I always say.” He had not always said that but there it was. The rainstorm outside had chilled him to the bone. He was entitled to some warm ale!

“So,” he looked at the map Marceline, rubbing his chin. “Wow, this is pretty far up north. Like, a long ways away. I had no idea his fortress was all the way up in the Northern Wastes. Must get lonely up there.” Involuntarily, Finn shivered. It was almost like someone was watching them…


--- * --- * ---

There was someone watching them. There had been someone watching them from the moment they entered Bree. She was as quick and quiet as a shadow. For all intents and purposes, she was a shadow. She had come along ways since she had last encountered the duo. They had gotten the best of her that day, outsmarting and outthinking her, saving the life of the Wildberry Princess. But she vowed revenge. And revenge was something assassins too very seriously. She had been forced to return to her school of assassins utterly humiliated. Beaten by a dog and a young boy. It had been one of the darkest days of her life. Yet she redoubled her efforts, trained harder than ever before, mastered all the arts of poison and subterfuge. She knew sheʼd find them again.

They were not hard to track. The tales of their exploits had reached from Erebor to Minas Tirith, the adventuring duo, the dog and his boy. It burned her each time to hear of their success, but that burn fueled the fires of her rage and resentment. She kept a scrapbook of all the tales she heard, writing them down so as to reminder herself exactly who it was she was up against. She had not been prepared the last time they faced off, but she would be ready the next time.

And that next time was now.

All her muscles twitched, urging her to jump and attack them now, in the middle of the inn. There would be nowhere for them to run! They wouldnʼt be able to hide from her this den of drunken sops. But she had a mission. Observe and report. Observe and report. Blowing her cover could have dire consequences from the man that hired her. She was much more afraid of him that she was of the trio down below. She watched from the rafters of the inn, crouched in a hidden alcove were a dozen shadows met, hiding her from even the keenest eyes. Me-Mow was going to savor this victory. She purred and grinned.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Fri Sep 10, 2021 6:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

Jake and Marceline both laughed when Finn made the case for his eligibility to drink alcohol. “I’d give you some of my drink, except I need all this red goodness,” Marceline said. She dipped a pointy tooth into the red wine and slurped - the liquid became almost instantly white as she sucked the color from it. “Ahhh,” she sighed, satisfied. “That’s the stuff!” She set the still-full glass down and lifted an apple from the bowl that the hobbit runner had brought. She rubbed it clean on her shirt, good enough so that she could see her reflection in its shiny skin, and tossed it high into the air. It nearly collided with the old brass chandelier which hung in the center of the little room, almost directly above her. The old thing was dripping with dried out wax - that’s how many candles had burned out on it over the years. Marcy remembered when that chandelier had been brand new, shiny, and clean. Bree and the Prancing Pony had seen quite a few adventures and adventurers since then. She caught her apple and sucked out all its red while Jake and Finn bent over the map of the north. All the while, she hummed a little tune. “ . . . right there where you left it, lying upside-down . . .” she sang softly.

Jake, meanwhile, had inhaled his entire pie in a few large, messy bites. In his haste to gobble down his meal, he had not stopped to check for assassins. Luck was on his side this time: there were no miniature cats in sight. “Ha!” he laughed at Finn, his mouth still very full. “Too bad I didn’t even order any ale!” He looked down and saw a large tankard on the table before him. “Oh,” he mumbled. “They just know me too well here!” Jake set down the pie tin he’d been licking clean and guzzled most of the ale rather quickly. “Okay, buddy,” he said to Finn, “you can have this last little sip.” He offered the glass and its meager contents to his little brother.

By this point, Marceline had drained three more apples of all their red. She was feeling quite full. “It is way north. But that’s where we gotta go if we want to find Ice King. Those mountains are his domain - the Ice Kingdom, as it were. I’ve been up there before, on a scouting mission. It’s cold and icy and full of penguins. Don’t laugh! Those little guys are way deadlier than they look. So we’re gonna have to be reeeeaaaal careful. And you’ll probably want some warmer clothes.” Jake, who wore nothing but the dog hair on his back, would likely require a coat, perhaps some earmuffs, and maybe some little dog booties, too. Finn would need a whole new set of winter clothes. Marceline had her cold-weather gear stashed away in the room she was renting upstairs. She had hoped these two would agree to the mission, of course, but she had been prepared to find Ice King on her own if it had come to it.

“I think you’re right, Finn. Ice King must be lonely,” she went on. “Why else would he keep kidnapping princesses? But whatever the motive, what do you say we get supplies and head out in two days’ time?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Frost)

The slow death of the fire they had brought into the world was no sad thing. Zôrzimril found that the gradual descent into darkness and stillness had been, strangely, fuel for her desires. She thanked the dark skies above that the fire died slfowly. As it waned, her enthusiasm waxed. Eventually, she lay still in Frost’s arms and drifted off to sleep, the scent of smoke in her nostrils and the euphoria at all they had done a fading tingling in all her limbs. She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

In the beginning, her dreams were strange, fleeting glimpses of her youth in Umbar. She saw herself facing down the first man she’d killed, then she saw herself bringing her dagger to the throat of one particularly aggressive street urchin who thought he could outfox her. She saw her first love and her first true enemy, both of them gazing at her as if they had never seen her before. She could not be sure what it was they saw in her that made their smiles falter, but something about her had that effect. Eventually, their faces faded to darkness and she opened her eyes to a room filled with golden light, dust motes dancing in the evening’s rays.

Then, she found herself walking into a familiar room. It was a basement, but a sumptuous one. The roaring fires and thick carpets on the floors combated the damp chill of such subterranean spaces, and she walked confidently through the room toward a great mahogany chair. She sat and felt strong. She wore loose black pants and a flowing shirt with leather cording at the collar. She crossed one leg over the other, taking for granted that she did not need to smooth her skirts to maintain her decency, and leaned back into the chair’s depths. It was by no means a comfortable seat, but it projected the same power she felt within her flesh.

A man with grey in his hair rounded the corner which led from the stairs. She had been waiting for him, but he still surprised her with his silent footsteps. He looked upon her with amusement in his eyes.

“Well, Zôrzimril,” he began. He dragged a chair from a large table to face her and sat. A huge desk which matched her chair was all that stood between them. He crossed his legs, too. “It seems we underestimated you. Tell me, how do you intend to keep all of this?” He gestured one arm vaguely around the room, indicating the wealth and power and influence she had taken.

She felt her blood boil with anger: this man was not one to ask such questions idly. There was a challenge in those words. She rose and walked around the desk to lean against it. There was no reason to keep that hulking thing between them. She crossed her arms and looked him up and down. He was looking thinner these days, but she had to be stop herself from equating that with weakness.

“I’m sure that more of what I’ve been doing will suffice,” she murmured. The man laughed a dismissive, cruel laugh.

“Will it? Your beauty is noteworthy,” he asked, nodding to her in acknowledgement of her appearance, “but is it enough?”

She watched his eyes travel over her, from her lush dark hair to her chest to her hips and down to her feet. The word “beauty” irked her. At that moment, she did not want to be beautiful. Charming, fine. Alluring, even, would have been acceptable. But beautiful? That word somehow felt like a slight, much as she made of her looks when the mood struck her. What word would she have preferred? Devilish? Handsome?

In her sleep in the cool night air, she shivered.
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Bree Town, the Prancing Pony

(Private with Tara)

Without waiting for a second urging, Finn grabbed Jake’s mug and tipped it over, hoping for more than a mouthful of that wonderful bitter liquid. He should have known better. Jake was, first and foremost, a prankster. There was not even a half mouthful of ale left in the mug and, worse, it smelled like the inside of Jake’s mouth. Still, ale was ale. He closed off his nose and quickly gulped down what remained. If they kept this little routine up, Finn was going to lose his taste for beer and ale altogether. He spooned several helpings of the stew into his mouth to recover from the taste. Slowly, the metallic feeling in the back of his throat began to subside and he no longer felt like he was going to throw up. The stew was quite good, Finn had to stop himself from shoveling it into his mouth the way his older brother did. Barliman had taught him some sense of decorum after all. Still, that feeling of being watched never went away. He did his best to look around at the faces in the common room. None of the one he was able to see gave him more than cursory glance. Was it because there was nothing fear? Or was it because of Marceline’s presence? Only the most foolhardy or drunk tried to go after Marceline. Though she had a good reputation here in Bree, she was still a vampire. Finn had to remind himself of that every once in a while. She was lovely to hang out and go questing with, but that did not mean she was “tame” or “safe” in any sense of the words. He watched her as she drained the color from first the wine then the apple and suppressed a shudder.

He chose, then, to pay attention to the map. If he couldnʼt get rid of the feeling of being watched, he was just going to have to concentrate all the harder. He rubbed his chin. Someday there was going to be hair there, he was going to have a glorious golden blonde beard, no matter what Jake told him about “eternal peach fuzz”. “Penguins?” he snorted, despite Marceline’s seriousness. “Arenʼt they supposed to be in the south?” He squinted at the map, as if willing it to reveal the deception. “Hmmm, dangerous?” Finn had never seen a penguin, but heʼd read about them in some of the books Barliman had, and there was the library at Ost Halatir that had a wealth of adventure stories.

He perked up at the mention of supplies. Supplies meant shopping, and shopping meant new things! There was always something refreshing about buying new things. Whenever he and Jake when to the markets, there was always a buzz of excitement and mystery. What were they going to buy? Was it going to be useful or end up being a cursed object? Would a quest come out of such a visit? Even buying supplies for a northward journey sounded interesting. Neither he nor Jake had ventured far into the Forodwaith. It was far, far too cold, and too close to the old kingdom of Angmar. That place gave him the Creeps (with a capital ʻCʼ). With Marceline nearby though, Finn had no doubt that their adventuring party would fare well.

“Kidnapping princesses,” he mused, “thereʼs got to be something behind it. Why would a creepy, demented guy like that need princesses? Itʼs not like heʼs gonna usurp and rule over them, right? He doesnʼt want land or taxes, what good would they do him that far north?” The mystery of the Ice King was going to be central to this mission. Rescuing LSP and the Wildberry Princess were only a part of it. Finn could tell his vampire companion was holding something back, but he didnʼt press her. Her business was her business.

He just wished he could get rid of that feeling that someone was watching them. He looked up at the rafter and… nothing.


--- * --- * ---

Me-Mow sat on the rafter, coiled as tightly as she could to hide and shield herself from the cold. The winds were roaring outside, and the thatched roof offered very little in the way of comfort. It was hard to focus on her targets, Finn, Jake, and Marceline. She had to fight against her instincts to both jump down and kill them or to jump down and demand food and warmth all cats should be given upon arrival.

“Watch. Observe. Report.”

The voice echoed in her head as if a part of him was still there, looking over her shoulder. She could feel his icy breath, smell the penguins, if she closed her eyes she could see the miles and miles of pale icy blue that was his “kingdom”. But this was the life she had chosen. The life of the assassin. Her lineage went back far, it was noble and terrible. She was descended from Tevildo himself! Perhaps all this work would be worth it someday, someday she might have her own kingdom. She would be the Queen of Cats, she would not settle to be some princess. Not when she saw how fraught their lives seemed to be.

She had to move to listen better, the rain outside was distracting. They were going to be going north. That much she could tell. To confront the Ice King over his most recent kidnappings. But to what end? Did they think that they would just talk to him and heʼd give up his prizes? That they could withstand the extreme, bone cracking cold he could create? Me-Mow rubbed her paw reflexively. The scorch mark was white, and the area was still numb, but there was an ache there that would not go away. A simple demonstration of his power. They were fools, all of them. Soon to be dead fools. Either by the hand of her employer or, hopefully, by her own wicked paw.

Sheʼd done enough observing. It was time to report back to him. She wanted to wait for the rain to cease, but he would brook no excuses. With a hiss, Me-Mow pushed herself through the thatch and into the dark, wet night.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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4th Age - Bar en Raveara

Mylien was on hawk duty when the great bird arrived exhausted from it's long flights immediately she handed the bird a squirrel to eat that another elf had caught in the forest and snatched the small tube fastened to its leg and noticed that there was a new seal upon it. She ran to a bell to get everyone moving before she made it down from the tower. She broke it open and began reading as she raced down the stairs running into Ruindil who was on his way up knowing what the bell meant.

"Where is she."

"Void." Mylien said looking up at Ruindil. "She's in Minas Tirith."

"Great we can get there faster less horseback riding." Ruindil cried lifting Mylien up and spinning about before dragging her down the stairs at a sprint.

"I can't got to Dol Amroth! They want me dead there!" She cried out and Ruindil hesitated for only a moment before answering.

"Not going to Dolly, we can go to Harlond and skip Dol Amroth entirely with yer ship 'er draft is shallow enough ferr the Anduin - asides yer trial was fifteen years ago ye've not been seen in Dolly or Gondor since then we've been careful o' that and we've got a poncy elf lord looking type with us." Ruindil said as they burst into the courtyard at the same time and Afarfin.

"She's in Minas Tirith!" Ruindil shouted and the men and women of the house began to scurry to get the ship ready "Pull the pirate flags from Limbërámë! Only Fuin's flag and signal flags! And all the men that can row! We've got five days to make the journey to the port of Harlond- we've not time ta wait on Manwe and his wind and someone make an offering to Osse an' Uinen! We need fair an' swift weather on the coasts! Tides leaving before mid afternoon we're going with it!"

Afarfin for his part blinked and nodded - he was no sailor. Ruindil was in charge of that, he headed off to do that offering to Osse and Uinen that sounded like something he could do when Mylien grabbed him. "We need to get disguises for myself and Ruindil we're pirates and the crown of Dol Amroth ain't to fond of us." Afarfin paused and nodded.

"Handmaiden and head of house?" He said and Mylien scowled but nodded. "Right lets go get the clothing you'll need for that then do that offering together, best coming from us."

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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

Jake snorted with laughter to see Finn’s reaction to the ale. Tiny as the sip had been, Finn was acting like he’d swallowed a mugful of the Barliman’s strongest spirits in one go. The woozy expression upon Finn’s face was especially amusing, as was the fact that he tried to compensate by covering up the taste with stew.

“C’mon, Finn! You gotta toughen up if you’re gonna drink Barliman’s brews!” Jake said, giving Finn a playful but encouraging slap on the back. “The ales here are legendary! We gotta build up your tolerance.” He grew momentarily more serious. “Or at least, we should when you’re old enough, young man.” Jake waited a beat to see how Finn would react, then burst out laughing. The whole thing was a silly little episode to him - not nearly as serious as the upcoming adventure to the north would be.

“Ice King’s a lonely weirdo!” Jake shouted, nodding his agreement with Marceline. “He better not have hurt Wildberry Princess . . . or even LSP.” Jake was never sure how he felt about LSP. Selfish and grouchy, she was the picture of a spoiled princess. And yet there was something irresistibly (if weirdly) charming about her. The princesses of Middle-Earth sure ran the gamut of personality types. And Jake hadn’t even met them all!

“Yeah, let’s hope he hasn’t married either of them against their will or anything,” Marceline said drily. “Though I bet LSP would beat him up if he tried!” She laughed and floated over to the window to peer outside. “Hey, it stopped raining! You guys want to go get some supplies?”

Jake shape-shifted so that he looked like a large knapsack. “Do I!” he shouted. “But no matter how excited I get, Finn’s always a level above me. You know Finn’s a shopaholic, right Marceline?”

Before the vampire queen could reply, the door opened and a hobbit staffer came into take their empty plates and mugs. A light breeze blew in through the open door, and something - a faint, familiar smell - wafted into Jake’s dog nostrils. He sniffed rapidly three times, then took a huge breath. That smell . . . What was it? He looked at Finn and Marceline. Finn sometimes smelled a little funky, but this was different. And Marceline didn’t have any smell on her at all, being undead and all. It wasn’t the hobbit - that guy smelled like hay and shoe polish and the kitchen’s freshest food. So where was that strange smell coming from? And where had he smelled it before?

Jake followed his nose, stretching himself around the room in every which way until he was a tangle of yellow dog. “Hmmm,” he grumbled as he went. At last, he stretched his way up to the ceiling, where the scent was strongest. “Rowr rowr rowr!” he yelled in his best doggy bark. Nothing and no one emerged from the rafters. Jake lingered for a moment, shrugged, and undid his maze of stretchiness so they could head out for their shopping excursion.

Bree Town, The Choose Goose

The door to the shop burst open with a bang! Chyewsgûs, the proprietor and main salesperson at the Choose Goose (Bree’s One-Stop Shop for Assorted and Illicit Goods), jumped nearly out of his skin. By the standards of Bree he was an odd fellow: permanently cross-eyed with a honking baritone voice, he somehow came by anything and everything one could possibly want for exactly the situation one found oneself in.

“Hey, Chyewsgûs!” Jake shouted. He gave the shopkeeper a little wave as he meandered inside with Finn and Marcy. “What’s going on? Got any illegal moisturizer? Or how about some supplies for a journey into the freezing north?”
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What Have You Done?
Bree Town, The Choose Goose

(Private with Tara)

Finn loved shopping, it was true. Ever since he was a young man (okay, young boy), he been fascinated by the idea of buying and selling and the concept of money. Barliman spent years trying to make sure he understood the financial values of saving and investing. When it came down it, though, Finn was easily distracted by the shiny object. Better with shopping that with other things, he thought. And the Choose Goose was fully of shiny objects. So. Many. Shiny. Objects. Truly, it was a wonder that Finnʼs eyes didnʼt bug out and he didnʼt immediately start grabbing at things. There was a ceramic teas set in the shape of a rabbit, but it seemed to be missing half its pieces; there were several bottles of an expensive looking salve behind a glass case; the next thing that caught the young Edainʼs attention was a sword. No, no it was not a sword, it was a work of art masquerading as a sword. His eyes bugged out, opening as wide as saucers. It was so beautiful and so shiny. He didn't actually need a sword, he had the perfect blade wrapped around his wrist right now, a supposedly cursed blade made from a blade of grass from the Blessed Realm.

“I see youʼve found my sword,” said Chyewsgûs, appearing just within Finn’s periphery. “I used it once to fight a goblin horde.” Finn nearly jumped out of his skin. Chyewsgûs was odd. It was not just the crossed eyes, the rhyming speech pattern, or the honking squeak in his voice that reminded him of waterfowl. It was that Chyewsgûs was a complete mystery. Where did he come from? What sort of sordid past did he have? Where were the bodies buried? He knew there had to be bodies.

“Your… your sword?” he asked, recovering somewhat. “I didnʼt know you had a sword. Whatʼs itʼs story?”

The man grinned, his pupils nearly touching they crossed so much. “Oh thatʼs a tale for sure, but Iʼm afraid you need a better lure.”

“What?” Finn blinked. What the heck had he just said?

“What can I help you with young Finn and Jake? Winter clothes and perhaps a recipe for chocolate cheesecake?” The proprietor looked at him as though this was the most normal exchange in all the world. It wasnʼt. Still, Finn had the shopping bug.

“We could definitely use some winter clothes,” Finn’s eyes began to wander toward the wracks of warm clothing displayed along the wall. There was an array of cloaks, some fleece lined pants, a parka, and two sets of snowshoes. It was perfect! It was also a little weird that it was the middle of spring. “And I know Jake would love a recipe for chocolate cheesecake. Oh, and maybe a bottle of that ointment, and maybe a new whetstone, and well I could use an extra pair of socks and…”

Finn really had caught the shopping bug. Jake and Marceline were going to have to drag him away from the shop.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

Chyewsgûs gave a mad little giggle at Finn’s requests. “A trip to the land of ice and snow! I’ve got all you need - more than you know!” Jake and Marceline exchanged an amused glance as the proprietor of the shop disappeared into a back room. Several long minutes passed with a great number of thumpings, “ooof!”s, and much tinkling of glass.

“Umm, Chywesgûs?” Jake called out. He peered into the dimly-lit back room to see if the man was still alive. The shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen. “You okay in there?”

From behind a great pile of wooden crates, Chywesgûs’s muffled voice replied: “Fear not, Jake the dog! It was just a rogue log!” A massive chunk of log - the tree must have been at least 100 years old - came rolling out of the store room and nearly crashed through the display case of salves. Jake stopped it just in time and set it on one of its a flat ends. Chywesgûs followed shortly thereafter, carrying an armful of things all bundled up in a burlap sack: everything Finn had requested, and more!

“One Frigid Supply Kit! That’s all, and that’s it!” he honked, his voice cracking with glee. He held out a price tag. Jake’s eyes bulged from his skull. He stretched himself into Finn’s backpack and began counting the heavy coins the two had saved up over the last few months.

“Hold on,” said Marceline, floating forward with her arms crossed. “Why’re you charging so much for all this, hmm?”

The shopkeeper tugged on his large, ruffled collar. (He was a very extravagantly-dressed shopkeeper.) He gave a loud, gulping swallow. “No more than you’ve got - but I’ll own, it’s a lot!”

Marceline’s eyebrows disappeared into the dark hair falling across her face. She was clearly doubtful that this random sack of stuff would be worth the cost. “Let’s get into that bag and have a look, shall we?” she said. Jake couldn’t help himself - he gave one of the gold coins a kiss and emerged from Finn’s pack.

He and the vampire queen moved forward, beckoning Finn to join them. “Aha!” Marceline cried, withdrawing a solid gold thimble from the bag. “What’s this doing here? How is this thing going to help us on our trip up north?” She shoved the item under Chywesgûs’s nose, demanding his attention. “Or were you just going to overcharge us for the weight of this thimble in gold?”

Chywesgûs merely gaped his surprise at being caught out.

“Hmm,” Jake mumbled, still rummaging through the bag. “Well, the rest of the stuff looks legit. We got that ointment, parkas, warm cozy pants, a dog-shaped coat for me, a fur cloak or three, some snowshoes, flint, ointment, a whetstone, a bunch of big socks - are your feet really this big, Finn? - and several pairs of hand-knitted mittens. I think this checks out.” He did hold up a rather large sock for Finn to inspect, just in case it was of an unrealistic size.

“All right,” said Marceline, “how much for all that stuff - without the thimble?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Into the Unknown
(
Private with Frost)

Kamion shook his head at Walpurga’s repetition of the word lord to refer to him- though it seemed this time she might be teasing a bit? It was difficult to tell, still, at times- despite all they had already been through together, they had really know each other a very short time. He said nothing this time; she knew he was no lord whether her tongue wanted to admit it or not and merely urged Faran forward into his thunderous, ground-eating canter. Svanhildr kept up a good pace (though Kamion was quite sure Faran was holding back to allow it), and they slowed together at the approach to the bridge. Walpurga spoke of the bridge, and as she did so, its sense of foreboding stole over Kamion. He had felt the sensation many times before and was well used to it, but on his shoulder Brocktree seemed to retreat, curling tight against the Dúnadan’s neck. Kamion reached up to stroke him as he considered Walpurga’s questions. “I don’t know about elven magic,” he replied, “And I’ve only ever felt the chill of the bridge. Can you feel it now? It’s like a hand on your shoulder that you weren’t expecting, or like someone’s eyes on your from the shadows. There’s something odd about it, that’s sure. And yes, my father did see it before it fell in the great floods… he was young then, but lucky to see it still standing tall.”

They halted upon the bank of the river. There, rather than a bridge standing proudly above the water on its pillars, was a mangled sort of causeway, stretching across the slow, inexorable width of the river. From mound to mound across the river the ruined bridge teetered, offering a perilous short cut. Kamion turned in his saddle to look Walpurga in the eyes. “This is our moment of choice,” he said, nodding his chin at the bridge, “Now that you’ve seen it, do you wish to cross here?” He had been sure what her answer would be, but still felt a rippled of finality when Walpurga gave her answer in the affirmative. “Right,” Kamion continued, taking a slightly tighter wrap on his reins, “You will follow behind me. Let Svanhildr take charge: she knows her feet and can follow Faran as well. I’m used to making this crossing alone, so I’m going to tell you what my father told me the first time we made it together.” He had returned his gaze to the river to study it, but now twisted again to face Walpurga, as much as he could beside her in the saddle. “If anything happens to me, you must keep going. This is not a crossing you can turn back from in the middle with any likelihood of success. The only way out is forward. Understood?”

Again she agreed, and with a nod, Kamion nudged Faran forward. The gelding’s heavy ears were pricked forward, and he seemed to stretch out that direction too, though his pace remained slow and deliberately. Ugly and heavy-boned he might be, but Faran had made this crossing before, and was both sensible and surefooted when it really mattered. Kamion allowed his seat to be firm and supple, listening rather than guiding, and his hands on the reins light and attentive. The Dúnadan’s eyes flicked back and forth as Faran’s hooves made their first contact with the ruined bridge, keeping a sharp lookout for any unanticipated hazards, or shifts in the timbers. He listened, too, for the fall of Svanhildr’s hooves, and any sound from Walpurga. The skunks were uncharacteristically silent, and Brocktree had retreated into the saddlebag he occupied when not perched aloft on Kamion’s shoulder. Not for the first time, he was struck by how much more sensible animals could be than humans.

They moved forward with slow deliberation across the ford of ruins. At times the water rose above Faran’s ankles, flowing slow and inexorable over stretches of the bridge. Once or twice Kamion glanced back- Svanhildr would be deeper in the water, but the pony seemed to be tolerating the crossing well. Just past halfway, the soft creaking of the ruins became a groan that threatened to erupt into screeching and Faran halted suddenly, his head jerking up. Kamion raised one hand, then brought it down gently on the gelding’s thick neck. The whole group waited, stock still, as the groan increased in volume, then faded as quickly as it had come. He patted Faran firmly, then looked over his shoulder. Offering Walpurga a smile of reassurance, Kamion led the way forward again. The rest of the crossing proceeded in a similarly tense manner, but without further incident- and it was with relief that he felt firm ground beneath Faran’s hooves again when they gained the opposite bank. It seemed Faran felt the same way, for he burst into a rapid trot to put some space between them and the bridge, and Kamion laughed, wrestling him back into a walk.

“Well,” he said, when Walpurga has caught up with them, “There’s a tale you’ll be able to tell. Well done.” There was a genuine pride in his voice as he said it. “It never gets easier, that crossing, but the first time is the hardest. From here we turn northeast for the edge of Arthedain-that-was, where we will meet my people.” A different sort of pride tinged the final two words; though Kamion considered himself a true son of the White City and his soul sang in Minas Tirith, the north was in his bones, and its Dúnedain were his family. He had grown up on the stories of their history, and the connection of his father- of both his parents- that stretched back to Númenor and beyond. “I was born in Rhudaur,” he offered, “have you heard much of the kingdoms that followed Arnor in the North?” Prompted by Walpurga’s bright questioning, Kamion began to tell her of the three kingdoms that had once stretched over a vast amount of Eriador, and of the Dúnedain. They rode for a long time in companionable ease, Kamion periodically pausing his narrative to answer a query from the young woman at his side.

It was when dusk had begun to descend that Kamion called a halt for the night. They set about making camp, and had a blazing fire in no time. The horses groomed and fed and their own bedrolls laid out, Kamion set about spitting a rabbit Walpurga had caught for their supper. It was just beginning to brown and drip when he saw the movement: a shadowy smudge on the road, just beyond the border of the trees they were camped beside. Kamion watched the smudge from his position lounging against his pack, and saw it ripple slightly. His eyes narrowed slightly as he counted. “Walpurga,” he murmured, still watching, “don’t panic. We’re about to have some company.” The Dúnadan’s eyes flicked across the fire to the girl, who had been busy digging potatoes into the ashes. “Go and fetch your sword. Don’t run.” She had come to him with some training in the blade, but Kamion had only had the chance to give her one lesson of his own in their journey so far, and that had been much more of an introduction than actual teaching. But it seemed the time might have come for her to put to use what all she knew. Kamion stretched in an exaggerated manner and climbed to his feet with much stamping and brushing off of clothes.

“Well now,” he said, much louder than necessary, as he bent down to lift his own scabbard from beneath his bedroll, “What would you say to another little lesson in swordplay before we retire?” He grasped the hilt of his enormous longsword and drew it from the scabbard in one fluid motion, even as he turned his back to the fire, to face the five figures which had emerged from the darkness of the road, and were now making for the campsite with a determined pace. “Hello, friends,” Kamion said mildly, holding the sword easily in one hand, point slightly forward, as he cast the scabbard aside. “Can I help you with something?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

High Lord of Imladris
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Traveling North by the Hoarwell

Fuin woke up curled up in Myliens arms with the wagon jolting them along, with a start. "Hey, hey..." Mylien cooed to her holding her tightly as she glanced around. "We're okay Ruindil and I figured out the harness and we're heading North like you said we would probably have to." Her voice was soothing and low and Fuin relaxed in her arms a few moments woman brushed Fuins hair out of her face with her fingers and smiled "You were tired enough you didn't even wake up when Ruindil picked you up and put you up on the wagon over an hour ago." Fuin gave a small nod yawning and debating on snuggling back into Mylien and napping some more as they travelled but she knew both of them would likely be tired from keeping watch all night. She sat up slowly and looked at Lune who was following along tied to the wagon.

"I got him tied up." Mylien said with a smile. "Told him you were sleeping and needed your rest that he'd behave for you" Mylien said with a nod cuddling up next to Fuin it was cooler here than at Bar-en Raveara and she enjoyed her wifes warmth.

"That's impressive."

"So was ye sleepin through tha nigh'. Though we'd 'ave a fight ta get ya ta sleep even 'alf of it." Ruindil said turning and looking back at her. "Didn' 'spect ya to sleep this long. No wonder ye snapped yesterday."

"It's a good thing you've been paying attention to me tacking up Lisse." Fuin said, looking towards Lisse who was happily pulling the small wagon.
"Or we would be waiting on me to wake up yet I"m sure."

"Oh it took both of us a good hour and some to do what you do in a blink." Mylien said calmly she wasn't sure how Fuin knew where every single strap went but they'd figured it out eventually. Fuin smiled and kissed her forehead. "Did you two sleep at all last night?"

Mylien nodded as did Ruindil, which made her happy they needed sleep more so than she did, the choice to make the trip to the last bridge would add at least two more days to their journey but they would be back in Imladris soon and then... then they would discover how Afarfin would react which made her nervous but it needed to be done. She had to be brave about this, and she was certain with both Ruindil and Mylien there with her she'd be able to manage it. Where they would find a place private enough for the discussion was beyond Fuin. She tended to stay in the Halatir barracks or... perhaps the House of Healing would work, she wasn't sure though she did want to keep information away from Aewrusca to save it reaching Aigronding

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In the Unknown
Tharbad

(Private with Moriel)

Nerves on edge, Walpurga urged Svanhildr along. Crossing the bridge showed her something very important: one can only pay so much attention to a single thing before focus on anything becomes a swirling massive visuals and colors and air. Kamion’s description of “a hand on your shoulder that you werenʼt expecting” made her feel uneasy and agitated in equal measures. She didnʼt like being touched and the thought of some unknown someone or something placing a hand on her shoulder made her want to strike at something. Still, she would not let that daunt her mood. Nerves mixed with excitement to create a strange feeling in her gut. She both wanted it to last forever and already by over. Adrenaline filled her body; she could feel things and sense things she normally would have ignored. The breeze was cool and wispy, playful almost. It blew down from north and carried the scent of pine with it. The smell made her fingers tingle.

Then they finally made it to the bridge, if bridge it could be called. It was more like island hopping along stones that looked one speck of dirt away from crumbling and getting carried away in the flood. Stories about ruined bridges were one thing, seeing one, however, was a very different thing. She had imagined the bridge as a wide but decrepit connection between the world of the known and the world of the unknown. She imagined something with slightly more dignity. She was half afraid it might crumble under the weight of her gaze. The stories leave out things like this. Kamion’s instruction of “let Svanhildr take the lead” was sound, the pony was opinionated about the paths they took but she was not foolhardy and sheʼd made some sort of friendship with the large warhorse (was Faran a warhorse? He was big enough to be one) that reassured the young Rohir. However, Kamion’s instruction to “keep going even if something happens to me” made her feel a knot in her stomach. There was practical wisdom in it, but it came with sense of foreboding doom that she wasnʼt keen on. Upon hearing that, the river seemed more feral and untamed and suddenly she was unsure if crossing here was wise. But heʼd said heʼd crossed this place many times and had come out the other end just fine. Her misgivings were giving a decent argument, but not good enough to stop her from trying. Living as safely as she could had led her through a life of grays, tasteless food, and friendless evenings. Living meant doing things. She nodded. She was ready to cross.

The moment of truth came. Svanhildr set a hoof on the bridge. When the entire world didnʼt collapse around her, she let out a sigh that released the tension building between her shoulder blades. Svanhildr must have felt something similar. Her footfalls were steady and even, somewhat timid, but she gained confidence with each step. Walpurga’s eyes and ear were peeled for any sign of doom and disaster. The mists began to swirl about them, heightening her wariness, but at the same time she welcomed the cool respite. She could still see Kamion ahead and she could still hear the heavy clompclompclompclomp of Faranʼs hooves. The entire scene took on a dreamlike quality. The world around them dropped away, leaving just this tiny island of being. Her skunk children and all gone quiet, watching the proceedings from within the pack on Svanhildrʼs hindquarters. Occasionally, she heard a tiny squeak, but for the most part they were silent, fascinated (or terrified) by the crossing. She scratched her ponyʼs neck and whispered words of encouragement as they moved. The going was slow and inexorable but, despite the mounting anxiety, Walpurga wouldnʼt have hurried for all the world. Moments that become memories should never be rushed. When they crossed parts of the ruined bridge that touched the river itself the tension rose in her once more. The footings were less sure and the way less clear. Yet Svanhildr was steady and consistent, her pace slowed here and there as she looked for better footing, but the pony never wavered, never tried to bolt forward or turn back.

The entire world was slowed like it had frozen over. There was such quiet here. Walpurga thought sheʼd known quiet in the dells and hollows around Benton, places where it was just she and her animal companions and the warm summer air. But this place was truly silent. Perhaps it was the monolithic grey shadows hovering almost out of view, the mists, or the ruined bridge itself, or perhaps it was something else altogether. There were no birds singing or wheeling about, no insects buzzing and chirping. The only true sound at all was the sound of their animals and the muted, subdued gurgle of the water. The water itself was cold. She never touched it, but she could feel the chill coming off it. She felt bad for Svanhildr, who suffered the cold without complaint. “You are doing wonderful darling. I promise you an extra helping of carrots and apples for you when we are done,” she whispered and kissed the ponyʼs head. She received a soft neigh as an affirmative. The groan of the ruins caused a squeak of dismay from her pack. The little babies had had quite enough of this adventure and were very ready for it to be over. They didnʼt like this river or the crossing or the enshrouding mists. They wanted open fields full of smells and things to munch. They had to stand still however. Everyone did. The tension in the air nearly became too much. She had to fight the urge to turn back and run for safety. The moment passed. They began to move again, the tiny caravan.

Finally, they reached the end of the crossing. Walpurga let out a deep sigh of relief. Her muscles ached as she climbed off Svanhildrʼs back. She hadnʼt realized just how tense she had been. Looking back, she was amazing they all made it across without falling in and having to swim for shore. The skunk trio were very vocal about how much they didnʼt like it and never wanted to do anything so scary ever again. She obliged them by letting them climb all over and nestle in places that were more than a little awkward. She owed them that much.

“As long as it exists in song, I think I am just fine leaving that behind me,” she breathed another sigh of relief and let out an unexpected chuckle. “Someone really needs to fix that bridge. And by someone, I do mean anyone but me.” She laughed genuinely then, letting the emotions flow through the laughter. “I can imagine it was mighty in its time though.”

For a time, she listened intently to his recounting of the kingdoms of Arnor. The names were familiar the same way a new shade of your favorite color was familiar, even if itʼs different and unusual. The stories sheʼd heard in short form, brief descriptions and vague outlines of historical events. But the way Kamion spoke of them made her heart long to have seen them in the long days past when the towers were capped with clouds rather than gathering moss and ruin, when music ran in the streets rather than crumbled rubble and wild animals. There was such a sadness to those tales, to the history of his people. Some part of her wandered too if they were the stories of her people too. She still had no clue as to who her father was, but the more she separated herself from her old life, the less she cared. She was Walpurga, what did it matter who her father was? He was not going to shape her future or define her past. Only she had the right to do that. She had a hundred questions for Kamion, she tried to keep them to a minimum, not wanting to interrupt his narrative, but more than once or twice the urge spilled out of her like a burst waterskin. His patience with her was vast. She appreciated that. So often sheʼd been silenced by the fear of an angry response or an impatient snap. How freeing it was to let it go!

That night she caught a rabbit for their supper, whispering to the little creature that it would be okay, that it would run in the meadows of heaven soon enough. Sheʼd begun to relax; the intense weariness of a long dayʼs travel began to settle over her. But something in the air made her not want to fall asleep, to not calm just yet. Kamion must have felt it too, or perhaps he saw something in the surrounding area that sheʼd missed. His eyes were far more attuned to this land than hers. Then he said theyʼd be getting company soon. Her blood ran cold. The way heʼd be staring out into the horizon, the tenseness of his mood, the utter calm in his voice, it had a way of making sure she didnʼt jump and scream in a panic. There was a tenseness to her movements, but they were fluid, sure, steady. Lessons with the swords had been few (only one thus far with a promise of more to come) but it had been valuable. Her time in Rohanʼs cavalry had taught her exactly not much. Whatever sheʼd learned sheʼd taught herself. His singular lesson had just been the basics, but she felt more confident holding a sword now, her stance was vastly improved, and her balance had been corrected. She was not ready, per se, to go off and fight a horde of marauders in the middle of the night by herself, but at least she could stand her ground if necessary. Walpurga retrieved the swords, a practiced nonchalant smile on her face. Kamion drew his blade in a motion that reminded her of waterfall.

Then the figures materialized out of the glom. Five of them. Svanhildr neighed uncomfortably.

“Help us?” a man stepped forward, a little taller than the rest, a little better dressed. “Aye, I think you might just be able to do that.” He stood just outside the ring of firelight, but she could see his grinning yellow teeth from here. Her skin crawled. “Thaʼs a nice sword ye got there, friend. Very bright ʻnʼ shiny. Pity if youʼd have tʼuse it, eh?” He began to walk around the edge of the light. The four men behind began to fan out, still behind him as he talked. “No need to fret, friend. Really. We just be a few travelers, like you and your girl ʻere. Wanderers in a forsaken land. You wouldnʼt begrudge us a little warmth by a fire, would you? Tha sort of thing would be most unkind, anʼ you donʼ seem like the kind that would be, eh, unkind,” his hollow laughter sounded like a broken bell. “Tha rabbit looks really nice from where Iʼm standinʼ. Tʼwould be a blessinʼ should ye invite us over. We are sore and tired, we are. So many miles, so many miles have we traveled.”

He moved into the light. Simultaneously, the rest of the men moved. Walpurga had been paying attention though and pivoted to face down two that had been circling around. Her sword was out in a flash of red and orange light. It was not as fluid as Kamion’s but it was effective enough.

The brigand, thatʼs what he was after all, laughed. The sound was creepy and unnatural. It was hollow like there was nothing in his belly. “Check your child, good sir. I donʼt think the little girl understanʼs the complexities of the situation we find ourselves in.” A dirk appeared in his hand, Walpurga caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye. “Now this,” he said contemplatively, “can be resolved easily ʻnough. My nameʼs… well my nameʼs not all that important. It coulda been should you have been nicer. So many unkind people on this stretch of road.” He spat at Kamion’s foot, a thick glob of reddish brown. “You can give us the rabbit, and the horse. Keep the pony though. Girlʼs gonna need something ta carry your corpse after weʼre had our fun with her.”

Walpurga felt cold rage. She wanted to spring into action. These bastards were little more than wolves in human skin. And she had a special way of dealing with wolves. But Kamion was here. Her instincts told her to trust him, to listen to him. If he gave the order to attack, she would. But not until then.

However, that sort of discipline did not extend to her skunk children. Ecthelion peaked out from the underbrush and, seeing the strangers darted into the middle, tail raised and ready spray. The visceral reaction to a skunk in their midst was enough to break the bubble of threats and posturing. One many, a greasy haired man with a mangy beard and rheumy eyes yelped and tried to bring a club down on her child.

That was a bad move.

She moved faster than she thought possible. Her blade whooshing beside her. “WALPURGAAAAAAAA!!”

She had never given any thought before about what kind of battle cry she would have, if she ever had one. Her name was the only thing that she was able shout clearly. So that was that, she was going to be the kind to shout her own name running in to a fight. Good to know.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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What Have You Done?
Bree Town, The Choose Goose

(Private with Tara)

His feet werenʼt that big. Were they? Finn looked at the inordinately huge pile of socks on table and was caught between grinning at the massive amounts of socks (he just likes socks guys, come on) and frowning in embarrassment. His feet were large. They always had been. When he was younger (like three years ago) he thought that had meant he was going to start a growth spurt soon and be as tall as the Rangers that prowled about the northern lands. Well, that hadnʼt happened yet. He just had big feet. Big feet were harder to keep warm because of… well they were bigger. Anyway, none of that was the point of anything. Finn’s cheeks did redden in the end as he hastily scooped all the beautiful socks into the back (minus the golden thimble). If he was being honest, the young Edain was now fascinated with the thimble. What did it do? Why was Chyewsgûs trying to get rid of it? Was it cursed Númenórean gold? Did it lead to cursed Númenórean gold? Was it an oracle that gave him nightmares? Was it a divining rod that searched for gold? There were too many possibilities! Finn looked at the gold thimble a second too long. Just as he was about to tear his eyes away from it, Chyewsgûs saw, and his mismatched crossed eyes perked up. A strange expression crossed his face, something between enthusiasm, mischief, and relief.

“It looks like to me like our young Finn has some questions, I had better make sure I give him the right impression. That thimble, you see dear boy,
once belonged to a spirit I employ.”

Finn’s eyes soon began as round as dinner plates. It was a haunted thimble! He was about to reach for it when something stopped him. It wasnʼt Jake or Marceline, they were too far away from him to have grabbed him. He looked at his wrist. The grass sword! It hadnʼt formed a full blade yet, just a dagger, but it was blocking his path to the thimble, knocking against the counter. Finn tried to reach again but again the grass sword blocked his path. He tilted his hand, but even as the angle changed, the sword still stopped him. He tried his other hand and the grass only smacked it away.

“Argh!” he shouted and glared at the viridian-colored item wrapped carefully around his wrist. “Why wonʼt you let me touch it?” The grass sword, naturally, didnʼt answer (because it wasnʼt one of those kinds of blades).

“Oh allow me,” said the foppishly dressed man, picking up the thimble. “Just say youʼll agree.”

What was going on here? A bead of sweat dripped down Finn’s cheek. “I… uh…” Crossed-eyes sort of looked in his, greed and something more malicious flickering. “I…”

He coughed. “I think this looks like all weʼre gonna need. Thank you Chyewsgûs. Weʼll be going now. Hereʼs the money. I hope you have a good day. Good-bye now!” Finn, not even bothering to ask how much the equipment was going to be without the thimble, emptied his pocket and let a dozen or so gold coins roll off the counter. He was so disturbed by the manʼs eager expression (and his more and more crossed eyes) that he didnʼt even hear his creepy rhythmic response.

He carried the packs in the most awkward, definitely-going-to-give-him-a-backache fashion out the door, not even waiting for Jake or Marcy. He did though, turn and look at the thimble, still on the counter where it sat, once last time before he hit the streets of Bree.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Into the Unknown
(
Private with Frost)

The response was much as Kamion had expected. He had traveled this road often enough and encountered his share of bandits and brigands over the years- but this encounter was made more sinister by the presence of Walpurga, and the men’s reaction to her. He could see their eyes flickering about as they took in the shadowy details of the camp, returning repeatedly to his companion, and they were neither intelligent nor crafty enough to hide their looks of eager anticipation. The spokesman of the group made matters quite clear when he ceased his act of travelers seeking food and shelter and spoke of the fun he and his gang would be having with Walpurga. Kamion’s grip on his sword tightened, raising the point until the blade came to rest on his shoulder in a high guard. Were he alone, he might have talked his way out of this situation, or merely given the men a drubbing and driven them off. With their intentions so clearly stated, however, they had relinquished all rights to leniency. Though with the fire behind him the men could not have clearly seen it, Kamion’s face was hard and his gaze flinty, and menace underscored his tone as he spoke.

“Let’s you and I have some fun first, shall we?”

It was at that moment, however, that Ecthelion chose to make his move. The skunk leaped from his hiding place and into their midst, his tail raised and threatening. Kamion was less surprised than the bandits only because he knew the skunks had been there, but even he had not expected this development. Then the man with the raggedy beard raised his club. Walpurga had been lingering behind him, sword at the ready, but as the club whipped down towards Ecthelion, she rushed forward with a roar and the hiss of steel through air, and there was not a thing Kamion could do to stop her: as she moved, so did the rest.

“Faran!” Kamion barked, sweeping his arm through the air to point at the two bandits furthest two his left, having spread out behind their leader. The gelding’s answer scream came from beyond the ring of firelight where he had stood with Svanhildr, and he charged with a thunder of hooves, his thick chest colliding with first one man and then the next as he trampled them into the ground. Kamion had no time to see this, as a third man dashed at him, a short sword in his hand. With a movement near as casual as shrugging off a jacket, the Dúnadan stepped forward and released the sword from his shoulder, his second hand taking its place behind the first on the hilt as the long blade came down, levering it to increase the power as he sank into his stance. The bandit stood no chance against the reach sword or the skill of its wielder, and it split him from the joint of neck and shoulder on one side nearly through to his armpit on the other. He crumpled in silence as Kamion continued his stride, withdrawing the sword as he moved.

The first man to have been struck by Faran lay unmoving upon the ground, but the second had staggered back to his feet, bloody-faced and raging, antagonizing the horse with a knife. Faran’s brays of rage reflected Kamion’s own rage as, teeth bared and jaws agape, the gelding whirled and lashed out with both rear hooves. They thudded home on the man’s chest and sent him flying backwards, tumbling over and over on the ground to arrive nearly at Kamion’s feet, where the Dúnadan dispatched the man with a thrust to the throad. The leader of the group, the would-be dandy with the dirk, had hung back in the explosion of the initial assault, and rather than approach Kamion now as he pulled his sword from the corpse’s of Faran’s second victim, flashed an evil grin and turned away. Kamion was a soldier; a calm and reasonable man, not given to fits of rage, preferring to leave that to Faran- but when he saw the brigand raise his dirk, its blade reflecting the firelight as he raised it above Walpurga’s back, behind her as she battled against the man who had threatened Ecthelion, he was engulfed by untenable fury.

“Walpurga!” he bellowed, echoing the young woman’s own battle cry, and bounded across the space between them. Two blades flashed at once as Kamion swung his sword high, and even as the dirk began to descend towards Walpurga’s unprotected head, he brought it down with all his strength. The longsword struck the man in a great earthward arc across his back, biting deep into one side at the armpit, severing his spine, and ripping out the opposite diagonal at the kidney. A spray of blood struck Kamion across the face and chest as the man tipped forward; the dirk thudded into the ground from his nerveless fingers, followed by his knees, and then his face.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Into the Unknown
Tharbad

(Private with Moriel)

Everything happened at once, Walpurga felt like she was moving through molasses. She watched the man raise his club, aiming for Ecthelion. That action had set the world aflame. Walpurga’s vision went red. Despite everything sheʼd learned from Kamion and on her own, instincts took over her. Much like a mother bear when her cubs are threatened, the Rohir barreled into the man with the full force of her weight. She was not some slight, elfin girl with waifish hips, she was six feet of angry muscle. She slammed into the man so hard she felt her bone pop. The air went out of him, he gasped as he felt the impact. They fell for what seemed an eternity. The rest of the world erupted in a chaos of horses and men and steel. She dropped the sword, the force of the impact stretching her fingers just enough for the leather to slip from her grasp. It happened so slowly that she was able to chide herself somewhere in the back of her head. For now, though, she knew she wasnʼt going to need a sword to take him on. Sheʼd taken him by surprise and knocked the wind out of him.

When they finally made contact with the ground, he rolled and tried to maneuver on top of her. Briefly, panic flooded her limbs. If he managed to get on top of her, there was no telling what he might do. She snarled and used his momentum to continue the roll so that she landed on top. She heard a tiny squeak from in front of her, Ecthelion was still out, with his tail raised defiantly. He was still too young for the threat to have been carried out, but none of the brigands knew that. She slammed a fist into the club wielderʼs face. The wet, crushing sound it made was very satisfying. She hit him again. And again. And again. She squeezed her legs together, pinning his arms to his side. She continued the beating, spattered his blood across her face. His face was a ruin, but he did not give up. He bucked his hips and the moment it too for her to regain her balance, he had wriggled a hand out from her grip. That hand formed a fist and connected with her chin. It hurt. Walpurga could feel the muscles, tendon, and bone all take the force of the impact. Sheʼd never been punched so hard. Sure, back in Benton sheʼd gotten in scrapes with bullies who decided to pick on stray animals, but sheʼd been able to scare them off. This one wasnʼt going the scared off with a few punches. She bit her tongue as the fist connected. That only made things worse. Pain shivered down her spine like a lightning bolt. She lost her grip on him and he scrambled out from under her. She blinked away the black stars that appeared in her vision. She was wobbly, it was hard to get her bearings.

But she did. She did before he was able to grab his club. She had been laid out on her back, but her sword was in reach. She grabbed the leather handle with the tips of her fingers and pulled it in just in time to deflect a blow from the club. It had been a clumsy but hard blow. She only just managed to keep it from smashing into her temple. Thankfully, she was able to push the weapon aside, using a trick of the wrist Kamion had taught her. The club wobbled in the air. She was able to stand and, once she did, retained a better grip and stance. Her breath was ragged, and her mouth tasted like copper, the left side of her face felt huge and numb. He looked worse. She struck out at him, stabbing with quick jabs to keep him off balance. This wasnʼt really the size and shape of sword for quick jabs, but it was doing the trick for now. With each jab she moved a little closer to him. He would back away, but she would move again, refusing to let him have footing. She swiped at his feet then ducked as his club soared through the air. She tilted her balance from her left to right foot then came up with a massive uppercut aimed at his jaw. It connected. He staggered back. She pressed the advantage and swung at his arm. She nearly cut it off with a single strike at the elbow. His shriek was loud and satisfying.

“Thatʼs for trying to hurt my child!” her voice was venomous and scratchy. She spun and the blade sliced across his chest. He wasnʼt wearing armor. Pity him. Red bloomed over his chest. He yelped.

She looked at him. Really looked at him. He was a vile looking man, the more she looked at him, the more she saw the wolf behind his eyes. She tilted her head. She had a special way of dealing with wolves, be they natural or unnatural. She dropped the sword and sprang on him. He was too weak to resist, the blood loss from his arm and chest sapping his energy. She shoved both hands in his mouth and began to pull in opposite directions. He screamed, tried to bite. But the rage of a mother was still coursing through her veins. She pulled and pulled. His jaw was harder to pull apart than a wolfʼs. He legs kicked wildly and his stump of an arm flailed, raining blood all over her. But she didnʼt stop. She pulled and screamed and pulled some more.

Finally, she felt something snap. It was like the breaking of old oak branch. She felt it as much as she heard it. Then his body went limp. The lower jaw slumped and fell open. Her hands were greeted by a final spray of thick dark blood.

Once she stood up again, she realized the rest of the fight had been over quickly. She looked behind her, slightly bewildered, at the man with the dirk. She stared at him for a moment, not comprehending that he was already dead. She stomped his head. Walpurga’s breath was ragged, her jaw hurt. It pulsed as if it had its own heartbeat. She looked at Kamion, her expression somewhere between exhaustion, anger, mirth, and horror.

“Well… that was… unexpected.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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continued from here
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Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors

(Private with Frost and Tara)

This was not how Hrafnhildr had expected her day to go. Though she was not afraid of Arioch by virtue of his being, one vampire was bad enough, much less two. And Keziah was a thing more primal than her lover; where, as the stories told, Arioch had been turned by Thuringwethil, Keziah had been born as she was, a silent thunderbolt of vicious bloodlust. If Hrafnhildr were to choose one of the pair to fear, it would have been her. But she remained as she had before Frost’s return and Keziah’s appearance, standing stock-still with her arms folded across her chest, the rain dripping from her hood, her eyes taking in the scene. The pulsation of energy that seemed to have accompanied the vampire woman’s arrival faded as Arioch began to speak. His words reflected the poetry of his ancestors, and their savagery. It seemed that she and Frost were to be guests at a wedding, but not the sort celebrated with song, dance, and feasting. At least, not that they were to be privy to.

Keziah drank Arioch in as he declaimed, explaining to the two mortals what they were about to become part of. He was magnificent, and her patience had not been wasted. Centuries of hedonistic exuberance spent in chasing his image, as he had chased hers, devouring each other and so many sould besides in waiting for this moment to arrive. Seldom did their kind wed, and when they did, the skies above and the earth below in all their layers would shake with the passion of their union. But first, the customs must be observed. Keziah’s crimson-and-pale eyes narrowed with the delight of her pointed smile as Arioch told Frost of his role in the proceedings, and she turned to meet the gaze of the Lossoth woman. Hrafnhildr, who stood as a statue nearby.

“And you, Hrafnhildr, Ylva, the protector of the Snowmen, you too shall play your part.” Keziah paced across the stones towards her. The woman was not small, but the vampiress towered over her nonetheless. “You shall be my Protector. Should the Challenger seek to subvert his task and come for me straight, you will subdue him. Should the Challenger prevail against Arioch and come to claim his prize… you will subdue him. If you fail in either of these tasks, I will drink you both. I do not intend,” her rustling-pearl voice hardened as she tore her gaze from Hrafnhildr’s and settled them upon Frost “to be claimed by any but my intended. But you must fight true.”

She heard Arioch’s call, and materialized at his side in a rush that might have been of legs or wings, but was too sudden to tell. From the air she snatched the rings, even as Belisaria let them fly, intending them for his master. Keziah smiled at Arioch’s pied familiar as she settled onto his shoulder. “And well you have done it, Belisaria.” With her free hand. Keziah reached out to caress Arioch’s face. “Battle well, my love,” she crooned, “And let us be wed ere long, when you come to claim these rings in victory. Let his be done swiftly!” Keziah surged forward, locking her lips to Arioch’s and her wings about him in a vampire’s embrace. As suddenly as she had come to his side, she ripped herself away and, with a great beating of those same burgundy-black wings, seized Hrafnhildr by the shoudlers and bore her back up to the battlements overlooking the courtyard.

“Now it begins,” Keziah whispered, tightening her pointed fingertip about the woman’s shoulders, “Now we shall see whose blood is stronger. Mine… or yours.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors

(Private with Tara and Moriel)

He was supposed to do what? Frost had never heard of something so ridiculous in all his life. Vampire customs? He would have scoffed save that he knew such a show of disrespect would get him killed (and likely Hrafnhildr would sit back and polish a knife while it happened). His shoulders tightened, he could feel the bones around under his skin, moving and shifting about like a wild animal. This entire venture was folly, a mad folly. Yet, there was nothing he could do about any of it. His ocean blue eyes darkened as he looked at each of those gathered, all watching him as if he were about to give some rousing speech. They were all waiting on something, each expectation different. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. He wanted to abandon this farcical comedy as soon as possible. A vampire wedding? Had there ever been a more ludicrous idea in all the history of Middle-earth? Yet to look at the deadly serious faces arrayed in front of him one might be mistaken and think it was the most serious of arcane and occult rituals. Again, he wanted to scoff. And he was supposed to be involved? If they wanted a clown, they should have brought better makeup, he thought. He was supposed to fight Arioch for the hand of… Keziah, was it? Why on earth would he do that? He wanted nothing to do with either of them. Assessing them, Arioch was clearly the more dangerous. He’d seen the vampire in action, how easily he had ripped flesh from bone even while menaced by a score of people. He knew the rumors too. If half of them were true, that he’d alongside Zigûr in the closing days of the Second Age, that he’d been a student of the Warrior Vala in the long days. What sort of chance did the Númenórean have against someone, something, like that? Frost was a capable killer, he’d proven that time and time again, but he was not a foolhardy, battle-lusting idiot. He knew his limit. Yet, it seemed that that did not matter here. He snarled and showed a toothy, angry smile. “You want a fight? Fine. I’ll give you a fight.”

It occurred to Frost that the massacre at the village had been a test. How would he react? How would he handle himself? Would he kill everyone around him? How skillfully would he do it? It rankled Frost to be have been used like that. He was not a puppet. The long, dark blade was in his hand. He could feel the iron spike against his hip, and the dagger calling out to him to be used, but he ignored them both. He had no hope of winning this fight, but at least he could get out some aggression. Maybe he could get in a few good licks while he was at it.

The vampire’s blade appeared like a bolt of lightning, long and white, horribly pristine compared to the rest of the creature’s archaic, showy garb. They circled one another. Frost staying a half step ahead of his opponent. There was no good footing, at least there was no footing that would give him an advantage, especially not with something that had no need to fight on the ground if need be. Arioch charged, moving faster than Frost’s eyes to follow. A flurry of blows came at him, from angles he didn’t think were possible. He deflected each one, barely in time to keep the blade’s white steel away from his flesh. Arioch sneered at him, moving behind him with a swoop of his outstretched wings. “Come now, is that the fighting spirit of someone who wants to wed a vampire? I don’t think she believes you want her, Númenórean. Fight better.”

He was not going to be goaded, not by something so obvious. He remained silent, his breath slow and even. It was his time to charge. He did so, feigning to his right then slashing at the vampire’s coat at the last second, twisting to present less of a target as he stabbed. Predictably, the vampire danced aside, having seen the feint for what it was. He knocked the strike aside with a lazy swipe of his sword. That was what Frost wanted. It was not a bad thing to have a stake when dealing with a vampire. He drew it out and stabbed hard at his exposed hip. The iron dung in through the layers of leather and found purchase. He roared and slammed Frost across the face with a backhand. The Númenórean when skittering. He wiped the blood from his jaw and chuckled. At least he’d been first to draw blood.

Arioch moved even faster now, impossibly. He was on Frost before he could assume even the semblance of a defensive stance. They slammed into each other like two boulders. Frost heard a loud CRACK but felt nothing. They went to the ground, the momentum of Arioch’s charge pushing them beyond the horses and spectators. “Almost believed that one, though my bats have more anger than that.” He mocked.

Frost’s fingers flexed over the hilt of the sword. He’d lost the spike, but he could still get it back if he was fast enough. Webbing slipped from his fingers and formed around the hilt, a delicate but frightfully strong. The webs crawled up the black metal of the blade. He was ready for Arioch’s next charge. He’d seen how fast the creature moved and was able to dodge just in time. He ducked a flash of white, bending his back nearly as far as it could bend, then sprang back, pivoted, and struck at the sword with his own, putting all his strength into knocking the sword free, or at least off balance. Again though, Arioch anticipated that and with moves like a dancer, moved from Frost’s right to his left. Frost’s strike went wide and his blade nearly slipped from his fingers with the resulting miss. He growled furiously. The vampire was playing with him.

“Come, come now, surely you can do better?”

They collided; Frost’s elbow landing squarely in Arioch’s chest. Again, they tumbled backward. He heard a grunt of pain from the vampire. He felt a surge of satisfaction. He dropped the blade, releasing the webbing. He then slammed a fist into the vampire’s face. That move, as barbaric and ill-advised as it was, caught him off guard. Frost punched again, then again, and again. The next strike though was caught and deflected. He knew it was over before the vampire slammed his own mailed fist into Frost’s face. He felt the shock, felt his head rebound off the ground, saw the tiny black stars fill his vision. The vampire’s fist came down again, but he was able to just turn it aside, wrapping the fist in a sticky web to slow the recoil. He tried to knee Arioch in the crotch, to push him off, but his legs didn’t have enough room to move, long as they were, and the struck was cut short. He grabbed the vampire’s throat in desperation, pouring web through him to tighten the noose. He saw the creature’s fangs and nearly blacked out. Arioch’s face transformed into something vulpine, something monstrous, the web snapped, and the fangs were buried in Frost’s neck. He felt them pierce his flesh. There was no pain though, instead, Frost was flooded with a sense of euphoria. He knew he should like what was happening, but half of him wanted Arioch to continue to feed.

Arioch ended the fight. He picked up Frost, his blood spilling down his chin and onto his leather gambeson, and threw him bodily into the air. Frost was only vaguely aware of the sensation of flying before he slammed hard into the earth. Bones cracked. He tried to stand up, but Arioch’s foot slammed into his chest. It felt like getting struck by a wild boar. He flew back, tumbling ass over teakettle until he skittered to a stop. Again, when he tried to stand, to continue the fight, Arioch was already there. He lifted Frost up by his jacket and held him aloft in the air. He laughed, the sound of pealing thunder, and slammed Frost into the ground. Frost didn’t remember what he said after that.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors

(Private with Frost and Tara)

Of all the things that had happened so far on this day, being lifted bodily and swept through the air by a vampire might have been the one Hrafnhildr least expected. The points of Keziah’s nails dug into her shoulders, followed immediately by the disconcerting sensation of her feet leaving the earth and traveling upward. Hrafnhildr had jumped from many a precipitous ledge in her time, and found that she infinitely preferred the sensation of falling to this. Fortunately, it was soon ended: they alighted upon the battlement she had come from. Keziah whispered in her ear, looming over her from behind, and Hrafnhildr’s face tightened. So. She knew. To how mnay had the knowledge spread? Not to Frost, that was certain. Hrafnhildr watched him as he prepared, drawing his sword and spitting the challenge back in Arioch’s teeth. It was clear that the man did not want this fight- he would have been insane to desire it- but was going to engage rather than face whatever punishment might come from refusal. Hrafnhildr was cleared of her first task then, for it did not seem that Frost would come straight for Keziah. As for the second, her defense of the vampires should Frost emerge the victor? She judged there was no need to worry about that. Clearly, the Lossoth woman had come off on the better end of this bargain.

Nevertheless, she watched him with folded arms and narrowed eyes. This would be the first time she had seen Frost fight, and even to herself Hrafnhildr admitted a curiosity. How long would he last? What skill would he show before his defeat? Would he provoke Arioch sufficiently to gain his death? Such a result would lead to consequences Hrafnhildr did not look forward to, but it would be the Delgaran’s own fault for entrusting the pirate to a vampire before her. The combatants feinted and tested one another, a typical duel’s beginning. Frost struck Arioch: unexpected that he should draw blood first, but he was quickly matched in that by the vampire’s retaliation. She watched the mirth cross Frost’s face, and shook her head. Mistake. Their bodies collided and both went tumbling to the ground, Frost eclipsed by the mass that was Arioch. Then, something unexpected: from Frost’s fingers came some kind of viscous material, forming around his hand and sword. Hrafnhildr leaned forward as if to see better, and felt Keziah do the same behind her. But it was over: Hrafnhildr could see that in the effortless way Arioch parried the next blow. No matter what tricks Frost might have up his sleeve, they were no match for the power of this beast.

“If he kills him, he’ll have the Iron Queen to answer to,” she muttered, and Keziah laughed, squeezing her shoulders tighter.

“He won’t kill him. The man isn’t worthy of the death Arioch would give him.”

Of all things, then, Frost chose to punch Arioch in the face. Hrafnhildr had to give it to him, the boldness and idiocy of this move did allow Frost to land a substantial hit. But the return blow was far more powerful: wrapped in mail, the fist of the vampire smashed Frost’s face into bloody rebound. Again he responded with, now that she saw them again, what Hrafnhildr perceived to be webs: but he had pushed the vampire a fraction too far. Arioch’s face and figure transformed from their elven eeriness into something monstrous and batlike, his canines lengthening into wicked fangs, which he plunged into Frost’s throat. Keziah’s scream of victory rang in Hrafnhildr’s ears. She felt her shoulders released, then the rush of air as Keziah unfurled her wings; then, she was buffeted forward and off the edge of the battlement as the vampires took flight again, focused only on the figure of her lover below, as the threw Frost to the ground.

Keziah swooped downward, flaring her wings at the last possible second to strike the ground with finality. The pales of her irises shone, and her bloody-crimson corneas deepened, as if filled with the fresh blood of her lover’s victim. “Arioch!” she cried in triumph, and flew to him with scarcely the motion of feet, as if pulled to his side by the magnetism of the earth. Their bodies collided, with as much force as those of he and Frost in their duel, but the vampires remained upright; Keziah’s arms and wings wrapped about him again, and her mouth locked to his. He tasted of the man’s blood; it was fresh and wet on him, and she growled, the nails of her fingers and fangs of her mouth alike lengthening with bat-fell as she tasted it; she broke the kiss, only to run tongue and lips over Arioch’s chin, where the precious fluid coated his face; she consumed the essence of the Challenger and reveled in it. With the crushing force of her lust, Keziah kissed Arioch again, her talons clenched in his hair. When at last they broke apart, it was to Keziah’s sigh of ecstasy.

“I am yours,” she breathed, “Forever.”


Meanwhile, Hrafnhildr had tumbled through the air, thrown from her perch by Keziah’s departure. She managed to right herself and landed on her feet, hard, on the stones of the courtyard below, sinking her knees into a splayed stance to absorb the blow. With a grunt, she straightened and, sparing but a glance to the tangle of vampires that was Arioch and Keziah, strode instead toward the crumpled figure on the ground that was Frost. The closer she came, the worse he looked, bloody and broken- but clearly alive. When Hrafnhildr reached him, she lowered one knee to the ground, kneeling at his side and leaning over him to look down at his battered face.

“You look terrible.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors

(Private with Moriel and Tara)

Everything hurt. His lungs felt like they were scrapping against stone and his muscles felt like they were on the verge of spasming and constricting if he even moved them in the slightest. “Never mettle in the affairs of vampires,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the two night creatures wrapped in a carnal embrace, “for they are pissy and stronger than they look.” He inhaled slowly, gathering as much of the cold air as he could. It hurt, like knives swirling down his lungs, but the moist, cold air felt good. It reminded him that he was still alive. He was so caught up in attempting to right himself that he didn’t hear Hrafnhildr arrive come near him. He smelled the oil and musk of her animal skins before he heard her. “Vampires don’t have tempers near as bad as my mother,” he breathed, not looking at her.

His bones cracked and creaked and his muscles screamed as he stood back up to his full height. His head swam and throbbed with heartbeat all its own; he could nothing but tiny black stars swirling around him like a horde of flies. His vision was so cloudy he was hard to tell where the horizon oriented itself. He placed a hand on his neck. The blood was still fresh and slick. The wound thrummed like the sting of a wasp, but a hundred times greater. Frost howled, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Ignoring his new guide, he staggered to his horse, dug through his pack, and tore a piece of cloth. He looked back toward the tall, severe woman and tied the cloth around his neck. It didn’t do much to stem the flow of blood, but at least it was just pouring down his neck and chest now. His fingers were slick with hot sticky blood. He licked a finger and wondered absently about why vampires felt the urge to drink it so much. He’d have more than his fair share of blood from his enemies over the years, but it was more ceremonial, more as an intimidation tactic. The need for blood was something beyond his scope of understanding.

“Please tell me we are leaving these two behind?” he said, wincing as he pressed the cloth more to his neck. “I’ve had my fill of vampires… and I think they’ve had their fill of me.” He looked north, feeling a subconscious pull in the direction, a sort of siren song in the back of his mind, whispering, whispering. Storm clouds were gathering, purple, grey, and black in the shape of monstrously huge corvids. He smiled and sighed. “Either we’re being summoned, or that’s a good omen.”


--- * --- * ---

He tore off the last of the spider silk from his coat and tossed it aside. The fight hadn’t lasted as long as he imagined it would. It was over far too quickly. He’d hoped with the rumors surrounding the Númenórean that the fight would at least get his blood flowing, so to speak, but once again he’d been left disappointed. There were so few people that could stand against him now. All those that could truly offer him a challenge had gone west or had died. Sometimes, he wandered, if he’d simply lived too long. There were so few challenges anymore, so few obstacles. His world had become one distraction after another.

He smiled a bloody smile as he saw Keziah and wrapped his arms around her cold limbs. Desire and wanton lust thrummed off her in palpable waves, he could taste that desire and lust as if it were a physical thing. It was sweet with a tortuous burning sensation. Vampires were the embodiment of pain and misery, yet they fed on the same. Two vampires together, as he and Keziah were now, were a living plague that fed off itself as much as it did the people and the land around them. He kissed her hard and hungrily, a insatiable hunger overtook as he devoured her. The more he tasted her, and she him, the more he wanted. No amount of time would slacken his desire for her. He fed from her aura and she from his. He could feel the energy moving and transferring between them, as endless and fathomless as the great ocean depths. “Keziah.” he intoned, his voice like the grinding of ancient stones far below the earth. “I have waited for you long enough. I have observed the customs and rituals. I have spilt blood and spread death in your honor. I will wait no longer.”

His wings, ancient, leathery, and black, unfurled and stretched from across the sky, casting grey shadows across the cold, foggy ground. He took his bride into his arms, pulled her so close to him that he could have felt her heartbeat, if either of them had such a thing anymore, and began to lift off the ground.

His golden yellow eyes caught sight of Belisaria again, the great pied bat he used as a familiar and messenger. “Go now, little one, you are free from your obligations for tonight. Return home and await me there.” The bat screeched and in a flutter of wings, vanished into the greying sky.

“My love, it is time for us to leave these mortals behind.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
Umbar, Some Fifty Years Ago

(Private with Tara)
CW: mentions of transphobia

He thought he looked quite good. The image reflecting back at him in the silvery mirror looked more like him than he thought possible. He smiled. He looked more like himself. Finally. He had tried for so long, through so many combinations and styles. The lip paint, the eyelashes, the nails, the rouge. It all came together finally. His deep ocean blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight. He really did look quite good. He looked out the window. The sun was on its downward evening track, it would be dark soon. With the dark came his father. And if his father caught him looking like this… He snarled and made fists so tight his fingers popped. He wanted more than stolen moments to look in the mirror and feel as though he were becoming who he wanted to be. He wanted more than a secret hour a day. He took care to carve and slice and shave to look the way he wanted, but his father refused to let him celebrate who he was. His father was a bastard, a backward, conservative, moralistic man who couldn’t reason his way through a wet paper bag. Like as not, he would come up smelling of sour wine and cheap whisky, the tell-tale signs that he’s been “making connections”, ‘Zagar had no desires to see him in that state. If he could choose, he’d rather not see his father at all, ever. But he was still young and that sort of choice was beyond him. For now.

A knock came at the door, a sound so unexpected and so jarring the young man nearly yelped in startlement. “‘Zagar? Are you in there?” He panicked. His mother was on the other side of the door. She was not so ardent about things, but he didn’t’ want to risk it. What if she saw and rejected him? What if she saw a glimmer of the image beneath the surface, the image that was neither male nor female but both at the same time, and rejected him because of it? He dearly loved his mother. All the love a child ought to have for their parents he bore up in a single personage. The idea of being turned away by the one person he actually had affection for twisted a monstrous knot in his stomach.

“One moment mother!” he called, trying to delay the inevitable. She was not good with boundaries; he might have saved himself an extra twenty seconds before she burst in. He pulled off the nail guards, sighing as his fingers felt the loss of the familiar weight. He grabbed a towel and hurriedly wiped at his cheeks and lips, taking as much of the red off as he could. He looked in the mirror. He was back to his old self, a less vivacious, less flamboyant, less complete self. He rubbed the final, stubborn bit of lip paint from the corner of his mouth with a heavy sigh. He really hated doing this. Over and over, he would have to tear down his attempts at finding himself, remove any trace of self-discovery, and hide any revelations he had that made him want to scream with joy. What good was finding oneself when one could not share that with the world? What good was it to know who you were, when you still had to hide that part of you under a bushel and a brutish exterior.

Zôrzimril, the Matron of Crows, burst through the door a moment later, right on cue.

“Mother!” He said, turning from his disenchanted look in the mirror. “I had no idea you were even home.”

“Where else would I be?” She smiled and crossed the space of his room with a fluid, feral grace. She took his hands and smiled triumphantly. For moment, horrified, he thought she’d struck a marriage deal with some house and jump started his political career, something he’d taken careful pains to do nothing for. “I’ve finally received word from some of my distant relations up north.”

He exhaled slowly. “The… snowmen?”

She thumped his chest. “Don’t use that term, it’s beneath you and disrespectful. They’re your family.”

“Distantly,” he countered.

That earned more than a thump. “I don’t care if you only share a single drop of blood. I will not hear you use that sort of terminology.”

He gulped and rubbed his cheek. “I’m sorry mother. It won’t happen again. But go on?”

She smiled again, her midnight blue eyes shimmering with glorious purpose. “They’ve agreed to take you in.”

“I… they what?” he looked at her confused. “I thought you were trying to marry me off…”

“Oh honey,” she cupped his cheek, then frowned. “Is… is that rouge?”

His eyes widened and his face paled. “I… I…” for all the cleverness he thought he had, it all melted in that moment. He’d been caught!

Her eyes looked confused, but then changed, looking more sympathetic. “You need someone to teach you how to apply it better.” She said, her tone level and serious.

“I... what? What do you mean?”

“And is that lip paint? Red isn’t really your color my sweet sword.”

He was so stunned by her reaction that he couldn’t speak. Where was the furious rage? The look of betrayal and disgust?

“How long have you been trying on make up?”

His shoulders slumped. “Just for a few… weeks…”

She arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

The question he knew was coming, and the word he dreaded most. His hands began to quake, his knees felt like they were made of jelly. “I…” he paused and looked into her eyes, trying to gauge what she was thinking, but he couldn’t read her. “I…” he sighed, might as well be honest. “I’ve been trying to bring something out in me. Something that buried inside that I want to bring out.”

She took his hand in hers and lead them to the bed where they sat across from each other, his mother’s eyes never betraying what she thought.

“I… I feel like I’m more than just a boy.”

“You are,” she said, interrupting him.

He took a deep breath, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I feel like I’m more than just a boy or a girl. I feel like… like I’m both. I don’t always feel like your son. Sometimes…” his voice cracked and the next words came out almost as a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like your daughter.”

She looked at him hard, her eyes inscrutable and thoughtful. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice.”

That was not what he’d been expecting her to say. He looked at his mother, confusion written on his face. “What?”

“I know you, my child. I gave birth to you. Do you not think I would understand all the workings of your mind? I watched you grow up. I remember the way you played with dolls when your father wasn’t around. I remember when you’d ask me about all the dresses I wore and if you’d ever get to wear them. At first, I thought it was just your natural curiosity. But I came to realize it was more than that. You were far, far more complex. You wanted everything, you wanted to be everything. The older you became, the more you tried to hide it. But I knew you, my child. I nursed you and held you when you were naught but a babe. I taught you your first words, I was with you when you took for your first steps. I watched the light in your eyes explode with joy and inquisitiveness. I knew you were so much more than just my son. But I knew you would have to find that out for yourself. Now, tell me the truth, my young one, how long have you been trying on make up?”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He never thought in a million years his mother would accept him, accept that he felt he was something more that sometimes he wanted to be she. Yet, yet it seemed she did. Not only did she accept him, but she knew all along? He smiled with relief and wiped the tear starting to form in the corner of his eye. “A few months. I… I was trying to find the right combination.”

“I think you still have a ways to go yet,” she chided good-naturedly.

“Does father…?” he let the question hang.

“No,” she said irritation and disgust that single word. “The bigoted moron couldn’t see the stars on a new moon. He has no idea… I am so sorry my ‘Zagar.”

“I didn’t think so…”

“Don’t be sad about that,” she was quick, shooting a hand out to touch his. “that your father cannot see it is no ill reflection on you. He is a fool. You know this.”

“Should I tell him?”

“I cannot answer that, ‘Zagar. Only you can.”

“What if he rejects me?”

“Then I will reject him.” His mother’s response was cold and logical, yet somehow more comforting than all the times she’d praised him. “You are a part of a generation that will bring changes to the world, my child. You will smash down the doors and gates of closeted hate and rejection and bring out a new era of diversity and acceptance. And be you my son or my daughter, I will never love you an iota less. I would kill you for you. Whatever you feel you are in your heart of hearts has no bearing on that. However,” her smile was wide and mischievous, “we are going to have to find someone to teach you how to properly apply make up if you are going to use it. Come here now…”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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Into the Valley of Imladris

The wagon rolled down the twisting path into the Valley late, and Ruindil and Mylien had pressed to stop for the night, but Fuin knew where they were and how close they were. These paths she knew well enough from thousands of hears traveling them that she was not exaggerating when she said could could navigate the twisting path blindfolded.

Ruindil for his part looked warily down the steep drop off to the side of the cart he debated more than once on stating he'd rather walk but honestly didn't want to miss a turn himself if Fuin wasn't right about how well she could navigate these turns. Mylien for her part was half asleep, Fuin had told them they were safe now except perhaps from the twins and if they had any questions if they were awake and watching. Neither Ruindil or Mylien understood what she was talking about and had simply nodded.

They could hear the falling of water now growing steadily louder and the chorus of nocturnal bugs and frogs filled the air. And then they caught it - the sound that had made Fuin tell them they were safe for she had heard it far before any of them - singing.

"Blimey you live with sirens." Ruindil muttered and Fuin could not help but smile at that she didn't doubt that the Valleys song sounded like a siren haven to a pirate.

"No fortunately it's a bit late or we might get the obnoxious elves singing, those ones are all in the Hall of Fire now singing and reciting bad poetry." That was her guess as to why there had not been any Tra-la-la-la ing. She swore sometimes they did it just to see if she'd try to shoot them were her bow. Through the trees they started to see the lights of the halls and then the Valley opened before them. Fortunately Lisse was a well enough known horse that few would question the wagon coming in. Fuin was glad for that. Mostly because she wanted to find Afarfin and talk to him before anyone else did.

Mylien leaned forwards and looked up at Fuin, "why don't you sing?" Fuin glanced down at her.

"I can't sing." Fuin said calmly, "It's not... it's not something I do."

"Yer telling me that this whole bleeding Valley is full of elves singing, and you're pointy eared head can't sing?" Ruindil looked at her incredolously.

"I can sing. It's not good though." Fuin shifting uncomfortably. Mylien shrugged. "I beg to differ I've heard you sing." Fuin and Ruindil both looked at her confused.

"What you don't think what she does in bed isn't better sounding than all these harpys squawking?" Mylien asked and Ruindil got a smile on his face that made Fuin even less comfortable.

"AYE that be true enough."

"That is not singing."

"Tis better than singing." Fuin for her part flushed red and hurried Lisse to cross the bridge. Ruindil kept an eye on her a grin on from ear to ear. "'as this Afarfin 'eard yer singin voice?"

Fuin pressed her lips together and had to stop herself from giving Ruindil a shove off the cart and bridge into the roaring river below. "Yes."

This of course made her nervous. There was no place left to hide now from the course she was on. She was going to have to talk to Afarfin, her new family was going to have to meet with her old... and she did not know how that would turn out, if she would end up fractured even further. "We should find Afarfin now."

"It's late love maybe we should go to bed first do that in the morning." Fuin hesitated thinking about it.

"Na she needs to do it now." Ruindil said the smile on his face from their earlier jesting gone. "She's got the nerves for it now, best do it now even if it might not be pretty." Mylien wrapped an arm around Fuins waist and squeezed as they slipped towards the Last Homely House where Afarfin was staying in a room for the time being since Fuin had no permanent home in the Valley and he didn't yet.

A few elves marked their passage but most saw Fuin and gave a small nod leaving the head of the forge to herself. She took a deep breath as she stood before the guest room door that was Afarfins and knocked. She could hear a groan inside and scuffling.

"Aigronding so help me if this is something that can wait for morning..."

"It's me." She called softly and Afarfin went quiet and she could hear rushed steps coming to the door and her heart was in her throat and she could barely breath or think as the door opened.

Black Númenórean
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Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador

(Private with Frost)

Zôr awoke to a series of light touches to her side. A thrill ran through her, and goose pimples rose on her skin. She groaned softly in protest of daybreak; then she stretched, gasping when the dew-soaked grass brushed her bare skin. She opened her eyes and was momentarily blinded by the sunlight shining at full force upon their little hill. Their hill. The notion brought a satisfied smile to her lips. It was not, in fact, theirs - no more than it belonged to the sun or the stars or the wind or the rain. But it pleased her to know that those unknowable gods and their worshipers could no longer claim this site as theirs. She, Frost, and the flames had liberated the little hill from their influence and had returned it to the godless, wild dominion of the grass, trees, birds, and insects.

She rolled over and found herself facing the person who’d brought her here. It was he who’d shown her the full force of fire, along with countless devious little things beneath the starless skies.

“Hello,” she murmured, blinking away the dewdrops that had scattered across her face when she’d moved. “Many things to do?” she echoed coyly. “Whatever do you mean?”

She brought her lips to his, wrapped her arms about him, and rolled the pair of them over so that he was on his back in the cool morning grass. For what seemed like an age, she breathed in the moment, her eyes closed. There was comfort here, exposed and vulnerable as they were.

Unbidden, images flashed before her mind’s eye, just as they had while she’d fallen into an uneasy sleep the previous night. She saw herself as she’d been in her dream, and she saw Frost as he - or, more aptly stated, she - had appeared in the mischievous firelight. The two images flickered back and forth with dizzying rapidity until at last they settled on the vision of her younger self. She inhaled and buried her face in Frost’s shoulder, the longer to hold onto the image of herself: young and defiant in the face of men’s reductive condescension.

What was it, she tried to remember, that had made her bristle in that moment? She watched her younger self scowl her dismissal of a single word: “Beauty.” Why? Many questions in her life began with why. Why had her parents died? Why had she survived? Why, on some days, did she pause before a mirror and jump with surprise that the person looking back at her was a woman? Was it the same thing that prompted her to pull back her long hair and knot it tight at the nape of her neck, imagining it cropped short? The same impulse that made her wish she could inhabit the taller, broad-shouldered bodies of the men she used and despised?

Whatever the cause, the impulse was both forceful and inconstant, for there were other days when she stood before the mirror and saw a woman at home in her every curve. On those days, she would admire the way her hair fell in waves past her shoulders and be grateful she hadn’t cut it all off. The vision of Frost in the flames had looked just as comfortable in her own skin.

At last, Zôr lifted her face from his shoulder and looked down at him - Frost as she knew him, tall and strong and powerful, with a glance that could flash with unforgiving cruelty but also tender, eager desire. And then she saw the other version of her partner again: the version with lush, full lips curled into a wry smile.

“Before we begin,” she whispered, “tell me something. Did you see anything strange in the firelight last night?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

High Lord of Imladris
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The Valley of Imladris

Afarfin stood there in only his pants his braids that he normally wore half undone, as he'd been getting ready to sleep a smile on his face seeing it was Fuin as he reached out and hugged her tightly. "I was worried you ran off so fast..." He said holding her against himself tightly. It was only then that he realized that she was not alone. He backed off his hands still on her arms confusion clear on his face as he looked at the two people that were with her.

Both of them seemed tense the one was looking at his hands on Fuins arms and then at the look on her face and then at him. Afarfin looked at his hands on her arms and then up at her face she looked so pale and like she wasn't there entirely. "Mel?" Asked softly, "Are you alright? What's going on?"

"Can we come in?" She asked softly and his brow creased and Fuin was not sure he'd agree to it but he backed up motioning for them to come in.

"So who are your friends?" He asked looking them over motioning them to the lush couches and chairs that were near the open door that led to the balcony of his room.

Fuin didn't answer immediately, waiting instead waiting for all of them to be seated. She still felt like she couldn't breath she looked at Ruindil and Mylien as Afarfin for his part sat next to her directly on the couch leaving the two single seats available for Ruindil and Mylien. They both could tell just how tense she was and were smiling gently giving her small nods and little signals of encouragement for her to answer him now that they were seated. Ruindil for his part was tense not because he was worried that Fuin would say something hurtful to him or Mylien but if Afarfin got angry or violent she was right beside him and he had ever intention of protecting his elf wife the fear in her eyes was enough to let him know he needed to be on guard. Fuin was. He could read it in her body.

"Me- Fuin." Afarfin was twisted towards her looking at her, he'd never seen her this tense either and she wasn't looking at him, she was looking at the two that she had brought with her both Atan. "What is this about?"

"I - " She started and stopped. Afarfin wondered if these two had threatened her? Not likely Aigronding had told him that she was a Taidron, she was more than capable of handling two people why would she bring them to the Valley? "These are my husband and wife. Ruindil and Mylien." She blurted it out and the room was silent for a good several moments.

Afarfin was stunned. Aigronding had said she had saved herself for him, that had been terrifying to him. The thought of someone being alone without love for over 6500 years. He had hoped she'd found another to love, that she was happy, he had not expected this. It was rare for for an immortal to fall in love with a mortal from his understanding it had only happened a few times in all the ages, and here his wife was married to not one but TWO mortals. He let go of her arm and sat back in stunned silence. His hand was over his mouth and he was staring off into space trying to process what his wife had just said. Mylien and Ruindil looked at Fuin and she looked at them the colour was starting to return to her face now the secret was out.

"That's why you ran?" He asked suddenly. "That's why you ran weeks ago. To go to your family when you found out I was alive." Tears were forming in his eyes as he looked at her her blue eyes glancing nervously between him and the rest of her family. She reached out not quite touching him but she couldn't her fingers hovering just off of his arm. He wanted to hold her to tell her it was alright, he'd written about this that he would be alright with this but he wasn't sure that he was. He wanted his wife, he wanted to be the one to hold her and keep her safe but he'd already found out that she had become the one to keep herself safe. "So..." He took a shaky breath realizing he was losing the love of his life that the Valar had cursed him and had kept him away too long. "How long have you been with my wife?"

Ruindil leaned forwards and looked the elf in the eyes. "Three years at this point, since she found us on the beach near the Grey Havens." Afarfin almost snarled at that and stood up and began pacing.

"Three years?" As he paced angrily Mylien moved over to the couch watching the clearly agitated elf holding her wifes hands as the three of them watched him pace until he went out onto the balcony and screamed at the night and at Manwe and Namo for his Curse. Fuin for her part put herself between Afarfin and Mylien and Ruindil stood recognizing that Fuin was getting ready for a fight. "I LOST MY WIFE BY THREE YEARS YOU COWARDS!" Ruindil for his part went after Afarfin figuring he'd have the best chance of surviving any outbursts with little more than the odd bruise, all the pirate could think of was that elves were terribly emotional creatures he'd thought Fuin was bad, men were worse.

"Ye've not lost yer wife ye dolt."

Afarfin rounded on him suddenly. "I've not? You just called her your wife, what else should that mean?"

"I've got meself two wives if ye've not noticed."

This brought Afarfin to a stop, his arms dropping to his side "You're a greedy bastard."

"Aye, and I'll take meself a 'usband too if the whiney emotional bastard is willing." Ruindil said stepping right up to Afarfin so that he was looking the slightly taller man in the eye or as well as he could being slightly shorter than him a very very strange feeling having to look up at someone.

Black Númenórean
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What Have You Done?
Bree-town

(Private with Frost)

Jake sidled up to Finn. His little brother looked a bit self-conscious of his feet and chagrined at the size of those socks that Chyewsgûs had supplied. “It’s okay, Finn. Look, I’ve got big feet, too!” He stretched his four paws to five times their normal size. His suddenly-giant feet weighed him down and he wobbled in place. Finn was sensitive about very few things in life (and he usually locked those things away in the Vault, his mental lockbox of unpleasant memories), but his feet were among them. Jake didn’t know why. Finn used those feet to run, jump, kick, cartwheel, spin, and generally wander around being heroic all over Middle-Earth. “No shame in some big, capable feet!” Jake said whenever Finn got like this.

In addition to the mild embarrassment written on Finn’s face, Jake observed that his brother was transfixed by the golden thimble Marceline had found among their provisions. Jake made eye contact with Marcy, and they exchanged an eyebrows-raised-in-concern type of look. Marceline floated over to Chyewsgûs and came to hover in front of him, her arms folded.

“Haunted?” she asked, unimpressed. Marceline had seen way worse than a haunted thimble in her many years. Demons and vampires and disfigured survivors of terrible wars were the stuff of her childhood memories. A haunted golden trinket was nothing to her! “Good thing we’re leaving that thimble with you, then. The spirit can just come back to visit you!” Chyewsgûs’ mouth fell open in shock, and he was left momentarily speechless. Finn’s grass sword knew what was up. It knocked the thimble out of Finn’s reach. Shortly thereafter, Finn paid up for the supplies and bade the shopkeeper goodbye.

Phew, Marceline thought. She’d have to keep an eye on her former henchman. The allure of haunted treasure might prove to be too much for him - and they couldn’t afford to have him running off to the Choose Goose when they were in the middle of rescuing the princesses! She turned to leave the shop.

“Be careful what you wish for, Marceline the Vampire Queen! You know not who you’re missing with, or what powers you’ve come between!” called out the shopkeeper, as ominously as his honking voice would allow.

Marceline rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled as she floated out into the street.

To her delight, Finn had carried all the bags out of the shop. “Good henchman,” she praised him. She winked. Finn was, of course, no longer her official henchman, but it was still nice to have someone else carrying the cargo for now.

Jake joined them moments later. The rain had finally let up, but the evening breeze was still chilly. “Well, you two, what’s next? Should we get all our stuff from the Pony? Oh, oh, we’ll probably need some food. Maybe we can get some stuff from Barliman. More meat pie!! And actually, another night’s rest sounds good. Can we put off leaving for another day?”

* * *

The three travelers stood cloaked, hooded, and laden with supplies at Bree’s gate. Marceline’s long, dark hair swirled about in the breeze, and Jake yawned widely. He had not slept well. Each time he’d been about to drift off, he got a whiff of the same scent that he’d smelled before their shopping trip - back when they were still eating and drinking in their little private room. He would notice the smell, open his eyes, and stretch over to wherever the scent was strongest. Each time, the location was different. Something - or someone - must have been moving about. Was it a mouse? No, it smelled meaner than a mouse, like something with sharp teeth holding onto a bitter grudge. What if it was a vampire? Or worse - two vampires?? He had trembled violently at the thought. Marceline had long been a tenuous ally, but the rest of her kind freaked Jake out to no end. And so it was that he was still extremely sleepy (and paranoid) when they all gathered the next morning to head out.

“Ooof, you guys, I’m tired,” Jake moaned, making the obvious even obviouser.

“What were you doing up so late?” Marceline asked. She was somewhat distracted, counting all the red apples and strawberries and lip paints she’d managed to accumulate. It was going to be a long journey north, and who knew how much red they’d encounter along the way? If she got lucky, the leaves would turn red and orange and she could feast on the bloodier-hued of them.

“Oh, um, nothing. Just counting sheep and getting ready for the trip!” Jake lied.

“Well, you’d better be ready. This is gonna be a doozy of a journey. You ready for this, Finn?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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What Have You Done?
The Outskirts of Bree-town

(Private with Tara)

Jake was not the only one that had not slept well. Finn-adan would have slept well if it had not been for his anxious thoughts about the thimble. He couldn’t get his mind off of it. Every time he was about to drift off to sleep, the image of the tiny, sparkling thing just appeared in his mind. It beckoned him the way sirens would beckon sailors to their doom in Barliman’s old stories. He’d never been out to sea. He was terrified of the vast, deep, panthalassic world that lurked under the depths. It was his one true fear. His mind spiraled in much this same way all night, bouncing from one thing to the next to the next without pausing for any sort of reprieve. And the thimble was ever just in the background, just out of reach, just out of sight. His feet itched to get out of bed and run to the Choose Goose. He wanted that thimble. He needed that thimble. But why? Why did he need it so bad? Why had his grass sword turned him away?

Finn’s mind refused to rest until at last utter and completely weariness overcame him. His dreams were strange and fitful. He thought he would dream of the thimble. But the thimble never entered his noggin world. There was a cat somewhere in the tree house. He kept finding hairballs all over the place, scratch marks, and a litter box he knew he and Jake didn’t buy. He could hear the yowling and meowing and hissing from everywhere. Every time he thought he found the feline culprit, the dream would shift, and he’d be put back into another room in the house, only to start the anxious search again. The tree house was much bigger in his dreams with rooms that belonged in other houses and basements under basements. And there were no pickles. Prismo would be so disappointed.

He awoke almost more tired than when he’d gone to bed. Thankfully, Jake looked as bleary-eyed and hungover he did (except he’d not had enough ale to get hungover, the cheapskate). Marceline looked fresh and pristine though. She always looked fresh and pristine. Was that a vampire thing? Her hair looked a little different. Her hair was weird, it would grow or shrink at random between them seeing her and with no explanation. He wanted to ask, but there were somethings you just don’t ask a vampire, according to Jake anyway.

“MMmmmmmmMMmmm…” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes to try and keep them open. Man, he’d really not slept well. “I’m ready… Say did either of you dream of a cat last night?” Cats. Why did it have to be cats? They’d had trouble with felines before. One in particular. No. No, that thought was crazy. He laughed, clapping Jake on the back and did his best to make sure the smile reached his eyes. Just dreams playing tricks. That’s all.

“I’m ready! Ice King, you are going down!”


--- * --- * ---

She laughed. It was so easy to mess with them. All it took to send Jake into a tizzy was getting just close enough for him to get a whiff before disappearing. Would he recognize her scent? She’d grown since they last saw each other. She was more agile, stronger, more powerful, and hungry for revenge. The boy was even easier. Finn. What a dumb name. He wasn’t a fish, so why did he have a fish name? She was going to torture that out of him, then she was going to bite off his face. All she had to do to him was spike his pre-bed glass of milk with dreamthistle. She could enter his dreams then and torment him for hours. She was tired at the end of it, but that was a small price to pay. The only one she wasn’t able to torment and tease was the vampire. Did she even sleep? Me-Mow was not scared of her, Me-Mow was scared of nothing, but she did give her pause (not paws, this isn’t a joke). The red devouring demon creature was more than a match for the feline assassin (well bounty hunter, assassinations hadn’t worked out as well as she’d hoped).

Jake… if you can hear my inner monologue, I’m going to kill you.

He wouldn’t, of course, but it still felt nice to say. It had been a daily affirmation of hers for years now. She was going to have her revenge!

Not too close now, Me-Mow, stay back. Watch, observe, report. They’ll be easy enough to follow. They leave trail a blind beaver could follow in the dark.

She crept out of the shadow of a rowan tree and slunk on after them, her claws reflexively opening and closing in anticipation of her final encounter with Jake the Dog.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Ent Ancient
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Mantle of Shadow II
Renhir
Hollin
January 3019 TA

(Private)

The battered corpse fell into the shallow hole with a plop as it was submerged by the growing puddle tinged with a scarlet film. Rainwater pattered and bounced upon the slain man’s soft leather armor for all the good that it had done him against the ruthless blades and claws of the orcs come down from the mountains. As swiftly as the despicable creatures had swarmed and surrounded the band of Rangers, they were felled one by one until none remained and three of their own were lost. These three had fought as brave as any, as hard as they could, and it was not enough. They succumbed to their wounds and went far into the beyond.

Two were left behind. One to dig their graves and the other to disappear into the dense cover of hollies for the nearest outpost to send word of the attack and warn their fellow watchers of the wilds. Something had disturbed the orcs of the Misty Mountains, causing them to come crawling out of their dark caves into this desolate place. A slight rumbling beneath the Rangers’ booted feet and the silence of sparrows and thrushes had been the first hints that something was amiss. Before the first black arrow flew to pierce flesh, there was a perilous mood in the air as if a storm was brewing. With claw and tooth, blade and bow, it unleashed its fury upon them until all were spent save the pair of lone survivors.

The grave-digger paused to gather his stuttering breath. Leaning upon the head of his axe, he swept away stray lengths of tangled dark hair and wiped his brow, smearing it with blood and debris in doing so. The scent of orc rot percolated every breath like an incurable pestilence that even the heavy rain could not wash away. He tensed his body against a shuddering wave of disgust and resumed his thankless task. Between the battle and the effort of dragging bodies, scooping earth with his axe and lugging rocks to cover the disturbed ground, Renhir’s lower back ached and his shoulders burned. He should have known by now that a shovel would see as much action as his axe, that all was death in the end.

The graves were woeful things hewn out of gritty mud and piled with jumbled rocks. These Rangers deserved better. They deserved more than an unmarked grave and the right words to be spoken in their memory. But Renhir had no words to say and the living had no time for the dead, no more than he had already spent. Like ants crawling to crumbs, more orcs were sure to scurry from their dank tunnels and caverns thirsting to slacken their insatiable appetite for violence and Renhir was not going to give it to them. Still, he indulged himself a moment to do them the honor of hacking their hideous heads from their spines, throwing them into tree trunks and dashing them against the rocks while releasing a deep, guttural shout until his throat was raw. He poured his wrath into it and still his anger simmered, unspent and untamed, waiting to boil over.

His own wounds pulsed, demanding attention he could not give them yet. Only when he had departed this lonesome spine at the foot of the Misty Mountains and found shelter would he stop to tend them. Daylight was fading all too soon on the fringes of the storm and there were darker and deadlier things than orcs prowling the night. The high mountain peaks were invisible in the fog of the driving rain as Renhir staggered forward, chest heaving, and left the rubble of broken bodies behind.
---

The shade of death was not so easy to abandon. It clung to him, shrouding him like a mantle around his shoulders and tightening around his neck like a noose. He felt it hover just out of reach, biding its time until it could claim him. He heard it in the harsh cries of the wicked crebain who spied ever-watchful from above. When he knelt to wash in the freezing waters birthed by mountains, he saw it in the reflection of his own haggard and beaten face, winnowed and lined by sun and storm. He dunked his cupped hands into the creek to drink. As he lifted them to his lips, he saw something in the water that made him pause. A smudge of inky black oscillated back and forth and back again like a feather lifted on an unnatural wind. Mesmerized, he stared as it diffused outward like a thing sprouting wings. A sight unseen to the Ranger, there was no mistaking the shape of a wraith in flight. Here was power like he had never seen before. It was terrifying and enticing.

He could not budge an inch. He could not look away. Enthralled, on his knees, he bent his head closer, watching the blackness swell and fill his vision. Something brushed the edge of his consciousness carrying a hint of the salient numbness he first felt in Tharbad. He longed to feel it’s embrace again even as a dull warning trickled in, pushing against the unseen force from the part of him that knew better. As he battled within himself, it disappeared and left him cold.

The water sifted through his hands and left him staring at nothing but his own calloused palms. An irritating awareness returned to him as pins and needles prickled his haunches and a dull ache bloomed within his head. Renhir told himself his battle-weary mind was playing tricks on him. After splashing water on his face, he still saw the image of the flying wraith burned in the back of his mind. The strange vision remained there, impossible to dispel, as he moved on.

Renhir stumbled through spindly grey-green trees and across ridges and vales until he collapsed in the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil beset with exhaustion. He pressed his back against the tumble-down wall of an old building and dared to hope that enough of the faded influence of the ancient elves remained here to shelter him and keep enemies and dark visions at bay. The last reserve of his energy went to cleaning and tending his wounds or death would come on swift wings. For a few hours, he sank into a restless slumber, coiled in a corner beneath a broken ledge that served as a roof.

When he awoke in the night, the rain had eased to a fine mist that settled into a bank of fog. A creeping, cutting chill set in and chased the sleep from his eyes as if a beacon had been lit in his mind. Renhir had the distinct feeling he was not alone. He sat rigid, his hand finding comfort in gripping the pommel of his axe, and he listened, striving to catch the slightest crackle of stone or whisper of motion.

Nothing penetrated the silence that weighed him down. And yet he knew. Something was here.

Another power lingered there beneath the surface, seeping into the cracks of old foundations, seeking to dominate and destroy in contention with the residual elvish light. It was full of malice and anger, this ghost, and it was searching, searching, searching, until it found a man who brimmed with rancor, whose weathered spirit was over-ripened and ready to rot.

It plucked at the weakness of his will like the strings of a harp and awakened the sliver of corruption that slumbered within him, willing it to awaken, willing him to succumb. The trace of shadow the wraith had left behind called to him, reaching for him unceasingly, and he felt himself slipping ever closer to the edge of a precipice he could never escape even as he dug in against it, tooth and nail. Renhir threw his head back in protest and he tried to hang on, searching the skies for the pale light of stars only to see black darkness, deep and full, all-encompassing.

It was easier to give in, to go against all he had once worked for and believed in. He was too tired. Tired of fighting the Enemy, his own imperfection, of hiding and denying the splinter of malice that pierced his heart and lodged there with quiet tenacity, biding its time.

It swept him under and felt like finally breathing after being dragged underwater.

He let it take control. Every drop, every breath, every speck of darkness, he felt it spread through him, flooding his veins and filling him, finally freed, finally in control.
Last edited by Lail on Wed Nov 23, 2022 6:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Ent Ancient
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Mantle of Shadow III
Renhir
Rhudaur to Arthedain
February 3019 TA

(Private)

Pine trees crowded around him, their needles stiff and spiny, snagging on his cloak like spindled fingers clawing to slow his steps. Renhir pushed his way through the thick trees, shoving boughs aside with his axe until they whipped back into place behind him. Somewhere beyond the green roof above him rose the crest of the Misty Mountains and all the land was shadowed by their mighty gloom, untouched by morning light. Deep beneath their flanks lay a place blacker than black, darker still than what Renhir failed to fight that night in Ost-in-Edhil. He tempted fate by following this course north, knowing what roamed these foothills. He heard the howls of the wolves under moonlight, thirsty for blood, hungry for death.

The woods thinned ahead, signalling a clearing, and he hastened down a slope toward it. The Road. Cloaked in green and surrounded by trees, he was nearly as invisible as a shapeless wraith. He scanned the width of the Road and the trees beyond, then followed its track to the river where the Ford of Bruinen ensured safe passage for some. Beyond the roaring water lay a place where white cascades were gilded by twilight, the air was fresh and blossom-sweet even in the depth of winter, where a man could lay his burdens aside for a time. The respite would not last long. Duty-bound, he went to meet a company of Rangers. They would set out for what was likely another futile journey into the wilds that would end with more bloody corpses.

For now, all was tranquil here at the edge of Imladris. Renhir emerged from the trees and stepped onto the road. He held his axe close, ready for some vile thing to burst out from the bushes and sink its teeth in him. Nothing happened until a high-pitched clatter shattered the silence. A kingfisher shot out from the far bank and dove for the rapids in a blur of bright blue.

Renhir released a breath and walked on to the end of the road. He went no further. The Ranger stood at a dead end. Something pressed into him, pushing back, back, back, until every single step he took felt like wading through water with leaden boots. He could not cross the ford over the pure and crystalline waters of the Bruinen to this elven realm of refuge. There would be no rest for Renhir now, at least not here. The same river that defeated the Nazgûl barred his way as it bubbled innocently along its course. But it knew. It knew, something or someone knew, what lurked inside him, what he had welcomed with open arms and a weak will. A faint mournful song filtered toward him from the river or the steep bank beyond it, he could not tell. The closer he tried to listen, the harder it was to hear. If words were sung, the language was unknown to him. A cacophony of bird song erupted around him in response, dissonant and screeching. A pine tree groaned and creaked and came tumbling down with a great crash to bar his way. One final barricade and he was left on the outside looking in.

Grinding his teeth, Renhir let his feelings fly. Swinging his axe up over his head, he heaved it in a great arc and slammed it into the soft pine. It yielded with a satisfying thunk in a spray of splinters. He cleaved it again for good measure until the pale inners were exposed by a mass of scars and pulp piled at his boots.

As sun peeked over the sooty line of mountains, Renhir turned his back on the river and the gleam of morning and flung his hood up to shield his eyes from the brightness.
---

There was one more place he thought to find some shred of his own humanity if any remained. He had not been there in decades and he had no idea what awaited him. There were whispers of some unknown foe lurking in the north, biding their time and testing the waters. He did not put much stock in the stories of deer heads with bulging eyes left to rot on top of old barrows, white wolves with green eyes who hunted in the light of day or entire forests that fell from the inside out, creating a spiral pattern with their skeletal trunks that could be seen from views on high. If he listened to every snippet of passing hearsay, he would be no better than those he had grown to despise.

Turned away from Imladris, he headed west, dodging the Road when he detected distant travellers approaching, though they were rare. At the crumbling Tower of Amon Sûl, he climbed northward into the Weather Hills and so passed into the ancient land of Arthedain littered with ruins and ghosts of an old kingdom long gone. A line of boulders edged a path that cut through the hills, mossy and overgrown like untended tombstones to a final stand against evil. Those battles were fought by stronger and better men than he. Renhir passed the stones without a second glance. He was heading to his own final battle to be waged without blade or armor in his mind and his heart.

Fixed on a northward route, he cut across the hills with the speed and skill he had learned and honed over the years. The wide expanse of barren land bordering the Weather Hills served a speedy journey and soon he saw his destination rising in the distance. A cluster of frosted pines and spruce shot up from the flat landscape a stone’s throw from Fornost. Ducking beneath the draping beams, he pressed his palm to the rough bark and fell to his knees, breathing in the sharp scent of needles and sap.

I am here.

I am home.


And he felt nothing. No sense for the sway of the breeze or the secrets it brought those who listened, no bristle of the slow, steady heartwood even as he dug his fingernails into the crevices of the tree’s skin, willing it to remember him as he recognized it. The land no longer spoke to him. He released a single wail of resounding agony that was swallowed by the unpitying trees. Whatever he expected to find, it was not there. This place, this home of old, was dead. The only life here was a memory, sparse remnants of a long-ago childhood spent climbing trees and scrambling over rocks, tracking deer and listening to the song of the birds. They were the only friends he had ever had in the wild places of the world. Now they were gone, too, leaving him alone.

A wind rose up from the north, icy cold, biting at him with gnashed teeth, its breath rattling through his cloak and down the back of his neck. Snow followed, drifting down in clumps of white, painting the place in clean beauty it did not deserve. The boughs began to bend under the gathering weight, collapsing in on themselves and bowing to the rule of winter. Renhir slumped back, defeated, his body unable to bear the weight of his withered spirit.

A raven called overhead, a faint garble beneath the wind that caught his attention. In the swirling sky above, a white bird circled, barely discernible in the snow and cloud but for the flash of moving wings.

Then came a howl. Then another, and another. Too loud, too close. The wolves were out in the middle of the day.
Last edited by Lail on Wed Nov 23, 2022 6:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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